Grease Is the Word

Yesterday, I encountered a seasoned subway panhandler, a woman, though, whom I hadn’t seen in quite a while—since the start of the pandemic at least. I'm happy to report that she was in fine form, her art as sharp as ever. Everything she does is spot-on, beginning with her delivery, which is loud enough for passengers in the entire subway car to hear. The lady also carries a sizeable receptacle for contributions and always has. This measure is win-win and especially critical in the present COVID-19 times in which we live. Methodically, she works the train from end-to-end—that’s ten cars and ten spiels. 

I don’t know her true story—mental illness no doubt plays a big part in it—but I always give her a dollar or two. She says that she is HIV positive and two months pregnant and rarely goes off script. Two months pregnant is carved in stone. The fur or faux fur coat she was wearing was a new twist. Life in the land down under is always unpredictable and never dull. And there are countless men and women who roam the recesses with tales to tell—real and imagined—many of them very unhappy ones.

And now for a little life in the bright light of day. There was a big street fair on Sixth Avenue this past weekend—and last weekend for that matter—with a diverse group of vendors. One participant’s tent sign read “Interesting Items.” I thought that a unique form of fair branding, which covered considerable ground. I got the impression—a feeling—that the interesting items were somehow a euphemism for junk, but I could have been wrong. There were numerous people perusing the interesting items. In retrospect, I was remiss in not checking them out.

My outing’s last act found me in a pizzeria. One, in fact, that I had passed countless times through the years, but never patronized. It always appeared grungy from the outside. Its awning sign didn’t exactly draw you into the place. But then it’s been said time and again that we shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, nor a pizza shop by its facade. To my pleasant surprise, I had the best slice I’ve had in a long time. In what has been a sea of mediocrity—some better than others—this pepperoni pizza hit the spot. Despite it being a risky undertaking—and a potential indigestion nightmare—the allure of pepperoni remains strong. My latest pizza experience was perfect: a fresh, thin slice with the pepperoni grease saturating the dough. There is good grease and bad grease in the world of pizza. This was unquestionably the former. And when the stars align in the pizza chase: Grease is the word.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Questions, Comments, Observations

I had a college history professor who would periodically query his students during lectures. “Any questions, comments, observations?” he would ask. Invariably, there would be none. Despite it being an interesting course, “Great Issues in European History,” the class consisted of mostly engineering, business, and other non-history majors enrolled in it as an elective. It didn’t matter that the prof had stellar teaching credentials and a background that complemented the subject matter, the get-togethers had a zombie-like feel to them. My outwardly indifferent peers always seemed to be somewhere else. Come to think of it, there were more than few classes like that.

I don’t, though, remember any of the glassy-eyed therein being “triggered” by something said during the history lectures. And speaking for myself only, I never felt “unsafe.” The school had a Campus Ministry, which served, I suppose, as a 1980s version of a “safe space”—safe space lite. I never dropped by in my four years of higher education.

I’m glad that I grew up in a time without the Internet, social media, and smartphones. Men and women are now losing their jobs and having their reputations ruined because of something somebody dug up in their all-encompassing virtual trail. It’s pathetic and scary at the same time. People are wielding power with these big reveals. God forbid you tweeted something five years ago, sent a private e-mail, or liked a Facebook post that offends someone who could do you harm. You could be toast in a New York minute. Guess what? Nobody’s perfect and everybody’s a hypocrite at one time or another. It’s human nature. And now for some further questions, comments, and observations…

What is it with McDonald's now-you-see-it, now-you-don't McRib sandwiches? Perhaps the chain appreciates that we always need something to look forward to in life.

Believe or not, there are even reports of employee shortages in the Metropolitan Transportation Authority (MTA). This would have been unheard of several years ago when waiting lists were the rule.

Canada geese heading from a blue state to a red state for the winter?

I saw this on a subway car floor last week. A "punk" is what we called them in my youth. We bought them in local candy stores.

May I say right now that it is not your grandfather's subway car advertising anymore...

Definitely not!

In this age of branding, subway car advertising often features one or two products or services in the entire car. This uplifting product ads took up half a car.

In these tough times for the hospitality industry, I sincerely hope this restaurant has found someone to man its phone, a trying, stress-filled position no doubt.

I read this lengthy article  featuring former restaurant employees explaining why they left the industry. One recurring theme was how poorly they were treated by the customers. The consensus was that things got increasingly ugly as the pandemic took hold. This doesn't speak well for the public at large. Seems to me that these folks deserved a better fate.

I've eaten inside multiple pizzerias in New York City this past month. Only one time was I asked to show my vaccination card.

There are outstanding pizza places in the city, but the vast majority of them are mediocre at best. This slice fit the bill, but because it was fresh out of the oven wasn't half bad.

Par for the course near Penn Station. But for tired and hungry tourists...who knows?

It could conceivably be a slice to remember.

Every now and then I encounter something on the sidewalk with a story to tell. Seems that whoever purchased, or stole, these Memory Foam Boot Slippers couldn't wait to put them on and discard her old footwear. Right then and there!

The American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) is now arguing that the First Amendment's free speech clause has been interpreted "too broadly" by courts. It's not your grandfather's ACLU anymore, an organization I used to have the utmost regard for.  

Atlas is more than shrugging at that news. He's also unmasked as Rockefeller Center readies for the holiday season.

I know that New York City's considerable rat population suffered during the worst of the pandemic. How did the local seagulls fare?

In my last visit to a favorite diner, I noticed that the coffee mugs were smaller. It's the sign of the times. Inflation, shortages, and general nuttiness. Regardless of the size of the coffee cup, I say, "God bless the servers." 

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro.)

The Green, Green Grass of Home

When I was growing up, it is always seemed unfair to me that the only house on the block with a sizeable green lawn—a lot in and of itself—went unused by its inhabitants. Utterly! The family who lived there were brainiacs—father, mother, daughter, and son—whose intellectual pursuits, livelihoods, and hobbies didn’t include gardening, barbecuing, or playing Wiffle ball. From my youthful perspective—and adult one, too—this rare residential green space in the neighborhood merited a better fate.

The house in question was for sale in 1946 when my paternal grandfather—an iceman until refrigeration downsized him to a milk factory line worker—shopped in the area for a piece of real estate to call his own. He loved the property because of the lawn, which he saw as prime garden space. But, alas, my grandfather required a home with a rent-paying tenant or two to assist with the mortgage. Relatively speaking, houses were affordable in those days for lower middle-class families, but not affordable enough to go it alone. And so, my grandfather had to pass on the house with the enviable lawn and settle for a three-family dwelling with a concrete backyard down the block. Fortunately, in those days, empty lots existed in the Bronx’s Kingsbridge and my grandfather planted considerable gardens in a couple of them.

My first paying job, as a matter of fact, found me cutting that coveted lawn with a primitive electric mower. Powered via an extensive cord, we mowers dragged it up and down and then down and up the lawn. My friend Johnny accidentally ran over the thing during a mowing. Embarrassed and concerned of the consequences, he neglected to inform his employer of the incident. Quietly returned to the garage, the mower with the gnarled cord eventually was discovered and a lecture ensued. “Johnny, you done me dirt last week,” said the aggrieved party as he pointed to exhibit A. He then proceeded to explain how important it was to own up to one’s mistakes. Given a second chance, Johnny also learned a valuable life lesson in the process.

In my nearly six decades of living, the lawn has remained a reassuring albeit somewhat lonely constant. No wafting aromas of grilled hot dogs and hamburgers ever originated from it. No fun and games were ever recorded there. No tomato plants sprouted up from its earth. A fence on its north side has long sported grape vines that—surprisingly—annually yield grapes, which we kids sampled once upon a time. If memory serves, they were better suited for the local bird population. Gracing the lawn for years were also several small cherry and pear trees, which clearly were there before the brainiacs assumed ownership of the property. They reliably bore fruit that were, again, humanly edible but only barely. The cherries were invariably sour, and the pears were always hard and more suitable for baking—if even that. Still, as wide-eyed youths, we enjoyed picking grapes, cherries, and pears—and eating them. Sometimes we snuck into the yard and made off with our bounty. As far as we could tell, the owners never harvested the fruits of their lawn.

One day, as I recall, my friend Johnny and I rang the front doorbell. The youngest son—who would have been in his twenties then—answered. We politely asked him for permission to “pick some pears.” He said that we could but added rather robotically, “You have five minutes!” And, lo and behold, the man with the off-the-charts IQ timed us to the second and came charging out of the house loudly bellowing: “Your time is up! Your time is up! Your time is up!”

Fast forward a half a century and the youngest son—now a septuagenarian—is the last one standing in the house with the super green lawn. In fact, it’s greener than ever. New sod was recently laid, and a sprinkler waters it daily. Through the years, the pear trees died of natural causes. The last remaining cherry tree and a miscellaneous tree were cut down a few years ago, leaving just the forlorn lawn.

Well. everything must end in this thing we call life. The news is out that the Bronx house with the ample lawn alongside it is up for sale. The last of the brainiacs is moving on to greener pastures, or less greener pastures, as it were. And considering the present climate in New York City, I suspect whoever buys the property will not regard the green lawn in the same detached way, nor in the way I’ve looked at it for all these years. Bet your bottom dollar that the green lawn will be seen exclusively through a green lens, and something bigger than a lawn in the Bronx will be lost because of it.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)