Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream…

No, I didn’t sail away to China in a little rowboat to find ya. But it was a strange one, nonetheless. The dream commenced in my childhood bedroom, and I was a boy. My father and mother were there. While opening the back window for a reason that now escapes me, it fell—swoosh—to the concrete grounds below. Remarkably, the glass didn’t shatter. During the Wonder Years, in fact, we had our share of window problems. Our newer replacement windows had decidedly shorter lifespans than their venerable predecessors.

After a while, many of our apartment windows just wouldn’t stay open without an assist from a piece of wood, several books, or glass bottle. My mother would hang out wash—it's what people did back then—and hold the window open with a metal rod that once upon a time belonged to the window proper. This was a dangerous undertaking as I recall. If the rod ever dislodged, the window would come crashing down like a guillotine. In addition, the cheesy windows were at risk of descending—as in my dream—to earth.

Anyway, back to my dream chronology: I raced to the backyard to retrieve the fallen window, only I found myself indoors and walking down a flight of stairs to the basement of the Spat House. The “Spats” were our neighbors across the way—an unfriendly crew with a fitting surname. Their three-family brick home—like mine—had a uniquely painted exterior that distinguished it. I, though, encountered no Spat family members in the dimly lit and dreary basement.

My intact window was there all right alongside a bunch of unsavory looking sorts. One of them offered to carry the thing home for me. He was on the scary side—as were all the basement loiterers—but I nevertheless agreed and walked with him. What choice did I have? Along the way the scoundrel said, “It’s going to cost you $18.” Why $18? I informed him that I didn’t have cash on my person but would get it at the house. Generous as always, I told the creep I’d give him a $20 bill. “Today’s your lucky day!” he replied to my offer. “Take your pick,” the foreboding fellow—Microsoft Word recommends “person” as gender-neutral and more inclusive—said, opening a bag containing what appeared to be various sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. There was an unwrapped donut on top of them, which I said I’d grab when I returned with the money.

I plowed through measurable snow to access my front door, which was odd. The snow wasn’t there earlier. And I was wearing a prosthetic knee while doing so, which I can honestly say would be a treacherous exercise outside of a dream. I was no longer a boy, too. How did that happen? When I returned with cash in hand, the mystery man had vanished. He didn’t get his $20 and I didn’t get my donut. What does it all mean? Freud said, “Every dream is a wish.” Well, at least that’s what Dr. Sidney Freedman of M*A*S*H said he said. Strange dream. Strange wish. Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Thanksgiving Sensory Overload

Youthful exuberance is quite something. It’s too bad it doesn’t last a lifetime. But if it did, it wouldn’t be called youthful exuberance, now, would it? That’s my little segue into Thanksgiving 2021. Once upon a time, my father escorted my younger brother and I on a Thanksgiving morning walk into a private neighborhood enclave called Fieldston. It was only a half-mile or so from home, but from my eight-year-old perspective, it seemed far, far away—another world altogether.

Actually, Fieldston was—another world altogether—with its wending, hilly, tree-lined streets. There aren’t many Bronx neighborhoods where manicured mansions are the rule. The place was only a stone’s throw away from Kingsbridge—where I called home—with its pre-war, walk-up apartment buildings and modest private homes. Manhattan College is in Fieldston—on its southeast periphery—which is where I attended college. I walked to school, and it didn’t seem as far away as it did on my earlier stroll with my father. I don’t exactly know why that particular Thanksgiving morning moment has left such a lasting impression on me. I think, maybe, it was its sensory overload: the crisp autumn feel, lots of fallen leaves on the ground, and the aroma of burning logs wafting in the chilly air. If you live in a mansion, you’ve got to have a working fireplace and the logs certainly must crackle on the fire on Thanksgiving Day. Throw in the anticipation of Thanksgiving dinner, a few days off from school, and Christmas right around the corner, and what more could a kid ask for?

Fast forward fifty years and the many Thanksgivings gone by—and here I am. Yesterday, I more-or-less retraced my steps from a year ago. I ventured into Manhattan and made a beeline to Radio City Music Hall and then Rockefeller Center. On November 21, 2020, Radio City was shuttered—no Christmas show and no Rockettes for the first time since 1933. What a difference a year makes. The Christmas Spectacular has been up and running for two weeks now. And, as it was last year at Rockefeller Center, the Christmas tree was being decorated behind scaffolding. However, the big difference in 2021 was that ice skaters were back on the ice rink below it. And when the famous tree is officially lit in a couple of weeks, visitors won’t need time-monitored passes to approach it.

Experiencing New York City in the pre-vaccine COVID-19 era was, I must say, memorable if nothing else. It was surreal ambling around town then, something akin to the Twilight Zone episode “Where Is Everybody?” and I was Earl Holliman. I’m pleased the crowds are back and that there is some semblance of normalcy in the ether. But there was something appealing about the quietude. Having fewer folks to plow through on the city sidewalks, not-too-busy sidewalks was nice while it lasted.

Yes, it’s beginning to look a lot like Thanksgiving with the Rockefeller Center tree hidden behind scaffolding. Christmas decorations, though, are appearing in greater numbers nowadays in the month of November. Granted, folks have been getting a festive jump on things for years, but the pandemic has accelerated the movement. And why not? The unwritten rule when I was growing up: No outdoor holiday decorating before December 15th. That’s gone by the boards and I’m not complaining. Stringing up outdoor lights and other décor is a time-consuming process. My philosophy has long been that—for my troubles—I want the whole shebang up for a month at the very least.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

 

Movin' on Up or Down?

(Originally published 11/10/18)

This morning—a breezy and rather chilly one for this time of year—I was approached by a man with a business card in hand. Not a good start to the day! Foremost, this fellow wanted to know if I knew of anyone looking to buy or sell a home. I said that I didn't. Not missing a beat, he then asked, "When are you thinking of moving?" This guy was making a lot of assumptions about me with that question, I thought, which he couldn't possibly know, and crashing through my wall, too—and before the clock even struck ten! Despite it not being any of this real estate bloke's business, I paraphrased Mario Cuomo and said, "I have no plans on moving and no plans to make plans." Absolutely true in that exact snapshot in time. For the historical record, Cuomo uttered something similar—sans the moving part—when being badgered about whether or not he was going to run for president in 1988 and again in 1992. He was presidential timber du jour in those bygone days. And now for some further observations and recollections...

Oh, yes, the hawk has landed...in Van Cortlandt Park!

Pigeon, a Bronx delicacy, and an early Thanksgiving feast on the apropos barbecue grounds.

The "HUTE MASTE": Jack of all trades, master of none?

It was pouring rain this past Tuesday, Election Day, when I cast my ballot, which got a little wet in the process. Apparently, mine wasn't the only soggy vote. Courtesy of Mother Nature's deluge and our wet paper ballots, the various machines that scanned them ceased doing what they were supposed to be doing. Voters at my precinct, including me, had to slide our ballots into an "Emergency Ballot Box." There is a first time for everything.

When I ordered two scoops of chocolate ice cream at a local diner last night, I didn't anticipate eating a pint's worth. For every action there is a reaction.

Many years ago, a friend of mine attended a free actor's workshop in Manhattan. The guest speaker was none other than Alec Baldwin. According to my pal, the man was quite gracious and patiently answered all questions posed. Of course, my friend had taken mass transit to the event that night and wasn't vying with Baldwin for a parking spot.

Wonder Woman's preferred clothier?

While on the subject of superheroes, the Man of Steel has got to remember to take his garbage with him. This isn't the 1970s!

Straight-line clouds, deep-blue skies, and the building where a man nicknamed "Q-ball" lives. Two out of three ain't bad.

It's one big hill and a park to boot: Ewen in the Bronx

The Purple Testament...but to what...in Ewen Park on the day after Halloween.

This Bud's for you...or the first can and bottle collector...who ascends or descends the formidable stairs of Ewen Park.

Johnny Carson: "They are so friendly!" Johnny Carson Audience: "How friendly are they?" Me: Not as friendly as you might think.

When Frosty the Snowman rides in a New York City subway car...

This is the end-result...

To get out those stubborn Escargots de Bourgogne stains, this is obviously the place for you...

This is not a homeless man. He's a wizened New Yorker who just put his smartphone in his pocket. You know...somebody once said, "Everything happens in threes." Chinese tradition holds that the number is a lucky one. In my religious upbringing, God was an amalgam of Three Persons—the Trinity—as if one wasn't enough. Come and knock on our door...

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Problem Child

Riding mass transit in New York City comes attached to a price tag well beyond the $2.75 fare. Riders have little choice but to pay this considerable surcharge, an emotional toll paid the moment they step into their respective subway cars. Passengers are, by design, captive audiences to the unexpected—eyewitnesses to history and the good, the bad, and the ugly of humanity. I’ve seen plenty on New York City subways, including psychological meltdowns, a homeless man pleasuring himself, and an armed robbery. Fortunately, most subway sideshows are decidedly less dramatic, not especially revolting, and more times than not harmless.

One subsection of “Annoying Passenger,” I classify as the problem child. Typically, it’s just a kid or kids running amok in a subway car as if they were in their living rooms at home. The most galling part of these spectacles are usually the oblivious parents, who see nothing wrong with a crowded subway car performing double duty as Romper Room. Yesterday, I encountered a bona fide problem child, who entered the train with his father, mother, and sister. Immediately, he decreed that he was not going to sit alongside them and bolted to the opposite end of the subway car. Every now and then, the boy returned to verbally unleash on his family and further establish his independence.

In time, I learned that the kid was seven years old and, too, the oldest in his family, including cousins. His sister, six years of age, though, was taller than him. He informed her that the reason she bested him in the height department was that she was fat. A low blow, I thought, and very ungentlemanly. The brat then rambled on about how he has made countless people cry—an accomplishment to boast about in the Soprano family perhaps. The parents took it all in stride. Their son’s behavior was par for the course, I guess. The last straw for me was when the meandering imp began a chin-up session on the hold-onto bars directly across from me. His antics even got the attention of another little boy seated beside his father. Monkey see, monkey do. However, his dad nipped it in the bud straightaway. For some desperately needed fresh air, I exited the scene multiple subway stops before I had intended. It’s the price one pays for riding.

Consider this a prologue to my excursion: My adventure commenced with a bizarre sighting. Well, first, an unseen cry in the wild of sorts—i.e., some deranged and incensed person bellowing an unbroken stream of F-bombs, which seemed especially piercing in the early morning hours. When this individual materialized in the flesh, I realized it was a guy I’ve known by sight for the better part of my life. He always came across as strange but docile and quiet. So, it came as quite a surprise to match the fusillade of invective I was hearing with the familiar face.

It seems the poor fellow had taken a spill, couldn’t pick himself up, and blamed his canine friend for the mishap. I watched as a Good Samaritan helped him to his feet. He then smacked his dog. It was one of those life-altering moments for me, which we all experience from time to time. That is, I will never look upon that man in a benignant light again. While everybody can have a bad day, I know, you don’t blame a dog for your troubles, particularly when someone’s just done you a good turn.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

 

A Back Story

Several weeks ago, my local McDonald’s message board—under the golden arches—informed passersby that the McRib sandwich was coming back. Well, as of this writing, it is indeed back. But for how long? A friend of mine is literally triggered by the mere mention of the McRib's returns and sabbaticals. Always on que, he imparts the tale of the sandwich’s celebrated demise some years back, claiming that the franchise was sued when it was discovered that the McRib ingredients included tire rubber. Now, I don’t know if this is an urban legend or not, but I seem to recall controversy surrounding the McRib and what went into it. Even without tire rubber, the sandwich has a bizarre consistency that never fails to make you wonder how it came to be a McRib. In my opinion, it still is one of the tastier McDonald’s offerings when, of course, it is available. But that’s not saying much.

In fact, I passed by McDonald’s this morning on my way to Rite Aid, an over-priced drug store chain. Therein, I noticed that so much more of its merchandise was under lock and key, including all its beer, than when I last visited. There have been countless reported instances of blatant thievery in retail stores recently—and not just in San Francisco. It’s the sign of the times, I guess—lawlessness run amok. Anyway, as luck would have it, what I desired purchasing was behind locked doors. Rather than search for an employee with a key, my gut reaction was to just leave. I then spotted a security guard and asked him if he would do me the honor. He acted surprised at the request but nonetheless went in search of a key. Honestly, spontaneity in retail shopping is key. Things locked away will prevent theft, sure, but it will also lead to loss of sales.

Hey, Rite Aid, what gives? It’s November 5th and the store is not decorated for Christmas. The place still had Halloween merchandise on the shelves. I’ve been hearing about product shortages this holiday season, like artificial Christmas trees. Time will tell on that one. And what about the genuine articles—real trees—how will their supply be impacted by everything from droughts to floods to shipping snafus? It is, nevertheless, beginning to look a little like Christmas at least. The big Rockefeller Center tree has been selected. It’s coming from Maryland this year. And the Radio Music Hall Christmas Spectacular commences today. Last year there was no shows.

Hopefully, the worst of the pandemic is in the rear-view mirror. With any luck, some of the ugliness it wrought will go with it, too. Since COVID-19 reared its head, there has been a precipitous increase in revved up, engine-popping automobiles, motorcycles, and vehicles that don’t qualify as either passing through town. It’s part of that aforementioned lawlessness and overall stupidity. Idiots playing Speed Racer—a must-see cartoon for me as a kid—on residential back streets at all hours of the day. And the police turn a blind eye.

There’s also a lot of run-of-the-mill aggressive driving. Red lights mean accelerating at their turns. Crossing at the green without looking both ways is a matter of life and death in these parts. Yesterday, I had the light when a taxi driver made the left turn leading to a shopping mall. Hoping to pass by me before I got in his way, he floored the gas pedal. Stunned, I abruptly stopped and waved for the ass to pass. He sneered at me, like I was the guilty party for crossing at the green. The fact that I employ a cane mattered not at all. With the McRib sandwich a stone’s throw away from my adventures and misadventures, this is the world I call home.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)