Christmas, Ronco, and Me

(Originally published on 12/11/11)

Visualize this: a diverse assortment of Ronco merchandise adorning endcaps at all Woolworth-Woolco stores, Osco drugs, and other fine retailers. Add to this snapshot from the past, Ronco television commercials running 24/7 in the weeks leading up to Christmas, featuring everything from Mr. Microphone to the Egg Scrambler to the Smokeless Ashtray. Actually, I would be hard-pressed to conjure up another company in all of human history that had something for everyone on Christmas lists. Ronco rocked.

Fast forward more than three decades and Ronco, sadly, is in the ash heap of entrepreneurial history, as are many of the exclusive stores that sold its merchandise. And so we are left with only fond Ronco-inspired Christmas memories. I purchased a few Ronco products in my day, but one in particular stands out—the Bottle and Jar Cutter. For some reason, I became fixated on the idea of getting this thing for my father and introducing him to a brand new and exciting hobby. He had been heavily into decoupage in the early 1970s and a prolific plaque maker. Many of his creations, in fact, endure in people’s homes to this day. But by the late 1970s, this one-time hobby of his had run its course, and I reasoned he needed another creative venue to occupy his spare time. I honestly thought he might get into bottle and jar cutting. I imagined him turning all kinds of empty glass bottles and jars into candy dishes, decorative bowls, and terrariums. So many things came in glass bottles and jars back then—everything from sodas to cooking oils to peanut butters—and, too, there was no such thing as recycling. So, I thought turning a lot of empty bottles and jars into something cool and special made perfect sense.

To make a long story short, the Ronco Bottle and Jar Cutter was a monumental bust as a Christmas gift. For some reason, it was met with outright hostility. And there is a lesson here concerning the art of gift giving, wasting money, and all of that. But my biggest regret regarding the Ronco Bottle and Jar Cutter is that I didn’t just take it back and hold on to it in its original box. At least then I could have it on display on my end table now, or possibly even have sold it on eBay ten years ago for a tidy profit. But then again, I was an idealistic youth who merely wanted my father to create a trailblazing line of late-1970s recession glass.

Chatty Cathy and Christmas

(Originally published 12/10/18)

Almost a half-century ago, my father, two brothers, and I walked over to next block, Irwin Avenue, to pick out the family Christmas tree. The seller was a neighbor named Cathy. On the cobblestone grounds in front of a series of ramshackle garages beside her house were dozens of Balsam firs and Scotch pines. We selected the latter, as I recall, and Cathy said in parting, “I hope Sanny Claus is good to you!” She was a Bronx gal to the core.

I don’t remember how much we paid for that tree, but it wasn’t anything near what one Manhattan tree seller is charging this year—twenty-five dollars per foot. And speaking of the here and now, Whole Foods Market is selling six- to eight-foot Christmas trees in the very same Manhattan for $59.99. Twenty-five dollars for delivery and, if the buyer’s address is within walking distance, fifteen dollars! Supporting the contemporary Cathy tree peddlers—the little guys and girls—isn’t always cut-and-dried. Suffice it to say that our Christmas stroll in 1970 was in a vastly different world from what we know today. 

My Christmas stroll of yesterday is Exhibit A. And a footnote here, Cathy, her house, and garages are just memories now. Today an apartment building with not-so-ramshackle garages on the ground floor stands there.

Once upon a time Cathy advertised her Christmas trees for sale with a handwritten cardboard sign that cut to the chase: "Christmas Trees for Sale."

Cathy sold her trees without the help of giant Sanny Claus blow-ups and electronic signs.

Recently, a pizza delivery guy told me that I had restored his faith in humanity. Why? Because I regularly give him a considerable tip. He further complained that all-too-many customers stiff him with measly or non-existent tips. Upon delivering to tightwads, I suspect that even the SoHo Trees delivery guys wouldn't be sporting toothy smiles.

Not all street peddlers of Christmas trees are created equal. Some live for a mostly cold month of wheeling and dealing in crudely constructed plastic lean-tos. On the other hand, this seller has an RV and portable bathroom, too, nearby—Call Ahead, who is "Number 1 at Picking up Number 2."

"Until the other kiddies knock him down." I remember local bullies and punks doing just that kind of thing when Cathy was a Christmas tree entrepreneur. I always wondered why exactly they felt compelled to knock over harmless inanimate snowmen built by animate others in equally harmless locations. Seeing some of the punks and bullies on Facebook all these years later—in their adult incarnations—I better understand. They were jerks as kids and are jerks as adults.

The "Baby, It's Cold Outside" song mini-controversy is just further evidence that we live in stupid—and getting stupider—times with each passing minute.

Reading between the lines...

Christmas at the Holland Tunnel. Not much Christmas Spirit therein.

All is calm at an increasingly rare sidewalk phone booth.

Getting steamed on the city sidewalks, busy sidewalks is par for the course...

Mom-and-pop shops are fast going by the wayside. It's not Cathy the Christmas tree seller's city anymore.

Those aren't Christmas decorations in the window.

Restaurant Row in lower Manhattan, including Asian Confusion cuisine.

Personally, I'd have named this place: This Is Pizza.

This deli and the pizza shop were quite near each other. I wonder if they are both owned by the Fresh family.

Just a wild guess, but I bet it's not.

Someone among the Hell's Angels had the Christmas spirit. If this picture had audio, you would hear "My Favorite Things" playing. For some reason that's become a Christmas song. However, it could just be that the motorcyclist is a fan of The Sound of Music.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

My Person of the Year

(Originally published 12/20/12)

Time magazine has at long last made its “Person of the Year” selection. I was on tenterhooks with anticipation and can now rest easy. Anyway, befitting my blog’s general theme, I thought it appropriate to personally select a local “Person of the Year,” and I have. I won’t even mention his name. In fact, I don’t even know the man’s name. What I do know is that he works very hard—six- and seven-day weeks—and supplies the area with a great product. He sells pizza and assorted specialty dishes, gives you a real bang for your buck, and he’s an all-around nice guy, too.

Yesterday, while patronizing his establishment, which I frequently do, a fellow customer stood by awaiting a slice of pizza that was heating in the oven. He had parked his car in front of the shop, but opted not to purchase a meter parking ticket. I think it’s twenty-five cents for ten minutes now, which not too long ago was twenty-five cents for fifteen minutes. He figured he’d be in and out in a flash—no biggie. But this is New York City in the twenty-first century and, sure enough, a meter maid materialized in a flash with her computer ticket writer in hand. Lurking in the shadows and ready to pounce, meter personnel are ubiquitous in the City That Never Sleeps, and the little guy hasn’t got a chance.

When the pizza parlor patron ran outside to plead his case, my favorite Pizza Man wistfully peered out his front window and shook his head. I said something like: “The city needs money. I guess this is how they get it today.” He replied with something like, “You said a mouthful.” He then proceeded to tell me of the perpetual health inspections he and countless fellow New York City eateries are subject to nowadays: “This morning this inspector comes in while I am preparing a big order for a Christmas party. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘Do what you have to do, but I’ve got to work.’ I told him that somebody was in here last week. He says to me, ‘Really. I didn’t know that.’ You wouldn’t believe how much money they’ve taken from me.”

Sadly, my Pizza Man’s tale of woe is not unusual. This is the reality of today's New York City. And when combined with the exorbitant rents charged by conglomerate—and mostly faceless landlords—it's often a lethal one-two punch. “It’s not like it was," my Pizza Man said. Indeed, this small business guy—working his butt off—summed it up succinctly: “They won’t let you rise!” This line struck me as both eloquent and apropos—particularly for a pizza maker—in this once special town. I'd like to believe there are better days ahead for the Average Joe and Jane in old New York? But the reality snapshot keeps whispering in my ear: Fuggedaboutit!

Christmas in New York

(Originally published on 12/9/10. Writing about a simpler time then, I can now say—ten years later—that 2010 was likewise a simpler time.)

As kids at Christmastime, one of the Nigro boys’ favorite holiday traditions was a shopping jaunt into the big city with our Aunt Rose. She labored in midtown Manhattan’s storied Garment District for her entire working life and knew the stitches of the area, if you will, inside and out. It was the 1970s—a colorful, if a bit dirty and coarse, snapshot in time—that found us year after year, on the first or second Saturday in December, riding the then graffiti-laden, and not especially efficient, Number 1 subway train from our Bronx neighborhood into the core of the Big Apple. We exited at 34th Street, Penn Station, directly across the street from the main entrance to Macy’s—the “World’s Largest Department Store.”

We would spend hours in this sprawling, multi-floored retail edifice, particularly fascinated by the store’s famous “Cellar,” which was, and still is, renowned for its alluring aromas of countless succulent edibles, as well as wall-to-wall people and, I should add, predatory prices (some things never change). I don’t recall purchasing all that much at Macy’s. Our aunt choreographed it as a critical stopover, enabling us to soak up, first and foremost, the uniquely festive and incredibly alive Christmas in New York ambiance.

For gift buying on our wee-people budgets, more affordable locales were also on these annual itineraries, including nearby Gimbel’s (a touch cheaper than Macy’s) and, the piece-de-resistance as far as we were concerned, a mega-Woolworth’s store with an extraordinarily diverse wonderland of bargains. Hoping he would take up the hobby of converting his empty beer bottles and pickle jars into flowerpots, fish bowls, and candy dishes, I bought my father a Ronco Bottle and Jar Cutter there. He never warmed to the hobby. And to quote a familiar refrain of his: “Waste! Waste! Waste!” We sometimes did lunch at this, sadly, defunct five-and-dime chain and former retail icon.

Also on Fifth Avenue in the vicinity of Woolworth’s was a not quite as impressive epigone called Kress’s. It was Kress’s food counter that served me a hamburger and French fries platter with a sliced tomato on one of the bun’s halves. The hideously gelatinous appearance of said tomato compelled me to consume my burger with only half a bun. I just couldn’t bring myself to bite down on a tomato-contaminated piece of bread. Half a bun notwithstanding, it was—as I recall—quite delicious. And, yes, I would very likely do the same thing today (some things never change).

The back-end of our Christmas shopping trips called on Korvette’s—yet another department store chain in the ash heap of history—and Brentano’s, an independent bookstore near Rockefeller Center with a winding staircase and wooden banisters. What a unique place that was back then, before the advent of book superstores, which subsequently ran this impressive indie out of business. Seinfeld's George Costanza brought a Brentano's book with him into the bathroom.

Our shopping sprees consummated in the oncoming darkness at the foot of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. And, finally, after passing by Radio City Music Hall, we’d get on the train for home at 50th Street—tired but satisfied. I haven’t been to Macy’s in many, many years. Gimbel’s, Woolworth’s, Kress’s, Korvette’s, and Brentano’s are all gone with the winds of time. I don’t even make it a point to see the tree at Rockefeller Center anymore. I have no desire in being the bologna in the sandwich bread of thousands of tourists. Still, what I wouldn’t give to experience Christmas in New York again. 

Sailing the Salty Streets

(Originally published 11/12/19)

Last year, on November 16, New York City got its first—and what turned out to be its biggest—snowstorm of the season. It was a six-inch wet snow that caught the powers-that-be by surprise. The white stuff was originally forecast to turn to rain before any worrisome accumulation could settle upon Gotham's highways and byways. Thus, the myriad roads were not treated in time to do any good. Forty-five minute commutes turned into five-hour ones. The mayor had scrambled egg on his face and thereafter had his sanitation department “salters” out and about when even the slimmest possibilities of snow existed. Dustings and nothings brought out the heaviest of heavy artillery.

Fast-forward almost a year and the tiniest hint of snow found the “salters” raring and ready to go once more, parading up and down the very same city streets and avenues one, two, and three times. Overkill? Perhaps. But politicians can’t afford to make the same mistakes twice. So, I not only spied my first salt truck, but the first snow flurry of the season as well. But that was the extent of it. I also walked gingerly across the treated roads, concerned that I might slip and fall on the ice melter.

It’s a harbinger of things to come, I suspect—tons and tons of ice melter feverishly tossed on the city thoroughfares, no matter what Mother Nature has in store for us. Followed, of course, by a spring full of potholes. But this is jumping the gun. The previous two winters around here were relatively benign, with no excessive—heart- attack inducing—snowstorms. You know, a fifty-, sixty-, seventy-year-old shoveler’s worst nightmare.

Now, I don’t dream of a white Christmas anymore for a variety of sound reasons. I suppose I can trace the end of that dream officially to 2002. It snowed rather heavily on Christmas Day afternoon that year. The family had assembled at the folks for dinner along with a not-so-special guest named Timmy. He was an old friend of my father, who lived alone, had no family to speak of, and—on top of all that—had recently suffered a stroke. I know that sounds like the kind of guy you would want to have over at Christmas in the true spirit of the season. But you just had to know Timmy to appreciate why no good deed ever goes unpunished. Originally, my dad had invited the man over for a Thanksgiving dinner—when he learned he had no other place to go—several years before. It was intended to be a one-shot friendly gesture, but it backfired big time when an emboldened Timmy invited himself to not only every Thanksgiving thereafter, but every Christmas as well.

Well, on this particular white Christmas, old Tim was apprised of the deteriorating weather situation. In other words, given a huge hint that he better get a move on if he wanted to catch his bus home. While Timmy lived only about a mile away, he wasn’t the steadiest of walkers on a bright sunny day, let alone in several inches of slushy snow and whiteout conditions. Timmy was, nonetheless, pretty dense in getting the message. Finally, when informed that he might have to stay the night, the guy freaked and headed out into the snowstorm like a man on a mission. My father, younger brother, and I assisted him in walking to nearby Broadway and the bus—it looked as if we were steadying a Christmas reveler who had had one too many—but it didn’t appear as any were running. Fortunately, Timmy—who knew lots of locals—entered a neighborhood bar and found a Good Samaritan with a car to weather the storm and get him home safely. Now that's a Christmas story worthy of a TV movie, I think.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Mum's the Word

Once upon a time, I genuinely looked forward with great anticipation to voting on Election Day. Calling on my polling place—P.S. 7 grammar school—was an exciting experience back in the day. There was a palpable buzz in air as the volunteers—predominantly old ladies from the neighborhood—feverishly searched the rolls for my name and party affiliation. Since the pandemic outbreak, I have exclusively voted by absentee ballot. I prefer not visiting the polls in person anymore and—trust me—it has nothing to do with COVID.

Sure, I miss the days of pulling levers on antiquated voting machines in the classrooms where I attended kindergarten, my one and only public-school education. I can’t say that I remember much about the kindergarten syllabus, but I do know that Mrs. Rothman was not lecturing us on gender dysphoria.

How was that for a segue way into Election Day 2022? If the Democrats have a bad night, the movers and the shakers are going to have to ask themselves this fundamental question: “How did we lose to a party largely captured by conspiratorialists, assorted nut jobs, and slavish devotees of a potty-mouthed loon?” The answer: See what Mrs. Rothman was not teaching to five-year-old boys and girls in 1967-68 and then extrapolate from there. Woke insanity run amok is a loser.

Now, I voted for the addle-brained fossil who now occupies the White House. Along with many others, my hope was that this mediocrity—and that’s being overly generous—might somehow diffuse the hyper-partisan, debased political atmosphere of the present. But, no, old Joe went all out woke and spent money like a drunken sailor. And he wanted to spend a whole lot more. I was a kid during the inflationary 1970s and hardly noticed. Well, I’m not a kid anymore and I notice. While inflation doesn’t seem to bother the women of The View, or a certain gasbag talk-show host who was—apparently—unfamiliar with the term until this election cycle, it bothers me big time and so does crime.

Again, I lived through some notable crime spells in New York City. The late 1970s and early 1990s found the mean streets even meaner. I witnessed an armed robbery on the subway. A neighbor a few houses up the block from me was the victim of an attempted robbery—and shot at—as he entered his car in the early morning hours. My teenage friends and I were attacked with belts by a gang of youths after seeing the movie Hooper, starring Burt Reynolds, on Fordham Road in the Bronx. One member of the pack suggested “slicing up the fat one,” my bestie, who by today’s standards, was positively svelte. So, yes, he was body shamed and we were victims of an unrecorded hate crime.

Nevertheless, those were simpler times. While all that nasty stuff was going down, our family front door was often left unlocked while we were out and about during the daylight hours. In 2022, it seems one can’t go a day without reading about a random attack in the subway, often committed by a violent, mentally ill individual who should be someplace else getting the help he or she needs. And, what’s with virtually everything being under lock and key in so many stores, even ones with security guards? I’ve dramatically cut back on my shopping at local drugstore chains because I don’t want to press a buzzer to summon staff to purchase razor blades, a dozen eggs, and Swiffer wet mop pads. It’s a boon for Amazon, though. Don’t get me started, too, on the ubiquitous speed racers in my midst with their piercingly loud, revving, and popping engines. These automobiles and motorcycles are turning once quiet back streets into the Indy 500. Forgive me, then, for wistfully looking back to the 1970s when Republican Gerald Ford battled Democrat Jimmy Carter for the presidency, a better time and a better crime.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Tail of Two Cities

(Originally published on 5/16/17)

While running errands this morning, a woman handed me a small sheet of paper. I stuck it in my pocket, continued on my journey, and took a wild guess as to its purpose. She was doing the Lord’s work, I surmised—trying to save my soul. When I arrived home and plucked said paper from my pocket, I saw that I was correct in my assumption. Heaven or hell—take your pick! Utilizing biblical quotes that separated “Candidates for hell” from “Candidates to reach heaven,” the bottom line advice from a certain pontificating pastor was: “I recommend you to choose heaven.” What the hell! I thought. Why not?

Somewhat off my predictable beaten path today, I walked along a bizarre stretch of parkland—a narrow strip of fenced-in weeds, trees, and garbage. It’s been a tangled eyesore forever in my memory. The peculiar park grounds that I speak of rest on a bluff looking down on the Major Deegan Expressway—I-87—and have long served as an atmospheric hot spot for rats and those on two legs engaging in some form of clandestine misbehavior. Suffice it to say, it is not—and never was—a place for a family picnic.

Recently, I read that an effort was afoot to clean up the spot and turn it into something unrecognizable. It is, after all, part of New York City’s parklands. In fact, I had forgotten—if I ever knew in the first place—that this poor excuse for a park has a name: Tibbett’s Tail. Tibbett’s Brook was once prominent in the area of the Northwest Bronx I call home. I’ve seen old pictures of the swampy-looking brook meandering through a lot of sea grass—or whatever is the freshwater, urban equivalent. A century or so ago, the brook was diverted underground and gradually filled in. The elevated subway line carrying the IRT Broadway-Seventh Avenue “Number 1” train—commencing and ending at Van Cortlandt Park and W242nd Street—can be seen in early twentieth-century photos lording over the murky waters of Tibbetts Brook. The El was definitely a harbinger of things to come, though, because this corner of the world bares little resemblance to that bucolic snapshot in time. The El and Van Cortlandt Park endure, however.

There’s a sign at Tibbett’s Tail—noting that it’s a recipient of a grant—which bespeaks hope for this mysterious park. There’s even a rack with plastic bags hanging nearby, importuning the inconsiderate dog-walking slobs who inhabit the area to pick up after their pets. Tibbett’s Tail and its adjoining public sidewalk have been treated like dirt for decades. But I couldn’t help but think of the canine waste picked up with those plastic bags ending up in the garbage and then in a landfill. The excrement will decompose pretty quickly, but the plastic bags might still be around in five hundred years. 

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Gee Whiz...It's Halloween

(Originally published on 10/30/18)

These are definitely times that try men's souls—and women's souls, too. Happily, there are welcome and necessary distractions on the horizon. First there's Halloween, then Thanksgiving, and the—pièce de ré·sis·tance—Christmas. Wait a minute...wait a minute...wait a minute. Some people will be offended by other people's Halloween costumes. And Thanksgiving will be seen by a fair share of folks as celebrating historical misdeeds, not to mention gluttony and cruelty to turkeys. Then there's Christmas with its religious trappings in public places and cries of an outright "War on Christmas." If there is actually such a thing, it's a futile one. The candy canes, wrapping paper, and Whitman Samplers are already filling up the aisles of local stores. In a couple of days, Christmas music will be playing on the radio without pause for the next two months.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas at the Gee Whiz diner in Tribeca.

Look what the tide dragged in...or the sewers dragged out.

Moments after this photo was taken at Battery Park, I spied a rather somber chap paddling a canoe in the distance. He had a tear running down his cheek.

The Bronx is up but the Battery is down, the latter being where the "Best Hot Dog in New York" can be found.

In an episode of The Munsters entitled "Herman the Rookie," the legendary Leo Durocher gets whacked in the head by an airborne baseball. He queries his companion as to the location of the nearest ball field. When he learns that it's eight long blocks away, Durocher employs a bit of logic and deduces that's where the ball first took flight. He then sets out to find the obvious hitting prodigy—the wind beneath the wings of the errant ball—and sign him to a big league contract. And it turned out to be, by the way, none other than Herman Munster. Recently, I cast my eyes upon this impressive line of trophies in an apartment building's window and thought about Leo Durocher and his razor-sharp logical thinking. Who is the wunderkind therein, I asked? Sign that mystery kid up to something.

The quartet was a no-show.

It is said that a zebra can't change its stripes. But a New York City subway zebra board can when a station is closed for repairs. Well, at least the color of its stripes, which go from black to red.

What will they think of next? Traffic signs with drunk drivers in mind.

New York City is a diverse town. Sundry garbage as well...

While on the subject of refuse. Here's a shot of a tourist posing for a picture with a New York City garbage scow as the backdrop. 

Some squirrels have all the luck. This fortunate fellow calls home the environs of Battery Park with a bird's-eye view of Lady Liberty.

Whiskey, you're the devil.

Not really sure how effective this campaign is going to be.

If you look hard enough, you'll eventually find a pizza pie with your name on it.

The George Washington Bridge is always a better visual from afar.

Birds flying south for the winter? No, pigeons in flight to their nearby lair—the W238th Street subway station in the Bronx—where they regularly roost and shower the two-legged on the street below with feathers and excrement.

Daytime moon over a man called Q-Ball's building.

Say it ain't so: Ben and Willard are facing eviction.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)