March Through Madness

(Originally published 3/18/19)

Neither my mother nor my father was of Irish descent. Still, our family's front door was festooned with shamrocks, leprechauns, and glittering pots of gold—wearin' o' the green—once a year in celebration of St. Patrick’s Day. It was a day off from school, too—a Catholic school bone. But St. Patrick’s Day assumed an even higher significance to me because it was a harbinger of both spring and the start of baseball season. Of course, the day also meant that stickball games were one fair-weather weekend away. While not ideal conditions, we played with temperatures in the low forties and even colder windchills, which in retrospect was better than playing in ninety-degree heat and humidity.

That was the scenario forty years ago. Fast-forward to the present and I still look forward to— if nothing else—springtime. However, I feel like I’m marching through madness. This goes a long way in explaining why I rarely watch regular television anymore, particularly news coverage. I’d rather peruse the various news accounts and view—on my terms—selected snippets of videos. It is vital that I acclimate myself to the subject matter and mentally prepare myself for any fallout.

For one, there are certain personages that I just can’t bear to watch live under any circumstances. It’s like being in the company of individuals whom you fear will embarrass you. I have a few of them in my life circle—loose cannons who say and do inappropriate things at inappropriate times. I feel no need to import that kind of thing from the wider world. And so I reflect and muse—read all about it—on the day after St. Patrick’s Day 2019.

Many years ago the month of March signified that it was time to take the baseball gloves out of mothballs. That's a figure of speech, of course. Actually, the gloves remained in the front hallway all winter long—yearning always to return to the Great Outdoors. My brother and I had that first catch in our concrete backyard—with laundry hanging out on clotheslines—typically around St. Patrick's Day. We were a familiar sight in the fledgling days of spring in what was a simpler and greener snapshot in time.

I noticed in the news this past week that many high-school kids demonstrated and demanded action on climate change. A noble cause indeed—particularly to the younger generations—but I'd ask them if they have any plans for accepting less. You know, to kick things down a notch and not have to go to the most expensive colleges half-way across the country, or have the biggest HD TVs in their bedrooms, or the very latest in smartphone technology. Just sayin' that talk is cheap. Real action demands a little sacrifice every now and then.

When this very McDonald's first opened its doors in the old neighborhood over forty-five years ago, it was a big event. Those were the innocent days before the invention of the Egg McMuffin and the serving of breakfast. Suddenly, and without fair warning, this past week, the place closed shop and a fence was erected around the property. It always seemed busy inside with cars perpetually lined up at the drive-thru. So, I don't know if the work permits on the fencing indicate a remodeling job or a death knell. Has this McDonald's location sold its last Big Mac? Because he regularly patronized its bathroom while making his appointed rounds, my mailman is especially traumatized at its unexpected closing. One man's hamburger joint is another man's comfort station.

I suppose that there is nothing like Christmas and St. Patrick's Day in New York. It's just too bad I have seen parents throwing cheese slices at their babies. Makes me sad to be a member of the human race.

Time enough at last...

Seagulls appreciate St. Patrick's Day, too...

For starters, more tourists around means more discarded fare.

And the seagull motto has long been: What's fare is fair game.

I frequently pass this gate and ponder...well, the gate is closed...

A not especially wise man once told me that "thoughts lead to other thoughts...which has to be helpful." Well, I spied this sign yesterday and thought about an old game show called Sale of the Century hosted by Joe Garagiola. Was that helpful?

I know what an aria is, but what's an orea?

A picture taken off the Number 1 train. Old Glory peacefully flies over a New York City Transit bus depot on St. Patrick's Day. Department of Sanitation smokestacks loom large in the backdrop.

The city is in the process of modernizing its subway system. Perhaps one day its ubiquitous blue lights might go green for St. Patrick's Day.

Or would that cause a lot of accidents?

Thoughts lead to other thoughts...Blue's Clues...

Life is really whizzing by...

And since I can't do anything about that, I'd rather New York City transit go to the dogs than be for the birds.

I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. Oh, wait, here it is...

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Hats Off to George Washington

(Originally published on 2/18/19)

Today is a federal holiday here in the United States, which means there is no mail delivery, no garbage pickup, and most of the banks are closed. The schools are off, too, which means less traffic, less noise, and more parking spaces—in my neighborhood at least. Unfortunately, it’s Presidents’ Day that we are celebrating and not George Washington’s Birthday. Since, though, we are recognizing presidents from one to forty-five on this third Monday in February, it’s worth contemplating how we got from there to here. Along the way, I’d say, we’ve gone from the cream of the crop to the bottom of the barrel.

Historians often debate whether leaders are born or made. For instance, Abraham Lincoln rose to the occasion during the Civil War and Franklin Roosevelt, during the Great Depression—crisis moments in American history. In ordinary, uneventful times, Lincoln and Roosevelt might not have had the opportunities to distinguish themselves in any consequential ways. And our pennies, dimes, and five-dollar bills would look a little different because of it.

Consider Lincoln at the onset of the Civil War and his tapping General George McClellan to head the Army of the Potomac. While McClellan was quite pompous and full of himself, he was—on paper at least—the right man for the job. At the general’s home, the man famously snubbed the President of the United States—after keeping him waiting for over an hour—by calling it a night and going to bed. Discussing war strategy could wait. In letters, McClellan disparagingly referred to Lincoln as the “original gorilla” and “nothing more than a well-meaning baboon.” The president, however, rejected underlings’ advice to reprimand his insubordinate military appointee and said, “Better at this time not to be making points of etiquette and personal dignity.” Well, that was then and this is now—Presidents’ Day 2019.

Quite deserving of the honor, Number One has got a lot of things named after him, including the George Washington Bridge, which spans the Hudson River and connects Northern New York City with Northeastern New Jersey.

I began Presidents' Day weekend bedecked in winter wear, including a wool hat and gloves. On Sunday, however, I jettisoned the former. Upon spotting me on what was still a pretty cold morning, a female transit maintenance worker exclaimed, "Where's your hat?" My mistake. I could have used it.

When I momentarily stumbled on the sidewalk in the vicinity of Times Square, an African-American gentleman peddling loosies remarked, "Careful, my brother." It was yet another "Mrs. Stern Moment" for me. "Why can't we all just get along?" I thought.

Some boots are made for walkin'...but not this pair.

I encountered numerous panhandlers in my Presidents' Day weekend travels. One fellow, who was visibly disabled and very unsteady on his feet, made his case for food, bottles of water, or anything that might help—like cash. The problem with his pitch was that he didn't hit pause and wait for possible largesse. A couple of people had to scurry after him—through a crowded subway car—to give him what he requested. Another guy, whom I've seen before, called attention to the trousers he was wearing courtesy of money raised in his regular subway appeals. He left the various tags on the pants as visible proof that he was the genuine article. The man also made it known that he only rides on the Number 1 train. Why? Because he wants riders to get to know him and witness his progress. Others take note: This genial, honest, conversational demeanor works wonders in the Land Down Under. 

One-stop shopping...who could ask for anything more...

Specializing in teensy-weensy portions? No, wait, that's the Gandhi Cafe.

I love a good play on words for a business name. But some just don't work in my opinion. On the other hand, if the owner was named Raj or Haj...

Say Cheese...

My father plied his trade at this not inconsiderable post office, the James A. Farley Building, for twenty-five years. On the building's facade is the celebrated USPS motto: "Neither rain nor snow nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds." It doesn't say anything about them talking on their cell phones while delivering the mail.

When my father worked the four-to-midnight shift, these peculiarly shaped high-rises weren't in the post office's backdrop.

These unsightly high-rises, in my humble opinion, comprise the spanking new "Hudson Yards" complex, deemed a "neighborhood for the next generation." If that's the case, the next generation is going to have to be extremely wealthy. One-bedroom apartments start at $5,300/month. And condos can be had for a minimum of $3.9 million. This is the new New York.

The old New York not only looked better...

It was better! Take my word for it.

An elderly aunt of mine—my father's sister—toiled in Midtown Manhattan's "Garment District" for decades. The sights and signs on Seventh Avenue—Fashion Avenue—underscore what once was and that is practically no more. As a boy, I can remember seeing men pushing around full racks of clothes on the busy city streets. That's a blast from the past not likely to be spied today.

After all, we now live in an age when you can call the hot dog wagon in advance.

Finally, more pointless and slippery ice melter to navigate...with no snow or ice to justify it...

It's little wonder that men and women, including me, experienced the 50th Street Blues on Presidents' Day weekend 2019.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Brand New World

(Originally published on 1/23/20)

Leave it to modern-day hipsters to speak of “branding” as if it was some original and compelling concept. Once upon a time, we decidedly less-hip Homo sapiens called it “advertising.” If you grew up in the New York City metropolitan area in the 1970s and 1980s, for instance, “Crazy Eddie,” a consumer electronics chain, is likely a business you remember. Why? Because Crazy Eddie, so named after its uber-crooked founder Eddie Antar, had one helluva brand.

A loud and obnoxious TV pitchman, radio deejay Jerry Carroll, inundated local airwaves for fifteen years with frenzied but always-memorable commercials like “Christmas in August.” Crazy Eddie’s abiding selling point was that he would “beat any price” and that, when all was said and done, his prices were “Insane!” Yes, those were simpler times and anybody who was anybody with a television set had this notion that Crazy Eddie was “practically giving [his merchandise] away.”

Sadly, we live in a brand new world—a post-Crazy Eddie one—that is crazier than ever. I can’t help but bemoan Major League Baseball’s contemporary brand, which is awash in analytics that immeasurably detract from the game. The professional sport is also surveilled as never before, with ubiquitous cameras poking their lenses into intimate nooks and crannies where they shouldn’t be. Modern technology goes a long way in explaining why the champs are cheats and why my beloved team from yesteryear, the Mets, hired a manager, who—as things turn out—won’t even make it to spring training.

Yes, it was a better time for baseball and a lot of other things when my favorite Mets’ team, the 1973 National League Champions, was managed by Yogi Berra, who prophetically proclaimed that year how it “ain’t over ‘til it’s over!” This baseball legend and sage also said that managing could be reduced to two things: Knowing when to take a pitcher out of a game and keeping your players happy. The analytics crowd would no doubt find fault with Yogi’s simple take on the matter, which he arrived at, by the way, without ever looking over a spreadsheet.

And now for a completely different lament: on presidential politics. This week I revisited a book on the subject from 1988 entitled “Whose Broad Stripes and Bright Stars?” by political reporters Jack W. Germond and Jules Witcover who—every four years for a spell—co-authored a behind-the-scenes tome on the presidential campaign from the primaries to the general election. They were books for political junkies for sure—inside baseball and page-turners in an age before the Internet and 24/7-cable news.

Anyway, I read a few chapters on Gary Hart, who was the Democratic front-runner in 1988 after surprising one and all with a gritty showing against Walter Mondale four years earlier. As the press delved more into his somewhat puzzling personal life and chronic wandering eye, however, Hart didn’t wear well as the man to beat. As an idealistic college kid in 1984, I enthusiastically supported the youthful underdog, Hart, waging battle with the heir apparent dullard, Mondale, who ultimately prevailed in the Democratic primaries but then got trounced by Ronald Reagan in November.

Interestingly, Gary Hart was essentially saying in 1988 that character was a whole lot less important than positions on the issues. This stroll down memory lane set me to wondering whatever became of Hart? I found an interview with him on YouTube from a couple of years ago. He looked now like a man in his eighties, but not bad, and is still married to his wife, Lee, and has been for over sixty years. Understandably, Hart clearly retains some bitterness about his treatment in 1988 and couldn’t help but compare then with now. The character issue—so paramount in press circles thirty years ago—and a President Trump three decades later. How do you like them apples? Honestly, could you conceive of a man with worse character and unfitness for the presidency than the Donald? You know what: I think Gary Hart is a man of character and would have made a pretty good president in that old world. In fact, in the brand new one he's about the right age to contend in the Democratic primaries.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Anatomy of a Boss

(Originally published 8/22/12)

While there are countless negatives attached to the snowballing advances in modern technology, there are more than a few benefits and pleasing offshoots. Take the DVD and all that it has wrought, including a company called Netflix. To cut to the chase, I’ve been watching episodes of Rawhide via my Netflix gift subscription. This classic American western television series—with its unforgettable theme song —starred Eric Fleming as cattle trail boss Gil Favor. Taking his herd along the Sedalia Trail from Texas to Missouri, Favor and his men naturally encountered troubles along the way. Sometimes it was inhospitable weather, bloodthirsty Indians, greedy bandits, sickness, and—alas for the harried trail boss—very poor help. Nevertheless, Favor and his understudy Rowdy Yates, played by a young and little known actor named Clint Eastwood, somehow endured through the rough and tumble of the frequently unforgiving landscape they traversed.

It was, nonetheless, an era when men were evidently men. Recently, I watched an episode where a haplessly green eighteen year old joined Mr. Favor’s outfit. Ordered to rein in some misbehaving cattle, the youngster was no match for the bovine ensemble’s frenzied antics. Rowdy desperately wanted to intervene on the boy’s behalf, but Mr. Favor, who had assigned him another vital task, refused to allow it. When the poor kid was trampled to death, Rowdy was disgusted with the incredible callousness of his boss, who told him point-blank that “men are replaceable; cattle aren’t.” By the end of the episode, though, Rowdy somehow understood where Mr. Favor was coming from in their cow-eat-cow world.

Favor’s cool hard line, which was probably closer to the reality of the times and job, wouldn’t wash today on the small screen. He was, after all, the show’s leading man, authority figure, and hero. But then when you get right down to it, I suspect there are more than a few boss figures who believe men (and women) are replaceable. Head ‘em up; move ‘em out!