Thoughts of Barbicide

(Originally published 3/26/17)

I was in Greenwich Village yesterday morning—at brunch time as a matter of fact. In contrast with most of the month's temperatures, it was pleasantly warm—near sixty degrees—and the local hipsters were milling about in great numbers. Many of these men and women patiently waited their turns to dine in over-crowded and over-priced holes in the wall. From my perspective at least, all that waiting around spoils the dining experience. What the waiting inevitably portends is rarely pretty—dining in a sardine can with fellow sardines.

In my travels, I walked through Manhattan’s Meatpacking District, still home to an ever-decreasing number of meatpacking enterprises. Mostly, the area has morphed into a gentrified playground offering luxurious places to live—in converted slaughterhouses in many instances—and a bevy of posh restaurants and boutiques. I recall my father’s stories of watching hundreds upon hundreds of railroad freight cars carrying livestock along the Hudson River to the Meatpacking District. That’s one visual I’m happy I never witnessed. So, I can’t really say I miss the old Meatpacking District.

It’s just that New York City is fast becoming devoid of diversity and charm. And I’m not speaking of diverse peoples, but of diverse character and entrepreneurship. For example, I stumbled upon this chic, peculiarly named business called Acne Studio. I thought at first it might be the office of some dermatologist—a Dr. Zizmor epigone. After all, a dictionary definition of acne is: “The occurrence of inflamed or infected sebaceous glands in the skin; in particular, a condition characterized by red pimples on the face, prevalent chiefly among teenagers.” But no, Acne Studio wasn’t peddling $5.00 jars of Oxy face cleansing pads, but fashion instead like derby shoes with painted cap toes for $800 and $50/pair boxer briefs.  

Often in my Bronx to Manhattan adventures, I exit the train at the corner of 12th Street and Seventh Avenue. For many years, a neat row of mom-and-pop retailers greeted me on the northeast corner, including an independently owned pharmacy with a modest mortar and pestle neon sign. That same strip is now a Duane Reade chain drug store and a Subway sandwich franchise. This is the law of the jungle now.

Happily, small barbershops and locksmiths—to name a couple—are weathering the changes. Not too far from Acne Studio were two barbershops that I noticed. One was called Fellow Barbershop; the other took a page out of Shakespeare’s book and posed the immortal question: What’s in a name? The owners decided not to call it Best Barbershop or some such thing, but merely Barbershop. A barbershop by any other name would smell as sweet—or like Barbicide.

The great equalizer in this New York experience is a subway ride. It’s still a bargain and transports patrons of Acne Studio and Target alike. No special privileges here when—after pointing at the hanging zebra boards—subway conductors open their doors. It is then that we know for certain that while the stars may not be properly aligned, the subway cars most assuredly are.

(Photos two and three from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Horse Feathers

Recently, I learned that one of my favorite college professors passed away. He taught history, including a course called “Great Issues in American History.” It was one of only a handful of classes that I looked forward to attending during my four years of higher education. While the professor was modestly left leaning, he welcomed free and open discussion. That’s what men and women of the left encouraged once upon a time. They championed free speech and rigorous give-and-take. No one felt muzzled in his class or any other that I can remember. For what it’s worth: Microsoft Word editor underlined in blue “men and women” and suggested, “A gender neutral term would be more inclusive” like “people.”

American history—warts and all—was laid out to us in vivid living color without editorializing. Our professor, too, maintained a curious aura, like he somehow stepped out of the past. He was that authentic and right for the job. When the man sported a considerable beard, he could have effortlessly blended in among General Grant’s staff at Vicksburg.

In those bygone days—the early 1980s—college students weren’t easily offended, identity obsessed, and walking-and-talking victims, nor did they try historical figures in contemporary courts and find their lives and times irredeemable and unworthy of examination. I recall one classroom discussion revolving around the Civil War and slavery. I don’t remember the context of what inspired a Caucasian fellow to proclaim that one couldn’t compare the horrors of the Holocaust to what slaves endured in bondage. Not surprisingly, his viewpoint didn’t sit well with an African American peer who visibly seethed and offered a rebuttal. Our unflappable professor calmly listened to both sides and the class and life went on unimpeded. Nobody had a meltdown and made a beeline to a safe space in the Campus Ministry a flight below. The brother who ran that place always seemed strange and a bit scary to me. Nobody was reported. The school newspaper didn’t publish a story about the back and forth and demand heads on a platter and groveling apologies.

Another favorite professor of mine—also deceased as most of them sadly are—taught economics. I enjoyed her classes because she was at once provocative and approachable. She didn’t appreciate being labeled a “socialist” and preferred “humanist” instead. This prof was a bona fide feminist, too, who, I suspect, might be branded a “TERF” in the here and now.

I distinctly recollect taking an elective with her in my major. There were only a dozen students in the class. One day, the discussion involved women in the workplace. A male student from Nigeria interjected at some point, saying—in so many words—that a women’s place was in the home. The reaction from the professor and just about everybody else was prompt and dismissive but meted out good naturedly with no lingering hard feelings. Obviously, this chap came from a vastly different culture. He received, though, a well-earned earful from Americans in a quintessential bastion of free expression back then—the college campus. Nobody was triggered and that was the end of that.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

 

 

Spring-a-ling

When I was a boy in the Bronx during the 1960s and 1970s, there were “candy stores”—often more than one—on the main thoroughfares. Places that sold all kinds of candy—yes—but also newspapers, magazines, and fountain drinks like egg creams, malts, and milkshakes. Through the years, I purchased a fair share of confectionaries in them. The variety was incredible, and the price was right. My favorites varied from moment to moment and included—at one time or another—Banana Splits, Good & Fruity, Dots, Neccos, Starburst, and Jaw Breakers.

For a spell, I was hooked on Skittles. While I have long since kicked that habit, I thought of these multi-hued delights today when I read a news account of a bill under consideration in the California Assembly, which would outlaw—among multiple candies and food products—Skittles, Mike & Ike Hot Tamales, Nerds, and Double Bubble Twist Gum. The pols sponsoring the bill cite the “dangerous chemicals” used in their manufacturing, including Red Dye no. 3, titanium dioxide, and propyl paraben.

Despite having the imprimatur of the Food and Drug Administration (FDA), various venerable candies are on the firing line. Yes, I accept that the FDA’s track record in these matters is less than perfect. And I’ll readily concede that consuming the candies of my youth—in the quantities that I did—wasn’t particularly good for my teeth, nor a net plus in my overall health and wellness. The ingredients listed on the packaging spoke and continue to speak volumes. But I lived to tell.

Permit me now to go out on a limb here and say that eating Skittles, Sour Patch Kids, and Pez are unlikely to inspire a rash of premature deaths. Anyway, we take chances in life all the time. Roll the dice, pop up the Pez head, and go for it then. Remember: You only live once! I want the kids of today to enjoy them—like I once did—while they can. Recalling the candies of my bygone boyhood has been a nostalgic tour de force, for sure, but the notion of consuming them in 2023 is remarkably unappealing and, indeed, stomach churning.

Now, should the aforementioned bill see the light of day, I can just imagine the black market that will spring to life. Picture this: Dealers in California back alleys prying open their briefcases full of sugary and colorful contraband. What’ll you have? Got any Milk Duds in there?

A footnote here: In strolling down memory lane and revisiting so many of the candies of my past, I encountered several that I never liked, even when I sported a cast iron stomach. They include Choward’s Violet Mints, Fun Dip, Turkish Taffy, Mallo Cup, Raisinets, Bit-o-Honey, Mary Jane, Junior Mints, York Peppermint Patties, Mounds, Almond Joy, Red Hots, and Butterfingers. The candy dots stuck to paper were pretty gross, too.

Broccoli Insecurity

So many things in life have taken a sharp turn for the worse—politics, professional sports, and general civility for starters. I recently encountered a quote from a longtime restauranteur. He lamented the fact that nowadays all too many of his customers are impatient, rude, and even nasty. It appears that people aren’t just crude, loathsome, and inane behind the veil of anonymity on platforms like Twitter, TikTok, and Facebook. It’s spilling over into real life—the bright light of day—which was inevitable, I suppose.

Another thing that has gone south is broccoli. Once upon a time it was my favorite vegetable. In my youth, my paternal grandmother—a chef extraordinaire—prepared a dish that was other-worldly: broccoli and spaghetti. It always looked and tasted as expected—delicious. Without fail, the cooked broccoli sported an alluring light-green hue. The black pepper added to the repast tenaciously clung to the florets, which were smothered in aromatic garlic and olive oil. Reach for the slices of Italian bread to sop up the oily remains. Napkins—more than one—were required. I could have eaten Grandma’s broccoli and spaghetti every day back in the day. Pray tell, what happened to the broccoli?

Admittedly, try as I might, I could never duplicate my grandmother’s broccoli and spaghetti. Occasionally, I would taste a hint of what came before me and be pleased with my efforts. Now, it just doesn’t happen—ever. I add more and more garlic with each college try, but even that doesn't enhance what has truly become a tasteless vegetable. As a boy, I would choose as my birthday meal: liver, broccoli, and mashed potatoes. It was a peculiar request for a kid, I know, especially from one who was known to be quite finicky vis-à-vis eating habits. Today, save perhaps the mashed potatoes, I’d pass on that childhood meal.

I presume that broccoli is somehow grown differently in the here and now. The stalks appear thinner and a darker green than the ones with which my grandmother worked her magic. So, I must accept this broccoli insecurity of mine and move on to greener pastures. Nevertheless, I can’t help myself. Hoping for a miracle find one day—a needle in a haystack— I still buy the veggie on occasion.

A footnote here: I’ve noticed in the current media vernacular and beyond the phrase “food insecurity” has taken root. It’s used to describe folks who don’t have the financial wherewithal to sufficiently feed themselves and their families. It just seems like an odd term to describe what it is intended to describe. But these are odd times, aren't they?

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)