Random Thoughts at Thanksgiving Time

(Originally published 11/21/17)

It’s that time of year again when so many of us say, "I can’t believe it’s Thanksgiving already!" Honestly, it did come quickly this go-round—incredibly so. The mystery of time accelerating deepens with each passing year. It also calls to my mind this Adam West's Batman recitation to his trusty butler: “How little do we know of time, Alfred—a one-syllable word…a noun…yesterday’s laughter…tomorrow’s tears.” And, sadly, Adam West recently shuffled off this mortal coil at the ripe old age of eighty-eight. How little do we know of time—indeed. For Adam West seemed eternally middle-aged—ever the man with the spot-on campy timing. Nobody could have delivered the How little do we know of time sermon like Adam West—nobody.

Speaking of time, I visited a local hospital’s emergency room this past week—not as a patient in this instance, but as someone offering moral support. Eleven years ago, I was in that same space as a patient. I can candidly say that being on the outside looking in is worlds apart from being on the inside looking out. Without my life on the line, I got to be more of an observer of the frenetic atmosphere that goes with the territory. Foremost, most of the people I encountered appeared to be there for non-life-threatening matters. The worst cases were being tended to behind closed doors and curtains. An intern doctor did approach a woman within earshot of me to pose a couple of questions about her pressing medical concern. He asked, “Are you having trouble peeing?” and “Do you have a burning sensation when you pee?” I thought about a thing called medical privacy as I overheard the minutia—too much information—of this woman’s health problem.

With the pee queries on my brain, one thought led to another. First of all, I would have guessed a doctor would use the word “urinate” in lieu of “pee,” but then he could have substituted with “Number One.” And while on the subject of pee, urine, Number One—whatever floats your boat—I can’t get it out of mind nowadays when I watch old television westerns. Not a solitary soul ever has to take a pee or—heaven forbid—do a “Number Two.” I’ve been into the early seasons of Wagon Train starring Ward Bond and Robert Horton. Unlike Bonanza, this show was never in reruns during my youth. And while there are some good episodes therein, the uber-cleanliness strikes an off-putting chord with me. After binge-watching the likes of Deadwood and Hell on Wheels—with their foulness on full display—it’s hard not to notice when filth is in short supply where it most assuredly would be. It’s hard not to notice, too, when people are shot—and teetering on the brink between life and death in bed on a wagon train for a week or more—without needing a change in pants.

If it’s an otherwise quality script, I can suspend my disbelief for fifty minutes or so. Still, when I recently viewed an episode of Wagon Train where Major Adams, Flint McCullough, and others were seated on the ground and chained to a wall for a week in sub-freezing, snowy Sierra high country—and fed only one measly square a day—I couldn’t help but notice that not one of them looked worse for the wear. Their clothes were pressed and clean and—remarkably—no one needed a shave.

Well, it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas. My local Rite Aid drug store annually plays host to a Christmas tree seller. The gang has set up shop and today had trees for sale for the first time. I think it’s the same bunch from a year ago—shifty characters who wouldn’t quote a price until the tree was fully opened. The bushier trees cost more. Yet the various tree stumps were height-colored.  Upright sellers price their trees according to height—period and end of story.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

A Thanksgiving Story

(Originally published 11/20/17)

While duly employed in another line of work more than two decades ago, my boss, Richie, spied a couple of our customers, Bud and Sally, dining in a Nathan’s fast-food restaurant. At the time, he was cruising down the well-traveled Central Avenue in Yonkers and noticed them—courtesy of the place’s paneled glass windows adjoining the busy thoroughfare—seated at a table. Were it not for the fact that it was Thanksgiving night, this sighting wouldn’t have been worth mentioning.

Often a cynic, Richie nonetheless found something poignant at the spectacle of this long-married couple eating at Nathan's on Thanksgiving. After all, Bud and Sally were pleasant enough people who spent a fair amount of change shopping in our store week after week after week. Bud was retired and considerably older than his wife. They had no children. That is, if you didn’t count their menagerie of pets, which included, through the years, everything from minks to ferrets to monkeys. And, yes, they had multiple cats and dogs as well. Anyway, Richie thought it would be a nice gesture to invite Bud and Sally to the business’s forthcoming Christmas party, which he did. They happily accepted and a grand time was had by all.

Fast forward twenty-five years and Bud and Sally are still among the living. They are, however, experiencing financial woes. Money troubles that Bud never envisioned possible when he called it quits after a rather successful working career. Considering Bud and Sally’s sizable brood of animal friends through the years—and the amount of money they spent on them for food, supplies, and medical care—we were all convinced that old Bud had quite a tidy nest egg and would never, ever be sweating the bucks.

Last winter, however, Bud turned up at Richie’s new place of business. He requested a helping hand—i.e., a cash allowance to pay off a large and long-overdue fuel bill. It was a brutal winter and Richie, who hadn’t seen Bud in years, didn’t have the heart to say no. It was actually a rather distressing tale of woe that a former professional and proud man—who was now closing in on ninety years of age—would not have enough money all these years later to pay basic household bills. Bud informed Richie that the economic meltdown of several years previous did a real number on his retirement portfolio. It’s a cautionary tale, I fear, that all too many of us may be facing in retirement someday—if we make it that far and almost definitely when we are pushing ninety.

Looking back on it now, I suppose that Bud and Sally’s past Nathan’s Thanksgiving repast was a happier, less stressful dining moment than the one they’ll be having this year. As a postscript to this story: That sprawling, iconic Nathan’s restaurant was bulldozed a few years ago to make room for yet another strip mall. There is a much smaller, decidedly pedestrian Nathan’s in the mix of stores on the old spot, so Bud and Sally can dine there this Thanksgiving if they so desire and if, of course, they can afford it.

99 Cents and More!

Recently, I encountered a message on a local business’ scrolling electronic sign. The shop is one among many comparable peddlers in the neighborhood—a high-end “dollar store,” if you will. Anyway, passersby were multi-colorfully informed that everything in the place—cue the undulating—was “.99 and more!” Now, that covers a lot of ground, I thought, but nicely sums up the current inflationary age in which we exhaustingly traverse. I know, the mainstream media and its preferred talking heads are desperately trying to convince us that what we see with our own two eyes is a mirage and everything—really—is peachy keen. Economist Paul Krugman—if that’s what he is—has declared that “the war on inflation is won, at very little cost.” That is, when you exclude “food, energy, shelter, and used cars.” Mission accomplished then, and something to be grateful for this Thanksgiving as you tally up the cost of the turkey and all the trimmings.

I am likewise grateful for CNN consumer reporter Nathaniel Meyersohn’s explanation of shoplifting run amok. He said, “The concern over shoplifting taps into a larger narrative about how urban areas are out of control.” And here I thought that things were, in fact, out of control. I guess having to ring a buzzer five separate times to summon an employee to unlock a cabinet to purchase Tylenol, laundry detergent, a quart of milk, shampoo, and ear wax remover is just a twenty-first century experience worth savoring.

No question: These are curious, unsettling times. The two major political parties seem hellbent on nominating for president the most unfit and unpopular candidates imaginable in 2024, something akin to several day-old Thanksgiving leftovers. Summoning the optimist in me—difficult as that is—I remain hopeful that a year is an eternity in politics, especially when we are talking about two old geezers battling an assortment of disqualifying obstacles, including criminal trials, senility, and outright madness. Where there is life, there is hope, I guess.

Taking a step back in time, to the immediate aftermath of 9/11: I visited my local offset printing shop—remember those?—which was run by a fellow named Ludwig. As per the norm, he greeted me. “How are you?” he asked. I replied, “Okay, under the circumstances.” Ludwig answered, “I’m glad you said that” and proceeded to vent—justifiably, in my opinion—about the usual suspects’ condemnations of the horrific terrorist attacks against our country. The “But Brigade,” as it were: “We, of course, condemn the attacks, but…” Well, we’ve been kicked in the “but” again. What’s alarming, though, is all too many people don’t even feel the need to say “but” anymore. In just twenty-two years…here we are.

The mostly peaceful protests and riots are back. I love this past week’s Amtrack Northeast announcement: “Due to First Amendment-related events, customers are encouraged to allow extra time to get to Washington Union Station to board their train.” Perhaps the most disconcerting images, for me, are of the indoctrinated, sanctimonious college students—vacuous wind-up dolls—just going with the sewer flow and ripping down posters of kidnaped children and elderly Holocaust survivors. And these are the same young men and women who want their student debts cancelled!

I see now that an advisory group has recommended to New York State’s Education Department to make the Regents examinations—standardized tests administered to high school students since 1876—optional. I recall taking standalone Regents in English and American History during junior year. I also had to achieve a three-year sequence in at least one of these disciplines: math, science, or foreign language. I took Algebra as a freshman, Geometry as a sophomore, and Trigonometry as a junior for my Regents sequence. Fast forward to the present, with increasingly worrisome graduation rates, and the solution to the problem is not—predictably—kicking the teaching up a notch but lowering the bar instead—again. What could possibly go wrong? What has already gone wrong and then some. Stay tuned.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

A Christmas Perspective

(Originally published 12/13/10)

Long before the term "pet parent" entered the vernacular, I toiled as young man in a place called Pet Nosh. During the mid-1980s, there were no retail superstores exclusively devoted to pets and their care in the environs of New York City. In fact, this little store on Central Avenue in Yonkers was considered both big and utterly unique for its day. And it was. It was also a harbinger of much grander things to come.

Some years ago, while crafting a book proposal for a pet-themed topic, I plucked out a particular anecdote from my life and times in the aforementioned belly of the beast. I recounted the tale of how Pet Nosh was the very first retailer to promote a visitation from ol' St. Nick, who would avail his busy lap top this go-round for God's four-legged and feathered creatures and not run-of-the mill, incredibly ordinary little girls and boys. I cited Pet Nosh as the pioneer of this marketing endeavor, which has since become redundant, playing out everywhere, including in the now countless mega-superstores, which actually have the chutzpah to charge for the privilege.

A quarter of a century ago, Pet Nosh advertised the occasion as a way of saying thank you to its loyal patrons. All one had to do was show up on the scheduled night with a pet or multiple pets—and a picture with Santa was on the house. Granted, the first few years of this “Have Your Pet’s Picture Taken with Santa Claus” promo were quite raw by today's standards. For starters, there were no such things as digital cameras back then. An amateur photographer and a Polaroid instant camera provided the service, with unadorned snapshots handed over on the spot to mostly satisfied customers who gushed with gratitude. The experience was considered so unusual and even cool that a not-especially-sharp instant photograph—and nothing else—was something akin to gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And as a holiday conversation piece, it was priceless!

When I put this claim down on paper—that Pet Nosh was the very first retailer to host such an event—my literary agent at the time asked: "Is this true? You know, you shouldn't say so if it's not." I replied: "The Pet Nosh brass conceived the idea. To their knowledge, they weren't plagiarizing anybody else—near or far." Of course, there was no Internet thirty years ago, so we couldn't be absolutely certain that a pet store in Boise, Idaho; Alhambra, California; or Bangor, Maine did not do something similar before Pet Nosh hosted the picture show.

So, Santa Claus coming to Pet Nosh Town for the exclusive benefit of cats, dogs, birds, snakes, lizards, and turtles was either the trailblazer, or certainly among the trailblazing class, ushering in the Pet Parenting Age. It was at once exciting and strange. The very first time Pet Nosh advertised this holiday promotion, we hadn’t a clue what to expect vis-à-vis the turnout. We hadn't a clue how everything would unfold with two-legged and four-legged animals in every nook and cranny of the store. It's no stretch to say that we were more than a bit taken aback when a couple of hundred people with their pets in tow showed up and waited on very, very long lines that actually twisted around a corner into a residential neighborhood—and, on top everything else, in a freezing rainstorm just days before Christmas.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Quote the Raving

(Originally published 11/18/18)

The sum total of my subway experience yesterday prompted me to wonder. Wonder if we were in the midst of a Full Moon? Turns out, though, that wasn’t the reason why the natives were especially restless in the Land Down Under. The next Full Moon is later this week.

For starters, I encountered a scary version of Dumb and Dumber. Right out of Central Casting, the duo appeared to be escapees from The Sopranos set. The alpha male, Dumb, was quite squat with a considerable paunch. His shirt just couldn’t seem to cover up all that skin. The guy also had an elongated knife scar on his face and—at one point—took out a big wad of cash and started counting it. He, too, was very proud of his brand-new construction boots and asked Dumber his opinion of them. This all played out in a subway car full of people. Dumb made Joe Pesci sound like William F. Buckley, Jr.

In addition, multiple panhandlers materialized on my various train rides, which is not unusual. A couple of them operated strictly by the book. They stated their respective cases and ambled on through the car. But then there was a pregnant woman asking for help and using her extended belly as a prop. Sad to think what kind of world that child is going to come into. I can’t be certain but I believe this is the same individual whom I’ve seen before and whose panhandling approach is aggressive and literally in-your-face. Simply put, she speaks her piece one person at a time. For those who contribute to her cause, the gal is lavish with praise. Prior to my one-on-one, a fellow passenger was told that he had both great hair and was very handsome. Rather than wait for what flattery was in store for me—I don’t have great hair—I handed her a couple of dollars. What I got in return was a fist bump, which considering the circumstances, I’d rather not have gotten.

No fist bumps were forthcoming with the last visitation. It was not with someone looking for a monetary salve. This fellow was a bona fide raving lunatic. I think, too, I’ve seen him before. He is an African-American man who—on this particular Saturday—took up the cause of the American Indian for several train stops. “White man speaks with forked tongue,” he uttered on more than one occasion during his vitriolic rant. Vis-à-vis the Native American experience, I would be inclined to agree. But he was also speaking of violent retribution in the offing to said white man. And fitting the bill of his enemy profile in a sparsely filled subway car, I thought it wise for me to implement my Charles Manson Rule and make like a tree and leave, which I did, before the raving escalated into something more.

As I awaited the next train, I snapped a shot—for posterity—of the back of the raving lunatic's wool hat-wearing head.

I've been reading today about Bill Maher's remarks concerning the recently deceased Stan Lee and the comic book phenomena. Hey, the guy's a comedian and provocateur. That's what he does. Chill out...social media!

When I submitted my manuscript for The Everything Collectibles Book in 2001, I had lots of clever and some not-so-clever play-on-word headings in it. However, the Generation X developmental editor working with me didn't get any of them, with the sole exception of "Advertising: The Story of Us." The Story of Us was, by the way, a 1999 romantic-comedy starring Michelle Pfeiffer and Bruce Willis, a recent enough movie to still be on the Generation Xer's limited memory drive. Oh, to becoming up with such word plays again like : I prefer the Ladder to the Farmer.

 "Do not lean on door" is no more. No doubt the handiwork of the practical joker vandal.

If you see came first. Then there was something—see. The uber-climax is next: say something!

Next building...

Too much too soon...

Really, it should never snow while the Hydrangea and Rose of Sharon are still green.

Not a pretty sight in wintertime, but worse in autumn: New York City snow remnants.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...

What does that really mean? Bring back the Grinch.

The construction of the Christmas tree racks again in front of the local Rite Aid drug store. Time is definitely accelerating...

So, what will it be? Pizza or the Double Burger Cambo?

I'm familiar with hot dogs and burgers, but not concretes. Every day is a learning experience.

A little too much glare to make this an award-winning nature shot.

Seagull on a lamppost in Battery Park City.

Was this a "If you see something, say something" moment. Probably not. Just a guy recharging his phone in a subway station.

Once upon a time people used phone booths like this. Apparently, some Neanderthals still do. It clearly didn't snow as much in lower Manhattan as it did in my part of the Bronx. Mum's still the word!

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

In My Face

(Originally published 10/6/19)

I had the misfortune of boarding a train this morning at the Van Cortlandt Park terminal alongside a fellow passenger who loudly sang "My Way." Now, don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of Frank Sinatra and his rendition of the song. But in an otherwise empty subway car at its point of origin, I'd rather not commence a trip with some guy who might be on a trip. Anyway, he eventually stopped singing and got on his phone, connecting with somebody he called "Mama." It wasn't his actual Mama because he referred at some point to the genuine article. Long story short: He wanted the faux-Mama to clean his turtle tank for him. Instructions included placing half a leaf of Romaine lettuce in it for the turtle's nocturnal needs. From what I gleaned from the conversation, the not-the-real-deal Mama didn't appear too smart. The subway singer explained over and over that all she had to do was cut a single lettuce piece in two and place it in the tank. And the turtle would take it from there.

Later, on the mean streets of New York, a young fellow seemingly materialized out of nowhere, got in my face, and shrieked, "Piece of shit!" Happily, for me, he wasn't playing the "Knockout Game." Perhaps he was listening to his preferred music, which wasn't "My Way" by the way, and just felt the urge. Maybe he's a reader of this blog. As if it never happened, both he and I moved on unbowed after the exchange. Yes, it pays to be ever vigilant in the big city. But even then...

Yesterday supplied the first real taste of autumn around here. The local Rite Aid drug store has even begun stocking its Christmas items, which will completely subsume the store after Halloween and probably a day or two before. Last year the very same retailer was preparing aisles for Valentine's Day on December 22nd.

From my persona experiences this weekend: Not so much loving therein.

"When it's least expected it, you're elected. You're the star today. Smile...you're on Candid Camera."

I sincerely hope they are better with hair than sign making.

"No phone, no lights, no motor car...not a single luxury." No, that's Gilligan's Island. This is Ellis Island.

Toiling in a street cart is not for the faint of heart. Nature, after all, does still call.

And the view is constantly changing.

Signs of the season: Con Edison steam pipes belching it up a notch.

Now, if only things were looking up...

I caption this picture: Down the up staircase.

Count your blessings instead of sheep. Done. Not too many of them.

Do you look at life as almost empty or barely full?

A new day has dawned. An overcast, breezy Sunday, which introduced me to the Sinatra impersonator and turtle parent.

Yes, I'd rather have been in the train's first car this morning with this bird than the one loudly singing "My Way" and talking on the phone about his turtle and its affinity for Romaine lettuce. It likes to sleep under a half a leaf of it and only a half a leaf of it.

Last year the biggest snowstorm of the season arrived in mid-November, before Thanksgiving, and it wasn't all that big at seven inches. However, the city brass was caught woefully unprepared and thereafter spread salt with abandon in anticipation of forecast snows, which didn't always materialize. I guess the sanitation department's not leaving anything to chance this year.

What treasures does this mysterious sidewalk trunk hold?

Homeward bound: Saw two little kids with their parents. They were both spellbound during the ride with their handheld devices. Don't you know that you are children on the subway. A train that travels through dark tunnels and makes a lot of noise. That's what interested me in my bygone youth. No devices required.

Read on, subway customer. Yes, that's how some train conductors refer to riders nowadays. Passenger will do just fine. And, too, the Metropolitan Transportation Authority (MTA) has completely cast asunder "Ladies and gentlemen" in announcements. Can't risk offending someone who is neither. To be continued...

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Remembering Dr. Z...By the Way

(Originally published 6/19/10)

The efficacy of Keynesian economics is being debated once again in both polite and impolite society. But rather than stake out a position on the demand side versus the supply side in this dismal science argument, I’d rather just wax nostalgic and recall a college professor of mine whom I'll call Dr. Z.

Dr. Z was an adjunct professor substituting for an ailing instructor in a course called Intermediate Macroeconomics. The place: my alma mater, Manhattan College. The year: 1984. Dr. Z was a very tall, dome-headed Egyptian fellow, who not only wore thrift shop threads that didn’t quite fit his gawky frame—high waters and hobo shoes—every single day, but a sartorial selection at least thirty years past its prime.

Despite my Dr. Z experience being brief, it was nonetheless quite memorable. This man rates as one of those classic college characters I will not soon forget—a professor remembered for his idiosyncrasies above all else, including teaching acumen. From the get-go, Dr. Z warned us that because “there was no ‘P’ as in Peter and ‘B’ as in ball” in his native tongue of Arabic, he was apt to “make a mish, mosh, moosh of the two…by the way” all along the way. And he didn’t disappoint on that score.

In addition, the good doctor frequently finished his sentences with the throwaway “by the way” phrase. He couldn’t stop saying it during his lectures, which he took very, very seriously, by the way, often working himself into a frenzied, sweaty trance to explain that Keynes’s General Theory “contended that consumption was a stable function of disposable income.”

Dr. Z also subscribed to the educative power of repetition. He peppered his lectures with “I repeat again” pronouncements and recapped word-for-word what had just been said. Dr. Z took attendance every class because, he revealed, he desperately needed the work and didn’t want to be fired. The man informed us that times were tough for him as a part-time professor, and that he called home somewhere in lower Manhattan “between the muggers and the hippies.” This former neighborhood of his has since been gentrified, by the way. And when the buzzer sounded each class’s death knell, the Z-man stopped in mid-sentence and profusely thanked the whole lot of us. “Thank you very, very much,” he would bellow at the top of his lungs and really mean it. No, Dr. Z: thank you…for the memories and teaching me about John Maynard Keynes, too.