Not Helping Grandma…Anymore

What a difference a few weeks make. Once upon a time we were in the midst of a deadly pandemic and Hollywood celebrities were self-righteously imploring one and all to stay home and, of course, wear masks and practice social distancing. We were doing it for Grandma—keeping her safe first and foremost—they said. These cloying public-service announcements made me think of Mrs. Margaret Mann and her little Depression-era grocery store. Even though she’s been dead for sixty-nine years, I continue to wear a mask for her. Fast-forward to the present and the very same celebs in many instances—from their multi-million dollar homes in gated communities—don’t seem all that concerned about Grandma anymore, despite the fact that COVID-19 is alive and well.

I see actress Natalie Portman had her woke bona fides stamped recently when she fell on her white-privilege sword and came out in support of de-funding police. I’m certain she arrived at that position after doing copious, painstaking research on the subject. This made me think of a Depression-era policeman named Edgar Kennedy. He’d be out of a job. Officer Kennedy may have been on the bumbling side, but he was a good cop at heart. And so was Officer Joe Bolton for that matter.

On the matter of police de-funding: Perhaps we should take a page from the Old West or Mayberry, even, and have each American town hire its own sheriff and deputy to oversee a one- or two-cell jail. You know: the kind with a solitary rectangular window with bars, which allowed in fresh air and flies. This would save a lot of money and hopefully appease Natalie Portman with her $60 million. Those charged with alleged crimes could wait for a circuit judge to arrive and stand trial before his or her peers. More savings.

If you’re not paying attention, maybe you should be. The woke folk will get you if don’t watch out. I sang that today like Darla Hood once sung “The Love Bug will get you if you don’t watch out.” Why? I just saw a news story that a police presence was in Manhattan’s Columbus Circle guarding the statue of Christopher Columbus there. I hope the NYPD dispatched some officers to the Port Authority to protect its statue of Ralph Kramden, who wasn’t especially woke. Bang…zoom!

From essayists Samuel Johnson to Ralph Waldo Emerson to James Baldwin to Christopher Hitchens to…George Clooney—star of The Facts of Life after the show had Jumped the Shark. If I am to believe the Yahoo news headlines, it seems that Hollywood is now in the business of lecturing and “taking down” people. This is especially true of late-night comedians like one-trick ponies Colbert, Kimmel, and Oliver. The good old days of Johnny Carson seem like such a long, long time ago.

I first registered to vote in 1981 as a Republican. My college years turned that upside down and I graduated a lip-service leftie. The faculty was comprised predominantly of men and women on the left, but there was no frothing-at-the-mouth conformity of thought like there is today on campuses. I had great respect for many of my professors whose lives took them to places and found them in circumstances completely foreign to most contemporary academia nuts, who can’t abide their students thinking for themselves for fear they might see a world with more nuance than their rigid one-world.

A favorite college course of mine was “Great Issues in American History.” I actually looked forward to attending it, which is saying something. A liberal-minded professor and product of the 1960s Civil Rights and anti-Vietnam War movements taught it. He presented the facts absent an ideological bent and encouraged discussion and debate. I recall one lecture touching on the Civil War and slavery. I don’t remember the particulars of what inspired it, but a classmate said at one point, “I don’t think you can compare slavery to the Holocaust.” His opinion made an African-American peer visibly angry and a heated but civil discussion ensued. That’s what a college education used to be about: differences of opinion freely aired—more speech, not less.

The wokies are particularly emboldened now. Pay absolute total obeisance to them or they might be coming for your job or that statue of St. Francis of Assisi—he must have said something or done something un-woke in 1200—on your front lawn. Forgive me, though, for still thinking of Grandma and still wanting to help.

Mrs. Stern, Matilda’s Law, Prissy Butt, and More

Some random thoughts on lockdowns, looting, and assorted other things: Commencing with the “Mrs. Stern Moment.” I have written about this phenomenon before. For those unfamiliar with it, permit me to elaborate: Mrs. Stern was a customer in a store that I—decades ago—worked in called Pet Nosh. She was a very nice woman, albeit on the neurotic side, who fed stray animals and financially assisted others who took in homeless cats and dogs. The lady was also a Nazi concentration camp survivor. She never talked about that experience, but I couldn’t help but notice the tattooed serial number on her arm. Mrs. Stern was also a gifted pianist who invited me to a recital at her home at some point. In retrospect, I should have attended, but didn’t.

Anyway, one day Mrs. Stern came into the shop even more apprehensive than usual. She had just had an encounter that so moved her. While waiting at a traffic light with her car windows rolled down on a pleasant summer’s day, Mrs. Stern sneezed. And a man in the car alongside of her said, “God bless you.” Not just any man, but a black man. Mrs. Stern considered that little interplay so incredibly special—the bridging of races, as it were—that she was practically in tears.

Now, I have experienced “Mrs. Stern Moments” through the years, although less dramatic than that extraordinary meeting at a red light. For instance, yesterday, I was at a drugstore, which is finally allowing patrons inside again. As I waited my turn—cognizant of Matilda's Law and the importance of social distancing—a young black man was speaking with a cashier about our current, troubled state of affairs. He was the quintessential voice of reason in explaining that the police need to get their act together in weeding out the bad apples among them. But he also expressed sympathy for the difficult job they have to do. I thought, then, about all the hysterical people on social media—and just about everywhere else—taking one side or the other side with no room for compromise. When the man exited the store, he passed me by and we both said, “Take care” or some such parting salvo. It was yet another Mrs. Stern Moment.

Speaking of social media, there are more than a fair share of “prissy butts” speaking their pieces in the virtual ether. Mary Ellen called Erin a “prissy butt” in The Homecoming, the movie that inspired the TV series, The Waltons. Actually, it’s the only time I ever heard that expression used. Justice Potter Stewart once explained how obscene speech, such as hard-core pornography is not protected speech. “I know it when I see it,” he famously said. The same thinking applies to a prissy butt—I know one when I see one. Examples of prissy butts: Men and women who sit around at home with their smartphones encouraging looting and arson far away from the looting and arson—the same people, by the way, who several weeks ago were up in arms because the local supermarket didn’t have their preferred brand of toilet paper, favorite Starbucks drink, or any liquid soap at all.

A reporter asked Governor Cuomo at his daily briefing yesterday about the considerable police presence in New York, particularly New York City. She wanted him to explain how that helps a volatile situation that is grounded in police overreach. He explained to her what should have been incredibly obvious: It’s to stop the looting and arson of innocent people’s property. The governor essentially told the reporter that she wouldn’t be asking such a stupid question if her home or business was threatened. I would have asked him about the demise of Matilda’s Law.

While on this subject, how about ESPN reporter Chris Martin Palmer’s tweets. One moment he comments on a photo of a building—low-income housing in Minneapolis—set afire during the riots and tweets: “Burn, that shit down. Burn it all down.” A few days later when the looters are closing in on his neighborhood, he tweets: “They just attacked our sister community down the street. It’s a gated community and they tried to climb the gates. They had to beat them back. Then destroyed a Starbucks and are now in front of my building. Get these animals TF out of my neighborhood. Go back to where you live.” You have to love these armchair arsonists.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

“Thank You For Listening to Me”

As I was ascending Riverdale Avenue this morning, I noticed an elderly black woman in the distance. She was standing in the street at a bus stop, peering down the steep hill and looking, I surmised, for her bus, which wasn’t on the way up. By the time I approached her, she had moved onto the sidewalk, still, by the looks of things, waiting for a bus. Her face mask was pulled down and, as a matter of fact, so was mine as I passed the lady in clear violation of the six-feet social-distancing decree. There was no good morning or any such salutation forthcoming, just unsolicited commentary on the mad, mad, mad, mad world of 2020 that we both called home.

Being extra-polite in these troubled times, I lent her my ear, expecting it to be brief. As I slowly inched away—my not-so-subtle cue that I wanted to move on—the lady inched along with me. We then walked up the very big hill together—the bus be damned! The woman had a mouthful to say and spoke with a heavy island accent of some sort—maybe Jamaican—so I had difficulty comprehending fifty percent of what she said. I got the gist of it, though.

We found mutual agreement on the horror of what happened to George Flake and, too, the state of our president’s mental health. He was pouring gasoline on the fire, she said, and I concurred. The woman seconded former Secretary of State Rex Tillerson’s opinion of our fearless leader when she dubbed him a “moron.” I couldn’t argue with that. So, I listened and listened some more until we parted near the hill’s apex. She was off to a doctor’s appointment a few blocks away, I learned, and would have taken that bus one stop if she hadn’t found an ear instead. The good lady thanked me for listening to her and, as we parted, I advised her to watch that blood pressure.

And this is 2020. Just a few ancillary observations from this past week: School and neighborhood reunions are nearing extinction, I fear. Actually, I don’t really fear that. When so many people from our pasts sound off without restraint—from the far reaches of both sides of the political spectrum—it’s impossible to let it all pass unnoticed. You gotta love these armchair anarchists supporting looting, rioting, and arson safely away from the looting, rioting, and arson. They vegetate at home—smartphones in hand—justifying the destruction of other people’s neighborhoods, businesses, and livelihoods. By and large these are folks who obviously have never built a business—and likely couldn’t if they tried—and whose sources of income remain uninterrupted.

I saw this quote in a news story this morning from a Manhattan small business owner calling himself “Harri,” whose smoke shop was ransacked last night: “We worked hard to build up a business and within a second, someone does this.” Funny, but many of the armchair anarchists have been hyperventilating about mass gatherings for the last couple of months, equating them to bacterial wars on grandmas and grandpas everywhere.

What passes for clever social commentary—via memes—has also taken a turn for the worse, which I wouldn’t have imagined possible. Criminals setting fires and breaking into stores and walking away with Rolex watches, 70” flat-screen TVs, and bottles of Jack Daniel’s have been ludicrously compared to the soldiers storming France’s Normandy Beach to liberate Europe from the Nazis. Go figure: There were more than 200,000 Allied casualties there, by the way. 

As I type these words, I hear police sirens and emergency vehicles racing past my front door. One of the vehicles had a cracked window—from a recently thrown hard object, I’d wager. I go outside to see if the commotion is too close to home. Fortunately, it isn’t. A female passerby says to me: “It’s crazy.” And so it is. I say: Justice for George and for Harri, too.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Howling Man, Etc., Etc.

I must admit that Governor Andrew Cuomo’s daily briefings are no longer must-see TV for me. As there’s some light at the end of the tunnel, the need for a reassuring theatrical presence—regularly in my living room—is waning. Another reason—from my perspectiveat least—is that the governor’s largely positive publicity appears to be going to his head, while he dismissively sloughs off reasonable criticism of his job performance. Yesterday, he appeared with Chris Rock and Rosie Perez. The latter referred to the governor as a “rock star.” And, yada yada yada: “We’re New York Tough,” which means “Smart, Disciplined, Unified, and Loving.” 

I saw a local news story about New York City’s rat population feeling the impact of the pandemic and getting increasingly aggressive as a result. Once upon a time, these pernicious rodents thrived amidst the recurring hustle and bustle, jam-packed subway stations, and restaurants’ over-flowing refuse. But that was then and this is now.

I see the Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA) powers-that-be are contemplating “New World” changes in the way it conducts future business. When the city begins “opening up the valve”—to borrow from rock star Cuomo—it’s going to mean a lot more riders on its subways and buses. Ideas being bandied about include taking customers’ temperatures before allowing them to board and social-distancing circles—six-feet apart, I presume—to stand in. Airport-like security in New York City mass transit sounds rather impractical to me. If, however, it ever comes to that: Have fun enforcing the policies.

Okay, enough already: People, it’s high time you get off your respective high horses! In this corner are the lockdown extremists who relish painting those who want to get back to work as self-centered Neanderthals unconcerned about infecting ninety-two-year-old Grandma, Uncle Bill with his arrhythmia, and neighbor Celia plagued by hypertension. As far as I can tell, these folks are all receiving uninterrupted paychecks of some sort. They are not business owners or the unemployed whose very livelihoods depend on getting back to work soon and in some capacity. And in the other corner are the “mask protesters,” as I overheard a silly neighbor dub herself. What, pray tell, are you protesting, dear lady? Wear a mask when you enter a business or are in a crowded place. Don’t wear one when you’re in the wide-open spaces and cavorting with Mother Nature—a fair compromise, I’d say.

Where I do most of my grocery shopping, I haven’t as yet encountered a non-mask—give me liberty or give me death—fanatic alongside me. The sign on the door clearly states that everyone must wear a mask before entering, which is certainly justified at this unique moment in time and especially in this particular place, New York City. That said, if I ever come across someone inside the market sans a mask, I will not throw in with a mob and pull out my camera to shame that person. It’s up to the individual businesses to enforce the edict, not me. Governor Cuomo keeps telling us how masks work, which is why the first responders, et al., test at lower percentages of COVID-19 positive than the general population. I’ll take his word for it and not tremble with fear when in close proximity to a non-coughing, non-sneezing, non-speaking mask-less person.

Yesterday, I accompanied an individual to a doctor’s appointment at a Manhattan hospital. Our washable cloth masks weren’t sufficient for admittance, we discovered. Complementary hospital-issue disposable ones were supplied to wear over ours or, if we preferred, all by themselves. Anyway, I couldn’t accompany the patient any further than the lobby—double-masked or not—as no visitors were allowed. I figured I could wait in the lobby, which had a series of comfortable chairs more than six-feet apart from each other. But lounging in the lobby was frowned upon. Seems the hospital was doing COVID-19 testing nearby. The lobby’s hip food stand was nonetheless open. I had to stand outside the building where there were no benches. 

On the car-service ride into Manhattan, a plastic sheet separated the driver from his passengers. I had to slip payment through a small cutout in the plastic. The return-trip car had no such barrier. This driver seemed unconcerned and spoke of an imminent vaccine in the works from China. He mentioned, too, that he was now less inclined to eat Chinese food.

A couple of days ago, this guy from the neighborhood—whom I’ve often seen but never acknowledged—glared across a street at me as if he had something to say that was not hello. This surprised me because he always appeared quiet, rather nondescript, and normal, if you will, as he ran errands alone or sometimes with his wife. Last night, I heard a piercing human howl followed by another primal scream. A passing lunatic, I suspected, which is not that uncommon in these parts. I was therefore quite surprised when I heard a third shriek and could put a face on the howling man. It was the very guy who angrily glowered at me for reasons unknown. He probably had a few too many on both occasions. We are, after all, living in stressful times.

The seven o’clock tribute to health care workers and essential workers is still going strong every night. It’s considerably less moving, though, than at the height of epidemic, which is understandable. Perhaps the nightly salute should endure in perpetuity as a reminder of our fragile existence.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Chatty Cathy and the Pandemic

Nowadays, picking up medications at the local pharmacy—this particular family-owned one at least—is exclusively a sidewalk affair with medical privacy gone with the wind. Transactions are completed on the outside looking in—if you will—through a locked door and sufficient glass to keep any and all nefarious droplets at bay. Interaction with the staff therein commences with the ringing of a buzzer. Questions and answers are bandied back and forth through the aforementioned glass, which considerably muffles voices. Hand-written notes are sometimes held up to inform customers what they owe in co-pays, etc. Cash or a credit card is then placed in a transaction drawer at ground level, which is a bona fide task, I suspect, for people there for back-pain medications. 

I have seen masked clientele numbering three, four, and five patiently and impatiently looming by the front door, which is understandably this small drugstore's epicenter during the pandemic. I prefer to wait until the crowd diminishes to one or, better still, no one at all. In fact, if you really want to be a stickler for these things, keeping six-feet apart in a situation with five or so people waiting around for their medications is well nigh impossible.

Several days ago, I jumped at the opportunity of being the one and only customer on the scene. My one brief shining moment, however, was especially brief. A woman appeared soon after me and promptly revealed that she was a Chatty Cathy, annoying in the best of times and circumstances. Then a man showed up wearing a United States Air Force cap. Having already suffered an earful—from Chatty—about how wonderful the druggists were come hell or high water, I was actually relieved that another human being materialized. For I instinctively knew that Chatty would immediately hone in on the fellow’s military service and she didn’t disappoint.

Chatty Cathy queried the Air Force veteran as to where he served. She guessed—incorrectly as it turned out—Korea. It was Vietnam. Chatty explained the reason for her embarrassing faux pas. You see, when she was younger, most men of his age—seventy-eight, he later divulged—were veterans of Korea. Now, of course, it’s Vietnam. Listening to this give-and-take was revelatory. I gazed over Chatty behind her mask and it dawned on me that she was most probably younger than me. And she was no spring chicken, I’ll tell you that.

When I was a young boy, a seventy-eight-year-old military veteran more likely served in World War I than World War II. That, by the way, was the “war to end all wars.” An elderly neighbor had lost his leg in that conflict and wore an awkwardly uncomfortable wooden prosthetic one fifty years later.

Eventually, Chatty Cathy thanked the Air Force vet for his service. When her meds emerged in the transaction draw, she opened the bottle on the spot and popped a pill into her mouth. Her newfound septuagenarian friend made a comment to the effect of “let the party begin.” For some reason, Chatty then apprised all assembled—five of us by then—that she hadn’t had a drink in twenty years. My name is Cathy and I’m an alcoholic. Perhaps this was a little too much information to disclose to perfect strangers on a Bronx sidewalk during a pandemic—to masked men and women who just wanted to get on their merry ways with their meds as fast as is humanly possible.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Spring Behind, Fall Ahead

The non-winter winter petered out and left us—quite literally—cold. Several months ago, a woman in a crowded family practice waiting room loudly wanted to know if anyone therein had the corona virus. Yes, it was a simpler time and she was looked upon by one and all, including me, as an annoying wacko. Nevertheless, she was on to something. In January, COVID-19 was very likely here but we were oblivious—the wacko notwithstanding—of what lie in store for us.

Things are definitely looking up in New York, with phase one of the “reopening” slated for Friday. But it's going to be a long, long haul. Turning on the "valve"—to use Governor Cuomo’s terminology—will mostly impact regions of the state a fair drive away from the virus hotbed, New York City and the surrounding suburbs. There's no two ways about it: A lot of businesses are going to go under. 

If COVID-19 is going to hang around for the remainder of the year or longer—without a vaccination—how exactly are diners and restaurants, for instance, going to survive? Even if some of them open with social-distancing measures in place, they will be operating at limited capacity. And, really, how many people will be inclined to resume their old ways—like eating out—if the staffs are masked and gloved and the customers are treated like they have the cooties? It's inevitable that the world is going to look considerably different in its next incarnation.

We experienced a freakish snow squall this past week. Made me wonder what Christmas in New York 2020 will be like.

No school in springtime...

No summer camps, open public swimming pools, group sporting activities...now that seems like a recipe for some serious unrest.

A sign of the times...

And another one...

It's every night and still going strong. I make a point to step outside and observe. If nothing else, I realize this is a very unique and memorable moment in time. Hopefully, I'll be able to look back—if I make it out alive—and remember when. At least that's the plan.

Governor Cuomo regularly emphasizes the need for a federal bill to aid embattled states. Courtesy of COVID-19 landing at our dilapidated airports, New York is presently $13 billion in the hole. The governor notes that all the applause, banging of pots and pans, and "Thank You" signs are nice, but continuing paying essential workers would be even nicer.

The transit honchos are tossing around possible ideas on how to maintain proper social distancing on trains and buses in a more crowded future. Making reservations is one of them. Somehow, I don't think that notion will fly.

I saw this painted on an apartment building's lobby window.

I saw this posted on a liquor store's window. Liquor stores are—and always have been—essential and open for business.

My advice: Don't let the smoke get in your eyes and you'll be okay.

I looked into this place and not everything on its shelves—in my humble opinion—could be deemed essential. It's not, after all, a liquor store.

The Great Equalizer: Now everyone sits in the back of the bus.

Well, if you want to get technical, some riders are actually seated in the middle.

In a random testing of New Yorkers for COVID-19, "essential workers," including transit personnel, had a lower percentage of positives. This finding must mean something.

Like, maybe, masks and other protective equipment help.

 Actually, I'd rather pay for better pizza.

Finally, I'm happy to see the local car wash operating again. Why was it shuttered in the first place? And how did it reopen before May 15th? Not everything is as it seems, I guess.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Signed, Sealed, Delivered

In the fledgling days of the lockdown, the city’s numerous Chinese sit-down and takeout restaurants—with rare exceptions—closed their doors. It was something of a blow—on top of the bigger blow—to a metropolis hooked on the cuisine. People speculated that the businesses shuttered en masse because of the knucklehead factor. That is, that the proprietors would be circuitously blamed for the virus spread and boycotted. I don’t doubt there are a smattering of ignoramuses who have sworn off the Egg Foo Young, Lo Mein, and Moo Goo Gai Pan for good. But I assumed that it had more to do with the Chinese-American owners taking COVID-19 more seriously than others. I subsequently read that, on top of everything else, the restaurants were having supply and staffing problems.

Whatever the grounds for the closures, I’m pleased to report that many of the aforementioned places—in my neighborhood at least—have reopened. The one nearest to me is doing deliveries only—nobody is permitted in the shop’s close quarters. This doesn’t surprise me for a variety reasons, including what I witnessed a couple of days before the shut-down of all non-essential businesses. I encountered one of the owners—a very nice woman—delivering food on foot and festooned in a hazmat suit, mask, and gloves before they became chic—before the rest of us got with the program. Well, at least with the mask part. The beleaguered lady seemed especially anxious as she gingerly navigated the streets like an Apollo 11 astronaut walking on the moon. Anyway, when I first noticed the restaurant was back online—via GrubHub—their estimated delivery time was two- to two-and-a-half hours. The pent-up demand was unleashed!

A couple of nights ago, I ordered Chinese food from a different, previously closed location—because I didn’t want to wait two hours or more—and it came promptly. The delivery guy materialized on his electric bicycle, which, by the way, just became legal in New York City. The bikes have been visible on the streets for quite a while, but until now against the law. It seems the police were fining many of these folks and even confiscating their pricey wheels. Evidently, deliverers one and all made their case to the powers-that-be and they are now free to hurtle from delivery to delivery. I sincerely hope they appreciate that they must abide by traffic laws and that sidewalks aren’t streets. Delivery guys on electric bicycles have breezed past me on sidewalks traveling thirty miles per hour or more.

Okay, when my food was delivered, the masked-and-gloved man astride his bicycle produced a printed receipt for me to sign along with a pen. It’s always fun—let alone in a pandemic—putting my John Hancock on a piece of paper more-or-less suspended in mid-air. There are few entities nowadays requiring a signature, electronic or otherwise, including on package deliveries and prescription pick-ups. So, I thought it odd that I was signing for my General Tso’s chicken, sticky rice, and complimentary can of Pepsi.

Under the circumstances, my signature amounted to a Cro-Magnon man’s “X.” As I handed the signed receipt back to him, the delivery driver sported a simultaneously confused and uneasy expression on his face. Hopefully, his considerable tip made it all worthwhile. And I thank him for his service.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Why Is This Happening?

Last night at the seven o’clock hour, I encountered a masked man talking on his phone. He passed me by once and then again. At the time, the streets were alive with the sound of music—the daily salute to “first responders,” et al. On cue: banging pots, applause, blowing car horns, hoots and hollers, and the occasional firecracker. But this particular passerby appeared unaware of this recurring evening ritual and was visibly rattled. From his perspective, he had entered The Twilight Zone, “the middle ground between light and shadow.” The befuddled fellow called over to me: “Why is this happening?” I explained what was going on and he heaved a sigh of relief.

Courtesy of the nice weather this weekend, a lot more people are out and about. I saw New York’s Finest handing out masks at Van Cortlandt Park. Initially, I assumed the considerable police presence there was a social-distancing summons raid on wayward park goers, but I didn’t witness any such confrontations. It’s inevitable, though, that tonight’s local news will chronicle a confrontation or two between law enforcement and the citizenry.

The majority of folks on the streets sported masks or had them at-the-ready to don at a moment’s notice. Some, though, seemed not concerned in the least about masks and social distancing. It’s no big deal in the great outdoors, I suppose. Even on the busy thoroughfares of New York, maintaining sufficient distance is largely doable. I’ve noticed, too, some men and women wearing plastic welder-type masks on top of their face masks. That’s a lot of mask for a warm spring day—a lot of mask for a cold winter one as well. That protective combo in the heat and humidity of summertime would, I suspect, leave a lot to be desired.

Oh, right, it’s a presidential election year. Joe Biden just won the Kansas primary, I see, with exclusively mail ballots. So, it's likely to be Donald Trump versus Joe Biden? Is this the best we got! Actually, it’s the stuff of nightmares. As New York State will go Democratic come hell or high water, I have the luxury of not voting for old, addled, touchy-feely Joe, who would be wise to keep his yap shut between now and November. Just sayin’, Democratic brain-trust, whomever you are: There’s still time to tap a younger candidate who can utter a coherent sentence. If Biden is the nominee, I think I’ll cast a write-in vote for perennial presidential timber, Harold Stassen, and he’s been dead for nineteen years.

Speaking of politicians: I’m happy to say that Andrew Cuomo has risen to the moment—theatrically speaking. His takedown of Mitch McConnell is must-see TV. I’ve watched it dozens of times. I realize the governor is not a fan of The Godfather movies, but I’d say that he nicely pulled a Moe Greene vis-à-vis the old turtle McConnell: “You don’t bail me out. I bail you out!” While I’m impressed and reassured with Cuomo’s daily briefings, I wish he would do away with that New York Strong parting salvo and loving denouement. It’s kind of cloying and bit bizarre, too. But that’s nitpicking, I suppose, in these troubled times.

As for my mayor, Bill de Blasio, I never watch his morning briefings. There’s just something about the guy. Foremost, he did an awful job in the run-up to the pandemic hitting home. His tone and manner are off-putting. De Blasio has something of a Frankenstein-quality about him—Herman Munster without the endearing charm. But, hey, we're all in this together and this too shall pass…I think.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Danny's World

A fellow named Danny passed way from COVID-19 this week. Sad news that can’t help but make one consider the larger picture and the meaning of life (if there is any). Danny was the last surviving member of an extended family, whom I knew once upon a time from the old neighborhood. Danny's mother and father made it to ninety or thereabouts, but their two sons weren’t nearly as fortunate in the longevity game.

Like most—if not all families—they were a dysfunctional lot. But that over-used label cuts a rather wide swath. There is run-of-the-mill dysfunction and a more compelling kind that is the stuff of—say—a laugh-riot sitcom. When I was fourteen and fifteen, an older teenager, neighbor, and friend—a mentor of sorts—collaborated with me on a series of very raw comic strips, assorted standalone cartoons, and sundry prose based on this singular family. While there was ample fodder for all to observe in the public square, he was a relative who—courtesy of living in the same two-family apartment building and attending various family gatherings—was the proverbial fly on the wall. My friend was privy to behind-the-scenes goings-on, idiosyncrasies, and banter that I could only dream of witnessing first-hand.

Danny was considered the more “normal” of the two offspring. The younger brother was something of a delinquent with a notorious potty mouth. He would curse out his grandmother, mother, and even his father with such gaudy regularity that it—at the end of the day—came across as more comical than cruel. Granted, not everybody saw it that way. As a kid, though, who was not accustomed to seeing that kind of thing in hearth and home, it was—I must admit—scintillating theater of the absurd. This extended family consisted of authentic characters—boorish, unpredictable, but more-or-less lovable small-screen ones—who never ceased to amaze, enthrall, and entertain. Again, not everybody was amazed, enthralled, and entertained by them.

Fast forward four decades and I still possess a compendium of miscellaneous scraps of paper from that creative snapshot in time. Unfortunately, I was too young to take it to the next level and pitch a sitcom idea to the networks. The time was certainly ripe—the 1970s—for an urban family-based comedy. But, honestly, I churned out this stuff to please my older friend and confidante—period. When he laughed—and he often would hysterically—that was good enough for me. It was the quintessential inside joke that underscored a bygone era, the passion of youth, and the preciousness of a moment that, regrettably, couldn’t and didn’t last forever. 

In this family affair, I knew Danny the least. He was considerably older than me—a grown-up—by the time I was relishing being on the outside looking in on his family. Sure, he was the normal one, but I think the quiet one might be a more apt description. His comedic bona fides revolved around his bear-hairy body, propensity to sweat profusely no matter the season, and relative silence.  

My most lasting memory of Danny is being in his house, after he had moved away from the old neighborhood, married, and had children of his own. As a teen, I worked for his brother—also my ride home—for a spell. One Saturday, a gathering was held at Danny's place, which was somewhere between where I worked and home. At closing time, Danny's bro informed me that he was going to stop there first for the remains of a buffet dinner. Thrown for a loop, I had little choice but to go along for the ride. But rather than go in the house, I informed Danny's brother and my ride home that I would remain in the vehicle, even if it might be for an hour or two. When the always-considerate Danny learned that I was sitting outside all alone—in wintertime no less—he emerged in the chilly darkness and insisted I come inside for a bite to eat, which I somewhat reluctantly agreed to do. Why did I initially choose to pass on this rare insider’s glimpse into Danny's World and a free meal to boot? I was a bashful boy, I suppose. All I can say now with a lump in my throat—more than forty years later—is this: RIP, Danny and the World We Knew

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)