The City on the Edge of Forever

At the beginning of the year, New York City was New York City. Its Lurch-like woke mayor presided—and smugly intoned before the camera—but he was largely invisible to me. That is because—for health and wellness reasons—I paid minimal attention to him and local politics in general. What I did observe, however, was life going on, largely as before, with the Big Apple reasonably safe and its services largely efficient. The city’s parks were kept clean and many upgraded. The streets, too, were frequently scrubbed, trashcans always emptied, and the sanitation department separately picked up organic waste. Some subway lines were way past their primes, but the Number 1 train typically made good time.

Granted, the city has been changing through the years—and not for the better—becoming increasingly expensive for starters. Unable to afford the exorbitant rents and comply with an ever-intrusive bureaucracy, mom-and-pop businesses have slowly but surely vanished. It's not a working and middle-class town anymore—more a tale of two cities. But that not-especially pretty picture seems almost nostalgic now—like the good old days. What these past several months—with a pandemic, protests, and rioting—have wrought is absolutely astounding with potentially debilitating long-term consequences.

Vacant storefronts are omnipresent and there are destined to be a whole lot more of them in the near future. Violent crime is a daily occurrence, with the perpetrators clearly emboldened by a demoralized and diminished police department understandably holding back. The police unit dedicated to getting guns off the streets has been disbanded. I just saw a news story where African-American council members pleaded with their vociferous progressive brethren to knock it off with the defunding police blather.  Still, the mayor regularly reassures the citizenry that the city is coming back and coming back strong, although there’s scant evidence that this is the case. Turn on the local news or take a walk on the wild side—like I did this past weekend—and you be the judge.

Vacant stores and more graffiti...now that's the ticket for a better tomorrow...

Happy to see that the Good Stuff Diner lives, but its next-door neighbor has not been so fortunate.

During the bona fide good old days, the 1970s—from my perspective at least—there was a popular restaurant chain called Beefsteak Charlie's. It was in the vanguard of the all-you-can-eat salad bar and also offered unlimited beer, wine, or sangria. What could possibly go wrong with that offer did go wrong with that offer. 

Pandemic plus Manhattan Rents equals For Lease.

 Prime retail space available? It depends on what the meaning of "Prime" is.

Definitely on the move...

Not only have restaurants and eateries fallen by the wayside. Shoegasm is no more.

Capital idea: Let's open a restaurant in New York City now. Business plan in the making.

Hopefully, the third time's the charm.

Happily, Taco Mahal lives for another day with outdoor dining in front of a former business not as lucky.

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, men have masked you.

And you, too.

Some people have seen images of G-O-D in old public phone booths. I have seen D-O-G.

There are some hearty survivors hoping to stay afloat with outdoor street dining. Let's pray they can in this city on the brink and not get hit by a wayward bus.

I noticed that many of these outdoor dining areas were pretty packed with hipsters on Saturday morning. 

It isn't just MAGA motorcyclists, rednecks, and Karens who flout pandemic dictums.

There's no such thing as a free lunch or mask, in this instance, when there is nobody in the station booth.

Only the winds of time will tell what will become of New York City. Subway ridership is down eighty percent. The man impersonating a mayor has filled three Upper West Side hotels, which once upon a time catered to international tourists, with homeless, substance abusers, and sex offenders, too. It's a sad, complex, and growing problem. Still, that $3,000/month studio apartment in the vicinity just might not look like a bargain anymore. To be continued...

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Reflections on Stinky Times

Recently, I spotted a car with a Kennedy-Johnson bumper sticker. It wasn’t affixed—sixty years ago—on a pre-1960s vehicle bumper. Rather, it was a subtle but powerful contemporary statement, lost, no doubt, on the Millennials in their myriad hashtag worlds. I know, it's easy to poke fun at Millennials—they are not all created equal—but so many of the guys sound the same. From my ear: Just like the Amazon code phone call voice. 

Anyway, what the bumper sticker hammered home to me was this: We are living in stinky times on a whole host of fronts. There was a time when politicians earned their initials. JFK-LBJ was quite a ticket, following in the ample footsteps of FDR. From the New Deal to the New Frontier. Now we have AOC, a media-made grandstander. Can you appreciate the decline? The pandemic and all that it has wrought has merely enhanced the stink, literally and figuratively. Nevertheless, I continue to wonder as I wander. I wonder what tomorrow will bring. 

For starters this: For the first time in eighty-seven years, the Rockettes have been grounded. No Christmas Spectacular in 2020.

Once upon a time when the lights were lit, I saw Engelbert Humperdinck there. It's a complicated back story that involved Regis Philbin, may he rest in peace.

Hey, Mike Bloomberg, do you want to contribute to a worthwhile charity? Double what you spent running for president will suffice.

How about a billion plus for the city you love, which will hardly make a dent in your net worth. For the city, by the way, that you left in not very capable hands. If, by the way, you want to get a fix on the caliber of Bloomberg's successor, may I refer you to his presidential campaign.

Hey, if Prometheus can wear a mask, so can you!

Back to Mayor Mike, the philanthropist. The police budget has been cut by one billion dollars. Watching the local news nowadays is akin to having a ringside seat at the O.K. Corral. Looking on the bright side, it's not the Windy City, although it was pretty windy today.

So, how about one billion for the police...

And another one hundred million for the sanitation department, whose budget has been cut by that figure, which hasn't gone unnoticed. 

One final aside on the local news: The amount of commercials run during them is too much to bear. Infomercials even air during the news broadcasts. But, I get it: These are stinky times. Remembering fondly Jim Jensen, Rolland Smith, and Carol Martin.

Saturday was a beautiful day for baseball Let's play two. On second thought, one is too much. For a long time now, Major League Baseball has not been the game that I once knew and loved. But in these stinky times the sport—among others—has gone political. Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks...

Thank you! But I wish there were some garment workers left in the Garment District.

This is an all too common sight around New York City. The aforementioned service cuts leave these street litter baskets overflowing for days at a time. It just adds to the abiding misery. And it stinks!

Remember me to Herald Square.

In these stinky times, it's easy to get steamed. Back to the FDR-JFK-LBJ-AOC monikers for a moment. Referring to the statue of Father Damien of Molokai, a canonized saint, in the U.S. Capitol, AOC remarked, “This is what patriarchy and white supremacist culture looks like!” Really? The man ministered to an isolated leper colony in a remote part of Hawaii. He died of the disease and is considered a hero by many.  

A new term used by the news media to describe people who can't afford sufficient groceries: food insecurity. There's a lot of that in these parts and virtually everywhere else.

It's getting near that time. What will the college experience look like this year?

In my alma mater, woke-inspired protests will begin, I fear. An English professor was quoted in the local paper, The Riverdale Press, that Manhattan College, which is in the Bronx, is being "exclusionary" by listing its address as Riverdale, New York. Riverdale is a neighborhood in the Bronx. Got that. I feel fortunate that I attended college in the 1980s and not now...no straight jacket required...and it was a lot cheaper.

The train's leaving the station. Don't let it leave without you.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Still Up, Still Down, and Still a Hole in the Ground

This most bizarre year grinds on and on and on. The most bizarre presidential election in memory is now only three months away. A sitting president is boasting about acing a dementia test and daring his opponent to do the same. His rival, by the way, is running a masterful campaign, appreciating that—now more than ever—less is definitely better. A footnote on the aforementioned test: I read somewhere that one question asks the patient to count back by seven from one hundred. Honestly, I don’t think very many young people could do that now. The dementia tests of the future will have to take this into account.

Speaking of bizarre, but sadly the norm in these Orwellian times, I came upon this recent ABC News tweet: “Protesters in California set fire to a courthouse, damaged a police station and assaulted officers after a peaceful demonstration intensified.” Once upon a time, President Bill Clinton answered a question with this: “It depends on what the meaning of ‘is’ is?" I say: It depends on what the meaning of “peaceful” is. Personally, I know a peaceful demonstration when I see one. And when it intensifies as noted above—by a mainstream media Goliath—it becomes something else entirely. Just sayin’. I suppose it’s in the company style manual: Any mention of violence in said demonstrations must include the word “peaceful” in it. Actually, if a peaceful demonstration intensifies, it should ipso facto be more peaceful.

Anyway, I ventured down to lower Manhattan this past weekend—into the belly of the beast in this Bizarro World in which we all reside. Curious to see what the peaceful demonstrators had wrought in the vicinity of City Hall, I planned a walk-around of the wounded landscape. The area, though, was barricaded and tightly guarded by police, who had at long last evicted—upon orders of the man-impersonating-a-mayor—Chaz East. Thwarted, I ventured into the canyons of Wall Street and down to Battery Park. Sometimes, you just have to look on the bright side of things—in this case of a pandemic. From a purely selfish perspective—I know—there are benefits to having fewer people around a piece of real estate typically overflowing with folks from all over the world. That said: I look forward to the business of New York’s return, which includes tourists en masse. But until that unknown date, I will wonder as I wander in the relative tranquility—in peacefulness, if you will.

The people still ride in a hole in the ground, but on the Number 1 line—heading into lower Manhattan—not until after Dyckman Street.

I wish I could say that New York City has gone to the dogs. But, unfortunately, it's gone to the politicians.

While it's a squeaky clean environment nowadays for many riders, it doesn't always last. Please, don't let this feeling end...

In the environs of City Hall, the big cleanup was ongoing. 

NYC Chaz ended with a whimper and not a bang, which was good for all concerned.

If you are a misanthrope and an outdoorsman, it's actually an ideal time to visit Manhattan.

Beware, though, of COVID-19 and stray gunfire.

This guard must be off-duty on weekends. He's never inside to disturb.

Sit here, not there, not there, not there, okay here.

Is all of this a bit of overkill? From my observation, individuals who practice social distancing will practice social distancing without untold prompts. And those who don't won't be inspired to do so by countless directives.

The bronze "Charging Bull," which I'm happy to report was left unscathed by peaceful demonstrators, is located in the historic Bowling Green area in the Financial District. By the way, there are a lot of statues down there.

What, pray tell, isn't nowadays?

Rest easy, lawn!

The place is here. The time is now, and the journey into the shadows that we are about to watch, could be our journey. This is Rod Serling's opening narration from "Where Is Everybody?" the first ever episode of The Twilight Zone, starring Earl Holliman. The above image is of the Castle Clinton National Monument, which in ordinary times would be teeming with visitors.

Including this big guy, who is one among countless little guys out of work in these bizarre times.

Here's that bright side that I was talking about.

Only a handful of people were on Miss New York, which was headed to the recently reopened Liberty Island. In normal times, this boat is packed to capacity with long, winding lines awaiting the next trip and the one after that and the one after that.

Alas, no climbing the Lady's innards at this time. But this too shall pass, he said.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

You Know You Are Getting Old...

From the “You Know You Are Getting Old” file: I ran across a news story this morning that warned of a potential future calamity should things remain status quo. A year of reckoning was included in the article: 2040. Without asking why, I calculated my age at that fateful moment in time. And if all goes well, I thought—I might very well be deceased when the chickens come home to roost. After all, I would have arrived then at the average life expectancy for an American male. Of course, I could drop dead tomorrow or live until 2060—neither of which appeal to me.

This particular story concerned plastic and how by 2040 there could be triple the amount of it in our oceans. The piece was accompanied by a rather startling image of a completely plastic-littered shore with a wild boar or some such animal rummaging through the mess. Earlier this year—before the world turned upside down—a single-use plastic ban went into effect in New York State. It’s still on the books, but not enforced as far as I can see, which is understandable considering the more pressing messes.

That said: I cannot help but notice the litter baskets around town, which are overflowing onto the sidewalks. And ditto the litter in the parks and in the streets. Among the teeming refuse is lots and lots of plastic, particularly take-out containers, cups, and utensils. With the COVID-19 city budget clearly scaled back, including sanitation services, the plastic conundrum endures more potent than ever. The restaurants that have opened for outdoor dining are serving everything on disposable plastic plates with disposable plastic forks, spoons, and knives. Considering the seriousness of the moment, I certainly understand why, but it’s not a Marshmallow World that we live in—it’s a plastic one.

Supporting my local eateries and delivery people, I regularly order food via GrubHub. All the plastic used for the simplest of orders never ceases to amaze me. I take some solace in that I can and do recycle the stuff, but the more I learn about what actually gets recycled—when push comes to shove—the more I worry about the 2040 scenario and beyond.

I recall fondly the days of patronizing my favorite local diner for a hamburger, French fries, and cup-of-soup takeout with no plastic used at all. What could be wrapped in paper was wrapped in paper. Liquids were poured into cardboard cups. Everything was then placed in a brown paper bag. I remember, too, purchasing a sixteen-ounce Nedick’s brand orange soda from Pat Mitchell’s little grocery store in Kingsbridge. It was in a glass bottle—not a single item, in fact, in the place’s freezers was in plastic. Yes, I know, there are environmental and manufacturing issues with glass and paper, too.

Looking on the bright side of plastic: Several years ago while riding as a passenger with an all-too aggressive driver-friend of mine, a road rage incident occurred. My chauffeur refused to let a car into a merging entrance lane of the Major Deegan Expressway, I-87. Shortly thereafter on said expressway, a vehicle pulled up alongside us, slowed down, and opened its passenger-side window. Out came a very angry head with an empty plastic soda bottle in hand, and then a second one, which he ferociously tossed onto our windshield. Fortunately, even ferociously tossed empty plastic soda bottles land with a whimper and not a bang, especially on windy highways and byways. And that, apparently, was all the ammo available to them as they sped away. Nevertheless, it caused an uncomfortable swerve and bona fide scare as well. And we were left to wonder and worry if the bottle throwers might be lying-in-wait rearmed up ahead. 

Now, there’s no telling what empty glass bottles in lieu of plastic ones might have initiated in the above retelling. From the looks on the perpetrators’ faces—who were angrily cussing out my friend—they would have tossed, if they had one on hand, a fully loaded safe at us. In any event, I lived to tell the tale of two plastic bottles, but for how much longer no one knows.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Sardines, Peaches, and Onions

Yesterday, an elderly woman approached me and asked: “Would you like some cans of sardines and peaches? I have extras.” I politely replied, “No, thank you” and went on my merry way. These are strange times indeed, I thought. But it subsequently occurred to me that she probably received the goods from a food bank for senior citizens. My next-door neighbor was the recipient of some such thing not too long ago and it included cans of no-frills sardines, boxes of no-frills crackers, and the like. You might think it impossible to produce a bad can of peas, but the no-frills gang have found a way.

And now for something completely different: I just learned some sad news and it’s not about statue toppling and the trampling on fundamental free speech. My old grammar school, St. John’s in the Bronx’s Kingsbridge, is apparently shutting its doors for good. Seems that COVID-19 has done a number on the finances of the families who made the sacrifice to send their kids there. And, too, the virus has hit the purse of the Church hierarchy hard as well. The entire school—all eight grades—was in what I knew as St. John’s Middle School, which once upon a time housed only the seventh and eighth grades. That tells you how much the school’s enrollment had shrunk through the years. In my day we had several classes in each grade with forty or more students. The baby boom was the wind beneath its wings and the tuition was pretty reasonable when the Archdiocese of New York was awash in green. But that was then and this is now.

The school and church have been around for more than a century. When I was growing up, we were associated with our parish. “Oh, you’re from St. John’s”—that sort of thing. Everybody, it seemed, knew everybody else. The priests knew us. The nuns knew us. I was fortunate to have gone through grades one through eight in more civilized times, when corporal punishment was frowned upon and the nuns very literally kicked their habits. We received a pretty good education there. The depressing reality is that it’s no longer an option for the mostly minority families who were willing to pay the not inconsiderable tuition of today. By and large, the public school alternatives in New York City don't exactly cut the mustard. And if I may borrow from Lily Tomlin: “And that’s the truth!”

One last thing: I recently came upon an article about—yes—words with supposedly racist connotations like “master.” The real estate world is now looking into the phrase “master bedroom.” In fact, some real estate outfits are now referring to the “primary bedroom” instead. Colonial-style homes are next on the hit list. My biggest fear is that I Dream of Jeannie will fall victim to the cancel culture. Yes, Master. Alas, this is not an Onion story.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

America Unmasked

This morning I witnessed—from more than six feet—a masked and gloved woman pass an unmasked and ungloved woman on the sidewalk. I was made privy to the encounter courtesy of the former shouting at the latter: “You forgot your mask?” It was more of a rhetorical question. I couldn’t hear the unmasked woman’s reply, but the masked woman wasn't done yet. “I’m sick of people like you!” she shrieked. “You’re dangerous!”

Now, in my humble opinion, this is the flip side of the hysterical crazies who refuse to wear masks in stores, even though wearing them is mandatory and store policy. But, come on, it’s a terribly hot, humid day here in New York City. The aforementioned Clash of the Titans occurred in the great outdoors on a back street that is part of a city effort to create more space and ample social distancing opportunities for pedestrians and bicyclists alike. That is, on selected streets partially cordoned off with police barriers during the daytime hours, people are encouraged to share the road with ostensibly only local traffic traveling at no more than five miles per hour. Not everyone is compliant, I daresay. So, the point is that the hopping mad masked woman had sufficient space to practice proper social distancing. For crying out loud, lady, you were outside in ninety-degree heat with a mask and gloves on—that’s some pretty mighty armor there.

Yes, you can be pro-mask and not have one over your nose and mouth every walking moment. I wear mine where required—while shopping and riding mass transit—and would do so even if it were optional. Typically, though, I pull the thing down as soon as I step out into the bright light of day. And guess what? You can, too, be virulently anti-Trump and anti-woke. You can, too, be anti-police brutality and pro-police. You can, too, throw-in wholeheartedly with a slogan, but not the larger movement behind it with its decidedly anti-democratic, censorious, very un-American agenda. Hey, let’s get someone fired and ruin his or her entire life because he or she said something we didn't like—like all lives matter heaven forbid!

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)