March Through Madness

(Originally published 3/18/19)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time enough at last...

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

For starters, more tourists around means more discarded fare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or would that cause a lot of accidents?

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

Life is really whizzing by...

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

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

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Hats Off to George Washington

(Originally published on 2/18/19)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Say Cheese...

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

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

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

The old New York not only looked better...

It was better! Take my word for it.

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

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

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

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

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Brand New World

(Originally published on 1/23/20)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Anatomy of a Boss

(Originally published 8/22/12)

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

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

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

Beware of the Sponge

(Originally published on 7/11/11)

One of my fondest high school memories—or, very possibly, my one and only fond memory—is the cafeteria. Cardinal Spellman in the Bronx served up some rather fine fare back in the day, including daily specials alongside a tasty and economical hot dog as an every day alternative. The school’s roast beef wedges, with their special cafeteria au jus, were otherworldly—better than anything Subway presently serves. On Wednesdays, the light-up menu board always read: “Roast Beef Wedge and Mashed Pot.” Potato was just too long a word to fit.

I absolutely loved Friday’s special, which featured square slices of pizza with a very unique consistency. It’s kind of hard to describe all these years later, but I think a "soggy kind of savory" would do this pizza justice. Granted, I was a teenager with teenager taste buds. And no, I’m not quite certain my adult palate would so warmly embrace this pizza’s curious gooeyness, but memories of simpler times, I've found, are rarely simple.

Ah, but leave it to a fine Catholic institution of learning to cast a smothering pall over its five-star culinary hub, which is what the powers-that-were did—and with a pedestrian sponge no less. Yes, a sponge—a sopping, soiled, and bacteria-laden one. In the waning moments of the school’s three lunch periods, a sorry lot of students were assigned either sponge duty or the picking up of garbage from the cafeteria tables and off the cafeteria floor. Student councilors—seniors—would randomly select who would have to perform these messy tasks. On occasion, a general announcement might be made that any boys with red on their ties or girls with blonde hair—or some such things—would have to clean up the spilled milk and splattered mustard with the dirty sponges supplied them after everybody else was sent on his or her merry way.

We were not furnished rubber gloves for this task. Nor did we have time to wash our hands before returning to our next classes. In fact, some of us didn’t even have the time to make it to the next class before the buzzer’s knell. And a few less than sympathetic teachers—the ones who no doubt hated kids and should have been in another profession—would send us to the dean’s office, where we’d be given detention for being thirty seconds, or a minute, late because we were involuntarily cleaning messes off dirty lunch tables with grimy sponges or collecting refuse off tables and the floor.

I’ve since learned that sponge duty is a relic of the past at my alma mater. Evidently, the more informed age in which we live puts a premium on both clean hands and clean thoughts—and it has cast asunder a vaunted tradition. And while I’m philosophically opposed to the nanny state of affairs, I’m not shedding any tears that the nasty sponge, and all that it wrought, has been retired for all time at my old high school. In fact, I hope one has been bronzed and is on display in the school's Cardinal's Room, which celebrates the life and times of the less than savory man for whom the school is named.

The Return to Normalcy on Hold

 It’s been a zany, alarming, disheartening few years. Anxiously we await a Warren G. Harding-style “Return to Normalcy.” I foolishly assumed that’s why we elected old Joe Biden. He was packaged as the anti-Trump, which was qualification enough in 2020. Despite my long-held belief that the man was a not-very-intelligent hack, political weathervane, and incoherent blowhard on his best days, I voted for him anyway. But after yesterday’s hyperventilating, dishonest, demagogic speech in Georgia on "voting suppression," I realized—actually, I’ve known it for quite some time—that he is no Warren Harding or Gerald Ford for that matter. Not by a long shot!

On August 9, 1974, Gerald Ford was sworn in as president a few minutes past the noon hour. I was eleven years old at the time and visiting my maternal grandparents in bologna country, leafy Bangor, Pennsylvania. Richard Nixon had delivered his resignation speech the previous night. My adolescence notwithstanding, I was fully aware that the Watergate scandal was a big deal, and that the citizenry at large were fixated on it. But this momentous day in history occurred in an age before Twitter, 24/7 cable television, and free speech zones on college campuses. So, for the average Tom, Dick, and Harriet, it wasn’t quite all consuming.

Still, I remember the relief felt by many Americans as Ford delivered what was, in essence, his inaugural address in the East Room of the White House. It was succinct, self-effacing, and reassuring. “Our long national nightmare is over,” he intoned. Ford was the anti-Nixon and lived up to the billing—the only president to assume office not having been elected by we the people. Upon Vice President Spiro Agnew’s ignominious resignation, he was appointed by Richard Nixon to fill the vacancy and—as instructed by the 25th Amendment to the Constitution—confirmed by both houses of the Congress. “The Constitution works,” Ford also said on that solemn afternoon. Yes, it really does. If only the craven, short-sighted politicians of today could see that.

But it’s a vastly different time and place. My mother pointed out that Mr. Ford looked somewhat like her dad, my grandfather, all those years ago. I could see the resemblance, but there the similarities ended. No, it’s 1974 by a long shot! I was further reminded of this fact while shuttling back and forth in a car service this past week. One driver’s GPS spoke in a sensuous woman’s voice: “Turn ri-iiight. Turn le-eeeft.” Listening to these commands for a half hour was slow torture. Seems, too, that GPS has a mind of its own—sensuous or all business, it doesn’t matter—particularly on local back streets. I was dropped off on the street to the west of me, and another time on the street to the east of me. One driver whizzed past my address before I could holler, “Stop!”—you know, like the policeman in Frosty the Snowman. (The Microsoft Word editor suggested I be more inclusive and say, “police officer.”)

No, it’s not 1974 by a long shot! Visiting a patient in a hospital required me filling out a form on my smartphone. It was a real hassle. Approval was then sent to my e-mail address, which I had to access to show a receptionist. That was a hassle, too. I assume there are a fair percentage of folks without a smartphone or with one and not especially proficient in navigating it like me. Nevertheless, I made it from point A to point B and then had to show my vaccination card and ID to advance to point C.

So, what’s the big deal about presenting an ID when voting? This isn’t the 1950s or 1960s. An ID is essential nowadays for every adult with a pulse. Recently, I had to display mine when purchasing a bottle of Nyquil cold medicine. It’s manufactured hysteria for the Twitter rabble and blathering talking heads obsessed with politics and their respective agendas.

Sadly, the Gerald Ford tonic is no longer available. Its expiration date having long expired. Oh, and New York City pols want non-citizens to have a say in municipal elections. A thirty-day residency requirement is all they ask. What could possibly go wrong? A whole lot more, I fear. Our Long National Nightmare 2.0 is not over and a “Return to Normalcy” seems unlikely anytime soon. Why? Because it’s not 1974 by a long shot!

Just Like Rip Van Winkle

A couple of weeks prior to Christmas 1999, I brought a package to a private mailing outlet that I frequently patronized. The local post office is the pits! On this occasion, the shop’s proprietor and I discussed the impending year 2000. “Remember,” he asked, “how we used to calculate how old we would be in the year 2000?” Funny, but I did recall doing such math at some point in my youth. You know, when I felt immortal and impervious to the slings and arrows of life.

The new century seemed so far, far away back then. So far, in fact, that it appeared as a mirage, something that was just too distant to ever come to pass. But come to pass it did—and then some—and it’s been pretty much all downhill since. Well, not all downhill. I am grateful for Amazon Prime and Netflix. I just binge-watched Cobra Kai season four on the latter and will be watching Wycliffe for a second time on the former. Wycliffe is a 1990s British detective series based on novels by W.J. Burley. It’s pre-Internet and cell phones, and the lead detective has minimal angst to contend with—his personal life isn’t an unfolding soap opera—which is a welcome change in the genre. Granted, there are a lot of uber-angst laden policemen, like Luther, which I enjoyed as well.

Not very long after my philosophical confab with the postmaster-entrepreneur, I visited a friend in Manhattan on New Year’s Eve day 1999. When we parted ways at the 72nd Street subway station entrance, I said to him, “I’ll see you in the next century…century (fade out).” I solemnly uttered the sentence with a distinct accent, reprising the words and manner of Doctor Farwell played by actor Oscar Beregi in The Twilight Zone episode “The Rip Van Winkle Caper.”

Plot: The mastermind, Farwell, and his cohorts hijack a train load of gold on its way to Fort Knox. The plan: Put everyone in his aberrant entourage to sleep for one hundred years and—when the heat is off—wake up free to spend their ill-gotten gains as extremely rich men. The chief problem with the plan—ingenious as it was—is that the future is an unknown quantity. Farwell and company smell the coffee in 2061 all right, which is only thirty-nine years from now. But that world is full of people driving George Jetson-type Teslas and sporting minimalist-futuristic apparel. The gold bullion, by the way, is worthless, because in the intervening one hundred years, humans found a way to manufacturer the stuff.

Doc Farwell in 1961, of course, didn’t take into account things like climate change. Had he made it out of Death Valley alive—which is where the gang slumbered for a century—he’d no doubt have been surprised how different his home of state of California was and the country at large, too. A lesson here: The Big Brain figured out how to put people to sleep—with all the body functions in suspended animation—but was like a helpless child in a new world full of new things and new attitudes. Think of all the newfangled technology that would have been at his fingertips had he made it out of the desert. God only knows what the technology will be like in 2061.

So, why not? Let me calculate my age in 2061. Oh, never mind: I’ll be dead as a doornail then. And considering what I see happening in the here and now on so many fronts, there are worse things than that. Personally, I believe Farwell would have done better to go back in time to 1860, so long as he avoided combat, typhoid fever, and dysentery.

The Polar Local

One of my fondest childhood memories is Christmas shopping “downtown,” as we called it. It was an annual tradition in early December during that colorful snapshot in time: the 1970s. My brothers and I would accompany my aunt on a subway ride to 34th Street—yes, where the miracle occurred. We would exit on Seventh Avenue directly across the street from the main entrance to Macy’s, the “World’s Largest Department Store.”

We would then commence our long, but exciting day by descending to Macy’s renowned Cellar, a wonderland of pleasing sights, sounds, and smells. After plowing through many of the store’s upper levels as well, we would make a beeline to nearby Gimbel’s, not the world's largest department store, but pretty big. Later, we would visit the “big Woolworth’s” on Fifth Avenue, which was, in fact, quite sprawling with an unforgettable fragrance—a peculiar amalgam of scents from the kitchen, candies, soaps, and everything else in the store, which covered a lot of ground . There was Brentano’s bookstore with its winding wooden staircase, a book “superstore” before there was such a thing. S.H. Kress’s, a Woolworth’s clone, was the place we would chow down—hamburgers and fries at a circular counter with barstools. What more could a kid ask for? Post-repast would find us at Korvette’s department store and ever-closer to St. Patrick’s Cathedral and Rockefeller Center with that—must see—big tree. Our trip was meticulously timed for us to lay eyes on the tree as the five o’clock hour approached and darkness set in.

While the first leg of our journeys from yesteryear, Macy’s, and the last leg, the Rockefeller Center tree, remain, just about everything in between has changed. There are no more stores like Woolworth’s, S.H. Kress’s, and Brentano’s. Where we once tread is now quite gentrified and the shopping choices reflect that. I wasn’t retracing my steps yesterday or last week for that matter. Instead, I ventured to lower Manhattan, which we rarely visited as kids. Christmas in New York is still something to see, but it’s worth broadening the field a little. There’s a lot more to New York than mid-town.

Then as now, I took the Polar Express—actually, the Number 1 local—into Manhattan these past couple of weeks to sample New York at Christmastime. And while there always has been homeless, assorted lunatics, and panhandlers on the trains and in the stations, the numbers of them have skyrocketed. Yesterday, a fellow entered the subway car with two Santa Claus-sized sacks of recyclable bottles and cans. He didn’t appear homeless as he talked and texted on his smartphone, but he came across as unsavory and more than a bit off. This guy didn’t concern his fellow passengers until he lit up a cigarette. When a person does that in a closed underground setting, the oxygen level dramatically plummets. Coincidentally, another chap popped in and likewise lit up—the perils in riding in the last car on an uptown trip. As there was a menacing air about him, I exited the car and waited for the next train. Who needs all that?

Across the station from me during this eight-minute interval between trains was an individual rambling on a phone to someone or babbling on to himself—it was hard to tell. He was, however, saying the darndest things. I won’t go into details, but he had a lot to say about drug use. The man had sampled them all. After hearing a Whoopi Goldberg COVID-19 public service announcement alerting us that masks were still required while riding New York City mass transit, he changed course. Suffice it to say, he didn’t approve of the comedienne’s appearance and wouldn’t you-know-what with her if she was the last woman on earth. In fact, he would seek out a gentleman before her. Granted, it wasn’t quite on par with the Radio City Christmas Spectacular, whose remaining shows have been cancelled due to a major spike in the citizenry testing positive for the virus. But it’s nonetheless unavoidably part of my Christmas in the City adventures in 2021.        

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Bohack Premium Beer Can Parable

As the years whiz by and increasing numbers of people in my life pass along, I can’t help but contemplate my stuff. Yes, my stuff—my lifetime of accumulation—and what will become of it. I would like very much that my Bohack Premium Beer can, which I purchased on eBay several years ago, go to someone, somewhere who would appreciate it. After all, it’s not merely a tin can, it’s a piece of history. My earliest memory of a supermarket is of the Bohack’s down the street. Bohack’s was a New York City chain in the compost heap of history by 1977. Oh, once upon a time, my paternal grandfather collected compost from the grocery store’s garbage for use in his “victory garden.” Simpler times for sure!

But as I’ve recently participated in the clearing out of an estate’s things, I see that the recycling blue bag and the garden-variety trashcan is where so much stuff ends up. It’s a sorry final resting place that underscores how life is so fleeting with very little staying power. I have assorted collectibles and miscellaneous ephemera that have great meaning to me, but not to very many others in my life circle. And the individuals most likely to understand the sentimental value of my myriad stuff—never mind the dollar value—are my family contemporaries. The problem, though, is that they have a lot of stuff on their plates and now is not the time to assume more of it, like a Bohack Premium Beer can.

Yes, it’s Christmas, a holiday that through the years compounded our stuff inventories. For example, I have saved the board of the Parkers Brothers game Landslide. Outside of Monopoly, Landslide was the most popular game in my household—among my brothers, friends, and me at least. The goal of Landslide was to reach or surpass 270 electoral votes and declare victory in a presidential election. It was not only an exciting game but a valuable lesson in civics, too. I loved the sport of politics as a kid and beyond, but not so much anymore in these hyper-partisan, wacky times.

The Landslide board featured a map of United States with the individual states noted along with their electoral college vote total. At the time, New York State boasted forty-one electoral votes, topped only by California’s forty-five. Florida tallied up only seventeen back in 1971, the year I received my favorite board game as a Christmas gift. Yes, I recently contemplated that old game board of mine and its destiny. I wondered what would become of it. Really, it shouldn’t end up in the trash, but—the truth be told—not everyone will see the value and the history in that half-century-old gem. I can honestly say that I won’t be getting anything like Landslide this Christmas. I give and receive presents now that are mostly edible and drinkable. No more stuff to be tossed away at a time growing increasingly closer.

Oh, I was in Manhattan yesterday, down in the financial district. The New York Stock Exchange erects a big tree every year that is not only chock full of lights but ornaments as well. There were plenty of tourists around but nothing like the teeming masses at Rockefeller Center. Christmas in New York should include a visit to lower Manhattan. Buy yourself a mini-Statue of Liberty while you are there. It’ll be something for somebody else to throw away when your times comes.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Sun Also Rises

It’s a wonderful place to watch a sunset: Battery Park at the tip of Manhattan Island. With the days growing shorter and shorter, it disappeared behind Ellis Island around 4:30 p.m. this past Saturday. I wish I had dressed warmer for the occasion. There was a distinct chill in the air and a pesky wind blowing off New York Harbor. It was, though, fitting weather for the start of yet another Christmas season. Christmastime in the city: The Rockefeller Center tree is all lit up, the Rockettes are strutting their stuff a block away, and the belching street steampipes are working overtime.

It’s hard to believe that fifty-one years have passed since I saw Scrooge at Radio City Music Hall followed by the Christmas show, including the Rockettes of the day, who would now be in their seventies and eighties. My mother was one of many chaperones on the trip, which was an annual event in St. John’s grammar school.

I consider Scrooge the all-time greatest Christmas movie and most entertaining adaptation of Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol.” Father Maloney would disagree with me on this, for he advised his students at Cardinal Spellman High School to avoid all animated and musical versions—which Scrooge was—of the Dickens’ classic. The late film critic Roger Ebert appreciated star Albert Finney’s interpretation of Ebenezer Scrooge but dismissed the music therein as not worthy of anybody’s time. Are you kidding, Roger, the movie is chock full of charming, moving, and memorable tunes by Leslie Bricusse. Granted, “See the Phantoms,” as croaked out by Sir Alec Guinness, is not quite in the same league as “Sing a Christmas Carol.” Julie Andrews sung the latter in a 1972 Christmas special, and "I'll Begin Again" was performed by, among others, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

Another Christmas classic is The Homecoming, Earl Hamner’s “Christmas Story,” which inspired The Waltons TV series. It absolutely captured a time—the Great Depression—and was a gritty, believable period piece. Guess what? A remake of The Homecoming has been made and aired in 2021. Richard Thomas, who played the original John-Boy, provides the narration. I haven’t seen it but have read reviews and saw stills from the movie. The original featured actors who looked the part. They weren’t Hollywood handsome in neatly pressed, spiffy clean, new-looking clothing. And why pray tell did the current version ditch one of the kids: Ben? I read about a scene where Grandpa, John-Boy, and Mary Ellen go out to cut down the family Christmas tree. In the original, Mary Ellen wanted to accompany John-Boy and Grandpa, but was sternly informed by Mama, played with earnest elan by Patricia Neal, that “Cutting down trees is men’s work. A girl’s place is in the kitchen.” You see, that would have been the mentality in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia in Depression-era America. Political correctness can’t even let period pieces stand on their own. I suppose some people would be triggered if Mary Ellen wasn’t permitted to boldly go wherever she wanted to go in 1933. This is 2021.

When The Homecoming, set in 1933, first aired on CBS in December 1971, thirty-eight years separated the two. Now, with the latest version, eighty-eight years separate the two. That’s a lot of water under the bridge. So much has changed since I watched The Homecoming debut in my grandmother’s and aunt’s living room all those years ago. They had a color television set, which my immediate family didn’t have upstairs from them. With all this passage of time, I guess I should take heart that the sun also rises.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)