Quote the Raving

(Originally published 11/18/18)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next building...

Too much too soon...

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

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

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

What does that really mean? Bring back the Grinch.

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

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

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

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

Seagull on a lamppost in Battery Park City.

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

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

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

In My Face

(Originally published 10/6/19)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the view is constantly changing.

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

Now, if only things were looking up...

I caption this picture: Down the up staircase.

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

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

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

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

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

What treasures does this mysterious sidewalk trunk hold?

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

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

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Remembering Dr. Z...By the Way

(Originally published 6/19/10)

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

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

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

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

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

First Prize Relinquished

(Originally published 10/30/11)

On the eve of Halloween, I can’t help but hark back to a special memory of the day. The day that I won first prize for the best costume in my fourth-grade class. I wore a clown mask, a red wool hat, and the heavy blue corduroy shirt that my father always wore when he painted the rooms of our apartment and assorted other things. It was a colorful outfit for sure, but the early-1970s were colorful times. I can’t see anyone wearing that heavy corduroy shirt today, but then I can’t see why anyone would have worn it back then, except as a painting shirt to absorb all that splatter, or as part of a Halloween costume.

But here’s the interesting note about this Halloween costume contest in St. John’s grammar school in Kingsbridge. The boy who came in second place to me dressed up as a woman. He went the whole nine yards, too, with a fashionable dress, high heels, and a girdle—not some Woolworth-Woolco $2.47 mature woman costume. His name was Kieran and I'll concede that he really and truly merited first prize. He proudly lifted his dress to show us his girdle. But then, it was a democratic vote—at least that’s what we were all led to believe. In retrospect, considering the time and the school, perhaps there was some chicanery behind the scenes and the ballot box was tampered with in some way. However, I don't think so.

Whatever the real truth is, I would like on this Halloween—some four decades later—to at long last award Kieran first prize, because he so richly deserved it, not only for the costume itself, but for his audacity to wear it in front of his peers. After all, how old were we then? Ten? My only other personal memory of Kieran involves a certain request of his. He asked me if I would be his straight man in an effort to cheer up a classmate of ours named Karen who, for some reason that I don't recall, was bereft and weeping uncontrollably.

Anyway, Kieran, with me at his side—two fourth graders—said to Karen, “Nicholas is ridiculous,” emphasizing the syllabic rhyme. I remember, too, he employed various other rhymes and plays on words to cheer her up, which is laudatory in and of itself, but particularly so considering his young age. While I wouldn't call it a rousing success, I think Kieran’s ten-year-old therapy actually worked. But, if nothing else, it’s testament to his heart and soul, and I am proud to have been his Charlie McCarthy dummy for one brief shining moment a long time ago. I sincerely hope the fifty-something Kieran has put this incredible empathy of his to good use on a much grander scale. And, as for Karen, I hope the “Nicholas is ridiculous” moment made a difference—even if only a small one. Whatever…this Halloween first prize…transferred finally to Kieran is, I know, justice delayed...but at long last served.

The Misadventures of Pizza Man

(Originally published 3/7/16)

He was oozing optimism when he first opened his pizza place’s doors. His little restaurant was poised and ready for what was certain to be a mad dash of salivating clientele. The shop was staffed like a bustling Midtown Manhattan pizzeria—its multiple employees festooned in matching red, logo-emblazoned baseball caps and staff shirts. The adrenalized new owner, who had succeeded an unsuccessful pizza peddler, who in turn had assumed the reins from still another failed pizza guy, had—it seemed—all his bases covered. This latest entrepreneurial endeavor was sure to prove—despite its cursed locale—that a third time's a charm.

Long a pizza devotee and forever a Bronx denizen, the shortest distance from point A (home) to point B (a quality New York slice of pizza) mattered to me. Therefore, I would throw myself at the mercy of the new kid on the block and hope for the best. I was perfectly willing to tolerate any and all growing pains, including extraordinarily green employees, who didn’t in the slightest strive to be otherwise. So, I wasn’t bothered when the two slices, plus a small fountain drink—the $5.00 lunch special—wasn’t afforded to me because I declined the free drink. (I didn’t want to carry it home.) The clueless staff actually charged me $5.50, the cost of two slices when not on special, because I didn’t accept the drink! And then there was the improperly wrapped pizza conundrum, where exceptionally oily slices saturated takeout bags beyond their capacity to do the job. On more than one occasion during this establishment’s fledgling days, my bag split open before I arrived home, splattering my clothes with mozzarella, tomato sauce, and scorching hot, orangey grease. I was nonetheless hopeful things would improve once the gang that couldn’t shoot straight got the hang of it. I would thus ignore that countless pizza slices lost their tips when being plucked out of the oven and when being yanked out of the takeout bag. Call me naïve, but I was convinced the pizza man would soon appreciate that his pizza pies were usually too thin, often too crisp, and sometimes a deadly combination of both. I had been served pizza slices with burnt bottoms before in my fast-food culinary travels, but never this degree of burnt offerings.

This pizza shop in the Northwest Bronx began with both high hopes and a full showcase of every conceivable specialty pizza. Quickly, though, a conspicuous dearth of sales cut the pizza selections on display to a haphazard, forlorn-looking medley of slices. A portent of things to come occurred when the restaurant’s top pizza oven went on the fritz and was not repaired for months. Truth be told, it was painful to behold the well-intentioned, formerly optimistic owner preparing his pizza pies in an oven that was practically on the floor. God knows the man tried. He inundated the surrounding neighborhood with fliers on several occasions. In fact, one of them heralded that the place would be open for breakfast. But—go figure—he never opened for breakfast. It would have been the opportunity of a lifetime—and a first—to sample “Mash Potato” on a roll to start my day.

When all was said and done, the pizza served was pretty good—above average, I'd say—even if the slice size and its mass fluctuated from one day to the next. My last takeout purchase of a couple of slices—with pepperoni on them—was practically weightless. It was as if I had bought them on the moon. Unquestionably, there was a consistency issue. You could get the freshest, tastiest slice one day and a soggy muddle the next. Refrigerated pizza from the prior day is a definite no-no in this business. And pizza visuals matter! The place’s showcase was too often unsightly—practically empty with just a few petrified-looking options. Nevertheless, I genuinely liked the proprietor and hoped and prayed he would eventually get his act together. He never did. His almost two years of misadventures seemed like an eternity to me, a loyal customer. I can only imagine what it seemed like to him. And if this pizza man tries his luck someplace else—which I believe is very possible—I sincerely hope his pizza slice tips stay put. I also hope in the next go-round that if he advertises “open for breakfast” he does, in fact, open for breakfast.

(Photos 1 and 2 from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Rainy Day Schedule

When I attended seventh grade at St. John’s Middle School in the Bronx, there was an unusual policy in effect. It was dubbed the “Rainy Day Schedule.” Based on the fickle whims of Mother Nature, it was an odd duck indeed. If our principal looked out her office window and spied raindrops falling from the clouds, she would take to the school intercom and declare, “Today, we will be following the ‘Rainy Day Schedule,’” which cast asunder the hour lunch break and augured an early dismissal, 1:30 p.m. instead of 2:30 p.m., as I recall. Personally, I liked “Rainy Day Schedule” days. Getting out of school at 1:30 versus 2:30 was very appealing to this twelve-year-old boy, who lived just a couple of blocks away.

Under sunny skies—on a more typical school day—I would venture home for lunch and return to school for the afternoon session. But not every kid did that. A fair sampling of my peers enjoyed “hot lunch,” as it was known, in the school’s cafeteria. The wafting aroma of a Chef Boyardee-esque tomato sauce was quite commonplace around lunchtime, but not when the “Rainy Day Schedule” was operational. Presumably, this policy saved some bucks on meals not served. What other reason could there have been for it? Being at the mercy of the weather must have truly inconvenienced some parents, who were now responsible for their young’uns arriving home an hour earlier than usual and, of course, serving them lunch. And what about the lunch ladies?

If memory serves, Sister Estelle’s invoking of the “Rainy Day Schedule” was more popular than not. It, though, often seemed arbitrary—a close call, as it were—whether or not we’d dash out into the rain or drizzle an hour before our standard dismissal time. Looking back on the whole affair, it likely generated more problems than benefits. If saving on the Chef Boyardee-esque tomato sauce bill was the wind beneath the wings of this policy, I don’t remember it ever being explained one way or the other. And this was 1974-75, the heyday of Catholic schools in New York City, when their cups runneth over with cash and student fannies in every desk available. My classmates and I represented the tail end of the baby boom. Just a few years later, in fact, St. John’s Middle School, which housed seventh and eighth grades, shuttered its doors, and all eight grades fit into the grammar school on Godwin Terrace, a hop, skip, and a jump away. Once upon a time, this building served kindergarten through the sixth grade only. And several years after that consolidation, the middle school was back in business, hosting the whole shebang. The Archdiocese of New York leased the empty buildings—first the middle school then the larger grammar school—to the New York City Board of Education.

As fate would have it, the noble experiment that was the “Rainy Day Schedule” vanished the following year, never to be seen or heard from again. It was an experimental time for sure. Also in my seventh grade, A, B, C, and D grades were jettisoned in favor of 1, 2, 3, and 4 grades. Our education was thorough enough, however, that we weren’t fooled by this sleight of hand. Getting a mess of 4s in lieu of Ds offered the recipient little solace. Being a straight 1 student was still preferable.

In tandem with the “Rainy Day Schedule,” the 1, 2, 3, 4 grading system was retired as well, a folly soon forgotten. The eighth grade for me was weatherproof with the venerable A, B, and C thing back in business. Blame it on the rain, if you want, but it was most assuredly a simpler time.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

 

If I Could Save a Time in a Bottle

(Originally published 9/23/15)

Another icon has died: the incomparable Yogi Berra. The man personified a time when professional baseball—and professional sports in general—had both character and characters. He also transcended the game in which he played and played so well.

Yogi will always be a Met in my eyes. He managed my all-time favorite team, the 1973 New York Mets, who improbably came within a game of winning the World Series against the heavily favored Oakland A’s. Previously, they had beaten the heavily favored Cincinnati Reds—the “Big Red Machine”—in the National League playoffs. The whole spectacle was especially remarkable because the 1973 Mets were floundering pretty much all season long—beset with all kinds of injuries—and closer to the basement than the penthouse when the month of September began. In fact, The New York Post had run a mid-summer poll, which posed the question to its readership, “Who should the Mets fire for their underachieving: Manager Yogi Berra, General Manager Bob Scheffing, or Board Chairman M. Donald Grant?” Scheffing and Grant got the lion’s share of the votes—and deservedly so. Yogi was a beloved figure and wasn’t to blame. After all, he went on to win the pennant. It’s a crying shame the pompous patrician Grant wasn’t sent packing then before he single-handedly destroyed a great franchise. (We shall never forget the Grant’s Tomb years: 1977-1979.)

There was nothing quite like being a kid and a fan back then. In the real world—the adult world—there was President Nixon and Watergate and, too, Vice President Agnew resigning during the post-season excitement. But I was pushing eleven in September and October 1973 and not particularly interested in the goings-on in Washington, D.C. I didn’t care whether or not our president was a crook—let's put it that way. I was more interested in watching Mets’ games on the black-and-white television in our family living room and listening to just as many on the radio—my personal radio. No, it wasn’t a transistor. It was a much bigger deal than that with a dial. The radio could be either battery operated or plugged into an electrical outlet. What more could a boy want? Actually, my godmother had gotten me the radio as a First Holy Communion gift a couple of years earlier—one of the fringe benefits of being raised a Catholic. Holy Sacraments and that very first time often came attached to presents and sometimes even monetary rewards. Anyway, the radio is what I wanted so I could listen to Mets’ games—period and end of story. I don’t remember using it for any other purpose but to tune in to the dulcet tones of word painters Lindsey Nelson, Bob Murphy, and Ralph Kiner—the Holy Trinity as far as I was concerned.

It was definitely a time worth saving in a bottle. I recall Yogi’s rather humble description of managing. He said, “All you have to know is when to take your pitchers out and how to keep your players happy.” The first year of the Designated Hitter in the American League was in 1973, which more or less torpedoed the only in-game strategy Yogi believed a Major League Baseball manager needed to master. By the way, Tom Seaver completed eighteen games in 1973 (after a career high of twenty-one in 1971). There were no pitch counts and other such nonsense back then. Yogi Berra, manager; Tom Seaver, the ace of the pitching staff; and the legendary Willie Mays on the very same roster in a pennant race and then in a World Series—you gotta believe nothing even remotely resembling that will ever occur again. 

Bummer Summer Ramblings

Once upon a time, I loved summer, I really did. What, after all, wasn’t to like? Oh, sure, it could get ghastly hot and humid in the Bronx. And, too, I grew up on the top floor of a three-family house with seven residents sharing one bathroom, no air conditioning, and intermittent brown outs courtesy of our local utility Con Edison. That’s the way it was when I was a young and callow fellow. But, come on, summer was about a vacation by the sea—the New Jersey shore or Long Island—baseball, the Good Humor man, and incessant stoop chatter by young and old alike. School was also out, which counted for an awful lot. That fact alone made sleeping with a wet washcloth peachy keen.

Those bygone summers are distant memories. Nowadays, I see more pesky lantern flies than lightning bugs, which were ubiquitous in my neighborhood when I was a boy. Most of their former habitats have been built upon and their mating modus operandi has been simultaneously stymied by omnipresent lighting sources from home security cameras, streetlamps, and automobiles galore. I fondly recall sitting on the concrete grounds of the alleyway adjoining my home and enjoying a Good Humor cola-flavored Italian ice with a little wooden spoon. The ice and spoon cost twenty cents. It was, if memory serves, a solid ice ball, but I relished the thing on those warm, quiet, dark summer nights replete with lightning bugs and a reassuring calm. It didn’t matter to me that the spoon inevitably passed through the paper cup multiple times during the ice shaving. The sticky struggle to reach the bottom was well worth it. That’s where most of the cola coalesced, infusing the finishing bites with an incredible summer taste sensation. Of course, there were better brands of Italian ices around, like Marinos, but they, sadly, were not peddled by the Good Humor man.

Time waits for no Good Humor man. Oops, that sentence, I fear, violates many of today’s college and university speech codes. Nevertheless, I’ll soldier on and, when needed, use the phrase, “Kill two birds with one stone,” and not as Stanford University suggests, “Feeding two birds with one scone.” Also flagged as a violent turn of phrase: “Bury the hatchet.” But I digress, the streets of my youth are presently overrun with Grubhub and other delivery drivers on fast scooters and electric bikes, revving cars with tinted windows, and the occasional "dune buggies" that look like something the Joker rode around in on the Batman TV series. No more Good Humor trucks pass by—the fleet has long been retired. The ringing of the bells heralding their arrival are no longer heard. Mister Softee, though, still haunts the back streets with the familiar jingle playing ad nauseum and further disturbing the peace. I checked out the price of a Mister Softee milk shake: six dollars for a rather small cup in my opinion. I remember when it was served in a monster cup that had to contain at least a quart. The shakes cost around sixty cents sometime in the mid-1970s, which the inflation calculator puts at some four dollars in contemporary dollars, which doesn’t sound too out of whack, except that the shakes are half the size.

Contrast that with the tuition of my high school years (1976-80), which I recall as being around $800 for the year. Without fail, in the middle of the summer, a packet arrived with all kinds of depressing back-to-school information, including an apology from the principal for raising tuition by eight or ten dollars. That price tag seemed steep back then and it was for my parents, who sent multiple kids to Catholic grammar and high schools. Plugging in the inflation calculator again: $800 equals $3800 in 2023 dollars. My alma mater’s current tuition: $10,000. When I graduated college in 1984, my tuition for two semesters totaled $5,000. Today that money could buy me about $15,000 worth of goods and services. Manhattan College’s tuition for the coming year: approximately $50,000. What gives? All I can say is “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.” Also, don’t take out the loan if you can’t repay the lender. I always thought that some of my college courses were a ridiculous waste of time, especially when considering the enormity of the tuition bill. Today, with higher education crazy expensive and increasingly Orwellian, that waste of time and money assumes a whole new meaning.

So, I look around at what has become an urban dystopia. A passing Grubhub guy is doing a wheelie while on his scooter. Hope he’s not delivering a pizza. All I can say is: This is now and that was then.

 

 

The Cough Drop Kid

(Originally published 2/13/13)

I knew a kid in grammar school whose favorite candy wasn’t candy at all, but a cough drop. It was, however, displayed and sold alongside the Sweet Tarts, Razzles, and York Peppermint Patties—so perhaps it was candy after all. The candy store proprietors in the neighborhood didn’t mind that ten- and eleven-year-old kids were purchasing and eating cough drops like they were Milk Duds and Mary Janes. They didn’t request purchaser evidence of a cold, allergy, or scratchy throat. And nobody suggested, then or now, that there was anything wrong with selling cough drops in the same fashion as Bubble Yum, Good & Fruity, and Starburst.

When it was time to graduate from said grammar school in 1976, graduates one and all were asked to share a fond, funny, or noteworthy remembrance—from their first-grade to eighth-grade educational experiences—for possible inclusion in the class yearbook. You know, for the montage page of fond, funny, and noteworthy remembrances—like the time the bee flew up Suzy Q’s uniform dress during recess, or the time Frankie McGuirk got bus sick—and lost his cookies—on a class field trip to an amusement park in Lake Hopatcong, New Jersey. I submitted the memory of the Cough Drop Kid, who was renowned for both loving a particular brand of cough drops and John Wayne. My special memory didn’t make it into the yearbook—the school censors, I guess, didn’t think it appropriate or interesting enough. And the memories competition was pretty stiff in my esteemed graduating class.

Fast forward almost thirty-seven years since grammar school graduation day—and forty years plus since the Cough Drop Kid indulged in his favorite candy. It’s 2013 and, as fate would have it, I spoke with the Cough Drop Kid today. He’s still alive and kicking. We chewed over his peculiar childhood addiction to a certain cough drop. Funny, but in middle age, we both couldn’t remember the brand name. It definitely wasn’t Smith Brothers—we were certain of that much.

Courtesy of the vast wealth of accessible information now at our fingertips, I Googled the phrase “soft cough drops.” I remembered the Cough Drop Kid’s preferred product was different from the competition. They were not rock-hard lozenges, but chewy. And, lo and behold, there they were: Pine Brothers. I recalled immediately their familiar 1970s box and the drops special shape and texture. While they were reasonably soft as a rule, sometimes they could be quite hard and they always stuck to your teeth. The Cough Drop Kid harked back to a lost love. I refreshed his memory, too, that a classmate, who had him as a “Kris Kringle” at Christmastime, bought him a box of cherry-flavored—his personal favorite—Pine Brothers cough drops.

The Cough Drop Kid and I were now left to wonder if Pine Brothers cough drops were still around. Neither of us had seen them for some time, but then we weren’t looking for them. Happily, we can report, they live on, although these unique cough drops evidently went on a hiatus for a spell. They are being pedaled in the new millennium as “Softish Throat Drops”—and oddish description. Perhaps the Cough Drop Kid will revisit the Pine Brothers cough drop—this “softish throat drop”—in the near future and report back as to whether or not the magic is still there.

Red Light...Green Light

(Originally published on 1/30/16)

As kids growing up in the Kingsbridge section of the Bronx in the early 1970s, we played a game—among so many others—called “Red Light…Green Light.” In this youthful diversion of ours, somebody was It. More times than not, being It in an urban street game was the booby prize. But not in “Red Light…Green Light.” It is what the game’s myriad players aspired to be, because the Anointed One got to cry out, “Red Light…Green Light…1, 2, 3...1, 2, 3” with It's eyes covered and back turned to all others. And right after this rapid-fire recitation, It promptly pirouetted in an attempt to catch advancing players in the act. That is, the game's players endeavoring to reach the coveted finish line. Players who could not—under any circumstances according to the rules—be caught in motion. We were permitted to advance only during the “Red Light…Green Light…1, 2, 3...1, 2, 3” clarion call. If caught moving forward by the All Mighty It, we would be sent back from whence we came—the starting line, actually, and a long, long way from being the game’s impresario. That’s the way “Red Light…Green Light” was played—if that makes any sense. And, believe me, it was a lot of fun being It and not It, too.

But this blog is not about the game just described, which I played forty-five years or so ago—and one, by the way, that withered on the vine with just about every other street game after my generation, the baby boomers, retired their spaldeens. No, this “Red Light…Green Light” game that I played some forty-five years ago was a One Night Only affair, an on-the-spot creation of yours truly as darkness set in on a chilly, pre-Christmas December evening just before suppertime. I was nine years old and playing outside with my six-year-old brother. We did that sort of thing in the 1970s. We were outdoors as much as physically possible, even in cold weather and without the light of day.

True, the 1970s were a high crime time here in the Bronx and just about everywhere else in New York City. There were plenty of muggings, break-ins, and the like. Still, I don’t think my folks were even remotely guilty of parental negligence. Anyway, this “Red Light…Green Light” derivative involved a literal, working traffic light on Kingsbridge Avenue, a street a couple a blocks away from where I called home. My younger brother and I participated in a frenetic running game that took us down alleyways, over a short backyard wall, and through a curious nook and cranny—a small space to slither through that bordered a low wrought iron fence with spikes atop it. It was there—X marks the spot—where one could catch a glimpse of that traffic light. Red meant stop and green meant go—simple enough. But for an energized nine year old, stopping on a dime—for a red light in this instance—could augur trouble, especially with a spiked fence in the vicinity.

So, yes, I got a spiked that night—beneath my chin—and the blood flowed. Without delay, Mom brought me to our family doctor up the hill on Kingsbridge Avenue, a mere block away from the notorious red light. The old sawbones stitched me up—I have the scar to prove it—and informed my mother and me that a half-inch or so to the left and I might have been impaled. The following day, my best friend in grammar school at the time—a kid named Mark—mockingly pointed out to my peers that I was wearing “one bandage over another” on my chin. What are friends for? This, in fact, is how I can remember how I old I was when the near-impaling incident occurred. I’ve got a signed report card envelope to prove it. 

Postscript: I've noticed that modern-day fences of the kind that nearly impaled me are sans spiked tops. They're flat.  And this flatness is a good thing. I’m glad, though, that I was permitted to go outside and play a game—for lack of a better word—that I conceived in the moment. I’m happy, too, that there was a family doctor still in his office to patch me up—one bandage over another—without any fanfare. Kids with their smartphones just don’t know what they’re missing.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Steaks Are High

As we embark on yet another presidential primary season—God help us—it’s worth noting how absurd and pathetic our politics have become. And it’s not just politics, sad to say, but seemingly everything else in the culture at-large. A few notes on the omnipresent madness: The price of beef is off the charts—the steaks are high, really. Two orders of hamburgers and fries at my favorite diner tallies up to $30 before the tip. Inflation may be leveling off from its peak, but I’m not seeing the prices of orange juice, coffee, and cereal trending south. The state of the economy should be the defining issue in 2024. In the good old days, it was the economy, stupid—always. However, now the two major parties appear more interested in raving on and on and on about cultural issues, which matter, of course, but not at the expense of the bread-and-butter issues. The sky is forever falling, and democracy is ever hanging in the balance, but recently a bag of Frito’s corn chips cost me over $5—“Ay, ay, ay!”

Honestly, the mere thought of a Joe Biden versus Donald Trump rematch is profoundly depressing. What, pray tell, has happened to us? Old Joe is one slip and fall away from crumbling into dust. And The Donald is under indictment for retaining classified documents, making false statements, and obstructing justice—let me count the ways—not to mention that January 6th thing. Serious business, folks. I’m all for the return of selecting candidates in smoke-filled backrooms. The end-results were typically better than what the primary process regurgitates nowadays. Smoking, though, is outlawed in all rooms in 2023, and the party bosses just ain’t what they used to be. So, I won’t hold my breath awaiting vape-filled backrooms restoring some sanity to the body politic.

On another front closer to home: Life in the big city has taken a very wide turn for the worse. Mayor Adams blames the media for obsessing on crime stories. Maybe it’s because there are so many of them! What I see with my own two eyes in my little snippet of the world is an obvious decline in the quality of life. Speed Racers are ubiquitous on the residential backstreets where I call home. With their revved up, popping engines, they shake, rattle, and roll residents morning, noon, and night—accidents waiting to happen. Oh, and then there’s the countless scooters and electric bicycles traversing the roads—stop signs and red lights be damned—and the sidewalks, too. The demoralized police turn a blind eye, and I can’t really blame them in this depraved age where up is down and down is up.

I’ve also noticed an uptick of individuals discarding their lunch remains and spent lottery ticket stubs and scratch-offs outside their vehicles. Exiting their cars and walking several yards to a garbage can is too much to ask, I guess. Often, I’m called upon to clean up dozens of “Win 4” stubs blowing in the wind—not an enviable task and dispiriting as well.

And another thing: The multiple pot and smoke shops—most of them unlicensed and unregulated—plying their trades on the main thoroughfare and throughout the city. In April, it was estimated that there were 1,500 shops in town and only seven were legal operations. It just seems odd that the city fathers and mothers, who would shutter a place that was selling alcohol without a license, or cigarettes for that matter, in a heartbeat, permit so many illegal businesses in this field to go on their merry way.

To add one further quality of life issue, accompany me to my local drugstore chains, where most merchandise is under lock and key. Patrons must ring a buzzer to get everything from Werther’s Original candies to Preparation H to Tide Pods laundry detergent. Once upon a time, I regularly shopped at a local Rite-Aid, but buzzer shopping just isn’t for me. Amazon is a lifesaver. Still, I’d like to believe that there is light at the end of the tunnel, but I fear that it is Bud Light.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

 

 

 

Fourth of July Numerology

(Originally published 7/4/13)

In addition to it being Independence Day, yesterday was also the thirtieth anniversary of Yankees’ pitcher Dave Righetti’s no-hitter against the reviled Boston Red Sox. Admittedly, for Yankee fans, that must have been a moment to savor. But since I passionately loathed that haughty franchise from the South Bronx with its bombastic, egotistical owner, I hardly appreciated Righetti’s accomplishment. I did my best to give the feat short shrift.

Except for an ESPN retrospective, I would not have remembered this event occurred on the Fourth of July. Nevertheless, I vividly recall being at home in the Bronx and watching an afternoon baseball game that very day. I was twenty years old and tuned into the cross-town rival Mets on the television in my bedroom. Meanwhile, my father, a Yankee fan extraordinaire since the Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio days, watched his favorite team in the family’s living room. My beloved Mets weren’t doing very well in July 1983. In fact, their manager at the opening of the season, George Bamberger, had abruptly retired, literally fearing for his health and well-being. Big Frank Howard, a team coach, took over on an interim basis. Despite their not-too-impressive 30-50 record on July 4, 1983, I remained ever-loyal to my team. 

When Righetti reached the latter innings with his no-hitter still intact, my father apprised his Met fan son on multiple occasions of what was transpiring at Yankee Stadium, approximately three-and-a-half miles away from where we called home. Even though I was a mere college student, our Mets versus Yankees rivalry had, what seemed to me at least, a very long and contentious history. Granted, in 1983, the Mets were a dreadfully bad team and had been for several years. During that exasperatingly unhappy spell for Met fans, the Yankees experienced a few glorious seasons. But despite the Mets’ recent cellar-dwelling descent, the pendulum was slowly but surely swinging the other way. I felt it. Only weeks before the Mets acquired Keith Hernandez and the team boasted hot prospects aplenty. What really mattered, though, was that my anti-Yankees’ bona fides were solid. So, I wasn’t about to turn the channel on my bedroom set to watch the Yankees’ game or, God forbid, join my father in the living room, which, come the ninth inning, he really expected me—a devoted baseball fan like him—to do. How could I possibly bypass sports history in the making? I could somehow and my obstinacy infuriated him.

In retrospect, I probably should have watched the top of the ninth inning of the Yankees versus Red Sox game on that Fourth of July three decades ago. My father would have definitely watched the flip side and rooted against any Mets' pitcher with all his heart. But I was different. One should never underestimate a passionate sports rivalry between father and son. Ours began when I was just eight years old. And while it had its ups and downs, victories and defeats, it was always intense and defining

The final score in Righetti's no-hitter was 4-0. And thanks to the Internet and its treasure trove of easily retrieved information, I discovered the Mets lost to the Phillies at Veteran’s Stadium in Philadelphia by the very same score that day. Fourth of July numerology meets a father and son battle of wills. It seems like only yesterday, but also a very, very long time ago.

Swinging the Bat

(Originally published 11/10/15. It was a simpler time for sure.)

I swung a baseball bat an awfully lot as a boy. I didn’t even have to be involved in an organized game of any kind to do it. In fact, for a few years running—I’d say from the ages of eight to ten or eleven—most of this swinging of mine was done all by my lonesome. For the record, I never swung the Louisville Slugger that I received at a New York Yankees’ “Bat Day” promotion—with its Jake Gibbs facsimile signature on it—at anyone’s head or any such thing. Rather, I played a singular version of fantasy baseball—it would seem—in the alleyway that separated my house from a next-door neighbor’s. And I wasn’t pretending to be Cleon Jones, Tommie Agee, or Ed Kranepool. No, what I did in that alleyway all those years ago was completely original and a figment of my imagination—imagine that.

I would just go out and “swing the bat”—period and end of story—for anywhere from several minutes to a couple of hours. I remember alerting my mother as to where I could be found. “I’m going out to swing the bat,” I’d say. And that’s not only what I said but what I did. The time of day didn’t matter a whit, either, but it was a seasonal thing. I’d swing that piece of lumber morning, noon, and night, too, in the summertime mostly. An older neighbor of mine—an affable dullard of a teen as I recall—was positively bewildered when he witnessed me one summer’s eve exiting the house with my bat in hand. “He’s going to play baseball in the dark!” he exclaimed. And the doofus was right. I didn’t need the light of day to play whatever it was I was playing.

Recently, I thought about “going out to swing the bat” as a kid and wondered how that sort of thing might be received today. First of all, a kid in a Bronx alleyway with a bat in his hand—most especially at night—would be frowned upon. After all—just as they shouldn’t play with fire—kids shouldn’t play with baseball bats, either. That is, unless they are being swung under the supervision of an adult in good standing. 

I also don’t know how the act of swinging a baseball bat for hours upon hours—all alone—would be perceived on the contemporary psychiatric front. My behavior might very well be judged as aberrant, and my parents alerted to this noxious bat-swinging compulsion of mine. I’d quite possibly be prescribed some drug du jour to calm me down. You know: to take that unhealthy desire to swing the bat away from me. No more fantasy baseball. Just be a lump, stay indoors as much as possible, stare into a smartphone…and everything will be hunky-dory.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)