Sailing the Salty Streets

(Originally published 11/12/19)

Last year, on November 16, New York City got its first—and what turned out to be its biggest—snowstorm of the season. It was a six-inch wet snow that caught the powers-that-be by surprise. The white stuff was originally forecast to turn to rain before any worrisome accumulation could settle upon Gotham's highways and byways. Thus, the myriad roads were not treated in time to do any good. Forty-five minute commutes turned into five-hour ones. The mayor had scrambled egg on his face and thereafter had his sanitation department “salters” out and about when even the slimmest possibilities of snow existed. Dustings and nothings brought out the heaviest of heavy artillery.

Fast-forward almost a year and the tiniest hint of snow found the “salters” raring and ready to go once more, parading up and down the very same city streets and avenues one, two, and three times. Overkill? Perhaps. But politicians can’t afford to make the same mistakes twice. So, I not only spied my first salt truck, but the first snow flurry of the season as well. But that was the extent of it. I also walked gingerly across the treated roads, concerned that I might slip and fall on the ice melter.

It’s a harbinger of things to come, I suspect—tons and tons of ice melter feverishly tossed on the city thoroughfares, no matter what Mother Nature has in store for us. Followed, of course, by a spring full of potholes. But this is jumping the gun. The previous two winters around here were relatively benign, with no excessive—heart- attack inducing—snowstorms. You know, a fifty-, sixty-, seventy-year-old shoveler’s worst nightmare.

Now, I don’t dream of a white Christmas anymore for a variety of sound reasons. I suppose I can trace the end of that dream officially to 2002. It snowed rather heavily on Christmas Day afternoon that year. The family had assembled at the folks for dinner along with a not-so-special guest named Timmy. He was an old friend of my father, who lived alone, had no family to speak of, and—on top of all that—had recently suffered a stroke. I know that sounds like the kind of guy you would want to have over at Christmas in the true spirit of the season. But you just had to know Timmy to appreciate why no good deed ever goes unpunished. Originally, my dad had invited the man over for a Thanksgiving dinner—when he learned he had no other place to go—several years before. It was intended to be a one-shot friendly gesture, but it backfired big time when an emboldened Timmy invited himself to not only every Thanksgiving thereafter, but every Christmas as well.

Well, on this particular white Christmas, old Tim was apprised of the deteriorating weather situation. In other words, given a huge hint that he better get a move on if he wanted to catch his bus home. While Timmy lived only about a mile away, he wasn’t the steadiest of walkers on a bright sunny day, let alone in several inches of slushy snow and whiteout conditions. Timmy was, nonetheless, pretty dense in getting the message. Finally, when informed that he might have to stay the night, the guy freaked and headed out into the snowstorm like a man on a mission. My father, younger brother, and I assisted him in walking to nearby Broadway and the bus—it looked as if we were steadying a Christmas reveler who had had one too many—but it didn’t appear as any were running. Fortunately, Timmy—who knew lots of locals—entered a neighborhood bar and found a Good Samaritan with a car to weather the storm and get him home safely. Now that's a Christmas story worthy of a TV movie, I think.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Mum's the Word

Once upon a time, I genuinely looked forward with great anticipation to voting on Election Day. Calling on my polling place—P.S. 7 grammar school—was an exciting experience back in the day. There was a palpable buzz in air as the volunteers—predominantly old ladies from the neighborhood—feverishly searched the rolls for my name and party affiliation. Since the pandemic outbreak, I have exclusively voted by absentee ballot. I prefer not visiting the polls in person anymore and—trust me—it has nothing to do with COVID.

Sure, I miss the days of pulling levers on antiquated voting machines in the classrooms where I attended kindergarten, my one and only public-school education. I can’t say that I remember much about the kindergarten syllabus, but I do know that Mrs. Rothman was not lecturing us on gender dysphoria.

How was that for a segue way into Election Day 2022? If the Democrats have a bad night, the movers and the shakers are going to have to ask themselves this fundamental question: “How did we lose to a party largely captured by conspiratorialists, assorted nut jobs, and slavish devotees of a potty-mouthed loon?” The answer: See what Mrs. Rothman was not teaching to five-year-old boys and girls in 1967-68 and then extrapolate from there. Woke insanity run amok is a loser.

Now, I voted for the addle-brained fossil who now occupies the White House. Along with many others, my hope was that this mediocrity—and that’s being overly generous—might somehow diffuse the hyper-partisan, debased political atmosphere of the present. But, no, old Joe went all out woke and spent money like a drunken sailor. And he wanted to spend a whole lot more. I was a kid during the inflationary 1970s and hardly noticed. Well, I’m not a kid anymore and I notice. While inflation doesn’t seem to bother the women of The View, or a certain gasbag talk-show host who was—apparently—unfamiliar with the term until this election cycle, it bothers me big time and so does crime.

Again, I lived through some notable crime spells in New York City. The late 1970s and early 1990s found the mean streets even meaner. I witnessed an armed robbery on the subway. A neighbor a few houses up the block from me was the victim of an attempted robbery—and shot at—as he entered his car in the early morning hours. My teenage friends and I were attacked with belts by a gang of youths after seeing the movie Hooper, starring Burt Reynolds, on Fordham Road in the Bronx. One member of the pack suggested “slicing up the fat one,” my bestie, who by today’s standards, was positively svelte. So, yes, he was body shamed and we were victims of an unrecorded hate crime.

Nevertheless, those were simpler times. While all that nasty stuff was going down, our family front door was often left unlocked while we were out and about during the daylight hours. In 2022, it seems one can’t go a day without reading about a random attack in the subway, often committed by a violent, mentally ill individual who should be someplace else getting the help he or she needs. And, what’s with virtually everything being under lock and key in so many stores, even ones with security guards? I’ve dramatically cut back on my shopping at local drugstore chains because I don’t want to press a buzzer to summon staff to purchase razor blades, a dozen eggs, and Swiffer wet mop pads. It’s a boon for Amazon, though. Don’t get me started, too, on the ubiquitous speed racers in my midst with their piercingly loud, revving, and popping engines. These automobiles and motorcycles are turning once quiet back streets into the Indy 500. Forgive me, then, for wistfully looking back to the 1970s when Republican Gerald Ford battled Democrat Jimmy Carter for the presidency, a better time and a better crime.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Tail of Two Cities

(Originally published on 5/16/17)

While running errands this morning, a woman handed me a small sheet of paper. I stuck it in my pocket, continued on my journey, and took a wild guess as to its purpose. She was doing the Lord’s work, I surmised—trying to save my soul. When I arrived home and plucked said paper from my pocket, I saw that I was correct in my assumption. Heaven or hell—take your pick! Utilizing biblical quotes that separated “Candidates for hell” from “Candidates to reach heaven,” the bottom line advice from a certain pontificating pastor was: “I recommend you to choose heaven.” What the hell! I thought. Why not?

Somewhat off my predictable beaten path today, I walked along a bizarre stretch of parkland—a narrow strip of fenced-in weeds, trees, and garbage. It’s been a tangled eyesore forever in my memory. The peculiar park grounds that I speak of rest on a bluff looking down on the Major Deegan Expressway—I-87—and have long served as an atmospheric hot spot for rats and those on two legs engaging in some form of clandestine misbehavior. Suffice it to say, it is not—and never was—a place for a family picnic.

Recently, I read that an effort was afoot to clean up the spot and turn it into something unrecognizable. It is, after all, part of New York City’s parklands. In fact, I had forgotten—if I ever knew in the first place—that this poor excuse for a park has a name: Tibbett’s Tail. Tibbett’s Brook was once prominent in the area of the Northwest Bronx I call home. I’ve seen old pictures of the swampy-looking brook meandering through a lot of sea grass—or whatever is the freshwater, urban equivalent. A century or so ago, the brook was diverted underground and gradually filled in. The elevated subway line carrying the IRT Broadway-Seventh Avenue “Number 1” train—commencing and ending at Van Cortlandt Park and W242nd Street—can be seen in early twentieth-century photos lording over the murky waters of Tibbetts Brook. The El was definitely a harbinger of things to come, though, because this corner of the world bares little resemblance to that bucolic snapshot in time. The El and Van Cortlandt Park endure, however.

There’s a sign at Tibbett’s Tail—noting that it’s a recipient of a grant—which bespeaks hope for this mysterious park. There’s even a rack with plastic bags hanging nearby, importuning the inconsiderate dog-walking slobs who inhabit the area to pick up after their pets. Tibbett’s Tail and its adjoining public sidewalk have been treated like dirt for decades. But I couldn’t help but think of the canine waste picked up with those plastic bags ending up in the garbage and then in a landfill. The excrement will decompose pretty quickly, but the plastic bags might still be around in five hundred years. 

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Gee Whiz...It's Halloween

(Originally published on 10/30/18)

These are definitely times that try men's souls—and women's souls, too. Happily, there are welcome and necessary distractions on the horizon. First there's Halloween, then Thanksgiving, and the—pièce de ré·sis·tance—Christmas. Wait a minute...wait a minute...wait a minute. Some people will be offended by other people's Halloween costumes. And Thanksgiving will be seen by a fair share of folks as celebrating historical misdeeds, not to mention gluttony and cruelty to turkeys. Then there's Christmas with its religious trappings in public places and cries of an outright "War on Christmas." If there is actually such a thing, it's a futile one. The candy canes, wrapping paper, and Whitman Samplers are already filling up the aisles of local stores. In a couple of days, Christmas music will be playing on the radio without pause for the next two months.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas at the Gee Whiz diner in Tribeca.

Look what the tide dragged in...or the sewers dragged out.

Moments after this photo was taken at Battery Park, I spied a rather somber chap paddling a canoe in the distance. He had a tear running down his cheek.

The Bronx is up but the Battery is down, the latter being where the "Best Hot Dog in New York" can be found.

In an episode of The Munsters entitled "Herman the Rookie," the legendary Leo Durocher gets whacked in the head by an airborne baseball. He queries his companion as to the location of the nearest ball field. When he learns that it's eight long blocks away, Durocher employs a bit of logic and deduces that's where the ball first took flight. He then sets out to find the obvious hitting prodigy—the wind beneath the wings of the errant ball—and sign him to a big league contract. And it turned out to be, by the way, none other than Herman Munster. Recently, I cast my eyes upon this impressive line of trophies in an apartment building's window and thought about Leo Durocher and his razor-sharp logical thinking. Who is the wunderkind therein, I asked? Sign that mystery kid up to something.

The quartet was a no-show.

It is said that a zebra can't change its stripes. But a New York City subway zebra board can when a station is closed for repairs. Well, at least the color of its stripes, which go from black to red.

What will they think of next? Traffic signs with drunk drivers in mind.

New York City is a diverse town. Sundry garbage as well...

While on the subject of refuse. Here's a shot of a tourist posing for a picture with a New York City garbage scow as the backdrop. 

Some squirrels have all the luck. This fortunate fellow calls home the environs of Battery Park with a bird's-eye view of Lady Liberty.

Whiskey, you're the devil.

Not really sure how effective this campaign is going to be.

If you look hard enough, you'll eventually find a pizza pie with your name on it.

The George Washington Bridge is always a better visual from afar.

Birds flying south for the winter? No, pigeons in flight to their nearby lair—the W238th Street subway station in the Bronx—where they regularly roost and shower the two-legged on the street below with feathers and excrement.

Daytime moon over a man called Q-Ball's building.

Say it ain't so: Ben and Willard are facing eviction.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Mount Airy Lodge Life Lesson

(Originally published 4/23/16)

As a boy growing up in the Bronx during the 1970s, there were more than a few television commercials that repeatedly played on local New York City stations—businesses chumming for customers in the sprawling demographic. Mount Airy Lodge in the Pocono Mountains—the “premier honeymoon hideaway” with its floor-to-ceiling mirrors, heart-shaped bathtubs, and every conceivable amenity—was among them. “All you have to bring is your love of everything,” the resort’s commercial jingle intoned. No mention was made to bring a credit card, too, which I suspect would have come in handy. Their ads always ended with the melodiously uplifting lyrics: “Beautiful Mount Airy Lodge.” Why would anyone want to honeymoon anyplace else? After seeing its various commercials—probably hundreds of times over the years—one couldn't help but feel that Mount Airy Lodge was somehow immortal and would be there for generations to come.

So, imagine my shock when I discovered the place had fallen into utter disrepair in the 1990s—a dilapidated eyesore that had little choice but to face the wrecking ball lock, stock, and barrel. Even beautiful Mount Airy Lodge had a finite lifespan. Nothing lasts forever, it seemed. (Having been completely demolished, the Mount Airy Casino Resort now sits on the same terra firma.)

My earliest recollections of ubiquitous television commercials involved the Palisades Amusement Park in Palisades, New Jersey, just across the Hudson River. Its jingle became embedded in my brain at a very young age: “Palisades from coast to coast, where a dime buys the most. Ride the coaster, get cool in the waves in the pool. You’ll have fun, so come on over. Palisades Amusement Park swings all day and after dark.” If memory serves, I visited one time and one time only on a rather bleak, rainy afternoon. Naturally, I anticipated enjoying the park on a sunny summer’s day in the future, when I was a little older and could ride their famous roller coaster and swim in the park’s saltwater pool. But despite what the eight-year-old me surmised after watching its commercial invitations on the television over and over and over, Palisades Amusement Park, too, was not immortal. It shut down its rides and attractions for all time in September 1971. A developer made the park’s owner an offer he couldn’t refuse, and the old park space is now a series of luxury apartment buildings with stellar views of the Manhattan skyline.

And worth mentioning here is the Haunted Mansion in Long Branch, New Jersey. Its commercials ran continuously during the warmer climes, and they always ended with the bloodcurdling invitation: “The Haunted Mansion in Long Branch…it’s waiting for you.” I, though, never did get to “wander through its myriad of secret passageways and winding labyrinths” because it burned to the ground in 1987. Again, further proof that nothing lasts forever. Fortunately, I visited its ethereal neighbor to the south, the Brigantine Castle, in Brigantine, New Jersey. It, too, ran oodles of commercials on New York City airwaves—and it, too, is no longer with us. So, gather ye rosebuds while ye may.

Finally, and perhaps the bitterest pill to swallow, was the closure of the Albert Merrill School in Manhattan. One commercial with spokesperson Jimmy Randolph ran for years on local TV. It featured a young woman, by happenstance, bumping into Jimmy Randolph, who was standing pensively on the busy streets of New York and staring off into space. She recognizes him immediately as the man who does the commercials for the Albert Merrill School. Coincidentally, she’s looking for the very place, which gives Jimmy the perfect excuse to walk her over there while simultaneously extolling this grand vocational school's countless virtues. It’s funny, but this was the only commercial I remember ever airing, yet the actress recognizes Jimmy Randolph from the commercials. A Seinfeld episode? Post-modern television for sure. But even the Albert Merrill School is a mere memory now, which I never would have thought possible when I was a teen. It, too, didn’t endure as a permanent fixture on the landscape to aid and abet students of all ages in this increasingly dog-eat-dog world of ours. Rest assured, everything here today will be gone tomorrow—one of these days.

The Sidewalk Phalanx and Other Annoyances

(Originally published on 12/11/19)

A few days ago on a relatively busy Manhattan street, I encountered the always-annoying sidewalk phalanx. It consisted, in this instance, of three women and a canine. One was walking the dog with a flexi-lead. Another pushed a baby stroller with a child presumably in it. As I was in the phalanx's rear, I cannot say for certain. The third woman on the right flank had no evident duty except to run interference with her companions.

Anyway, the foursome (plus a possible little one) gingerly ambled along, stopping suddenly when Fido veered off to his left for a smell break. We passersby in their rear were left with no choice but to awkwardly zigzag to and fro and endeavor to slither by the oblivious quartet. Of course, I don’t blame the dog for being a dog. It’s the two-legged, who repeated this stop-and-go over and over as they made their way ever-so-slowly up a long city block, whom I hold responsible.

Hear this: Ladies, you are not alone. You are not walking in the Quiet Trails State Nature Preserve in Cynthiana, Kentucky. You’re on Chambers Street, which isn’t all that far from the canyons of Wall Street. 

Speaking of being steamed...

Today in my local Rite Aid drug store, I watched a woman at the check-out counter not miss a beat in a seemingly trivial personal conversation on her smartphone. The aggravating icing on the cake was that she laid the phone down on the counter along with her purchases and I could see the person she was talking with from my position next in line.

And moments after that close encounter of a very annoying kind, I almost got run down by a stupid kid on a bike. Seems it never occurred to him that when turning a corner on a sidewalk that a fellow human being might in his path. That is, after all, what sidewalks are for: People walking on them.

I can certainly understand why New York City has these in some snippets of parks.

And now for something completely different: Christmas on Canal Street. One sale is bigger than the next. If you are shopping for junk in volume, this is the place to be.

No matter where I go, though, there are constant reminders of what slobs we the people are. In this particular case, somebody cut his or her lunch hour short. Must have been really bad news. Sadder still, this person used a pay phone.

All I want for Christmas is a little less garbage.

Question of the day: Would you rather have a piano prodigy in the family or a coffee-making one?

Non-oppressive and anti-imperialist books? Sounds like fun reading. I wonder what the shop's owner pays in rent. Perhaps he owns the building...

I've heard there is a shortage this year of a favored Christmas tree, the Fraser fir. Seems, though, that I hear about some such shortage every year.

A cynic might conclude that it's good for business and the bottom line.

Saw a news story that this Manhattan tree seller sells twenty-foot Fraser firs for $6,500. And worth every penny if one is Michael Bloomberg.

The King of Jing-a-Ling doesn't worry about such things.

Nor Frosty...

Fear not: He'll be back again someday!

Yes, we are closing in on 2020 and Big Brother is watching you and me...

Finally, I've heard all about people seeing Christ's visage in the strangest places, like on a piece of burnt toast or in a field of dead grass. Strange, but I recently saw my image on a subway tunnel pillar.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)