Success and the Shopkeeper...

(Originally published on 7/9/2011)

Several years ago—in the wrong place at the wrong time—I was in earshot of an elderly woman named Catherine as she ruminated on her life and times. Catherine was knocking on eighty and had raised three children—two sons and a daughter. In Catherine’s humble estimation, her daughter passed muster in the game of life. She married a good provider and supplied her mother with a healthy parcel of grandchildren. Her oldest son did all right, too. Straight out of college, he took a good job with good benefits, married, furnished mom with grandkids, and never looked back.

It was the middle child, Robbie, who didn’t quite live up to his mother’s expectations of the way things ought to be, despite having added to her ample brood of grandchildren. Robbie made more money than his two siblings combined—a lot more—but this didn’t earn him any extra credit as far as old mama was concerned, which was kind of strange. Money equals success from the perspectives of an awful lot of people, and Catherine was fixated on dollars and cents, even though her senior citizen savings were closing in on seven figures. Her husband had been both a good provider and a good investor, yet she still watered down the Hawaiian Punch in grave fear that she might one day end up in the poor house.

Robbie, in fact, made more dough than anybody on the family tree, which could be traced back to hardworking fishermen on the southern coast of Italy. In his mother’s worldview, Robbie’s unpardonable sin was that he made all of his moolah—millions—in a rather grungy retail environment. In other words, he didn’t wear a suit and tie to work every day, and didn’t have a benefits package bestowed on him by some benevolent corporate benefactor like GE, the Bank of America, or Proctor & Gamble. Catherine relished passing on up-to-the-minute employment reports on her relations—once, twice, and thrice removed, it didn’t matter. From where she sat, there was nothing that commanded more awe and respect than working for a “big company,” wearing neatly pressed dress clothes, and, of course, putting in very long hours for a familiar corporate master.

That her son founded a business on his own that eventually employed hundreds of people didn’t impress her in the least. Looking back on all that was, she wistfully remarked, “Robbie is content to be a shopkeeper.” And then added as a parenthetical aside: “He had a really good job, too, at Gimbel's when he got out of college. He could have gone places there had he stayed with them.” Upon graduation, Robbie had managed this Manhattan department store’s kitchen appliance section. He wore a suit and tie to work and—the icing on the cake from mama’s catbird seat—schlepped on the subway to the job day after day after day. It doesn’t get any better than that. “He could have gotten three weeks vacation had he stayed there for five years,” Catherine recalled almost four decades later. True, multi-millionaire Robbie could have one day become the CEO of Gimbel's—all things are possible, I suppose—just in time for the department store chain to declare bankruptcy and take all their generous employee benefit packages with them.

So, you must be wondering by now: What exactly is the meaning of this life parable? What exactly is the meaning of success? Well, I just don’t know. But Catherine apparently knew and, for starters—just starters—shopkeepers all were a bunch of losers.

The Very Strange Family and Joe Mullins, Too

(Originally published on 11/10/11)

While still in the throes of mourning a shuttered diner and the only bona fide sacred place I’ve ever known, I find it therapeutic to unearth memories from this formerly consecrated ground. Today, permit me to resurrect the "Very Strange Family" and a classic nine-to-five drunkard nicknamed "Joe Mullins," who were regular patrons of the diner. I’d venture to say the cross-section of human beings who ate here were a microcosm of the wider world, or—at the very least—the wider Bronx.

It’s hard to do justice with mere words to the Very Strange Family, who enjoyed repasts alongside me in the diner for several years. You really had to see them live and in color to appreciate their unique brand of weirdness. The Very Strange Family consisted of a husband and wife with a son, Peter, who could have been an older teenager, or maybe a young man in his twenties. His greasy demeanor and darting eyes, however, made establishing an approximate age problematic.

At some point in time, the Very Strange Family entered the diner with a bundle of joy—an infant and fledgling member of the brood. Perhaps the toddler’s mother was not Peter's. But, really, none of this minutia really mattered, because what bound the family together was their strangeness. Ma, Pa, and Peter seemed perpetually on edge. Their eyes were always flitting—up and down, back and forth—and they immediately sensed when foreign eyes were looking their way. The Very Strange Family jumped the shark for me when the woman of the house decided to change her newborn’s dirty diaper on a table a couple of booths away. Eventually, the amateur detective in me came to the conclusion they were either members of organized crime—low-level weaselly types operating on the fringes—or in a witness protection program and fearing members of the mob. It had to be one or the other.

Conversely, Joe Mullins was easy enough to figure out. He worked in some nine-to-five bureaucratic job. His credentials—the identification pass hanging around his neck—told us as much. And, each night, when he stepped off the Number 7 bus on his way home, he’d patronize the liquor store that was conveniently a stone’s throw away from the bus stop. Carrying that familiar black liquor store plastic bag, with the latticework insignia on it, Mullins would then cross the street and enter the diner.

A friend of mine is responsible for christening him “Joe Mullins”—that wasn’t his real name—because he just seemed like a “Joe Mullins” to him. From our vantage point, Mullins came across as a harmless sort. But as a rule, he was ill at ease as he laid down his bag full of spirits and ordered his supper, which always consisted of the most boring and basic kind of sandwiches. His whiskey bottles invariably made audible clanking sounds, prompting meaningful glances all around from staff to customers and from customers to staff. The hapless Mullins once ordered “a ham and white on a Swiss.” For some reason, the diner brass just didn’t warm to the man, even though he was a repeat customer—you could see it in their faces and sense it in their body language. In the best diner milieus—like in life itself—everything is visceral. While Joe Mullins was always unfailingly polite, even meek, instinctively he just never was accepted into the diner fraternity.

Love Versus Hate: Mets Versus Yankees

(Originally published 10/25/2010)

While I’ve long ceased following professional baseball, I nonetheless concede to deriving a fair measure of pleasure when the Mighty Yankees go down, as they did this past week. Is there some sort of abiding life lesson here? Perhaps hate is a far more powerful and enduring emotion than love—at least in the arena of irrational sports fanaticism.

Raised in a Bronx household with a rabid Yankee fan as its patriarch, I declared my independence from all that as a mere seven-year-old. I don’t quite know why I broke ranks at such a tender age, and why I started rooting for the Mets, but I did with a vengeance. And I quickly realized that it was one or the other—no namby-pamby straddling and allegiance to both New York teams was allowed. The very first games I attended were actually in the original House that Ruth Built—the one with the uncomfortable wooden seats painted blue and the view-obstructing, concrete poles holding the old stadium together. I recall being at a Bat Day giveaway against the expansion Seattle Pilots during their first and only season as a franchise. (The team moved to Milwaukee in 1970, but, very historically, supplied the colorful and immensely entertaining backdrop for pitcher Jim Bouton’s Ball Four, which is a great book by the way. Believe it or not, this tome of his was considered sacrilege for its time, steeped in controversy for violating the locker room’s longstanding omerta.)

I suspect it was my wide-eyed innocence that coaxed the very impressionable me to the Mets, a team in the midst of an ethereal glow. You know, the Miracle of 1969, which had nothing to do with the Blessed Mother appearing on a slice of burnt toast or any such thing. It was all about perennial losers winning the whole enchilada in crazy, unsettled times against the heavily favored Baltimore Orioles—amazing, amazing, amazing! David slays Goliath! And the fact that the Mets were televised a great deal more than the Yankees in those days of yore—on free TV, too, which was the only game in town—no doubt played a contributing and solidifying role in my declared allegiance. The battle lines were promptly drawn in the family, and with countless friends and neighbors as well—all fans of the corporate, highfalutin Yankees, despite the fact that they sucked lemons big time when I began my quarter of a century romance with their cross-town rivals.

But to get back to the love-versus-hate matter, and which of the two emotions emerge victorious in the end. I more or less lost interest in the game, and the team I loved with a passion since a boy, in the mid-1990s after a strike cancelled a World Series for the first time ever, and was still ongoing at the start of the next season. Along the way, ticket prices skyrocketed, and the players overtly, and rather dramatically and unapologetically, made greed and sheer disloyalty the hottest tickets in town. Then, of course, there were steroids, seventy-five home run seasons, and Barry Bonds breaking the great Hank Aaron’s record with both a literal head and ego the size of planet Jupiter.

I never consciously made the decision to turn in my fan card for all time. It occurred very gradually, with my fierce fan devotion waning with the passing years as the American pastime slowly but surely imploded. From my perspective, baseball once upon a time showcased a wholly unique ambiance with its slow and unfolding pace, strategy, and unpredictability. It was a game not held hostage by ticking clocks, flags, and annoying whistles—not to mention that there were many, many games on the schedule (162), with most of them played during the dog days of summertime, the best season of all for a kid.

But, ah, the question before us now is this: Why did my bowing out as an uber-fan not purge my simultaneous and heartfelt loathing for the Yankees? Granted, the wars were pretty bitter and intense back in the day between my beloved Mets and my father’s equally beloved Yankees. But that was ancient history. Or was it? I must confess that there’s still something about the Yankees, their fans, and that exasperating sense of entitlement that taps into that old hate. I may be a lapsed Met and former professional baseball fan—who’s gotten over the great love for his team and the sport—but hatred for the grisly opposition somehow never dies. 

Elegy for Alouishes...

(Originally published on 12/27/12)

English poet John Donne once wrote, “Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind.” I have no doubt that his words—these many centuries later—have been enshrined in a well-circulated Facebook meme. Still, I would have to disagree with the erudite Donne. Yes, a handful of men's and women’s deaths diminish me. But honestly, most don’t—in any way, shape, or form—because I didn’t know them in any way, shape, or form. However, a case could be made that some people’s deaths actually enhance me…and the wider world, too. But that’s for another blog topic.

I can think of one man, though, whom I didn’t know very well, whose untimely passing has diminished me in some nebulous but nonetheless profound way. I learned of his demise just a few days ago. He was a ubiquitous and reassuring presence in my favorite diner for more than a decade. Initially, I thought diner personnel were calling him “Al,” and then it sounded to me like “Louie.” So, I compromised and dubbed the man “Alouishes"—not to be confused with "Aloysius." Alouishes worked his way up from busboy to counterman to waiter. His former boss lavished the ultimate praise on him when he said, “He was one of us,” meaning Alouishes ultimately did it all in the bustling diner milieu—a considerable accomplishment—and was as loyal and dependable as they come.

I was told that Alouishes never missed a scheduled workday in his fourteen years on the job, which didn’t surprise me. He was a comforting constant when I patronized this very special diner—almost always there. While the man was not especially proficient in English, he rarely erred and effortlessly communicated in the fast and furious diner universe. He had a certain knack—a sixth sense—for zeroing in on his customers from great distances. Alouishes would often times have coffee on the table before my diner companions and I even entered the place. That’s the kind of guy he was. He kept a vigilant eye on our cups, too, making sure they were never empty.

Alouishes became a welcome part of my life for a spell, and when my diner—the last of its kind— shut its doors a year ago, it was an end of an era for sure. However, I never imagined it would be end of a very good man. I learned this past week that Alousishes was approximately my age—too young to die just like that of a heart attack and stroke. Perhaps there’s a cautionary tale in all of this. Working seven days a week, long hours, and not attending to one’s health—and all those warning signs—is, maybe, not the best life course. Why not find that happy medium instead? R.I.P., Alouishes. Your death diminishes me…and so many others.

The Revenge of the Uncola

Almost a half century ago, a sixty-four-ounce glass bottle of 7up, the uncola, left its mark. It was Christmas 1973, when soda pop came in glass, not plastic, bottles and were measured in ounces, not liters. Anyway, if memory serves, my brothers and I were playing a game of Skittle-Bowl, a Christmas gift that year, and about to partake in a little holiday bubbly.

Before opening the 7up bottle, I recall, it accidentally dropped to the floor. For every action there is a reaction. Retrieved, the now agitated uncola erupted, ejecting its bottle cap with such force that it passed through a plastic hanging lamp shade above. It left a jagged hole in it on its way to the ceiling.

It was one of those what could have been moments in the family history. One of us could have lost an eye or suffered some other serious injury from the unleashed uncola. But no physical harm came to any human on the scene. And the hanging lamp endures to this day as a reminder of what once was.

I miss 1973. The family car was a used 1968 Buick Skylark. The Mets were the National League champions. Local Sam’s Pizza served up a greasy delight back then when only whole pies were put in boxes, which were tied with string. Four oozing slices in a small paper bag was a sight to behold. My father called the place the “grease shop,” but the grease was—depending on the age of the pizza—a maker or breaker. There was good grease and bad grease, let’s put it that way.

There was a great bakery in the neighborhood, too: Shelvyn’s. Standout standalone bakeries are hard to come by nowadays in these parts. Supermarkets with their own bakery departments and changing tastes and times have seen to that. Once upon a time this otherworldly bakery on the main thoroughfare served up a cream donut the likes of which will never be sampled again. It was deep-fried, dense, and delicious. Not unlike the grease factor with pizza, the dense factor with donuts can either be a good thing or a bad thing.

I haven’t had 7up in quite a while. I wonder if it still tastes the way it did when Geoffrey Holder was the product’s TV pitchman and bottle caps passed through lampshades at warp speed. Probably not. For it was a simpler time when the Skylark, with my father behind the wheel, slid off an icy road into a ditch in the environs of Bangor, Pennsylvania, home of my maternal grandparents. A good Samaritan—a farmer in his tractor—got us back on course. That also was Christmastime 1973. A lot happened that week. It’s fair to say that then I wasn’t mulling over what life would be like in 2022.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

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!