Happy New Year!

I wish everyone a healthy, happy and peaceful New Year.

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I'm leaving my affordable housing job February 19th to write full-time.

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I'm taking terrific memories of being part of a team that rebuilt Coney Island with new small homes from Cropsey to Seagate & Surf to Neptune and all the way to Bayview Avenue on the Bay. Our programs saturated the Bronx,

Manhattan, Queens, Staten Island and many other Brooklyn neighborhoods with new houses and apartments for first time owners. Nothing gave me me more satisfaction then being part of a move-in celebration at a development. I'm a laborer at heart, and the tangible pleasures derived from the affordable housing Homeownership programs were countless, it was all hands on: assembling sites, developing documents for sale, swaying the Board of Estimate to support the programs, running my hand over the wood framing on a single family home going up, walking an unfinished concrete floor overlooking the north end of Central Park. I had many affordable housing jobs, this one was my favorite.

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I'm eager to start my new adventure.

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Happy New Year, everybody... hugs, Tommy

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Our Town, a Manhattan newspaper, published an abbreviated version of one of my stories today. Link to the story is below...

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http://ourtownny.com/?p=5051#more-5051

A Snowy Walk Through Hunter College, A Long Time Ago

I attended kindergarten, grammar school, high school and college in Manhattan. It was natural.

September 1972, I entered Hunter College with 16,000 other matriculating students.
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I was way in the back of the line when they gave me my first class schedule. I had little choice in picking five classes and the guy who put my schedule together handed me a card and shook my hand, "This is the worst schedule I've ever seen."
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Monday, Thursday 8-11am; 3-5pm ~ Wed 8-10am; Friday 8-10am; 4-5pm.
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I played football for the Bronx Warriors, and broke my fibula a week before my first Hunter class. My first two weeks I was on crutches. Most kids avoided the slow elevators. I took one to the 10th floor then went back and forth hopping the staircase from 7th to 10th floor to class. I held the crutches in one arm and took one step at a time on my good foot while a thousand kids ran around and through me. It was impossible to hold the giant heavy door open alone and get through it before it closed back on me. I needed help and usually slid through when a gang of kids went through, or sometimes...
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late for a class, I was on the stairs with a few stragglers. At the 9th floor door, a very pleasant Chinese student smiled towards me, and apparently was holding the door for me. He appeared happy. I said, "thank you," and put my crutches in place under my arms and put my head down to go through the doorway. The pleasant smiling student let the door go, it whacked me in the head, and with my arms locked to the crutches I moon-walked backward quickly across the landing, slammed into the huge radiator and fell into a heap.
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That first semester, I took a course, "Probabilities & Statistics," for two purposes: improve my weak gambling skill and satisfy my Math & Science requirement. 8am, Mon & Thurs, I dreaded the first class, I don't wake well. Got there late, opened the door, and saw a tall thirtish teacher, one goofy guy and forty nursing students, half of them Irish with those cute little noses. I was never late again.



My last year at Hunter, I hung around with Susan. We met in a Flemish Art class, Susan looked like The Girl with a Pearl Earring, this made absolute sense to me. Museum guards at the Met threatened us three times with expulsion. On a class trip, our teacher scolded us, "Seriously, you two, need to grow up." Susan and I took this as a compliment. We bought 25 cent bagel sandwiches in the High School building and put a ton of free Mayo on the one slice of Swiss or Bologna. We went to the Zoo when we should have been in class, and went to class when we should have gone to the Zoo. Susan made Hunter better.




My favorite teachers: Robert J. White, Classics, he imitated a werewolf and launched tribal mating calls in class, Dr. White turned me onto Edward Albee and Pasolini films. Professor Richard Barickman taught me: Poetry, Hardy, Elliot, Thackeray, Dickens and Henry James. He always wore riding boots like Heathcliff with the pants tucked in and taught me critical literary analysis.
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Professors White & Barickman led me to a rich appreciation for ancient civilizations, and in literature: D.H. Lawrence, Mann, James, Romantic and Victorian poetry (I still own my Washington Square Press paperbacks edited by William H. Marshall). These two men loved language with all their hearts and we soaked it up.

building on 65th Street and Park Avenue, just looked pretty against the sky

Central Park Showing Off ~ Pilgrim Hill 1964

After the snowfall Saturday night, the City put on its winter best.

December 1964, It snowed days straight and remained cold during the beginning of Christmas break. Every day, we mushed through the streets with our sleds to Central Park. Our usual stop was Cherry Hill at 79th Street. But that year, we developed ten-year old guts and visited the tougher ride, Pilgrim Hill, at the 72nd Street.

Pilgrim Hill had rocks jutting out of it to hit or avoid, and a heavy-duty fence at the bottom of the ride. The fence had a missing section six feet wide where the older kids built up a berm allowing you to hit the walkway where another berm was added to lift you out and onto frozen Sailboat Lake to finish your ride.

If you were confident, stupid, or reckless the best ride in the park was touching the Pilgrim statue on top, flying over a few rocks on your sled, narrowly missing the fence on the bottom of the hill, along with a free trip to Lenox Hill's Emergency Room, then bouncing over the two berms onto the lake. Even the older kids nodded their heads in admiration if you nailed it.
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Sunday in the Park with Snow

Central Park on Sunday afternoon.

Saturday Night in the Park

41 Mondays to Go

I have 41 Mondays left to commute. Come November, my Sunday night sadness turns to vapor. My affordable housing career ends. Full-time writing begins.

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I've inherited a candy store and I don't like candy. But I'll guzzle the soda until my belly is round, and devour the comics, and there ain't nobody throwing me out of the shop.

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I can't wait.

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Nice Jacket, Where Are My Pants?

New York Press published my story, "Drop-off Dry Cleaning," today ~ page 14 @ 12.08.09 issue.
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Story happened during a Yorkville snowstorm right before Christmas in 1964. Dad was not happy.


http://npaper-wehaa.com/nypress/2009/12/08/#?article=683156

December 19, 1981 ~ How Bout Those Boys?

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Dad died seven years ago, but he and I get together every Sunday in the fall, and with luck our reunions continue until early winter.
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Since people would think I'm nuts watching New York Giant games with my dead father, I usually watch them alone, with Dad.
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We have many victories together, none as sweet as December 19, 1981 against the Anti-Christ Cowboys.
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I was too young to enjoy the successes of the late 50s' and early 60s' Giants football club, but I was just the right age to suffer through the horrible Giant teams in the 60s' & 70s'.
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The Giants needed to beat the Cowboys on the last day of the 1981 season to make the playoffs for the first time since 1963.
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Dad drove to my apartment the Saturday before Christmas, we wore our blue best, and the Giants prevailed 13-10 on Joe "The Nose" Danelo's foot. No matter, they lost that year in the playoffs to the 49ers, they were back in the mix.
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Over the years, Dad and I won two Super Bowls together, and his spirit haunted me all night, gleefully, after the Giants beat the Patriots two years ago.
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Sweeping the Cowboys makes life brighter ~ Beating Dallas twice in a year ~ my personal World Series.
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My love to Joe Buck and all the bad haircut Cowboy fans out there.
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You Really Got Me, Emma Peel

OK, I loved Elizabeth Montgomery. I put up with many crappy Bewitched episodes to watch her cute face and occasionally peek at Mrs. Tate. I did like Barbara Feldon because she resembled a girl I had a crush on ~ and Agent 99 smiled at me through the screen, a lot more than the object of my affection did.

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But in October 1965, all the other girls went out the window and there was only one, Emma Peel on The Avengers.

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The New York Giants stunk in 1965, so all my attention that fall was available for this tall, lean, intelligent, sarcastic, athletic, gorgeous, articulate and funny goddess. Based on what I was being told in school and church, about things that sent you to hell, I'm surprised I wasn't picked up personally by the devil in a checker cab and escorted immediately to his hottest room.

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My brain burned an image of Diana Rigg on it's main screen and stayed there all week until showtime on Friday night. Much to the chagrin of my mother, Dad used a power drill with a buff attachment to shine his dress shoes at the end of the week. If Emma was on TV, Dad would rest his chore and join me in adoration. I always slept well after The Avengers.

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Ray Davies and the Kinks tells Emma Peel how he feels about her, click Kelly Garrett's video below:

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ve9N9oaXU18&feature=related

Sway ~ Till the End of the Day

Like my fathers' mother, like my father, I love my stuff. I'm no Collyer brother, my place is neat, in it's own way. I still own my first two records, both by Dave Seville and the Chipmunks: "Witch Doctor," in 1958, and 1959, "Alvin's Harmonica." The football is from 1969 and the main reason it's still here: I religiously duct taped it like a car accident victim. When I had no duct tape I used electric tape, this pissed Dad off, since most wires in our apartment and my grandmother's apartment were frayed and Dad kept a roll in his pocket on the weekend.
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After 40 years of flying over and bouncing along concrete and asphalt, my friend, "Herman," the football stands by my side.
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I was talking with a friend about how much I love Ray Davies and the Kinks music. This reminded me of a frigid November Saturday afternoon in 1965 when I was eleven.
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For some reason, I was staying over my Aunt Barbara's apartment in Elmhurst. I liked to wander around the neighborhood by myself, so I was window shopping along Roosevelt under the El and Jackson Avenue. I had a buck, which meant today I would buy one 45 single, and it better be a good one. When I was eleven, no decision carried as much weight and thought as buying a record. There was a small music store near the Jackson movie house. I tired out the clerk looking over the new releases and finally decided on "Till the End of the Day," by the Kinks, because I heard "Where Have All the Good Times Gone?" the flip side once and liked it fine. It was a unexpected gift buying a single when the B side was a good song too.
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I ran a half mile to Barbara's apartment on Macnish Street, not breathing, said hi, and went straight to the Victrola. Saw something disturbing.
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"Barbara, why is the record player unplugged?"
"It's broke.'
"Huh?"
OK now I was in hell. New music with no means of playing it. I dropped into a chair. Barbara saw the shape I was in and made a suggestion.
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"Tommy, Joannie's not home, but why don't you go try Betty?"
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Barbara, my Aunt Joan, and their friend Betty Mulhern, all lived in the building. Betty Mulhern was Emma Peel, Barbara Feldon and Serena, Samantha's evil cousin all rolled into one. If you didn't like brunettes, and saw Betty, you'd like brunettes. She danced every new dance, and her wild hair flew. She wore tight shorts on long legs, she wore clam diggers, she painted her pretty toes. Her eyes sparkled, her nose twitched. I couldn't make eye contact with her without my belly feeling funny.
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I went down the hall and knocked on Betty's door. Music was playing.
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"Hey Tommy, what's up?"
"Hmmm, I have a new record, Barbara's player is broken. Can I play it on yours?"
"Sure, come in."
I put it on. Betty was doing the dishes, and she started to sway her hips. All I could do was watch her move back and forth, back and forth.
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I played both sides five times. Would have made it six, if Barbara didn't come in to retrieve me.

Gene's Tavern ~ York Ave ~1945

Quick note on today's nyg cardiac arrest victory. After traveling the world for nearly two years after his victory over the Green Bay Packers in the NFC Championship game, Uncle Mommy's Teddy bear knocked on my door right before the Falcon game. "You're gonna need me today."
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He was right.
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Blowing a 14 point lead forced the Giants into overtime. Luckily, we got the ball back on the coin flip. Eli moved it, and Teddy offered me his noggin for a headlock right before Tynes knocked it through the uprights for the win. 34-31.

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Found terrific photos taken in April 1945 of Gene's Tavern on the n/e corner of 84th Street & York Avenue. Checking on names with my Dad's friend, Walt, but the crew includes: Whitey Sherman, Allie Cobert, Richie Curley, Pete Salerno, Bob Pryor, Tommy O"Rourke, Pat Straw. On the 84th Street wall, right above the lady with white hair crossing the street, is a service memorial with the names of the Yorkville men and women who gave their lives in World War II. In April 1945 the list was not complete. Look at the stores on both sides of the avenue, the barber pole and the young guys on the bike and sitting on the bumper of the car on York. And the graffiti on the wall and in my Dad's sketch that reads, "Cameron."

Gene's Tavern had a two lane bowling alley in the cellar. My father's brother, Tom was the weekend pin boy for the place. Good tips. When Tom got too old for the job he passed it onto his younger brother, Bob, my Dad. There was a controversy over the changing of the guard on this pin boy position in 1940. They were 15 and 11 at the time, their father was in a TB hospital upstate, their mom worked two jobs, six days a week. Tom & Bob liked to settle things quickly. I'm saving that one for a longer story. It's a doozy.

Chairman of the Board Beats Cowboys 17-7

Whitey Ford pitched 8 2/3 shutout innings against the Dallas Cowboys today in a 17-7 Green Bay Packer blowout.

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Luis Arroyo gave up a meaningless seven run homer to the hapless Cowboys with no time left on the clock. The failing Dallas hombres are flirting with flipping last place with the St. Louis Browns.
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The Chairman of the Board walked one Cowboy, and struck out seven.
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Tony Romo, Cowboy's shortstop made two fielding errors and several errant throws to first.

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Father Benedict Dudley & The New York Giants Dark Age

Owning a four game losing streak in professional football is the equivalent of losing 40 straight games in professional baseball. It's 25 percent of your team's season. The New York Giants four game losing streak makes me blue.
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The losing streak reminds me of the bad old days, before Pete Rozelle forcefully escorted Wellington & Tim Mara across the dance floor to their new general manager, George Young.
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I'm old enough to vaguely remember the Giants glory years coming to a close in 1963. Then the dark age. From 1964 through 1980 the Giants were terrible except for one tease in 1970 when the George "Straight to Hell" Allen led L.A. Rams beat the Giants in the last game of the season denying them the N.F.L.'s Eastern Conference crown, and worse, giving the crown to the Anti-christs from Dallas.
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Below is the first few paragraphs of a Sports Illustrated article from September 25, 1972, about the New York Giants bad times.
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A cool Yorkville related thing in the article is a prominent character is Father Benedict J. Dudley. Father Dudley was the pastor of St. Stephen of Hungary Church on East 82nd Street, and he served me my first communion and I served him as his altar boy in mass. Father Dudley was also the Chaplain for the New York Giants & the New York Rangers and one of Wellington Mara's closest friends.
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It's a good read, but I'd prefer the Giants put a little winning streak together starting next week.
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It's Just One Man's Family
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Wellington Mara is moving his beloved—if baffling—Giants to New Jersey, hoping others will love them, too
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by Robert H. Boyle


Father Dudley said the 6:30 a.m. Mass and then looked in on the St. Francis of Assisi breadline on Manhattan's West 31st Street that has been running since 1929—the oldest breadline in the world, according to Father Dudley. Not scheduled to hear confessions that day, Father Dudley got into his car and drove to the Giant training camp in New Jersey. There he watched the workouts, checked on the progress of the rookies and talked with his friend, Wellington Mara, the president of the team.Father Benedict Dudley has been a fixture around the Giants since 1932 when a man saw him standing in the bleacher ticket line at the old Polo Grounds and said, "Take this, Father." It was a box-seat ticket right on the 50-yard line. There were three or four other men in the box, and Father Dudley kept up a running commentary on the performances of the players and the progress of the game. When one of the men allowed that Father Dudley certainly knew a lot about professional football, Father Dudley said, "I used to see the Frankford Yellow Jackets play when I lived in Philadelphia." It turned out that Father Dudley was sitting in the box of a very close friend of Tim Mara's, and from then on he never had to stand in the bleacher ticket line again.Another priest, Father Kevin O'Brien, who was a professor of physics at Fordham, has always hung around the Giants, too. He became known as the defensive priest; Father Dudley was the offensive priest. Once at a dinner in Milwaukee the late Fred Miller, president of the Miller Brewing Co. and himself a Catholic, introduced Father Dudley as the offensive priest. Father Dudley drew a chortle when he cautioned Miller on pronouncing the first syllable in offensive. "The word has two meanings," he said.In the course of years, Father Dudley has become not only honorary chaplain to the Giants but to what Wellington Mara calls "the Giant Family."

To finish Robert H. Boyle's article go to this link:

http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vault/article/magazine/MAG1086564/index.htm

I Wish That I Knew What I Know Now

when I was younger...
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This afternoon, I pedaled to the East Village, saw a balloon and visited St. Mark's Church. There was a wish tree in the churchyard decorated with wish cards, and I wrote on mine, "I wish to see my daughter soon." Took some pictures, and caught a guy trying to steal my bike. A picture of the thug manhandling my ride is below. I took the bike back from him and said, "thank you."

Then, I dropped in on a live East Village Radio show, Atlantic Tunnel on First Avenue

between 1st & 2nd Street. It was cool, they do the show in a store front ~ behind the glass they spin the tunes. They love what they're doing and that is infectious. Just cheers me up.
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Atlantic Tunnel is hosted by Brits Ed Rogers and Gaz Thomas, the popular radio show can be heard on Sundays from noon - 2 pm @ Sunday. Today's show was dedicated to Ian McLagan a member of the Small Faces and Faces. Ian didn't write "Ooh La La," but I love it.

http://www.eastvillageradio.com/shows/nowplaying.aspx?contentid=1220&showid=14834