Saturday, December 31, 2016

Happy New Year From Stoops to Nuts

Stoops to Nuts & I wish everyone a healthy, peaceful & happy New Year.


Do you like old New York City photos and street life stories? Then check out my 1960s memoir,
"I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."
Available at Logos Book Store and online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

The book has 122 Amazon five star reviews out of 122 total reviews posted. We're pitching a perfect game. My old world echoes TV's "The Wonder Years" ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs.

Tuesday, December 27, 2016

Two Certified Nuts Followed by a Third

New Years Eve 1985 ~ I present Captain Gerard Murphy with his Xmas gift. Add Nephew Eddie Ekis and you have serious trouble before the clock struck twelve. There were no reported injuries but several people at the party seemed to be crying but if you looked closely at their faces and body language you realized they were having laughing fits.




Sunday, December 25, 2016

The Holy Cart

My primary focus in grammar school was scheming ways to get out of class. At the start of seventh grade, I weighed my options. The parish claimed it needed money all the time. It ran fifty/fifty clubs, cake sales, bingo, casino nights, you name it. The low earner on the ledger was the religious article store in the rear of the church beneath the school. The store sold crucifixes, religious statues, bibles, catechisms, etc. The store was a flop. Kids never went in. The woman who worked there, Mrs. Hutzpacker, was mostly deaf, six feet tall, looked like Boris Karloff and scared the heck out us. She’d come up to your face and yell, “I CAN’T HEAR YOU, SPEAK UP”, whether you said anything or not. It was unsettling.

The store’s sluggish business gave me reason to approach my teacher, Sister Mercedes.

“Sister, you know the religious article store is going down the tube?”

She gave me a funny look, but I kept talking.

“If kids won’t go to the store, let’s bring the store to the kids. I’ll go to each classroom on Friday selling religious articles and do my best to separate weekend money from each kid’s pocket.”

I watched the nun’s expression.

Her lips pulled to one side of her face and her eyes narrowed bringing her bushy brows together as one. Her “mmmmm,” and chin stroking finger meant I had a pilot program. She knew I had years of business experience selling milk and toast during morning recess. Besides, the priests and nuns were unified on only one thing: anything other than illegal drug sales was a legitimate way to raise money for St. Stephen’s parish.

I started slow, selling a few catechisms and rosary beads. The first two weeks, I made a measly six dollars for the parish. I worried I might have to go back to class – then my clarion called. Joe Skrapits approached me in the classroom.

“Hey Pryor, do you have a St. Anthony statue for sale?”

“No, why?”

“My father’s always losing things and cursing around the house. Mom says she’s had it and she’s leaving all of us unless Dad stops his ranting and raving. Mom’s a great cook, Dad can’t cook, and I love to eat. St. Anthony is the patron saint for finding lost articles, stupid.”

Normally, I would’ve been hurt by the insult. Not that time. I replied, “Thank you Joe, I’ll fill your order next Friday.”

I grabbed my milk box and ran out of the classroom. I discovered my secret weapon – the Catholic Church’s roster of saints – a lineup more powerful than the 1961 New York Yankees. Oh yes, Joe Skrapits would get his St. Anthony statue next Friday, and I’d spend my week researching everyone’s birthday. Each day of the year, the Catholic Church celebrates a martyr or a pious saint. My plan was to storm my way into the heart of every kid and get them to purchase a statue of the saint who shared their special day.

I didn’t stop with birthdays. Every profession has a patron saint. I sold three Michael the Archangel statues to kids whose dads were cops. Attila Krupinzca bought a St. Vincent Ferrer statue for his grandfather, a plumber. I sold a St. Julian to Marianne Stranklee whose uncle was in a Hungarian circus. St. Julian is the patron saint for jugglers. Gaza Zak had four cats, a parakeet and a turtle. Gaza purchased a Saint Francis of Assisi. I told Gaza, “Unlike Doctor Doolittle, St. Francis really did talk to the animals.”

Freddy “Straight to Hell” Smith was always getting into trouble with the nuns, his parents, with everybody. He also had a wicked neck twitch. I palmed a St. Jude Thaddeus and slipped it to Freddy.

“Here Freddy, put this in your pocket and keep it there.”

“Why?”

“Just do it. Trust me.”

I didn’t have to the heart to tell Freddy that St. Jude is the patron saint for hopeless cases.

With the sudden burst in sales, I needed to expand my operation. Sister Mercedes, now functioning as my business manager, borrowed a metal two-shelved cart from “Mom,” the school lunch lady. I circled the steel steed, knelt on one knee and said, “I dub thee, The Holy Cart.”

Traveling the school’s halls, I reminded everyone to save their pennies till Friday, when the Holy Cart rolled into town with gifts and notions for every occasion. I assured my fellow altar boys that the Holy Ghost loved making sales calls with me.

“Each Friday he leaves his perch on the side of the altar to fly alongside the Holy Cart on its rounds. We’re a liturgical team!”

My colleagues made circles around the sides of their heads while whistling.

Father Edward, our Monsignor, heard about my venture and decided we’d have a talk.

“Thomas, you need to promote the Church when you visit the classrooms. Say things to get the children excited about religion.”

I gave this some thought. From the library, I borrowed a thick book titled, “The Lives and Deaths of 1000 Saints.” Great stuff. Gory murders, disembowelments, stone crushings, more methods for dying violently then I ever imagined. It was a quick read.

Armed with this knowledge, I developed a routine for my Holy Cart visits. Every week, I brought three “Fun Facts about the Saints” with me. I’d try to mix it up, one famous saint, one obscure saint and a third saint who had an extremely bad day.

Sometimes, I’d pick a bizarre one.

I described the saint to the class, “Wulfstan was smitten by a fair young lady at a village dance. To distract himself from the impure thoughts running through his head, Wulfstan threw himself into a nearby thicket of thorn bushes. He stayed there till the impure thoughts painfully passed away. God was so impressed by the saint’s efforts, that he prevented Wulfstan from ever having those feelings again.”

I closed the book with a slap and said, “Isn’t that great kids?”

All ears were perked up for this one. Sister Mercedes seemed edgy during the telling.

My best seller was a plastic statue of Mother Mary in an alcove appearing to the faithful. The alcove was a miniature missile silo with two pieces meeting in the front like a curtain. You slid the pieces apart to reveal Mary inside a grotto with open arms standing on a rock. The problem with the item was the manufacturer made the alcove before he made the Mary statue. The alcove was long and thin. Mary was an afterthought. The only way to fit Mary in there was make her long and thin – real long and catwalk thin.

The quirky product tested my sales skill. First time I looked it over; I didn’t know what to say. I recovered and stepped up to the front of the class.

“Folks, I have something special for you today. Something the Church has hidden for years, but now proudly presents to you for the first time.”

I turned away from the kids, picked up the item and spun back to the class opening the alcove doors.

“I give you Skinny Mary, Pre-Pregnancy Mary, the Mary with a twinkle in her eye and a song in her heart.”

I opened, closed and re-opened the alcove doors.

“The Mary who plays ‘Peek-a-boo.”

The class took a deep breath in, and then exploded. Based on normal nun behavior, I expected to be wrestled to the ground like a presidential assassin. It didn’t happen. Sister Mercedes stood to the side of the class covering her mouth but not enough to completely remove the evidence she was laughing.

As a kid, there are rare blue moons when the stars align and everything falls in place despite your best efforts to blow the bridge up, and you with it. If you’re a kid and reading this, save those memories and bank them. When you grow up and stuff happens to you all the time, you can use your recollection as a balm. It doesn’t always work, but a well oiled memory can sometimes ease the pain.

Friday, December 23, 2016

I'll Have None Of Your Shenanigans!


The Nun whacked me. A moment before this St. Stephen of Hungary 4th grade photo was snapped Sister Adrianne slugged me off the top of my forehead with her open hand. See my face? It's still red. (Second row, last on the right). 

I think she was telling me, I should have had a V-8. The good news? She hit Pierre, too. That's why he has a rosy puss on his face. (Top row, second from the left).

Why'd she hit us? We were fighting over who'd sit next to Barbara O'Shea, the prettiest girl in our zip code (second row, fourth from the right).

Pierre had me in a full-nelson wrestling hold and I was biting his stomach. We worked our way to the top of the bleachers where we were lining up for our class picture. We thought the bleachers kept going, but after the fourth row, we stepped into thin air. No fifth row. We hugged and fell to the wooden floor. The nun ran around the bleachers and picked us up like a hockey referee breaks up a fight. After wringing us out, she gave us a look of enormous disgust and said, "I'll have none of your shenanigans." She slapped Pierre, then tried to hit me. I ducked. That's when I got the pop off the forehead.

I've always found it oddly exciting to duck and avoid that first shot. After you acquire "getting hit experience," you know the second shot's going to be a harder, more accurate blow, but you can't resist the instinct to duck the first one.

Pierre was banished to the top row, far away from Barbara. To torture me, the Nun put me in the same row as Barbara but three seats away sitting next to Mary Toth. To move the knife around, Sister Adrianne placed the best-looking guy in the class; Jean Paul Piccolo, to Barbara's left. Look at Jean Paul, new to our country from Milan, Italy, right next to Barbara. The dummy isn't even sitting heinie to heinie ~ there's no contact ~ Jean Paul's giving her space! I'd have made sure our apples were nestled together, cheek to cheek.

He was so cute it made me sick. Even Paul McCartney would look ugly sitting next to him. The final twist of the blade, everyone called him "John Paul." Not only named after a Beatle, he was named after two Beatles!

It was April 1964. My marks were up, but things looked grim.


Wednesday, December 21, 2016

Happy Birthday, Barbara!!!

Happy Birthday Aunt "Barbie Pins" Barbara! 
Thank you, for all your love, Tommy



“Barbara, Kronks!” I said turning to mom's youngest sister working the stroller and me down the long York Avenue stoop. It was June 1958, Barbara was 19, I was four. Barbara loved me better than a sandwich loaded with mayo, but she had a second reason for taking us gallivanting: Teen boys loved teen girls pushing carriages. I was bait. To get Barbara’s attention the guys had to go through me, and these were rough nice guys on the corner of 87thStreet and York Avenue. In Kronk’s Soda Fountain shop, I’d get pretzels and egg creams on the cuff while the boys tried to impress Barbara. “Please don’t tell your mother, Tommy,” Barbara begged on the way home. Later, Mom asked, “Why aren’t you eating your hamburger? It’s your favorite!” “I don’t know,” I lied, not wanting to drop a dime on Barbara. Mom looked at my bloated belly and called her parents. “Mom, put Barbara on the phone... a moment later… What the hell did I tell you about loading him up with crap right before dinner?”

But it didn’t matter; Mom let Barbara walk me over to Kronk’s anytime she liked. Mom needed the break. My younger brother, Rory and I were unified on only one thing, torturing adults. No relative would babysit the two of us together in their own house. Anytime, Mom needed to go out and she couldn’t find a willing babysitter to come to us, she had to work the phone to get two separate relatives to take us in.

The other reason I loved Kronk’s was the music. Not only the jukebox, the teen boys sang fantastic acappella and gave me dimes for the jukebox. I was already a connoisseur of fine music thanks to my first 45 single, “I Told the Witch Doctor.” Its harmony knocked me out, and so did the Yorkville Melodies. One of the groups founding members, Denny Ferado, told me, “In 1954, Jimmy Whalen, Billy Auger and I were sitting on a stoop on 87th Street between 1st & York Avenue. Paddy Dougherty came down the street singing the Harptones, “Sunday Kind of Love,” and we all started singing along. Later, Whalen and I started a new group with Mike Smith, Ronnie & Jay O’Neil. Bobby Failla taught us a lot. Stan Zizka sang amazing, between Stan and Bobby that’s how the Yorkville Melodies learned to sing. We practiced in every hallway in the neighborhood until we got chased. We used the tunnel under the 87th Street bridge inside CarlSchurz Park as our personal recording studio.”

That was the Upper East Side as the 1950s’ turned into the 1960s’. Every few blocks you’d hear doo-woping, and it started on 87th Street. I’d have an easier time explaining the full begetting in the Book of Genesis than accurately describing doo-wop band mergers. Briefly, in 1960, Stan Zizka left the Yorkville Melodies to join a group that became the Del-Satins, and musical history set in quickly. In 1961, the Del-Satins backing Dion, added “hape, hape, bum da-haity, haity, hape" to “Runaround Sue,” and drove it to number one. Unfortunately the Del-Satins received little credit for their enormous contributions to this hit and “Donna Prima Donna,” Lovers Who Wander,” Ruby Baby,” and “The Wanderer,” a teenage anthem.

Few years back, I received an email from one of my childhood heroes, Clay Cole. Clay read my Yorkville stories on-line and deeply identified with the characters since he lived across from John Jay Pool when he hosted the highlight of my week “The Clay Cole Show,” on Channel 11 Saturday nights in the early 60s. The show was a cavalcade of rock stars and the Del-Satins were regulars. All Yorkville guys.





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Tuesday, December 20, 2016

Graveyard Cough

I’m 12. It’s right after dinner on a school night in early December 1966.  I’m walking through the living room, I clear my throat a bit, and hear thunder.

“Get another sweatshirt!”
Happy Pryors
“Oh, crap,” I thought, and grabbed more clothes and presented myself for my father’s review. He counted my garments then said, “OK, be back by nine.”

Dad and I were at war. All my life, if I got the slightest cold, a little tickle in my throat, it turned into a graveyard cough. In his mind’s eye, it would start in my feet, travel through every chamber in my pulmonary system, and build in pressure and size until it burst out of my mouth like the death rattle of a tuberculosis victim who was simultaneously taking a series of bullets to his lungs. If Dad heard my tiny cough two rooms away he’d ambush me and sandwich me with two T-shirts, two of his old sweatshirts and a giant jar of Vick’s VapoRub. He put three fingers in the jar, take out enough yuck to cure a choir of sore throats, and rub it into my chest and neck like I owed him a lot of money.

Thomas E. Pryor on left
My Dad’s dad, Thomas E. Pryor, died at age 40. He had advanced tuberculosis. They called it Pott’s Disease. Whenever I coughed my Dad probably saw pictures of the sanatorium where my grandfather spent seven of his last ten years, a hundred miles upstate.

On the way down the stairs I started undressing. By the time I got to the first floor I was down to a T-shirt and a light sweatshirt, the optimal clothing for touch football. I put my extra sweatshirt, my peacoat, and my scarf behind the radiator near the cellar door and left the vestibule. Jumping off my stoop, I looked up at the snowflakes dancing across the streetlights and followed their wavy paths down until they dusted the street bed. Then I wandered over to First Avenue to meet my friends.

After two hours and three games, it was time to go home -- and it was time to pee. Running into the hallway and up the stairs, determined to get to the toilet fast, I forgot the outerwear I had hidden in the vestibule. I ran into the bathroom, passed my mother doing the dishes, and relieved myself,moaning happily while listening to the sizzling steam pipe whistle. Finished, clueless, I stepped out of the bathroom into the kitchen at the same time my Dad came in from the living room. He looked me over.
“Did you just get in?”

With my mouth wide open, I once again entered the land of unanswerable questions. I said nothing, 
“I said, ‘Did you just…’” Mom cut Dad off.
“Are you friggin’ nuts? He’s been home ten minutes in his room, if you paid any deeper attention to The World at War on TV you could go right into the sea battle.”

Dad was ready to say something, but shrugged and went back into the living room. The commercial was over and it was time for him to return to the North Atlantic in 1942.
Mom said loud enough for Dad to hear, “Tommy, here’s a dollar, go get two milk.” 

"I will kill you, you S.O.B."
She pushed me out the door with the buck before Dad came back in the room. Even with the door closed, from the hall stairs I heard him say to Mom, “We have three quarts, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Don’t have a conniption. You all drink milk like this is a farm, it will be gone tomorrow, I’m not your Gunga Din, Tommy’s on an exercise kick, I’m helping him out.”
I ran down the stairs with a shit-ass grin, in love with Mom all over again.


Jerry Mahoney's tomb on top of step ladder

Saturday, December 17, 2016

Charlie's First Snow

Early this morning, Charlie played in the snow in Carl Schurz Park. She digs it.

Other photos below are Charlie's first day saying hello to me on 3/1/16, and her official St. Stephen of Hungary School, NYC first grade picture compliments of then Head of School Mrs. Katherine Peck.

This Monday, Dec 19 @ 7pm, I'm part of a charity event, Art, Humanity & Action: Storytelling Show & Fundraiser.

So please join us at the LGBT Community Center on Monday, December 19, at 7:00 p.m., for Art, Humanity & Action: a storytelling show and fundraiser, featuring some of NYC’s most well-loved Moth-and-award-winning storytellers, sharing short stories about love, equality, and kindness. Seating is limited and admission is $15: all proceeds will be donated to The Anti-Violence Project.

Tickets available here: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/art-humanity-action-storytelling-show-fundraiser-tickets-29927333460

Come hear stories from: Gastor Almonte, Erin Barker, Michele Carlo, Marie Faustin, Leslie Goshko, Susan Kent, Elana Lancaster, Brad Lawrence, Jean Le Bec, Sandi Marx, Asher Novek, Mark Pagan, Tommy Pryor, Jeff Rose, Tracey Segarra, Gail Thomas, Jimmy Wohl & Angel Yau. (Bios TK)
Nicole Ferraro is the engine behind and in front of this event. I'm proud to be friends with the amazing, generous & talented BFF.




What is that?
Stubborn Dog

Bye! See you next snow.



Do you like old New York City photos and street life stories? Then check out my 1960s memoir,
"I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."Available at Logos Book Store and online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

The book has 121 Amazon five star reviews out of 121 total reviews posted. We're pitching a perfect game. My old world echoes TV's "The Wonder Years" ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs.


Tuesday, December 13, 2016

"Nice Jacket. Where Are My Pants?"

The gang, united for the first time in years, scheduled a short bus to take them to Terri Mintz​'s Word The Storytelling Show​ tomorrow, Thurs, Dec 14 @ Sidewalk NYC​ @ 8pm.

There will be blood... & laughter.



Do you like old New York City photos and street life stories? Then check out my 1960s memoir,
"I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."Available at Logos Book Store and online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

The book has 121 Amazon five star reviews out of 121 total reviews posted. We're pitching a perfect game. My old world echoes TV's "The Wonder Years" ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs.

Friday, December 9, 2016

If I Fall

Mom let us both play on the 4th floor fire escape with a few toys when she couldn't take us in the house anymore. One time, when Rory was 5 and I was 7, he climbed over the rail to the outside of the fire escape and stretched his arms and legs all the way out into thin air, fifty feet above the concrete. I froze on the step where I was sitting and shrieked low, "aaaaaahhhh," didn't want Mom to hear, I whispered loud, "get back here!"

"If I fall, Mom will blame you," Rory said with a wicked smile.


Fear and shame ran through my head, instead of worrying about Rory smashing the ground, I was stuck on Mom's reaction.
Maybe this is why my nerves are shot.

I'm telling a story at Terri Mintz's Word The Storytelling Show on Dec 14 @ 8pm @ Sidewalk NYC

Tonight Friday, Dec 9th @ 7pm I'm performing at Eric Vetter's No Name & A BAG O' Chips: Winter Reading Edition at Otto's Shrunken Head, come on down!


Do you like old New York City photos and street life stories? Then check out my 1960s memoir,
"I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."Available at Logos Book Store and online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

The book has 121 Amazon five star reviews out of 121 total reviews posted. We're pitching a perfect game. My old world echoes TV's "The Wonder Years" ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs.

Thursday, December 8, 2016

Brooklyn By The Water ~ Upper Bay

Last shots from Sunday's trip along the Brooklyn water front. After leaving Coney Island, I rode along the Bay, by the bridge and walked the pier at 69th Street. The day would have ended perfectly if The New York Football Giants did more on their three failed trips into the Pittsburgh Steelers red zone.

I'm telling a story at Terri Mintz's Word The Storytelling Show on Dec 14 @ 8pm @ Sidewalk NYC

Tomorrow, Friday, Dec 9th @ 7pm I'm performing at Eric Vetter's No Name & A BAG O' Chips: Winter Reading Edition at Otto's Shrunken Head, come on down!





Do you like old New York City photos and street life stories? Then check out my 1960s memoir,
"I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."Available at Logos Book Store and online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

The book has 121 Amazon five star reviews out of 121 total reviews posted. We're pitching a perfect game. My old world echoes TV's "The Wonder Years" ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs.

53 stories & 100 vintage photos of an old neighborhood long gone




Wednesday, December 7, 2016

Brooklyn By The Water ~ Coney Island In December ~ Part Two

Here are more photos from Sunday morning at Coney Island. A beautiful day.

I'm telling a story at Terri Mintz's Word The Storytelling Show on Dec 14 @ 8pm @ Sidewalk NYC

This Friday, Dec 9th @ 7pm I'm performing at Eric Vetter's No Name & A BAG O' Chips at Otto's Shrunken Head









Do you like old New York City photos and street life stories? Then check out my 1960s memoir,"I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."Available at Logos Book Store and online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

The book has 121 Amazon five star reviews out of 121 total reviews posted. We're pitching a perfect game. My old world echoes TV's "The Wonder Years" ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs.

53 stories & 100 vintage photos of an old neighborhood long gone




Hi!
site of Thunderbolt rollercoaster in "Annie Hall"

Monday, December 5, 2016

Brooklyn By The Water ~ Coney Island Part One of Two

Having several water fronts in New York firms up the fact, life is good. I took seven hundred photos of Brooklyn by the water Sunday morning. Today, part one is Coney Island. Tomorrow, Coney Island, part two. Wednesday, Brooklyn By The Water, Part Three~ the Verrazano Bridge and Upper Bay from the 69th St Pier in Bay Ridge.


Anytime I'm at Coney Island, I hear the faint sound of a transistor radio near my ear. It's the Buckinghams singing "Mercy, Mercy, Mercy."
I'm 13 again.

I'm talking out of school @ Word The Storytelling Show on December 14th @ 8pm, Terri Mintz throws a mean soiree. Hope you can be there, Sidewalk NYC, 6th St. & Ave A.






Ma! Top of the world!


miss biking in winter here