Meet The Flintstones

s/e cor of York&86st @1953

Friday, early 1960s, food shopping with Mom at Sloan's on 86th and York. I looked forward to it. I had two ridiculous supermarket addictions: grape jelly glasses and giveaways in detergent boxes. I never liked jelly, still don't - but that never stopped me from needing the glasses the jelly came in.  A glass with Fred Flintstone or Barney Rubble on it after you dumped the jelly?  Seemed like a no-brainer. Mom caught me slipping it in the grocery cart. “Put it back, you don’t like jelly.”

“No, no, I do.”

“Liar, do not.”

“No, I like jelly now.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do; and Rory loves it. Rory, you love it, right?”

“Huh?

Mom took one jelly glass and threw it in the cart to shut us up.

Next day at breakfast, I’d said, “Mother dear, would you like a crispy English muffin?”

“Yes, thank you, Master Thomas.”

I’d toast her muffin and glob half the jelly jar onto every nook and cranny, earning Mom’s pathetic look, the one that said, “Tommy, I have nothing left to give.”

Detergent makers gave away drinking glasses. I became obsessed with them, too.  I have no clue why. Maybe because I was always thirsty and the glasses in TV commercials made all beverages look better.  When Mom wasn’t looking, I’d grab one of the detergent boxes and hide it in the middle of the shopping cart. We’d go to the register and I’d start passing items to the cashier.

“Mom, let me do it. Why don’t you rest over there on the window ledge?” 
Rory was climbing over the empty egg boxes piled up in the store’s front window, I figured she'd chase him. This worked a few times until Mom got wise. Getting caught didn’t matter. I was deemed hopeless. Emptying the cart herself onto the conveyor belt she saw the unwanted box of soap “How did this get in here?”

The cashier made eye contact with Mom and nodded toward me. I began moving toward the exit, a fresh TV Guide in hand getting ready to plan my viewing week. When we got  home, Mom and I unloaded the bags and Rory onto the hallway floor.  Then we carried the stroller down to the

cellar, parking our family car for the night.



If you enjoy my work, check out my memoir, "I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood." It's available at Logos Bookstore, 1575 York Avenue, or buy it online at Amazon, Barnes and Noble or other booksellers. The book has 130 five star reviews out of 130 total reviews on Amazon. If you do read it, please leave a few honest words about the book on Amazon & B&N. 

Two Tickets To Paradise

Eddie Money will always remind me of my best times in my twenties. In the late 1970s a New York city boy rocking hard lit up the radio. 

I played rugby at St. John's in Queens. We rocked hard. One thing we had in common, Eddie Money. Two brothers on our team, Ray & Kenny were in a terrific band called "Rocks." They were good at picking up new numbers for their sets and Eddie's music even got the terrible dancers (like me) up where ever we were. 

You know couples have a wedding song and carry it for life.  Individuals can have one too. Takes them directly to fond memories of the best years.  "Two Tickets To  Paradise" does that to me. Wherever I am when I hear it my inclination to move starts. "So Good To Be In Love Again" is right behind two tix for a trip back to East Quoque rugby houses, Mickey Mantle diner, Citgo gas station, OBI, crashing Old Blue parties, The Pub, any of many apartments in the Kew Gardens rugby ghetto. Summer rugby on Thursday nights on Randall's Island, Grundy's and a dozen other places to hear the band play each weekend.  

The only time I saw Eddie Money live was 1979 in Central Park at the Doctor Pepper Festival. That night involved rugby related business. I worked with a guy who played for the Long Island rugby club. He worked at the show as a bouncer at a side gate. The moment people were allowed in me and any body with me would slide five dollars to Tony when we shook hands, run inside and always get a third row seat behind the first two rows for press and big shots.  It gets better. Opening act for Money, The Kinks. This pleased me.

Eddie Money, your voice always take me to a double feature in my head.

Rest in peace, Sir.

If you enjoy my work, check out my memoir, "I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood." It's available at Logos Bookstore, 1575 York Avenue, or buy it online at Amazon, Barnes and Noble or other booksellers. The book has 130 five star reviews out of 130 total reviews on Amazon. If you do read it, please leave a few honest words about the book on Amazon and B&N.