The Cough Drop Wars

"Get that out of your mouth.” The nun demanded.

"Wha?" said the kid.

"The candy."

With lots of lisping,"It'ssss not candy, it'ssss a cough drop," 

Silently with pointing directions only, the nun made the boy take out his hanky and drop the drop into the snot rag.

"No candy in class!"

"It'sssss not candy!"

The nun hit the kid. 

In 1962, at St. Stephen's, the grammar school sold candy at lunchtime then confiscated it if you ate it in the schoolroom after lunch. Come on? Reminds me of states that have liquor stores on the highway. They sell you a bottle with a smile, and then expect you to keep it in the bag until you drive home.

There was one controversial foodstuff that caused an uproar in class. Cough drops. Depending on the nun, cough drops weren't considered candy if you could prove you were about to expire. Symptoms of death or a parent's note that your throat was sore could do it, but only after the note passed analysis in comparison to a previous note from the same parent, sometimes authenticated in consultation with other nuns. Some infamous forgers of the late 20^th century developed their talent on East 82^nd Street. If they were born a generation earlier, they would've been in the O.S.A. crafting passports for the Allies.

A key part of the strategy to hold onto your cough drops was to place Kleenex tissues on your desk and hack when the nun was facing the blackboard. If you could position a line of phlegm under your nostril, better. Rubbing your eyes a lot was risky. It was a sure allergy signal but could drive certain nuns crazy and sometimes they'd take the cough drops away even if you were sick because they didn't like the way you looked at them. Keeping your Smith Brothers or Luden's brand supply was a constant struggle requiring vigilance, cunning and endurance.

As you can see from this photo taken in St. Stephen's first grade in 1962, my brother, Rory, was a master at deception and candy retention. See the Kleenex pack on his desk? Seconds later, the nun turned towards the blackboard and Rory released his “Hound from Hell,” practiced cough. The pack of Smith Brother's Wild Cherry flavor cough drops in his pants pocket were ready for roll call.

This is my current column in Ask a New Yorker.

Our next "City Stories: Stoops to Nuts"storytelling show is Tuesday, May 13 @ 6pm @ Cornelia Street Cafe. This month's artists: Alfonso Colasuonno, Robin Eisgrau, John Lewis and Marie Sabatino. I'll host and tell a yarn. Admission is $8 and includes a free drink.

Brylcreem, A Little Dab Will Do Ya

Got into a sparkling new cab this morning. The seats, dashboard and windows shined. Riding my finger along the metal detail on the passenger door, I thought, the only time my brother Rory and I were ever this clean was for one lone hour at a photography studio on Third Avenue in spring 1960.

I repel wool. I can’t even look at someone wearing it without itching. That morning, Mom made us put on wool pants and red wool vests. Having a shirt under the vest was useless. In my mind, the wool was right on my skin just like the pants. Mom scrubbed our necks and washed our ears and put Brylcreem in our hair. I hate oil on me.
On the way over, Rory was in the stroller and I was about a half block behind them trying to walk in such a way that my legs centered in the pants so there was no wool making contact with my skin. To do so, every step was calculated. Since we were late for the appointment, Mom left Rory unattended a few times to come back and drag me. When she did, Rory climbed out of the stroller and ran back towards us. Part of the trip was uphill between Second and Third Avenue and when Rory left the stroller the brake slipped. Mom had to leave us alone to run after the stroller rolling down the hill towards 2nd Avenue, off the sidewalk and into the street. Reminded me of a Western movie I had recently seen on TV’s Channel 5.

When we got there 25 minutes late, Otto the photographer was livid. His baldhead was loaded with sweat and he was breathing heavy like Mr. Fields, the landlord in the “Abbott and Costello” TV show. This didn’t stop Rory and me from having a fight over who’d ride one of those horses with four springs that you go up and down on and also get a little bit of side to side action. Mom took me off the horse in a headlock. When he saw this happen to me Rory immediately cheered up. Otto and Mom quickly combed our hair and moved us into the position.

Mom said, “Smile nice, not stupid, or I’ll kill you.” Rory, always photogenic, nailed his pose. Somehow, I didn’t screw it up. After Otto snapped the picture, I saw Mom smile and look at us like the last hour never happened.

My column this week in  Ask A New Yorker

Whipped Cream & Other Delights

Tonight, I’m going to my grammar school, St. Stephen of Hungary’s first ever all students reunion. I graduated in 1968 and soaring memories involving all my senses have welled up. Next Friday, I’m headed to Joe’s Pub to see the Loser’s Lounge Carly Simon/Linda Ronstadt tribute. The Losers Lounge is my favorite recurring NYC music event, St. Stephen’s was my first nest outside of home and the fond memories below of song and school tie it all together.

A few years ago at Joe’s Pub, Tony Zajkowski crooned at the Losers Lounge tribute to Burt Bacharach.

You say this guy, this guy’s in love with you.
Yes I’m in love, who looks at you the way I do?

Tony nailed the tune with his duel fuel & prop martini glass. As always, The Losers Lounge delivered. Hal David was there in spirit and the song reeled me back.

1968 ~ I worshipped Julie Wilfinger from St. Joseph’s grammar school, but Julie loved Julio Marcovich. Julio had a high end Grundig portable radio with colossal speakers. It was FM radio’s second year and WNEW was playing our music virtually commercial free. The classic radio with the wood grill and stainless steel knobs was catnip to the girls. Julio wooed Julie with his music maker.

Julie had smooth olive skin, a tomboy’s energy and charm, and two scoops of peach ice cream that made regular appearances when the top buttons loosened on her man’s tailored shirt – her summer uniform with cut off shorts and white sneakers. Glasses on a cute girl’s face turned boys to mush. Julie’s glasses were always a little crooked on her nose and perfect that way. Julie liked wrestling with the boys. When she perspired, her skin glowed. If I made her laugh she lightly touched my nose. I craved that. Down the park, she’d let you take you her up on the swings, and she was the only girl at the time that would take the boys up on a swing. All the other girls thought that was outrageous, but she didn’t care. Because everyone knew, she belonged to Julio, and Julio belonged to her. My heart broke with this knowledge.

Julio carried the radio on his shoulder like a shipping crate and Julie held his free arm. When they passed me sitting on the stoop alone, Julio would give me a nod, he was two years older than me and owed me no greeting at all, so the nod was generous. Julie gave me a little smile, and then they’d be gone. I’d half sing under my breath… “Say you’re in love, in love with this guy, if not I’ll just die…” Julie kissed me once when she was drunk at a St. Stephen’s dance on March 10, 1969. I banked the kiss.

1965 ~ Herb Alpert’s released his “Whipped Cream” LP as the record world exploded. I was in 5th grade and needed to know what was going on, and the only place to know what was going on was the basement of Woolworth’s Five and Ten on 86th Street in Yorkville. Every Friday and Saturday night, my brother, Rory, and I went there to discover the new releases and go through our favorite records.

We stood in front of the record counters for so long, both of us would have to pee bad, but they never, ever, let you use the bathroom in Woolworth’s. It was waste of time to ask, so Rory and I did the “pee-pee dance.” We’d bounce up and down in the aisle, going from record row to record row, keeping our legs moving to hold it in. This drove the Woolworth’s clerk crazy. That’s half of the Whipped Cream story.

Look at the record cover above. Christmas Eve arrived early when this Lp came out. Because, that picture of Dolores Erickson lathered in whipped cream was the best Playboy cover ever and I could look at it for as long as I wanted without someone yelling at me to put it down. In the candy store and the barbershop we weren’t allowed in the men’s magazine areas, but now, Herb Alpert puts out an album cover better than any Playboy I’d ever seen. And all I needed to do was use my imagination and that album cover became my favorite picture of all time. When we looked at copies of “Whipped Cream” in the store, they were manhandled so many times the plastic on each album was worn or torn at the corners.

A Taste of Honey, a good song, Beatles did it too, but it was so beside the point. The “Whipped Cream” album cover was the thing, and any boring Yorkville night was less boring, when we got to look through the records, find the naughty covers and torture the store’s clerk.

1962 ~ I was eight years old, sitting on my 83rd Street stoop with nothing to do and no friends around to do nothing with. I felt blue. I had my grandfather’s grey plastic eight transistor radio to my ear listening to the Scott Muni show on WABC. A song came on I’d never heard before and the horns went right through me… I was in Spain at a bullfight and the crowd was full of senors and senoritas, dressed up fancy, all roused up and ready to dance. After the song, the DJ said, “that was ‘Lonely Bull’ by Herb Alpert and The Tijuana Brass.” I was happy and confused. Glad to be alone, thinking about this new song that tickled my ears and took me away to somewhere fantastic. The horns sad notes warmed me up, made me feel better and I wondered – how does music do that do you?

In the present, Tony Z pulled me along with the rest of the Joe’s Pub audience in on the song’s final verse. I was back at the show and I sang along…

I need your love, I want your love
Say you’re in love, in love with this guy,
If not, I’ll just die.

As the horn faded away, I felt Julie Wilfinger touch my nose.

This piece currently appears as my new column in Ask A New Yorker

My Barber's Dead

I bet I can name every barber I’ve had back to five years old. I only remember nicknames for the first two on York Avenue because I didn’t know their real names. “Herman the German” and “Mickey Mouse” with his wife with Tourette’s syndrome. In a house dress with her wild gray hair, she sat next to you in the always empty second barber’s chair and on and off through the haircut screamed obscenities into your ear. The other barber, Herman the German fogged me in during haircuts when his cigarette smoke created clouds around my head. Sometimes, Dad tried to save a quarter and sent me to Mickey Mouse who only charged 50 cents for kids, but when I got home Dad caught crap from Mom because the haircut was always terrible. Reluctantly, Dad would spring for the extra quarter next time that meant I was going to Herman.

At 13, breaking away from crew cuts, I went to Gino

Rory & Tommy 1961

at Claremont’s Men’s Hair Stylist also on York. There, I discovered sideburns and threw away my butch stick. Then when I moved out of my parents, Antonino in Bay Ridge who played Italian Opera on Saturday morning while sipping red wine out of a coffee cup. A little wine always rested on his pencil moustache before his cat tongue took it home. After opera, there was pretty Angeline who cost too much, but I didn’t care because her face in my face for a half hour was heaven. Angeline moved to Jersey, and then it was off to Lydia on Beekman Street next to the hat store where my Dad got his hat blocked in the 50s’.  After Lydia retired, David, my Russian comrade styled me near the Trade Center until September 11th. With my work building closed, my office was exiled to Long Island City for three years where a Chinese chicken salesman cut my hair off Jackson Avenue.

In 2004 I went back to Claremont Men’s Hair Stylist in their new location on 83rd Street and First Avenue. Claremont’s owner was a Yorkville land baron and moved the store from one of his buildings to another. A couple of years ago, I plotted my next haircut tying it to a weekday to avoid waiting on a Saturday morning. When I got to the store at eleven the windows were white washed with a little hand written sign telling the postman where to leave the mail. My barber who I already lost once in my life was dead. Or moved elsewhere, leaving no forwarding address for my wild poet head. Not to be denied, I remembered somewhere between the subway stop and York Avenue there was a barber pole; I definitely remembered the swirling stripes on the pole. After a few passes, I located my barber on 84th Street right next to Doctor Higgins the Vet’s office. Not too shabby, cut my hair nice, would of made Floyd of Mayberry proud, “Real proud, Andy.” Can’t tell you his name, but I’ll try to keep him on life support.

 This piece appeared last Friday in  Ask A New Yorker

February 9, 1964 ~ Life Instantly Got Better

My brother, Rory, and I, agreed on two things in early 1964: we loved bacon and we were crazy cuckoo nuts over the Beatles. Every Friday night that year, Mom gave us each a dollar to “get the hell out of the house and don’t come back until the store closes.”

Together, Rory, 7, and I, 9, zoomed up 86th Street to Woolworth's 5 & 10 for our “start the weekend” ritual: carefully look over all the records in the store’s basement after our pizza dinner on Second Avenue. "I Want to Hold Your Hand," the Beatles first U.S. single came out the day after Christmas 1963, and the Lp "Meet the Beatles," was released on January 20th. Our mouths watered as we fingered through our favorite album covers: the Motown artists, Beach Boys, the Four Seasons and others.

We didn’t own a record player yet, but each of us had a few 45s that with low frequency Dad would let us hear on his 1955 RCA Victrola. He never let us touch it. He stood there giving us lessons on how to put the record on the turntable, how to clean the needle, but he always put the record on and he would lower the sound so we had to put our ears against the speaker’s grill to hear the song. Rory told Dad if he really loved us he should get us a dog like “Nipper” the RCA pup inside the record player’s top listening to “His Master’s Voice.”

Dad surprised the family with a Motorola TV Console at Christmas time in 1963. Mom, Rory, and me were pleased as punch, the only down side was taking tuner changing lessons from Dad once a night. He’d stand in front of the TV screen demanding our full attention. Rory and I were not allowed to touch it. Mom had limited privileges. “Slow, turn the knob slow, only one station at a time. Got me? Very slow, and make sure it precisely stops at each station.” I could feel the heat of the cigarette in his mouth near my ear when he leaned in during my lesson. When Mom was upset with Dad (often) and he wasn’t around, she’d let Rory and I have tuner-turning contests — who was the fastest going from Channel 2 to Channel 13 then back to Channel 2.

My only refuge to enjoy my media alone, anxiety free, was listening to my eight transistor radio. My confirmation gift was packed carefully in the front pocket of my dungarees. I’d run down to the 89th Street hill inside Carl Schurz Park and lay on the ground oblivious to the cold. I’d open my jacket, lift my shirt, and place the radio on my belly so I could feel the vibrations of the music through my body. By New Year’s I was listening to “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” and “I Saw Her Standing There, the single’s B-side, over and over. That’s all I wanted to do. Be alone with my songs and dream.

On Sunday night, February 9, 1964, the family, the four of us were in our 83rd Street living room. Rory and I in our usual positions lying on the area rug over the linoleum covered floor, our heads pushed up with our arms. At 7:30 we were watching “My Favorite Martian,” on CBS, normally a must see show. But that night, all I wanted was it to be over and it to be eight o’clock. After scratching my ass five hundred times, Ed Sullivan came on the air. He made an announcement and then, they were there, The Beatles, live! Paul counted and then they drove into “All My Loving,” and life instantly got better.

In 1964, you could see ballplayers live, you could see movie and TV stars on the screens but it was nearly impossible to see the musicians you loved when you were too young to be going to a concert. When I saw The Beatles for the first time, they were mine, not to be shared with my parents; I owned this picture, this sound, these feelings. I looked over at Rory and saw him glowing. He got it, too. We found a place of our own. The Beatles appearance on Ed Sullivan, the flesh and blood merge with the music that was driving us crazy to distraction opened up a pleasure vault in our hearts and minds.

Glued to the TV screen we inched closer as if touching the screen with our noses would put us in the audience. Using slight body English to move when Dad yelled,” You’re in my way!” As if he cared. We gawked with our mouths wide-open, hands to our chins, our hearts beating faster than they had any right to. Their names flashed on the screen: Paul, George, Ringo, John, (SORRY GIRLS, HE’S MARRIED). Our eyes and ears conspired, making a movie we’d keep inside our heads forever.

It’s still there, the TV console Dad bought Christmas 1963. No TV inside it, but I have a worn beautiful piece of furniture in my living room that reminds me of a moment 50 years ago that stopped my heart in the best way.

This piece was published today in  Ask A New Yorker.

This Tuesday, "City Stories: Stoops to Nuts," at Cornelia Street Cafe.  February 11th @ 6pm come listen to Sherryl Marshall, Agatha Nowicki and Regina Ress. Agatha and Regina are telling, and Sherryl is singing her stories in a special showcase set.

Admission is $8 and that includes a free drink. I promise a good time or I'll eat my straw hat.

Time Out Magazine says, "Stoops to Nuts," is a smashing experience not to be missed. No they didn't, but they do say it's a cool thing to do.

Skating Away

If February plans to be the coldest month in NYC this year, fatten me up and put me in a bear cave until it hits and stays 50 degrees.

I needed cash downtown Tuesday morning. Wickedly windy, I ran to the HSBC near Duane Park north of Chambers. After the bank, I jogged down Warren Street towards Whole Foods. In a crystal clear store window, I saw my reflection running, “I know you!” Then I saw myself in the process of falling. Some knucklehead wet down the sidewalk in front of his double-wide building creating 40 feet of icy death under me. The super genius wanted to clear the remaining dirty snow off. It was 15 degrees out.

First, I did a Dorothy Hamill on the frozen sheet. One leg lifted unintentionally towards the sky while the other turned 90 degrees off the ball of my foot. For this part of my program, I imagined the East German judge gave me a “6″ on his card.

Following the Hamill move, I did a James Brown shuffle, where my arms got involved trying to sustain enough balance not to go down, I resembled a kid imitating a steam engine, “Good & Plenty, Good, & Plenty.” Coming to the end of the ice, I tried to slow by pushing both feet down hard, but this spun me around 180 degrees. Now I couldn’t see where I was going, so I moon-walked the rest of the way, left the ice prepared to fall, covered my head and took all of the impact on my bottom. I’m going to a have shiner on my hinny tomorrow.

This piece appeared in my column in Ask A New Yorker this week.

Best Hill in New York City

If you ask this New Yorker what’s his favorite hill in New York City: the bluff in Owl’s Head Park just north of 68th Street and Shore Road in the Bay Ridge neighborhood. The vista from this property has been the subject of art and photography for three centuries. Henry Cruse Murphy who helped found the Brooklyn Eagle and became Mayor of the city of Brooklyn built an impressive estate on this scenic glacial ridge overlooking the Narrows.

The bill authorizing the Brooklyn Bridge was composed and signed there in 1866. The second owner, Eliphalet W. Bliss, sold the land to the city and the property became a park in 1928. Unfortunately, the house was demolished in the 1930s.

When you think about this perpetually changing town and sweat over how little of it is left as you remember it, take the R train out to the Bay Ridge Avenue stop and walk due west past Third Avenue, Ridge Boulevard until you get to the corner of 68th Street and Colonial Avenue and enter this beautiful park and hike your way up to the top of the hill past the ancient trees where you see the bay open up before you.

Turn south and see the tops of the Verrazano Bridge towers, turn north and Manhattan’s skyline decorates the horizon, turn east on a snowy night and watch a young boy and his father sled a monstrous hill, the best one in Brooklyn, all by themselves. Stand alone at the park’s peak on a cold clear evening and see what Henry Murphy saw in the mid-19th century, the finest panoramic view in New York City. It’s easy, blink away the structures, roads and buildings, and see only the water and the surrounding topography. You’re looking at the main artery to the New World.

This is my weekly column in  Ask A New Yorker.

Here are photos from Owl’s Head Park:

Owl's Head Father & Son

Manhattan from Owl's Head Park

Owl's Head

Owl's Head

Owl's Head

city from Owl's Head

Narrows from Owl's Head Park

Fuel For the Soul

New York comes to my rescue every day.  I have a tendency to get sad without warning and my fail safe method of battling the blues is meandering New York City streets on my bicycle.  I find beauty everywhere I turn. My family took 2000 photos of the city going back to 1906 and I constantly revisit these places to remember and reinvent them. Many times discovering lost treasures or a lovely thing I never knew existed. What I see comforts my soul the same way a three pack of Yankee Doodles soothed my belly when I was a kid.

Last September, Kennedy Moore, founder of Ask A New Yorker, contacted me after reading this story blog. Kennedy invited me to write a weekly column for AANY ~ a remarkable site that brings all the pleasures of New York City together in one publication. I was honored and accepted his offer immediately. I wanted to be part of it. New York is a five senses explosion and Ask A New Yorker dives in with gusto.  As much as I’ve enjoyed writing for AANY these past ten months something was missing.

The nature of media is a lot of the time you don’t meet the people you work with.  You read their work, sometimes see their photos, but there is no face to face.  I miss that. I crave tactile. I love people’s expressions and hearing the voice to go with the words. This past Monday, Kennedy Moore and Emily Sproch, AANY’s Managing Editor, hosted a party for AANY’s staff writers. For the first time, I met Emily and several of the writers who share my love for the city.  We gathered at Toshi’s Living Room in the Flatiron Hotel at 9 West 26^th Street. We spent a portion of our time on the penthouse deck staring jaw dropped at the Empire State Building.

My circle with AANY is complete. I’m indebted to Kennedy and Emily and all the other writers for their warm friendship and support. This morning my AANY coffee mug reminded me that I’m a lucky boy on a talented and dedicated team doing its best to bring the city to everyone.

Here is a link to several photographs from the AANY party at Toshi’s Living Room.