And When You Wake Up, It's A New Morning

Tommy & Rory on subway platform going to Freedomland @ 1962

Rory loved adventures. He joined Freddy Muller and me on one in 1966. Not sure who first discovered it, but starting at 70th Street near the FDR drive down by the East River, you could enter the New York Hospital complex down a flight of stairs into a sub-basement that had a series of walking tunnels that led through many areas of the hospital. The hair on the back of our necks stood up when we passed through the pathology area where every conceivable human body part was floating in liquid in huge glass jars. At first we went down the eerie tunnels because we could, but eventually found they led to the sub-basement of Olin Hall at 69th Street and York Avenue where we found a regulation size wood floor basketball court. This made Freddy and I very happy and Rory indifferent. Rory liked getting spooked and had no interest in sports.

Next time Freddy and I brought a basketball and Rory wandered around until it was time to leave or we got chased by doctors playing a pick-up game. Eventually, the whole neighborhood found out the secret of the buried court. That blew it for everyone, security started keeping an eye out for us. Looking back, this was the best time of our lives together.


Rory Pryor @ 21 years old



Rory's Mom & Baby Ellie for Uncle Mommy's Bday


Rory was born 69 years ago today, and died at 42. He was a fine artist but left little of his art behind because he gave it away to his friends. The three pieces shown here are Rory's. Happy Birthday, Brother.

Here's lyrics from one of Rory's favorite songs, "Baker Street," by Jerry Rafferty.

And when you wake up, it's a new morning
The sun is shining, it's a new morning
You're going, You're going home.

Harold and Maude plant a tree for Rory
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3EEYHIZGGu0

My passion for New York City and it's neighborhoods developed a long time ago, when Dad and Mom dragged us all over town walking, biking, subways, boats and buses.


We had no car so we never got anywhere quickly. This left a lot of time to think about what we were seeing and where we were going, and view things more slowly than if you flew by in a Buick. As a kid you tend to pick something visual to focus on to avoid boredom and my brother, Rory, and I had lots of targets.


Add Dad's obsessive photo taking, and I ended up with a broad pictorial record of most of our trips around the city in the 1960s. In most of these photographs, Rory is front and center, the lead player in the scene.

Looking at these photos, Rory's engaged photogenic face always makes me think we had a better time than we really did. I never mind this delusion.


Rory Pryor at lake 1962




Rory at Central Park, "nice hat!"



Rory Full Moon Collage with bird.


Rory's Chalk Orchestra


Rory with his girls at Queen of Angels 8th grade grad in Sunnyside @1970





Rory sipping milk in 1st grade St. Stephen's Nov 1962

My Turkey Got a B Minus

It was Wednesday afternoon, the day before Thanksgiving 1961 in St. Stephen of Hungary’s second grade.

“Children, the Pilgrims had a bountiful crop their first year in the American colony. They arranged a peace treaty with the Indians. They celebrated together, and feasted on geese, deer, corn, and oysters.”

“Yuck,” said a few kids at the mention of oysters.

Sister Lorraine threw a look around the room then said, “… and President Lincoln made Thanksgiving an official holiday in 1863.”

She cleared her throat, “Let’s move on. Everyone take out the hats, bonnets and headdresses we’ve been working on. Pilgrims, go over to the windows… Indians, stay on the closet side. Think about your lines, everybody.”

While the kids got into place, I put on my Indian headdress and snuck over to the teacher’s desk. It was the only one with a cartridge pen. Second graders worked in pencil. Sister Lorraine, distracted by the two herds moving to her left and right, missed my pre-show make-up application. I had no mirror to work with so I figured out two spots and wiped an inky finger across each cheek twice. Sister Lorraine gave us a short history lesson while she passed back our art assignments. My turkey got a B minus. I ran out of brown crayon and finished his stomach off with green and red. Eventually she saw me upfront.

“Thomas, what are you doing?”

“Huh?”
“What are you doing?” Sister Lorraine repeated.
“Putting on stripes.” I said, standing in front of her desk working the ink off my fingers onto a piece of loose leaf.
“Why, God Almighty are you putting on stripes?”
“I’m an Indian. If I’m an Indian, I’ll need war paint. It’ll look good, promise.”
“Do you ever listen to me?”
“Yes, Sister.”
“Didn’t I just say the Pilgrims and Natives declared a peace treaty?”
“Was she nuts?” I thought.
“You’d trust an Injun? I watch a lot of movies. Believe me; Sister, peace treaties are broken all the time.”
“This will be a calm re-enactment of a peaceful gathering. Thomas, the war paint is not necessary.”
“There might be trouble.” I said.
“You have one minute, mister. One minute, that’s it. Go to the bathroom and wash the ink off your hands and face. And don’t touch your shirt again. Your mother is going to kill you.”

Disgusted, I ran off.
“Don’t run,” she said.
“Make up your mind,” I mumbled.

I learned a valuable lesson that day. Cartridge pen ink doesn’t wash off well with cheap school soap. The nun sent two boys to get me. My head was buried in the sink.

“Sister told us, ‘Get him back in here if you have to drag him by his feet,’”  Joey Skrapits said to the back of my head. “She’s not happy. What’s up?” Leslie Henits added. I turned around and showed them. I held my hands out. They were beginning to look white; my face, however, had an even blue tan. It seemed the washing, rather than taking the ink off, just moved it around.

“I can’t get it off,” I said.
“Holy crap, forget your face, look at your shirt. Joey said. It’s a gunshot wound.”
I looked down and moaned.
“You’re going to need Lava Soap to get that off. Come on, dry up and let’s go.” Leslie said. 

As I crept through the classroom door, the entire class laughed their heads off. I tried to bury myself in the middle of the Indian tribe. I thought of opening one of the coat closets and spending a little time in there. My first stage appearance as Injun Joe was ruined. The only good part was: Sister Lorraine was laughing too. I was more afraid about her being angry than me being embarrassed. Once I saw her laughing, I calmed down. I almost forgot that my mother was going to murder me.

We did our little Pilgrim and Indian “everyone be thankful” speeches, and then we started singing, “Over the river and through the woods, to grandmother’s house we go…” I stared at the clock over the alphabet cards lining the top of the blackboard. The clock said, One minute to three.

Pop! My Mom’s incredibly angry face flashed over the clock’s face.

When I got home, Mom pounced. “What the hell did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“What happened to your shirt?”

Then she saw my face and her voice went up an octave. 

“What the hell did you do to your face!”
“Two sixth graders started a fight in the schoolyard at lunchtime. I was leaning against a car right next to them. One of them had a box of pen cartridges in his shirt pocket. They were wrestling, two of the cartridges were crushed - and the ink flew all over. Luckily, I wasn’t hurt, but the ink got me in a few places.”
“A few places?” Mom said.
“Are you sure you weren’t refereeing the fight?
“No, Mom…no, no, no, I was doing nothing. Just standing there.”
“Where? In the ink factory when it exploded?”
“Take the shirt off and throw it away. Then come over here by the sink.”
Mom knew second graders weren’t allowed near ink.
“Thank you, God,” I whispered.

At the sink, Mom put Boraxo scrubbing powder on a washcloth and began making little circles on my face.

“Ouch” I said pulling away. “My face is being ground with sand.”
“Well, what else can we use to get this ink off? Stop fidgeting and stay still. If you let me work, it’ll be over one, two, three.”
“Big fat liar,” I thought.

Once clean, my face was a deeply embarrassed rosy red.

My brother, Rory, mocked me, “ha, ha!”

I gave him a knuckle when Mom wasn’t looking – a slight tap. He had a fever, so I held back a bit. I felt bad for him. On the verge of getting sick, there was no way Mom was letting him go with Dad and me to the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade in the morning.

Part two of three tomorrow…

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 135 Amazon five star reviews out of 135 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.

Pot Belly Rory Wins Contest!

Rory wins race!

At the lake in summer of 61, Rory snuck many cans of Hoffman soda out of the giant Coca Cola cooler, and bet me he could drink more soda than me in fifteen minutes. Rory won.

Seeing my brother's belly, Uncle Mickey shouted, "let's use Rory as a float." Mom swung, Mickey ducked safely and all Mom did was muss up his carefully groomed hair. His comb flew out like a switch blade in a knife fight.

Uncle Mommy

Wise Guy Mickey

"City Boy" my solo show,
This Saturday, November 19 @7pm
@ Ryan's Daughter.
Come on down to 350 E. 85th Street.
FREE SHOW

Thomas Pryor's "City Boy" is a love letter to street life in the 1960s working class Manhattan neighborhood, Yorkville. Devil Dogs were a nickel, Spaldeens flew, and the capture game, Ringalario, let boys put their arms around girls for the first time. Nuns slugged you for humming baseball’s beer jingles in class. And, like other fathers, Tommy’s took him to saloons, all day, and no one thought it was strange. In this funny and bittersweet portrait of family and life, Pryor echoes TV’s “The Wonder Years” - just add in taverns, subways and Checker cabs.

Thomas Pryor's work has appeared in The New York Times, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and other periodicals. His memoir, “I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood,” was published in 2014 (YBK). His short stories are found in Thomas Beller's, "Lost and Found: Stories from New York," Three Rooms Press, “Have A NYC 2,” and Larry Canale's, "Mickey Mantle - Memories and Memorabilia." Pryor’s blog: "Yorkville: Stoops to Nuts," was chosen by The New York Times for their Blog Roll in 2008. Thomas appeared on PBS's "Baseball: A New York Love Story," NBC’s "New York Nonstop,” “This American Life,” and TV’s “Impractical Jokers.” His newspaper column ran in Our Town and The West Side Spirit and his weekly radio show was featured on the Centanni Broadcasting Network. For five years, Thomas curated a monthly storytelling show, “City Stories: Stoops to Nuts,” at the Cornelia Street Café that Time Out Magazine, The New York Daily News and CBS News praised. His photography portfolio, "River to River - New York Scenes From a Bicycle," was published in 2012 (YBK). Cornelia Street Cafe hosted an exhibition of his photography. NBC TV, New York Press/Our Town Downtown and NY 1 TV highly recommended the exhibit and his portfolio. His passion is preserving the history of Yorkville and the Upper East Side through storytelling, writing and photography. His multi-media show about the neighborhood, “City Boy” in preview tonight. You can view and purchase his New York City prints online at Thomas R. Pryor Photography.

Rory's Smile

My passion for New York City and it's neighborhoods developed a long time ago when Dad and Mom dragged us all over town walking, biking, subways, cabs, boats and buses. We had no car so we never got anywhere quickly. This left a lot of time to think about what we were seeing and where we were going, and view things more slowly than if you flew by in a Buick. As a kid you tend to pick something visual to focus on to avoid boredom and my brother, Rory, and I had lots of targets. Add Dad's obsessive photo taking, and I ended up with a broad pictorial record of most of our trips around the city in the 1950s and 1960s. In most of these photographs, Rory is front and center, the lead player in the scene. My powerful memories revive the action.

Looking at these pictures, Rory's engaged photogenic face always makes me think we had a better time than we really did. I never mind this delusion.

Rory passed away eighteen years ago today. He was 42. Rory was a terrific artist. He sketched, sculpted and painted. When Rory wasn't doing his art, he struggled. Each day was hard for him. I wish it was otherwise, and I miss him. My photos give me comfort, but it'd be more fun doing it with Rory. Making art together. I wish he was here.

If you like my work check out my memoir, "I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood." Available at Logos Book Store.

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.

Each Day Was Hard

My passion for New York City and it's neighborhoods developed a long time ago, when Dad and Mom dragged us all over town walking, biking, subways, boats and buses.

We had no car so we never got anywhere quickly. This left a lot of time to think about what we were seeing and where we were going, and view things more slowly than if you flew by in a Buick. As a kid you tend to pick something visual to focus on to avoid boredom and my brother, Rory, and I had lots of targets.

Add Dad's obsessive photo taking, and I ended up with a broad pictorial record of most of our trips around the city in the 1950s and 1960s. In most of these photographs, Rory is front and center, the lead player in the scene.  Looking at these photos, Rory's engaged photogenic face always makes me think we had a better time than we really did. I never mind this delusion.

Rory passed away seventeen years ago today. He was 42. Rory was a terrific artist. He sketched, sculpted and painted. When Rory wasn't doing his art he struggled. For him, each day was hard. I wish it was otherwise. I miss him. My old and new photos give me comfort, but it'd be more fun doing it with my brother.

four of us

Rory Is Duckie Doddle

In the early 1960s, for an unbeknownst reason, the Nuns at St. Stephen of Hungary's school and certain mothers were compelled to put on a talent show every year, despite the fact, there was no talent in the student body, that is, if you discounted the Reinwald Brothers' dueling accordions act. Nobody wanted to follow John and Joe. They were good.

In my second grade, Mrs. Ottes, the show's 1962 producer and our nun, Sister Lorraine, took advantage of our recent First Communion by having the boys and girls perform a waltz in our blue suits and white communion dresses. Did you ever see me dance? I begged my parents to stay home. Faked sick that day, triggering a kick in the ass from my mother.

The following year, 1963, Rory's first grade class did something catchy. His teacher, Sister Beatrice, was pretty good with the sewing machine and made six outfits for six kids. They were duckies. The rest of the class stood behind them and sang along to the tune, while Rory and the five others shook their bloomer bottoms with the feather tails at the audience. Rory was a champion ham and stole the show. I never got the silly song out of my head.

Here's a verse from Rory's song "Little Duckie Doddle":

Little Duckie Doddle,
Liked to waddle,
With a Latin Beat.
All the duckies with him,
Got the rhythm,
when he moved his feet.

Today, is Rory's birthday ~ he would have been 59. Happy Birthday, Duckie Doddle!

If you like my work check out my memoir, "I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."Available at Logos Book Store or online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

The book has 107 Amazon five star reviews out of 107 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. You can also purchase my photography portfolio, "River to River - New York Scenes From a Bicycle" on Amazon.

Here are a few photos from various St. Stephen talent shows in the 1960s.

"Getting to Know You, Getting to Know All About You"

Tomorrow is my parents wedding anniversary or as I refer to it the anniversary of the opening volley at Fort Sumter. My parents battled over anything.  The following 1950s’ New York story depicts one of their classic brawls. It’s an excerpt from my new book, “I Hate the Dallas Cowboys: tales of a scrappy New York boyhood.”

The apartment in Woodside overlooked the No. 7 El and the Long Island Rail Road. The two train lines crisscrossed, and one train rattled over another train all day long.  It was March 1954, a year after Mom’s ketchup-smeared death on the kitchen floor.

“I need food!” Patty pleaded, rubbing her big belly in the kitchen.

“There’s plenty of food,” Bob answered, playing with the bunny ears on top of the living room TV.

“YOU’RE A LIAR!” Patty opened the refrigerator and eyed the contents for the fifth time in five minutes.

“There’s no food-food, only junk. I want bread, I want bacon, I want Hellman’s mayonnaise!”

Disregarding her request, Bob shook ice into the spaghetti pot that was chilling his six bottles of Rheingold. Wiping his hands on a dish towel, he definitely heard Patty’s next statement: “Get off your bony ass and get me food!”

Bob ignored this, too. It was “Friday Night at the Fights” and he’d just settled in – first round, first beer. Desiring perfect comfort, Bob moved a hassock over to put his feet up. While doing this, he missed the left hook that sent one of the boxers to the canvas with a thud. Unfortunately, Bob’s man was down. So was Bob, $20. After the stiff was counted out, the telecast went to a commercial. Disappointed, but now available for chores, Bob wrapped his arm around his extremely pregnant wife’s head.

She pushed him away. “Get off. You know I hate anyone touching my head.”

Bob bent over, kissed Patty’s cheek and asked her softly, “What do you need, Hon?”

Patty reeled off five items, and aimed her lips up to kiss Bob on the mouth.

Back from the store, Bob put his beers in the fridge, washed the pot and put water on for spaghetti. Grabbing a black frying pan, he made two bacon sandwiches with extra mayo on Silvercup bread. After serving Patty both sandwiches, he took a beer and joined her at the kitchen table.

“So, we’re decided on baby names, right?” Bob said. “Marc Anthony if he’s a boy, and Alison Leigh if she’s a girl.”

Bob smiled. Patty did not.

“You’re so full of shit. The girl’s name is fine. When you name the boy Marc Anthony, be sure you walk carefully over my dead body. Because that’s the only way that stupid guinea name will ever appear on my son’s birth certificate.”

Bob’s expression fell.

“Oh, cut the crap and get that stupid puss off your face.”

“So what name do you want?”

“Rory,” she said.

 “Huh?”

“R-O-R-Y, Rory.”

“Like Calhoun, the movie cowboy?”

“Yes, it’s an old Gaelic name meaning Red King.”

“Red? Our hair is black. It’s a girly name – you’re guaranteeing he’ll get the shit kicked out of him.”

It grew quiet. The only sound in the room was Patty’s low hum. She loved bacon.

Fracturing the silence, Bob said, “It’ll be Rory when Brooklyn wins the World Series.”

“I’ll alert the press.”

Bob said, “Give me an alternative.”

“Nope,” Patty said in between bites.

“Then I’ll give you one: Thomas.”

“That’s inspired.” Patty pointed her sandwich at Bob. “I thought we agreed, no fathers’ names?”

“It’s my brother’s name, too.”

“You mean we’re going to name him after Stone Face?”

“That’s my compromise. You’ll get to name the next baby.”

Patty swallowed a large bite of mayo, with a little bit of bacon and bread attached to it. She chewed slowly, wiped her mouth, and said, “OK.”

On March 20th, Patty gave birth to an eight-pound boy. When the nurse let Bob into the recovery room and he saw Patty cradling the baby, he started to cry. 

“Oh stop your blubbering and give me a kiss.”

“How do you feel?”

“Not too swift,” Patty said, wiping sweat from her brow.

Bob, lightly rubbing the baby’s dark hair, asked, “How’s Tommy?”

“Doctor said he’s fine. Isn’t he beautiful?”

Bob picked up the wrinkled, red-faced boy. He thought the baby’s head looked like a grapefruit. A gorgeous grapefruit. Bob held the baby for a long time, then returned him to Patty.

“I have to fill out the birth certificate. I was thinking about Robert as a middle name,” Bob said.

“No,” she answered.

“Why not?”

“You picked the first name. I pick the middle name.”

“No, no, no, you get to name the next baby.”

            “No, I get to name the next baby’s first name, and you get to name the next baby’s second name.”

“But…” Bob said, uselessly.

“No buts.” Patty closed the discussion. “Tommy’s middle name is Rory.”

That night, Bob temporarily parked his anger over Mom’s choice of middle name, and hailed a cab to his old Manhattan neighborhood. He celebrated his first son by dancing on the bar in Loftus Tavern on 85th Street and York Avenue. A month later, the boy was christened, Thomas Rory. When the priest repeated the boy’s second name, Bob rolled his eyes.

A year and a half later, Thanksgiving 1955, Bob and Patty told their families they were expecting again. Throughout the pregnancy, Patty kept Bob in the dark about names. He begged and whined for hints. Late in Patty’s term, Bob tried to bribe her by hiding candy bars around the apartment, promising to reveal locations only if she told him the name. Patty never cracked.

On June 20th, Patty gave birth to a perfect boy. Bob dropped Tommy off with Bob’s mother and went directly to the hospital. The room was dimly lit; the baby was sleeping in Patty’s arms. She gave Bob a weak wave. He went over to kiss mother and son. Patty gently held Bob’s arm, keeping him close. She tilted her head, signaling him to lean in so she could whisper something. Bob pressed his ear to Patty’s dry lips.

“Rory, his name is Rory,” she said.

Bob backed away. “That’s nuts – we’ve already got a Rory.”

“Shush! Middle names don’t count. You promised.”

Bob knew he’d been had. In desperation, he blurted, “His middle name is Robert.”

“Who cares?” she said.

Patty settled back into bed, gave Bob a sly smile and squeezed her Rory tight.

“I Hate the Dallas Cowboys – tales of a scrappy New York boyhood.” The book release party is Tuesday, October 14th @ Cornelia Street Cafe @ 5:30pm – 8pm . My special guests: Leslie Goshko & Adam Wade. I’ll also read and sign at Barnes & Noble, 150 E. 86 St on Friday, October 17th@ 7pm in the Yorkville neighborhood on the Upper East Side. You can pre-order the book online at Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

Early praise for the book:

“Thomas R. Pryor has written a sweet, funny, loving memoir of growing up old-school in a colorful New York neighborhood. A story of sports, family, and boyhood, you’ll be able to all but taste, smell, and feel this vanished world.”

Kevin Baker, author of the novels “Dreamland,” Paradise Alley,” and “Strivers Row,” as well as other works of fiction and nonfiction


“Tommy Pryor’s New York City boyhood was nothing like mine, a few miles and a borough away, and yet in its heart, tenderness, and tough teachable moments around Dad and ball, it was the mid-century coming of age of all of us. A rousing read.”

Robert Lipsyte, former city and sports columnist, The New York Times

“Pryor could take a felt hat and make it funny.”

Barbara Turner-Vesselago, author of “Writing Without A Parachute: The Art of Freefall”


“Pryor burrows into the terrain of his childhood with a longing and obsessiveness so powerful it feels like you are reading a memoir about his first great love.”

Thomas Beller, author of “J.D. Salinger: The Escape Artist”

Rory's Face Makes Me Happy

My passion for New York City and it's neighborhoods developed a long time ago when Dad and Mom dragged us all over town walking, biking, subways, cabs, boats and buses. We had no car so we never got anywhere quickly. This left a lot of time to think about what we were seeing and where we were going, and view things more slowly than if you flew by in a Buick. As a kid you tend to pick something visual to focus on to avoid boredom and my brother, Rory, and I had lots of targets.

Add Dad's obsessive photo taking, and I ended up with a broad pictorial record of most of our trips around the city in the 1950s and 1960s. In most of these photographs, Rory is front and center, the lead player in the scene. My powerful memories revive the action.

Looking at these pictures, Rory's engaged photogenic face always makes me think we had a better time than we really did. I never mind this delusion.

Rory passed away sixteen years ago today. He was 42. Rory was a terrific artist. He sketched, sculpted and painted. When Rory wasn't doing his art, he struggled. Each day was hard for him. I wish it was otherwise, and I miss him. My photos give me comfort, but it'd be more fun doing it with Rory. Making art together. I wish he were here.

Mom & Baby Elephant by Rory Pryor

Rory, 18 years old