Happy Birthday, Joannie Baloney!

Joan Heuer, the funniest person I've ever met, was born today in 1935 in East Harlem.

She moved to Yorkville with the Ryan family in 1944. Joannie was my godmother and my Mom's middle sister, her younger sister, Barbara is in pictures above along with one of Uncle Mommy below at Joannie's daughter, Christine's christening. Also a picture of chubbsy-ubsy Joannie at Coney Island in 1945.

Best Joannie story... my Uncle Lennie comes home from the Navy in 1945. Joannie, ten years old, lazes around the house while everyone else goes to work or goes to school. She's alone. She's playing hookey. Joannie takes Lennie dress
whites out and puts them on.

The pants drag by half a foot, so she rolls them up and pins them. Does the same thing with the arms, but doesn't need much there because Lenny is skinny and Joan ain't. Then she gets my grandfather's ancient fishing pole out, empties a tin of Carnation Evaporated Milk into the sink, takes the top off the can, and shes ready to go. Got the pole and the can for the worms. She gets Lennie's sailor hat, double steps the stoop and jumps onto the street. She's dressed this way not to sneak around , she wants people to see her so she turns up 86th Street off York Avenue and gallivants, pole over her shoulder like a continental soldier, whistling while she strolls.

She makes it up to Horn and Hardarts getting all the attention she expected, when walking right at her with his face down in a newspaper is my grandfather. She don't see him because she's making lots of eye contact with people to her left and right. Joannie collides with her father, they make quick eye contact, Joannie takes off running towards Lexington, my grandfather's in pursuit but his strengths are sitting and complaining. Joan runs around the corner and down to 222 East 85 St and hides out with Uncle Jimmy for a half hour. From the stoop, he gives her the signal the coast is clear and Joan comes out of the hall, kisses Jimmy on the cheek and runs over to the Central Park with a loaf of stale bread in case she don't find any worms. She got back in time to wait for my grandmother to get off the bus after work. In the house, she hid behind her mother in the kitchen while her father circled the two of them, yelling, threatening, pointing but ultimately running out of steam.


I miss you, Joan.

Rumble Seat

Thomas E. Pryor @1922 Yorkville

 

"I used to ride in my father's rumble seat," Dad said and sipped his beer. I sipped my coke. We sat on stools facing the grandfather clock in Loftus Tavern.

"What's a rumble seat?"

"It was a seat that hinged out of the back of the car, it felt like you were riding in mid air."

We mulled over our drinks and I thought, someday, I'm going to ride in a rumble seat.

One hot afternoon in the Old Timer's Tavern, I was laying on the floor watching the ceiling fan spin and I overheard my Uncle Mickey say to my father, "Bob, when we were young, I remember you driving us to Rockaway. Why don't you have a car?"

"Because I knew I was going to drink and I didn't want to hurt anybody."

The Pryor’s didn't have a car, and depended on the kindness of strangers and relatives. My Uncle George occasionally took us to beaches and lakes, my grandfather Rode took us to buy wool for my grandmother on Grand Street. I spent an inordinate amount of time in Checker cabs heading for Yankee Stadium and Madison Square Garden. That gave me access to the pull up seat on the floor of the cab. A seven ticket ride.

My mother's father, Pop Ryan, didn't have a car. In 1961 he bought his first one - a Falcon in mint condition. This made my grandmother very unhappy since my grandfather had a reputation for taking the laws of self-preservation lightly.
Pop put plastic over the seats and washed the car every Saturday in front of the house on York Avenue (He was the building's super). Nan wouldn't let Pop take me for the first few weeks because he had just gotten his first driver’s license by the skin of his teeth.

Week six, after relentless whining and begging, Nan finally let me go for a ride with Pop. I started off in the back seat but climbed into the front seat when we were out of sight from Nan. We turned left on 86th Street, and went straight over to 5th Avenue passing my favorites places: Loews Orpheum, Woolworth’s, the huge RKO, Horn and Hardart’s, Prexy's, Singer's, and many more.

We drove down Fifth Avenue pass the museums and mansions, I took it all in on my knees with my head out the window catching air in my mouth. At 72nd Street we turned into Central Park and veered right past Pilgrim Hill. Going north I waved at the boathouse doing 30 miles an hour.


At Cherry Hill, I said, "Pop, do 40!" He hit the accelerator, we did 40 uphill. Near the Engineer's Gate I saw a hawk swoop down and said, "Pop, 50!" The speedometer moved up. As we started down the hill pass the 102nd Street transverse, I yelled,"60, 60, 60!" Pop gave me a wicked smile and there we went. Pass the Harlem Meer at the north end of the park taking the curves at a breakneck speed with no one on the road but us. We rode up on the curb facing Cathedral Parkway and nearly hit a trash can. Pop backed down to 45, then 35, and we stayed there until we turned east at Columbus Circle heading back to Yorkville. Luckily, there was a spot on York Avenue in front of 1616. Pop parked, I jumped out, ran up the stoop, busted into the apartment screaming, "Nan, it was great! We did 60 miles an hour in Central Park!"

The next day, Pop sold the car to his son, my Uncle Lenny.

Pop & Nan Ryan Loftus in background

An Indian Summer Dog Strike

Long Beach Island September 2010 on an Indian summer day, a human goes for a bike ride and takes his dog along for a run. 

 

It's in the high 80s with dripping humidity. A mile into the event dog sees large puddle, plops down, refuses to move.

 

Human dismounts and begins negotiation. Dog's deaf to sweet talk. Rubs belly across the refreshing pond. A block ahead human sees a stand-off solution. Persuades dog relief is near. Dog rises and they walk towards the curb-pride man watering his lawn. Like a silent movie, no words are passed. Human nods at hose guy. He nods back and aims an arc of rushing cool liquid at the hairy dog. Dog doesn't move. Dog is pleased.

Spotless Cleaners

A ten-year-old simp walks serpentine into his father's trap.

Nearing the 1964 Christmas break during my fifth grade, thirteen inches of snow blanketed my street on a late Thursday evening. Losing a school day to the elements was a beautiful thing.

Friday morning, my friends and I mushed over to Central Park towing our sleds through the middle of the street. Milking the day to the last of the light, we rode every hill until our feet froze. Back from the sleigh ride, I plopped down outside my apartment on the hall stairs and began undressing. Mom refused to let me inside the apartment. She, slush and dog poop were mortal enemies. As I worked my top layer off, I heard my father's familiar step coming up the stairs.

He mumbled to himself, "Damn, I forgot the suit." Noticing me, his eye focused on my half untied snow boots. "Tommy here's the ticket, hurry to the cleaners. I need that suit for the wedding."
“OOOOOOOOOOhhhhhh,” left my mouth as I rose slowly.
"Go!" Dad ordered.

I death marched down the stairs. Dad behind me, "FASTER they're going to close in 5 minutes."

When I got there, Joe, the Spotless Cleaners manager was turning off the lights. Smiling with an edge he opened the door.
"Come in Tommy, be quick, I want to get out of here." 

Deed done. I earned a slow walk home. A slow meandering trek through every snow pile between the store and my building. Walking deliberately, I was Hannibal's elephant moving over the Alps, going knee deep with every step. I moved the suit to the back of my pea coat, resting the hanger's hook on the back of my collar. This left both hands free for better balance. My serpentine trip created swirling desire paths over each snow pile.

Calculated attention paid to each hill stretched my normal five-minute trip home to half an hour. With the satisfaction of a Sherpa's job well done, I danced a jig and rang the bell in the vestibule harking my return and an incredible urge to pee. Running up the stairs, Dad greeted me at the door, "Where the hell were you?"

I said nothing, smirked and turned my back, offering Dad his suit from its resting-place on the nape of my neck. I ran into the bathroom, worked off my jeans, long johns, and two pairs of underwear just in time.

Stepping back into the kitchen, Dad met me face to face at the bathroom door holding up the suit.
"Nice jacket. Where are my pants?"
"Huh", I mumbled.
"My pants, where are my pants?"

A clothes hanger never had as thorough an examination as the one I put that hanger through. The pants were not on it, in it; on top it, under it. There were no pants. The jacket, the jacket was good. Two sleeves, pressed cleaned, all that. But the pants, the pants made no appearance despite multiple prayers under my breath. I was the baffled volunteer from the audience looking for the rabbit in the hat and finding it unbelievable it was gone.

Dad put his slacks on and said, "Lets' go."

Down to Hades we descended, third floor, second floor, first floor, no pants. Hallway, no pants. Down the building's stoop, no pants.

Dad, "So which way did you walk exactly?"

This is where it got tricky. I set a new record for a dramatic pause. My mouth agape, he asked again, "Exactly - where - did - you - walk?

Words failed me. I didn't even try. I owned too many fruitless experiences responding to similar requests from my father. Trying to answer unanswerable questions to even begin thinking about opening my mouth. Left with nothing to say I showed him my exact path. Every nuance. Every turn. Every double step. At one point, I did the cha-cha one up, two back, one up. I was possessed. I mirrored my entire walk never measuring how pissed off my path of greatest resistance home was making him. When Dad and I had these special moments an eerie stillness set in. No yelling, no accusations. Only the 'look' with sharp orders.

"Stop."
"Go left."
"Here?"
"Are you sure you weren’t under any cars?"

Hill after hill we climbed towards the avenue, policing the grounds. Despite the fact, Dad's pants were charcoal and the streets contained nothing but white snow, he insisted we walk very slowly. You couldn’t miss ‘em. The cleaners were closed.

Walking back to our building, same story. Every hill walked serpentine with the look and the short barked orders. After one last look under the car directly in front of the house, we marched the stoop and began our ascent to Hades, second floor, third floor, fourth floor, into the apartment. Passing through the door, Dad gave Mom the look and then me one more look for good luck. He went directly over to his jacket on the hanger with the plastic still on it. Dad held it up – then draped it over his arm. Together they resembled Michelangelo's Pieta. I think he was saying goodbye. It might have been my imagination, but I thought I saw him talk to the jacket.

"We have closed many bars together, old friend." Dad sighed, “I will miss the way the secretary at Pepsi looked at you, on me, when we did our sales calls."

Dad said no more about the suit.

Two weeks later, I'm playing in front of my house and Dad comes walking up the street. Getting closer, I see he has on a charcoal jacket. Oh God, I'm thinking, he bought the same suit again. Not good.

"Hi Dad, is that the suit. It looks great. Did you buy it again?"

"Nope, same suit." Dad said with a smile, "Every suit comes with two pairs of pants."

####

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 & Noble.

The book has 136 Amazon five star reviews out of 136 total reviews posted.  My old world echoes TV's "The Wonder Years" ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs. 

Losers Lounge George Harrison Tribute

David Terhune

The Loser’s Lounge presents the music of George Harrison. 

They are back!!! Glorious live music!!!

Five shows at Joe's Pub, so far, I attended two and they were fantastic.

Below, a public Losers Lounge photo album ~ shots from Wednesday & Thursday shows.

Losers George Harrison photo album

Losers Lounge @ Joes Pub

Julia Joseph

Mike McGinnis

Eddie Skuller

Joe McGinty

Gideon Forbes

Leslie Goshko

David Driver

 

Ryan's Daughter Or Bust!

Rory says, "tomorrow night, my brother,

Thomas Pryor's Yorkville Stoops to Nuts will rock!

Neighborhood storytelling & tunes @ Ryans Daughter 350 East 85 Street.

Friday, Nov 5 @ 7pm
guests: Jeff Rose, Joe Dettmore, Fred Caruso, Eric Vetter & Courtney Hill.
Admission: $10, proof of vaccination & I.D.

The Love Seat (A Ghost Story)

Thomas Pryor's Yorkville Stoops to Nuts
Next Friday, Nov 5 @ 7pm
Ryans Daughter
350 E. 85 St.
Neighborhood Storytelling & Song with special guests:
Jeff Rose, Joe Dettmore, Fred Caruso, Eric Vetter & Courtney Hills

Admission: $10

My ghost story published in Mr. Beller's Neighborhood.

As a boy in the early 1960s, I’d go up my grandparents’ second floor apartment on York Avenue several times a week. Their hallway was lit by one low watt exposed bulb. The dark hall frightened me. Sometimes my fear was compounded when I’d hear fuzzy radio sounds coming from the usually locked basement. I assumed it was a foreign station, maybe German based on the marching music, waltzes and the announcer’s accent. I told my grandmother.

“You’re hearing things,” she said
“What’s down the basement? I asked.
“Nothing and it’s none of your business!”

I chose to believe her because I had no courage or interest in going down to the cellar to investigate. I began taking the single flight of stairs in four long jumps to get into the apartment as fast as I could. I never looked back.



Over the years, the radio echoes from the cellar were there on and off. In 1964, Pop Rode, the man I knew as my grandfather died (Pop was my grandmother’s second husband), and I began to stay over my grandmother’s on the weekend. The noisy avenue was right outside our front window. I’m a light sleeper. Awake, over my head I began to notice pacing in the apartment above. My ears perked up like Nipper the RCA dog. Dread sharpens my hearing. Through the airshaft next to my bed, I heard a man talking to himself. Based on my movie knowledge he sounded German. He spoke rapidly with quick pauses as if he was reading a list of pressing things to do. I didn’t move a muscle. The old lady above us spoke in a whisper, lived alone, and walked with a cane. It was a waste of time to check in with my no-nonsense grandmother.

“You’re hearing things.” She’d say. Eventually I’d fall back to sleep or it’d get light outside and chase my terror away.

In 1977, my parents bought a house after a lifetime of apartment living and had extra space to place new things. The day they moved in, I noticed Dad carrying a wide chair.

“Dad, what’s that?”
“It’s a love seat.”
“Where did you get it?”
“From your grandmother.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“It was stored in her cellar.”
“Huh?”
“It belonged to someone else who never retrieved it.”

Dad told me a story. When his father contracted late stage tuberculosis in the mid 1930s, Mr. Volk, the German man upstairs cared for Dad’s family, bringing them food and fetching a doctor when one of them was sick. After my Dad’s father died in February 1941, Mr. Volk gave my grandmother a couple of dollars anytime she was short. As a thankful gesture, my grandmother invited Mr. Volk in for coffee at the kitchen table. While Dad spoke, I pictured this with ease because I saw my grandmother do the same thing hundreds of times in my lifetime. She was strict but kind.

Mid 1942, Mr. Volk knocked on my grandmother’s door. With his hat clutched in his hands, he greeted her urgently, “Mrs. Pryor, how are you? You work hard. I have something to ask, it is difficult. You know I’ve been good to your family. When you’re husband was ill and after he passed. I care for you and your sons like they’re my own. Immigration came yesterday and said I’m being deported in two weeks. There are problems with my papers. I have one chance to stay; I must be married and do it quickly. I ask you because I trust you to trust me that this is purely so I can stay. I’m desperate!”

My grandmother paused, took a deep breath and politely turned Mr. Volk down. He didn’t grow angry; he thanked my grandmother for her kindnesses and asked her a favor.

“Would you take care of my love seat until I return after the war? It belonged to my parents.”

She agreed to care for it and felt obligated to store it safely until Mr. Volk’s return. The love seat sat in the cellar of 1582 York Avenue from 1942 until 1977. It’s in my living room today. I hear no voices. Mr. Volk is at peace.

City Boy's Back @ Ryan's Daughter next Friday. Nov 5!

 

City Boy's Back @ Ryan's Daughter Next Friday, Nov 5th @ 7pm

Thomas Pryor's Yorkville Stoops to Nuts
"City Boy"
18 months at sea, we are back! LIVE!
@ Ryans Daughter
Fri., November 5th @ 7pm
Neighborhood Storytelling & Song
@ 350 E. 85th St.
our talented guests:
Joe Dettmore, Fred Caruso, Jeff Rose, Eric Vetter & Courtney Harrison.
Admission: $10 bucks

Losers Lounge @ Talking Heads @ The New City Winery.

2021.9.11. Losers Lounge @ Talking Heads @ the new City Winery on the Hudson. The early show was excellent. A pleasure to see my favorite live music gang again. Here is a link to a full album of show photos. A few shots are below. Their next show is a tribute to George Harrison in December at Joe's Pub.

Happy Birthday, Devil Dog Charlie!

Guess who's 6 today? 

Devil Dog Charlie!!!

Happy birthday, Kid.
love,
Tonte, Malibu Bob, Alien Baby, Baby,
Teddy & Tommy

Tonte, Malibu Bob, Alien Baby, 
Baby, Teddy & Tommy