Hello, I’ve been away from AANY for a awhile. My memoir, “I Hate the Dallas Cowboys tales of a scrappy New York boyhood” was released by YBK Publishers last month and I’ve been doing my best to get the word out. The book covers my first 18 years in the working class neighborhood of Yorkville… Read more »
On October 4, 1965, the feast day of Saint Francis of Assisi, Saint Stephen of Hungary’s student body marched up to Third Avenue to wave to Pope Paul VI driving by on his way to Yankee Stadium in his limousine. This was important to me on a few levels: We were getting out of sixth… Read more »
Dad had a habit for coming back into the apartment after he left late for work. Most weekdays, Rory and I watched the act as we sat at the kitchen table late for school eating Kellogg’s corn flakes or burnt toast (not Mom’s fault. Toaster was on the fritz, everything came out dark). Like Dad,… Read more »
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… Read more »
Why at 60 do I remember my half birthday is tomorrow? I never forget. The reason is Uncle Norman. Mom had this thing with shoe stores. She always complained her feet hurt. We’d go in and out of Yorkville’s many shoe stores looking for the perfect comfortable shoe that she never found. Rory and I… Read more »
“Wonder Bread, again.” Dad threw his hands up. “Will you shut up!” Mom never turned from the stove. “You never bring food home I enjoy.” “You’re a liar. We eat friggin’ spaghetti six nights a week. If you came home seven nights a week, we’d never eat anything else.” Rory and I nodded our heads… Read more »
Preparations for a perfect summer day required a delicate dance Yesterday, I strolled through Central Park. Resting on a bench in front of the Delacorte Theater, I turned my eyes to the center of the Great Lawn. I saw myself lying face up on the grass at 9 years old, throwing a ball up… Read more »
This has been the coolest New York City summer in my memory. One of the hottest summers I remember is 1961. Each scorcher my brother and I tortured our parents for relief from the heat. Deep into August that year, in the middle of Central Park they gave up. Here’s the story as it appeared… Read more »
The ocean water is clean, seventy-four degrees and the surf, deceptively rough. The dog dug a hole, being a good guest; I joined Ricki in the hole. We stayed there covered with sand for an hour humming tunes, until a nosey pelican teased Ricki. We both rushed the bird. Exhausted from the two-block run, we… Read more »
I wish I had a dollar for each time my father asked me, “What were you thinking?” I spent more time in silence after this question than the collective moments of quiet I grudgingly accumulated in church. Answering your father’s “What were you thinking?” inquiry, well, you may as well throw a live grenade straight… Read more »
