The Luna Park Gazette

I got an e-mail the other day that I think really captured the true spirit of the holidays. " The best present on Christmas ," it said, " is penis enlargement ." I couldn't put it better myself. It kind of gives a whole new meaning to the expression "stocking stuffer" doesn't it? The e-mail came from a "Dr. Brandon Watson," who I suspect may not be a real person. I don't think he had anything to do with Sherlock Holmes' sidekick--"Watson, the game's afoot!" (More like a foot-and-a-half, old boy.... rim shot ). And I don't think this Dr. Watson is related to the guy who helped come up with the DNA model, along with Crick, but it does sound like the same field of study. I guess this really is the gift that keeps on giving. Maybe if one of the Christmas spirits had done this for old Ebeneezer Scrooge he wouldn't have been such a putz. There's a Tiny Tim joke here, but I refuse to go that low--which makes me...

I feel like I should be passing out cigars. A few weeks ago, I became the proud father of...myself. Allow to me explain. I'll try to make sense, but I make no guarantees. I have to take an airplane flight in the near future and I'm not handling it very well. I'm what you might call a fearful flier, a first-class white-knuckle loon who has left his hand prints in the cushions of a squadron of passenger jets over the years. The very thought of getting on to a plane makes my stomach turn upside down and inside out--all at the same time. The logical side of my brain tells me all about the statistics of car crashes versus airline crashes but my neurotic side won't answer the door. I wanted to do something positive, try and rid myself of this irrational fear that has plagued me since I took my first flight out to San Francisco nearly 30 years ago. So I did some research. I thought about behavioral therapy with a flight simulator. I've heard that there's some kind of f...

When I was in Catholic school, the nuns used to tell us about Limbo, where those souls still marked by original sin would go until Judgment Day. The list included babies who had died before being baptized and all those people who had passed on before the Resurrection. I always pictured it as a strange, gray world where people just waited and waited. I got my own taste of limbo today when I got stuck on the elevator. I had come in early because my colleague is off for the next two days and I have to do his job as well as my own. I had some feature stories to do as well and I wanted to go to the gym at lunch time. So naturally this was a perfect time for the elevator to crap out on me. Notice that I said "on me," as I take these kinds of things very personally. My building is being renovated and looks like 10 cents worth of God help us. I have to go around the corner to get in through the Pine Street entrance and there are temporary walls inside that have shrunk the lobby down ...

I don't know what to do with my evenings anymore. Well, that's not really true. I've got a steamer trunk full of half-finished scripts, short stories, oh, and yeah, that novel of mine that I started before the Internet came into our lives. Still, I feel a gap in my life. I did my 30-minute solo performance last night and I managed somehow to survive. This was the culmination of the Solo Performer 2 class that I took at the People's Improv Theater, better known as the Pit. Even though I signed up for the class, I was telling myself that there was no way in hell I could stand up before an audience-- by myself --and flap my gums for half-a-freaking hour. And yet...I did. And it went pretty damn well, if I do say so myself. I was the second feature of the night and while my colleague, Mary, did her act, I sat backstage in an old barber chair like Albert Anastasia waiting to get whacked at the Park Sheraton Hotel. My solo show is called "Breathe With Me," somethin...

Many years ago my mother used to sell life insurance at the old Lincoln Savings Bank in Bay Ridge. The bank had order forms where people could leave their phone numbers so a salesperson--like my mother--could call them at a later time. One day she told us how she picked up a card, dialed the number and asked to speak to Chester Drawers. But this was a number for a furniture store and that's when my mom looked at the calendar, saw it was April 1, and realized she had been punked. And then she and the woman at the end of the line burst out laughing. I thought about this story the other day after I looked through a bureau drawer in my parents' bedroom. I'll sleeping in that room now, in their bed, and I decided to clean out the bottom drawer to make room for some of my stuff. But some drawers should stayed closed. When I pulled it open, I saw that it was brimming with all my mother's summer blouses. I recognized all of them, I remember her wearing them, back when it was wa...