The Luna Park Gazette

I had a dream about wild horses one night, but it wasn't a nightmare. It started with me opening a door in a dark room and being amazed to find that I was at my aunt’s farmhouse in the Berkshires. Apparently I thought I was still in New York. The sky was shockingly blue and the grass was so incredibly green, as if the colors had been computer-enhanced. Any tension I may have been feeling immediately began to fade. I looked to my left and I saw several wild horses sliding down a hill on their backs. At first I thought they were in some kind of trouble, but then I realized they were playing, sledding down the grass and running back up the hill to do it again. I don’t think real horses can do this, but I’m from Brooklyn so what I know? In the dream I kept thinking I had to get in touch with my father, who died four years ago, but he was apparently alive and living in our home in the city. Then an old man, who worked on my aunt’s farm--there is no such person in real life--came into th

I had a “wish I’d said that” moment at work this week. I was speaking with a co-worker around quitting time. He told me that he while he didn’t mind staying late at the office during the winter months, things changed now that the weather is getting warmer. “Yes,” I said, “once you see the sun is still shining at 5 pm, you want to get outside.” “It’s the trigger of life,” my co-worker replied. The trigger of life—I thought that was such a great expression. It’s so fitting, given this grisly death march of a winter we just went through and it’s the perfect theme for Easter. We got a good look at the trigger of life today when my sister came up with the brilliant idea of visiting the Brooklyn Botanic Garden prior to our Easter dinner. She also recommended going early, so we could beat the crowds and enjoy the sunshine while it lasted. The gardens were beautiful and the weather was so nice I couldn’t believe it. The holiday weekend had gotten off to a rough with a Good Friday that was a

The e-mail to my sister went something like this: Arrrgh!! Maybe I was overreacting a little bit, but I was upset. I had just received a discount offer to see the play “Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo” with Robin Williams for $47. It sounded like a good deal. Big name star, decent price--for Broadway, at least. The only trouble was we had already seen “Bengal Tiger,” we weren’t terribly impressed, and we had paid 87 bucks for the privilege. Like I said… Arrrgh!! This is the risk you take when you want to be ahead of the curve. When we heard Robin Williams was coming to Broadway, we pounced on a chance to get tickets. We didn’t know anything about the show, but the problem with Broadway is that you’re either first or you're toast. My father used to tell us about a time many years ago when he thinking of buying tickets to a new musical that was going to open on Broadway. However, he decided to hold off until he read the reviews. The musical turned out to be a little show called “S

Thirty years ago I was walking through the park near the Verrazano Narrows Bridge when I saw a film crew shooting a scene for a movie. The film was Prince of the City, a story about police corruption in the NYPD starring Treat Williams, and the director was Sidney Lumet. I was just out college, a budding film genius, and I was dying to get a look at the man who had given us Dog Day Afternoon, Serpico, The Pawnbroker and so many other great films. They were shooting right under the bridge—the scene is only a few minutes long in the movie—and I couldn’t see very much. There was this rather obnoxious English production assistant stalking around the barrier—what the hell was she doing in Brooklyn?--and I asked her if Lumet was there. “Yes,” she said with mild exasperation, “he’s here directing .” Well, screw you very much, sweetheart. Maybe he hadn’t gotten there yet, okay? I hung around a little while longer, hoping I would see Lumet, bowl him over him with my awesome talent, promptin

In the movies, pirates always lock their treasure up in a massive chest, but in real life you can find the most valuable things right inside a little tin box. My sister and I are cleaning up our parents’ house in preparation for sale, so we’ve been busy going through 60 years’ worth of clothing, furniture, books, and little knickknacks—like faux vintage tin boxes. My mother liked to collect these boxes and put all sorts of stuff inside them—buttons, paper clips, coins, whatever would fit. We have a tobacco can sitting in the front porch dubbed the “Roly Poly Businessman” because it’s painted to resemble a fat robber baron type puffing away on a pipe. Some time in the mid-80s the Roly Poly Businessman served as a family bank, where we all put in a certain amount of money every week. When we had enough cash, we went out for a night on the town: dinner at Gargiulo’s in Coney Island and then on to the theater in Manhattan. I believe the show was Little Shop of Horrors in the Village, but