The Luna Park Gazette

It’s officially autumn in this part of the world and while I loathe the coming cold weather, I’m not sorry to close the door on the Summer of ‘11. My life took a bad hop back in July, when I had to drop out of my beloved boxing class due to extenuating—and excruciating—circumstances in the form of a bulging disc. An MRI revealed that I have a mild case of arthritis in my back. It was a bit of a shock. I mean, arthritis…me? C’mon, old peopl e have arthritis; I’m strong, fit, in the prime of life…sort of…I can’t get arthritis. Except that I can. My doctor said this is a degenerative condition, that he can treat the symptoms, but not the disease, and promptly packed me off to a sports medicine facility for physical therapy. The head trainer seems positive about my recovery. I’ve gone to two sessions so far and I’m following the home exercise program the trainers have given me. At least it’s some kind of workout, even if it’s mostly stretching. I also get to see people who are in much wors...

I complain about the subways a lot, but some nights you can feel like you're inside a rolling concert hall. There are mariachi bands, rappers, gospel singers, and nostalgia acts and many of these people are quite talented. And all it costs is the subway fare and whatever you feel like giving a particular performer. You get the occasional clunker, like the guy I saw at the W.72nd Street C station one night who did such a horrific job with “Unchained Melody” that he should have been hauled off in irons. A tourist actually took this loser’s picture, though there’s no way you could capture that hideous noise in a photo. And if you could, you’d be clawing your eyes out as soon as you saw it. One night I heard the sound of no less than five different drummers as I rode uptown and then home to Brooklyn. First a couple of guys got on board the northbound No. 2 train with large African drums and proceeded to rock the house. I was annoyed at first, since I was tired after a long day at work...

In the weeks before the 10th anniversary of 9/11, WNYC and WQXR, the local public radio stations, asked listeners what they wanted to hear as they thought about the attacks and the events that followed. I meant to contact them and make my own suggestion. I kept telling myself to do it, seriously, dude, don’t forget to do this or you’ll be very sorry. However, like a lot of others things in my life, I never got around to doing it. I find this especially irritating given that one of the many important lessons that came out of 9/11 was that we should do things now and not put them off until later—because there may not be a later . But I ignored that lesson and so on Sunday I listened to other people’s musical choices, while my own played only in my mind. For the record, the song I wanted to hear was the old folk tune “ 500 Miles .” Credited to Hedy West and copyrighted in 1961, the song is a mournful ballad about a traveler who is broke, far from home, and ashamed to go back. I always as...

I walked out of my building at lunchtime one day last week and saw two Buddhist monks crawling on the ground. They were robed and barefoot, right there on Broadway, and I watched them stand up, raise their hands to the sky in prayer, and then get back down on the pavement to start all over again. A woman I assumed was a nun followed closely behind them. They didn’t make a sound, didn’t look left or right, they just kept on going, very slowly and steadily. It was a strange sight, even for New York and people walking down the street stopped to look and take pictures. This ceremony clearly had something to do with the 10th anniversary of 9/11, but I'm not sure what. Ground Zero is right around the corner, so they must have been honoring the thousands of people who were lost on that day. This may sound strange, but I actually felt a bit of hostility toward these people as I watched them scuttle along the cement. Seriously, what was the point of this abuse? How are these monks any diff...

“Envy's a coal comes hissing hot from Hell.” -- Philip James Bailey I caught sight of the helicopter flying a few blocks ahead of me and I floored the pedal. I was going to catch this bastard no matter what. It was late and I was blindly driving into some roughneck part of town filled with crumbling warehouses, burnt-out factories, and pitch black alleyways. As I pulled up to a red light, a freight train came rumbling out of the darkness just a few feet from the roadway. I had no idea what I was going to do when and if I caught up with that helicopter, but then it wasn't really a night for ideas--or rational thought. But, wait, there’s something wrong here. I don’t own a car. This neighbor is a little too weird-—it kind of looks like the old Industrial City down by the waterfront, but it kind of doesn’t. It's familiar territory, but it has a Blade Runner twist. And I don't chase helicopters for any reason whatsoever. Okay, now I get it. None of t...