The Luna Park Gazette

I got down on my knees to receive communion at Trinity Church on Friday and saw that I was kneeling on St. James. Okay, I wasn’t actually kneeling on the Apostle James , son of Zebedee. Poor guy had enough problems without me getting on his case. No, this was a cushion bearing his name—one of 12 that line one side of the altar--and of all the saints I could have picked to rest my rickety knees upon, it seemed appropriate that I came down on St. James, who, together with his brother, John, were known as the “Sons of Thunder.” St. James figured prominently in my life last week. In addition to communion, I had my second crack at film directing at the School of Visual Arts on Wednesday, which was the Feast of St. James. I’ll be honest—it was a rough night. I didn’t feel terribly confident, but admittedly I was trying something a little different. I was doing a “walk and talk” where one actor walked toward the camera delivering his lines. My previous scene had been shot on a tripod...

And now another massacre… Once again we’re watching footage of sobbing victims, listening to recordings of frantic 911 calls and viewing news coverage of candlelight vigils. It’s getting harder and harder to tell these incidents apart. After the mass shooting at the “The Dark Knight Rises” premier, you can be sure of two things: nothing will be done to change the gun laws in this country and there will be more massacres like this, more images of murderous loners, and more eulogies for innocent victims. According to news reports, the gun murder rate in the U.S. is at 19.5%, almost 20 times higher than the next 22 richest nations combined. But at least we still have our freedom. The NRA has won this battle. Virtually no one on the national level is even talking about gun control despite a string of these hideous attacks. The Republicans are on the gun lobby pay roll and the Democrats are scared of their own shadows. God damn the whole pack of them. You already know the arguments...

I always have this urge to bless myself whenever I walk through the old Lincoln Savings Bank on Fifth Avenue and pass the spot where my mother's desk used to be. Other people see the bank only as a place of business, but for me this is hallowed ground. Of course it’s no longer the Lincoln, having been sold off years ago as the big banking fish kept on eating the smaller ones until it’s now a Chase branch. Images of Honest Abe still adorn this fortress-like structure, however, and, as one local blogger told me, “it will always be the Lincoln.” It certainly will be for me. My mother sold life insurance at the Lincoln and now, with Monday marking the tenth anniversary of her death, the bank has taken on a special meaning for me. I don’t want to think about that awful day a decade ago when I raced to the hospital in Staten Island after learning my mother had gone into cardiac arrest. I don’t want to remember how I wept and wailed in my sister’s arms after I learned we were ...

There is a moment in “Twelfth Night” when Sir Andrew Aguecheek mournfully declares, “Oh, had I but followed the arts!” Following the arts proved to be a challenge that I happily accepted on Friday night when I attended an outdoor production of Shakespeare’s comedy that strapped on its walking shoes and set out to prove that all the world is indeed a stage. The New York Classical Theatre production started off at Castle Clinton but then literally picked up and moved all over Battery Park with a large, appreciative audience in hot and humid pursuit. Sounds crazy? Well, it was and I don’t think I ever enjoyed a production of this play as much as I enjoyed this one. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but this show was… enchanting . It was everything a summer night in New York should be—great weather, courteous people, and a fabulous performance. The fact that it didn’t cost a dime was pretty cool, too. This was a last minute thing for me. I had just read the Times review and I was...

I saw the yellow crime scene tape stretched out around the men’s clothing store on Fifth Avenue this morning, but I didn’t think anything serious had happened. People put up that tape for just about anything. Maybe there was wet paint in the vicinity. Maybe the store window might have broken and shattered glass was littering the sidewalk. Whatever it was, I was sure it was something minor. I never thought the owner—a man I have often spoken with--had been shot dead. It wasn’t glass that was shattered here today. It was a man’s life. The New York Daily News reported that Mohammed Gebeli, 65, was shot in the neck at Valentino Fashion Inc. on Fifth Avenue and 77th Street. He was taken to Lutheran Medical Center where he was pronounced dead. I still can’t believe this. I’ve shopped at this store; I’ve spoken with Mohammed Gebeli, had those kind of softball conversations that pass between merchants and their customers. And now he’s dead. I didn’t know this man well at all, but I...

I have this vague memory from my childhood of seeing my father walking into the dining room of our home in a suit and tie. I forget the occasion or why my father was all dressed up. I forget everything about that day except what I said when I saw him. “Daddy looks pretty,” I declared. I wasn’t trying to be a wise guy or cast aspersions about his manhood. I was a little kid and I was using the only words I knew to describe how my father looked. I haven’t done a Father’s Day post for a while now; it hadn’t even occurred to me to write one until that very morning and by then I already had another post ready to go. I suppose I could’ve put that other post on hold and written something for my dad, but my heart wasn’t in it. So I decided to disregard Father’s Day and then, of course, I started to feel guilty--something I’m rather good at. When I was living in Pennsylvania I used to work Sunday through Thursday. I came home to Brooklyn most weekends and I recall one year I was le...