The Luna Park Gazette

I was walking home on Christmas night when I saw a young woman carrying her little daughter into a house near 71st Street. I’d never seen her before in my life, but as soon as the mother and I made eye contact, I smiled and wished her a merry Christmas. “Merry Christmas,” she replied. And, as I was walking by them, this adorable little girl called out after me. “Merry Christmas!” It was a perfect ending to a fabulous day. A little snow and we would have had a Hallmark movie moment. And then the sun came up. I was one of the few people in New York apparently who had to work on Friday and I managed to have a spectacularly awful day at the office. Every single thing I put my hand on went straight to hell, I made all sorts of bonehead mistakes, and after a while I was afraid to come out of my cubicle. It was a miracle the soda machine didn’t blow up when I dropped in my change. What’s really frustrating is that I hadn’t planned on being in the office on Friday. I was goi...

This was no way to spend Christmas Eve. Usually on the night before Christmas I like to go out on the town. Check out the holiday displays in Manhattan, take in the crowds of tourist that flood the city, and then hit a few bars to spread the good cheer…better known as getting plastered. This year, however, I sat in a crowed waiting room at Lutheran Medical Center hoping to get an audience with the surgeon who has been monitoring my condition since my trip to the hospital last month. I hated hanging around here on the day before the big holiday, but it was such a struggle to get this appointment that I couldn’t give it up. So I grabbed an empty chair and hoped someone would call my name sometime before midnight. The place was cramped and stuffy, and since this was a hospital, I fretted about all the horrible germs that were just itching to pounce on me. There were a number of people with kids and one couple wheeled around a frail elderly woman in a wheelchair who just had a few...

“ The Lord, before whom I have walked faithfully, will send his angel with you and make your journey a success. ”-- Genesis 24:40 What is it about this woman that makes me cry every time every time I speak with her? Nurse Jennifer called me again this week. She’s the nurse from my insurance company who has been checking up on me ever since I got out of the hospital last month. She made the first call the day after I had been discharged from Lutheran Medical Center. I was in such a fragile emotional state at the time that I started blubbering uncontrollably as she gave me all this great advice about making my apartment safe should I decide to have surgery. Later I thought Jennifer was calling solely as a company employee, making sure that I wasn’t needlessly racking up medical bills. However, I have since come to believe that this lovely woman has genuine goodness in her heart that has nothing to do with profit or loss. Each of our chats starts off the same way. Jennifer re...

I may not be feeling the holiday spirit at the moment, but I still managed to see my two favorite Christmas trees in the last two days. The trees at Rockefeller Center and the Metropolitan Museum of Art are the two big ones for me and I thought I wouldn’t see either one this year due to my ongoing medical misery. My viewing of the Rockefeller Center tree was a fluke, as I just happened to be riding the express bus down Fifth Avenue on Friday night when I looked to the right and there it was, climbing straight up into the sky. Traffic was moving so slowly that I got a pretty decent view of the tree and of Fifth Avenue, which was ablaze with lights and decorations. The air was so cold and the sidewalks were so clogged with humanity, that I was very glad to be sitting inside a warm bus. The only reason I was this far uptown on Friday was because I was seeing a specialist for a second opinion about my internal plumbing problems, which have cracked my personal Kris Kringle into a...

I heard a voice coming from somewhere behind me as the fog around my brain started to fade. “This guy’s got a long colon.” I suppose I should’ve thanked him, whoever he was, but I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or not. I could feel all sorts of weird activity in and around my caboose, so I was either being probed by aliens or getting a colonoscopy. As things become clearer, I realized I was in Lutheran Medical Center and not having a much-too-close encounter. And the speaker over my shoulder was my gastroenterologist. This has been a week for doctors. In addition to seeing my internal medicine man, I also had to go to a pulmonologist for a breathing test to make sure I could handle being sedated for the colonoscopy. For the breathing test I had to wrap my mouth around a large tube—wow, this story is getting pretty twisted, ain’t it?—while a very nice young woman gave me commands like “big breath in!” and “breathe out quickly!” Once I passed that little ordeal I began the pr...

The two fighters squared off in the cage as one of them unloaded a huge right hand toward his opponent’s chin. I tensed up, anticipating a brutal knockout. This was going to be a haymaker and—shame on me--I was actually looking forward to it. And then suddenly I was watching CNN. What the hell --? I was flying back from L.A. on JetBlue, where I was shoehorned into a window seat at the southernmost section of the plane, and the guy next to me had inadvertently changed the channel on my TV—and ruined the fight clip--when he moved his elbow. “Uh, sorry,” he mumbled. Yeah, pal, me, too. I was tempted to throw a flying armbar on this stiff, but it really wasn’t his fault. We were stuck in a flying sardine can where you couldn’t help but invade someone’s space. The flight out from New York was no bargain either. Once again I was crammed into the window seat--fear of heights, people, hello? --where a young woman sitting next to me had put her head on the food tray upon takeoff a...

“How are you?” the young woman at the supermarket asked me this afternoon. I’ve heard that line several times this week—I’ve said it myself--but it sounds a little strange in light of my recent trip to the ER. I was tempted to say, “well, I just got out of the hospital and I’ll probably be going back, and I’m dreading it. My left arm still hurts from having an IV needle stuck in it for three days and I feel tired, old, and cranky. How’s by you?” But the cashier isn’t getting paid nearly enough to listen to my grief, so I just smiled and said, “I’m fine.” I feel like I’ve been away for a long time. But unlike vacation, I don’t feel refreshed or relaxed; I feel drained. I looked at the pictures I posted on Facebook of my L.A. trip and I can't help but think that it wasn’t so long ago that I was happy and healthy, no idea that one of my organs was about to go haywire on me. I'm so emotionally fragile that I actually got teary-eyed when a nurse from my insurance company ...

I forgot how much I hate Jell-O. I’m back home now after a three-day stint at the hospital, where gelatin was the one of the few things I could eat—when I could eat at all. This particular hell ride began on Thursday morning when I started feeling stomach pains. I assumed I had eaten something that disagreed with me and that whatever it was would soon pass. I was incredibly wrong. The pain worsened over the course of the day, even though I was wolfing down Pepto-Bismol tablets by the handful. I kept telling myself that I was okay, but my doubts grew as the agony increased. I got into bed at 11pm, but the pain was so terrible that I knew I had to do something. Finally, I got up, dressed, and called for a car to take me down to the ER at Lutheran Medical Center. But I was still telling myself that the doctors would give me something for my guts and send me home in a few hours. I had even planned on going to work the next day. Clearly fortune-telling is not my strong suit. ...

The little girl sitting behind me on the plane Tuesday night said it best as we landed at JFK. “I want to go back to California right now !” she declared. “Me, too,” I muttered. Not that I’m complaining. Well, yes, of course, I am. I had no desire whatsoever to see my vacation end since I had an absolutely fabulous time visiting my Uncle Joe and his wife, Sara. I soared to new heights on this trip, as I tracked the migration of monarch butterflies in and around Monterey, hiked around the space shuttle Endeavor, met up with some of my West Coast cousins, and, craziest of all, took part in a “Pitch Slam,” where aspiring screenwriters like yours truly sit down with producers for a five-minute rundown on what they have to offer. I was only in LA for one night before we hit the road and headed north in search of the migrating monarchs. These amazing creatures cover thousands of miles as they make their way to their winter home. It’s just about impossible to photograph the monarc...

“Hey!” my neighbor’s young son shouted as I raced by his house this morning. I turned and saw that he was pointing at his chest, proudly displaying his Spiderman costume, which came complete with rippling muscles. “Spiderman!” he declared, making sure I had gotten the point. “You look great!” I shouted. “Happy Halloween!” I ran down to the corner just in time to see the back end of the 8:20 bus to Manhattan driving down Shore Road. This was actually the second bus I missed this morning, as I had raced down to the same corner a few minutes earlier in a losing effort to catch the 8:15 bus. I had thought catching the 8:20 would be a breeze, but then I realized I had left my lunch back on the kitchen table and I scurried back to my apartment to get it. Missing two buses in one morning is some kind of an achievement, I supposed, but if I had gotten the earlier one, I would’ve gone to work without my lunch—turkey sausages, green peppers and kasha—and more importantly, I wouldn...

I got up early Saturday morning to do something for my health, but I wound up getting all kinds of mental. I clicked onto YouTube to watch a video on qigong , an ancient Chinese practice that aligns the body, breath, and mind through a series of simple, relaxing exercises. I find these routines to be a nice compliment to my lunatic gym workouts. I was on tight schedule because I had to get to the gym for a cardio kickboxing class, get cleaned up, and meet with my sister for one of our theater outings with our auntie. So I switched onto one of my favorite qigong videos and…nothing. There was a message about updating something, but I, in my diehard digital ignorance, couldn’t make any sense out of it. Inching ever closer to the panic button, I Googled what I thought was Adobe’s home page and downloaded a ton of misery. My homepage was promptly hijacked by some outfit that offered to clean the living crap out of my computer—for a price, of course. I freaked, forgetting all about...

Godzilla may be able to flattened Tokyo with a swish of his tail, but he proved to be no match for a pack of paper dolls. I came to this conclusion during a recent weekend of excessive TV viewing. I had started my Saturday off by watching The Adventures of Prince Achmed that I had recorded off of Turner Classic Movies. I knew virtually nothing about Lotte Reiniger’s 1923 silent classic except that it is one of the first full-length animated films. I had anticipated something as visually stunning as Max Fleischer’s fabulous work, but my hopes were quickly cut to ribbons when I learned that this film “starred” a collection of black cardboard figures, which Reiniger had created with a pair of scissors and brought to life with stop motion photography. Did I seriously really want to spend my morning watching a 91-year-old feature length shadow play? How could I possibly stay interested in such a crudely made cartoon? How did I stay interested? Very easily, that’s how. Once Prince...

When I was a Cub Scout so many years ago, we used to sing this little ditty as we returned home from our daytrips in honor of the bus driver who had made the outing possible. “ Three cheers for the bus driver, ” we'd all sing, “ he’s fat and he’s jolly and built like a trolley… ” I supposed that bit about being fat would be considered offensive today, but we said it with love and I don’t think “morbidly obese and jolly” makes for a particularly nice song. This tune came climbing out of a dark corner of my memory recently when I thought about this fabulous driver who used to work on the X27 line that I take to and from work. Ride the Express Bus long enough and you start recognizing the various drivers. This particular fellow stands out because he is just so damn nice. I believe his name is Mike, and if isn’t, well, Mike will just have to do, won’t it? The great thing about Mike is that he makes you feel like you’re entering his home rather than climbing aboard a bus. “He...

I walked out of my grocery story the other night convinced I was going to make it last all week. I had just picked up a package of Swiss cheese to satisfy some midnight munchies that had come barging into my appetite a few hours ahead of schedule. I knew I wanted something to eat as I entered the story and while I couldn’t—or wouldn’t--name it, my subconscious mind steadily steered me through the aisles until I was standing in front of the dairy case. And then I wanted cheese and nothing else. Seriously, chronically, and borderline homicidally—I wanted freaking cheese . I told myself a 20-ton whopper of a lie that I would get the Swiss, have a slice or two tonight, and save the rest for my lunch over the next five days. Oh, bitch, please. The last time I gave into my cheese cravings I tore through a pack of Polly-O mozzarella in under two hours. Towards the end of that barbaric binge I was asking myself why I even bothered slicing the stuff. I should've just lugged the w...

Whenever we went on vacation, we always took our dogs with us. Kennels were absolutely out of the question as we considered our pets to be members of the family. You don't put your loved ones in a cage just because you feel like getting out of town for a few weeks. There were a few occasions, though, when we were staying at my aunt’s farmhouse in the Berkshires when we had to leave our dog, Casey, at the house. Usually we’d be going to the movies or dinner and it wouldn’t be right make him sit in the car for two or more hours. And just before we left my father would explain the situation to Casey. “Casey,” he’d say, “you have to stay home and guard the house. Guard the house .” My dad usually said it twice to drive the point home, but honestly he didn’t have to tell Casey even once. Dogs are natural born guardians, ready to lay down their lives for their loved ones without a moment’s hesitation. I thought about the dogs in our family recently when my sister and I made ...

On March 31, 1980, WBA Heavyweight Champion John Tate was on his way to winning his first title defense when his opponent, Mike “Hercules” Weaver, landed a massive left hook to Tate’s head and sent the young fighter crashing face forward to the canvas. It was a stunning upset , something that just wasn’t supposed to happen. Weaver was considered a journeyman, even though he had given Larry Holmes a rough time in a losing bid to win the WBC belt. (Illustration by Brolga) I was watching the fight at home with my father on that March night and my dad let out this roar when Tate tumbled limply to the mat. “ Whoa! ” my dad shouted. We watched as Tate’s handlers rushed into the ring, turned the fallen fighter over and tried to revive him. He looked like a corpse. They gave him oxygen and when Tate finally did stand up, the sportscaster said four men were needed to help him out of the ring. “Shocking…” my father said. But things were about ...

As the recipient of many a rejection letter, I’ve gotten pretty good at recognizing when I’m about to get the heave-ho. The language is always polite and supportive, but the message is still the same: scram. And yet I always read every word on the outside chance that the latest letter may be the one that says “Yes” after all those “Nos.” I try to stay positive, I really do, but when I saw an email from Project Greenlight in my inbox the other day, I got that old familiar feeling. Project Greenlight is a TV show produced by Ben Affleck and Matt Damon, among others, that gives first-time filmmakers a chance to direct a feature film. The deadline to submit entries came up in August, on the very night before I was going to fly out to Colorado. I was sorely tempted to flag it: I had too much to do, my entry wasn’t top notch, I'm too old, and, the old standby—I didn’t have a chance in hell of winning. Excuses? I’ve got a million of ‘em. But this time I decided to rewrite tha...

I looked at the clock as I left my gym this morning and watched that red second hand sweep around the dial. It was 8:36 AM, September 11, 2014. In 10 minutes there would be a moment of silence to mark the time when the first hijacked plane struck the North Tower of the World Trade Center 13 years ago at 8:46. I thought of the second hand running around the clock, relentless, unstoppable. I’d give anything to back it all up, return to that beautiful sunny morning in 2001 and undo this nightmare. But time only goes one way. There’s a song by the Moody Blues called “ Isn’t Life Strange ” that’s been playing in my head for last day or so, even though I haven’t heard it in years. It’s a solemn tune that seemed to fit today’s mood. “ Isn’t life strange ,” it goes, “ a turn of the page. A book without light, unless with love we write. To throw it away, to lose just a day, the quicksand of time, you know it makes me want to cry, cry, cry…” I walked down Church Street and stood out...

I’m sending Isabel and Jack back to Colorado, but I’m going to let Sabrina stay around a little while longer. Isabel and Jack are brother and sister—I believe-and I first laid eyes on them last month at a used book store-coffee bar in Fort Collins, Co. when I was visiting my brother and his family. We had gone to this place one morning, and while I have far too many paperbacks in my house already, I couldn’t help but wander over to the used books section in the back of the store. I’m just going to look, I lied to myself. I’m not going to buy anything . And I was doing pretty well until I walked by the 50-cent shelf and spotted The Hook by Donald E. Westlake . I didn’t know this particular title, but I’ve been a Westlake fan for a long time. I thumbed through the book, trying to decide if I should buy it or not when a wallet-sized photo fell out from in between the pages. It was a picture of a little girl holding even smaller boy. On the back it said “ Isabel 3½ ” and “ Ja...