The Luna Park Gazette

I thought I was hearing things. I was sitting in my nice, comfy seat on the X27 bus Friday morning, all set to slip into my commuting coma. This is a blissful state of mind where I daydream, meditate and enjoy the occasional X-rated fantasy. And by “occasional,” of course, I mean “non-stop.” I was just about to step off into the abyss when a young woman got on the bus at 65th Street and stood right over me. I expected her to keep going until she found a seat when I realized that there probably were no seats left. I paused for just a moment before I looked up at her. “Would you like to sit down?” I asked. I’ve done this many times before. On each and every occasion the woman in question says “no, thank you,” and I cheerfully remain on my keester with a clear conscience. Only things were a little different this morning. Instead of saying “no, thank you,” this young lady said, “oh, thank you.” Oh, as in “oh, you mean you really want me to give you my seat?” Yes, that’s ...

I met Cathy on the B9 bus one Saturday night when I was coming home from Manhattan. It was a cold, colder than it had any right to be, and I couldn’t wait to get back to my apartment. Cathy, an elderly lady with a shopping cart, was sitting across from me. “Are you going to Shore Road?” she asked a teenaged girl sitting a few seats away. The girl shook her head no and looked down to the floor, so I put my hand up. “I am,” I said. “Can you walk me to my door?” “Yeah, sure.” The teenager got off at the next stop so it was just Cathy and I riding to the end of the line. As she struggled to stand up, I saw that Cathy needed the shopping cart to help her walk. “I fell down in my own house one time,” she told me. She wanted me to walk with her because she was afraid of the winds that blew in off the Narrows. Those winds can be fierce. Back in my jogging days, I used to run along the bike path that runs along the Narrows and on freezing winter mornings I could actually see...

Let the record reflect that I did my very best to make this thing happen. I’m known the world over for hemming and hawing on any and all decisions. Given the right conditions, figuring out what I want for lunch can turn into a veritable opera of torment and self-abuse. So just imagine the torture I inflicted upon myself when I recently received an email from the School of Visual Arts announcing a two-week screenwriting course in Rome. The class was expensive, more than I wanted to spend, honestly, but it sounded great. You get to see Rome, work with film instructors at an Italian university, write short scripts and then—best of all—hand your work over to actors who would then perform the scenes. I’ve taken courses with the SVA before so I know they’re a good outfit. Two summers ago I took a director’s course there and then waaaay back in 1980, I went on a two-week trip to Trinity College in Dublin for a screenwriting class with Ernest Tidyman . I met one of my best friends d...

Oh, the humiliation. Disaster struck early last week when I was unceremoniously booted off my beloved Express Bus. I’m still stunned by this turn of events. I’ve pretty much made a second career out of praising the X27 and here I was being ejected from my favorite mode of transportation like a flasher at a church social. Excuse me? The debacle occurred after work one day when I was tired and anxious to get back to Bay Ridge for a chiropractor’s appointment. I got out of my office and walked two blocks up Broadway to grab the X27. My timing was excellent. As soon as I took my place on line, I looked down the street and—thar she blows!—my bus was chugging down the street. I took out my wallet, climbed aboard and ran my Metrocard through the appropriate slot. But instead a friendly little beep I got a mechanical gag from the register and a disapproving look from the driver. “It’s no good,” he said. “What’s no good?” I demanded. “The card,” the driver repeated. “It’s no ...