The Luna Park Gazette

I made a real ash of myself last week. I got caught looking by Ash Wednesday. The day just blew right by me and not only did I forgot to get ashes on my forehead, but I also ate a turkey sandwich for lunch in flagrant violation of the no meat rule. I can’t believe it. Eight years of Catholic school, a lifelong Christian, observant parents and I still treated one of the most important events of the year like it was just any other hump day. I had no idea what was going on until the late afternoon when I saw a guy coming out of my gym with the telltale mark on his forehead. “Hey, brother,” I said, “is today Ash Wednesday?” He gave me a look that seemed to say, “why, no, schmuck, I like to smear black dust on my forehead just for shits and giggles.” “Yes,” he said with more than a trace of annoyance. I still had plenty of time to get my ashes, but by then I had already eaten meat and that took all the value of out going to church for me. And what makes this all the more frus...

I did a mitzvah for a Marine last week and I almost missed it. For those of you who don’t know, a mitzvah is a good deed, and this particular good deed—as minor as it was—also helped me atone for an earlier misstep. I was pulling my cart through the snow on a recent Sunday morning for my weekly shopping routine. I don’t remember much of what was going on, quite frankly, because my mind was wandering all over the place. Maybe I had zoned out because shopping is one of my least favorite things to do, or it’s just a habit that I’ve fallen into, but whatever the reason, I was barely in contact with Planet Earth. The snow had clogged the sidewalk down to a narrow path near the corner of Third Avenue and I was dimly aware of an older woman walking toward me. My mind was still tossing around one random thought or another as I stepped aside to allow the woman to go by first. As she went by she gave me the loveliest smile. “Thank you!” she said with such enthusiasm. That shook the ...

This never would have happened in Hawaii. I lost a glove this week and I can’t help thinking that if I had gotten that job in Hawaii that I had interviewed for last year I wouldn’t have lost my glove because I wouldn’t have been wearing gloves in the first place. I also wouldn’t be wearing scarves, parkas, ski caps, boots, long underwear or any of the other several tons of crap and equipment that I have to wrap around myself if I so much as contemplate exiting my crib. No, if I had gotten that Honolulu gig, I’d be wearing flowered shirts, white shorts, and sandals while cheerfully guzzling exotic tropical drinks and leering drunkenly at comely young tourists. I’d have a tan to beat the band and I’d be happy, oh so incredibly happy, as opposed to the miserable frozen wretch that I am now. I’d almost lost one of these gloves a year ago while doing a stay-cation, but I found it at my gym the following day. I lost it again on Tuesday at my gym, but two kind ladies at the front ...

If I had to name two of the most dissimilar people in the world, I don’t think I could do any better than Mr. Parks, my high school mechanical drawing teacher, and Old Blue Eyes himself, Frank Sinatra. And yet these two men, who, to my knowledge never came anywhere near each other in the real world, managed to link up in the three-ring freak factory that I like to call my mind. I know this doesn’t sound at all logical, but it’ll make sense once I explain myself. Or then again, it may not, and in that case I apologize in advance. Mr. Parks was a compact, bullet-headed man who spoke in this very sharp, exact tone. Presumably he was a draftsman in his early life and everything about him was precise and direct—no guesswork, no nonsense, just results. If he thought you were goofing off, Mr. Parks didn’t hesitate to inform you. “Hey, you, little guy,” he snapped at one of my diminutive classmates one day. “Sit down and start pushing a pencil because it’s going to be a hot summer ....