The Luna Park Gazette

With all this talk of books and authors lately, I’m reminded of a certain subway ride I took many years ago and one of the most exciting reading experiences I’ve ever had. This was in the early Eighties and the book in question was Charles Dickens’s Nicholas Nickleby . My interest in the novel was stirred by a theatrical production which came to Broadway from London in 1981. The show made headlines because it was nearly nine hours long—theatergoers had a choice of attending two nights or seeing the whole show in one setting—and because tickets were going for the then-unheard of price of $100 each. Today, of course, one hundred bucks is pretty much the going rate for a show on the Great White Way. We didn’t have that kind of money back then, but my family had a fabulous time watching a televised version of the London production that was simulcast on the local public television and radio channels. The late Roger Rees played the title role and he was supported by an incredib...

“The only way to deal with the future is to function efficiently in the Now.” – Gita Bellin I can’t believe I said “yes.” Accepting a simple dinner invitation may not sound like a daring leap into the unknown but it felt like a milestone for me. I’ll explain in a minute, but, first let’s get right to the big news: As of today I am 60 years old. Yes, that’s right, we’re talking six decades here, people. I am amazed, stunned, somewhat frightened, and, above all, thankful that I am still walking the earth and not residing under it. I’m doing my best not to freak out at that sizeable digit, but it hasn't been easy. I mean, how in the four-alarm hell did this happen? How in God’s name did that adorable little kid attending classes at Our Lady of Angels Catholic School morph into a hairless crank with creaking bones who hears voices and receives flyers from both senior citizen homes and burial plot salesmen in the same day’s mail? (One at a time, boys, please.) I would dem...

“All this time the man who killed me will not die.” – Marlon James, A Brief History of Seven Killings I recently discovered the work of Marlon James. This didn’t happen by way of a book review, or media buzz, internet message boards, or even the old time word of mouth routine. I became aware of his novel A Brief History of Seven Killings while walking home from the store one morning when I looked down and saw a single page from the book on the street. It was page 585 and 586 of the 704-page novel about postcolonial Jamaica that Entertainment Weekly called “nothing short of awe-inspiring.” I probably should’ve kept walking, as I’ve got enough paper, books, and other assorted crap in my house already. But as a reader and someone who has published his own book , I felt badly that an author’s work had been abused like this. Published by Riverhead Press, A Brief History of Seven Killings is James’ third won the 2015 Man Booker Prize, a first for a Jamaican-born author. And ...

That was one very active my bear. I was digging through my junk box the other day in an underwhelming attempt to clean up and organize when I came across a Mother’s Day card I had given to my mom nearly 30 years ago. I have so many cards and notes that I’ve given or received from my parents over the years and I just can’t part with them. This particular card was the one I had given to my mom on Mother’s Day 1988 when I was moving out of my home in Brooklyn to take a job at the Pocono Record in Stroudsburg, Pa. I was so worried about starting a new job and relocating to a new town that I had unthinkingly agreed to take the position without realizing that I was leaving for my new home was the very day that we’re supposed honor our mothers. So, in addition to worry, fear, and creeping terror, I added an unhealthy serving of guilt a la mode that pretty much squashed any remaining traces of sanity that I had left. But it’s not like I was moving to New Zealand. I was heading up t...

With all this car service grief I’ve been going through lately, I forgot to tell you about Rob. Not me, this Rob is the driver who took me Penn Station for my trip to Philadelphia, the one who showed up right on time and ferried me straight to Penn Station without incident, but with plenty of style. He works for the same company that so royally screwed up my return trip from Penn Station, but I’m certainly not holding that against him. Rob isn’t a young man, or even middle-aged. No, he’s in his seventies and I confess I was a little surprised by his advanced years when I first saw him, which is somewhat ironic, given the fact that I’m turning 60 in a few weeks. Rob is also a former hairdresser and gay. I know all this because he told me so within the first five minutes of picking me up. “I’m a gay hairdresser!” Rob told me at least twice as we drove down the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. He was quite a change from the drivers I usually get, who are typically Middle Eastern wi...