The Luna Park Gazette

Annemarie Wiesner should be alive today. She should have celebrated Thanksgiving with her family like so many of us did on Thursday and she should be looking forward to the holidays and the start of a new year. But that’s not going to happen. Annemarie Wiesner, 72, was struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver on Nov. 16 as she was crossing the street with a shopping cart. She was pronounced dead at the scene. The accident happened at Marine Avenue and 96th Street, which is a short distance from me and just a block away from my sister’s house. She was one of three people killed by hit and run drivers in New York City in a 24-hour period. Local news reports noted how Marine Avenue goes on for several blocks without traffic lights, speed bumps, stop signs or anything else to slow down the maniacs that tear through this neighborhood like characters straight out of “Mad Max.” I can hear them at night on the Belt Parkway, along Shore Road and other streets in this neighborhood

We don’t need Sherlock Holmes to figure this one. Being a good Catholic boy, I live to feel guilty, and in the past few days as I climb out of the Covid abyss, I am getting those familiar stirrings once again. You should be working on your novel. You should clean up this apartment, it’s a hellhole. You should be eating better . There’s nothing like guilt to let you know you’re healing. When I’m sick, I don’t give a damn about writing or cleaning or reading or healthy eating, or any of the other various vows I have made to myself over the years. And guilt is nowhere to be seen. But now, I’ve finished my first week of work since coming back from L.A., I’m starting to feel a little stronger, and, thus, thoroughly ashamed of my inaction. Yes, I’ve been watching far too much TV. My living couch has permanent dent in the cushion where I’ve parked my keester for far too many days. But my head has been too fried for reading. I’ve been especially enjoying the old Sherlock Holm

I staggered into the lobby of the Glendale Express Hotel with a heartful of misery and Dr. John on the sound system. It took me a few seconds to recognize the 1973 hit " Right Place, Wrong Time " and a few more days to realize that the song perfectly described my disasterous visit to Los Angeles. I had been staying with my Uncle Joe and his wife for what was supposed to be a 10-day visit, but I was forced to scrub those plans and evacuate his home when what I thought was a sinfus infection turned out to be Covid-19. Yes, after dodging this dreadful disease since 2020, the coronavirus finally caught up with me in sunny California. I was feeling fine when I left--I'd never visit my family if I were sick, even with the common cold. I met up with my West Coast cousins, I zoomed into my writing class, and I was all set to do some touristy stuff. I was feeling so good--except for a slightly scratchy throat which started on my fourth day. The TV weather peop