The Luna Park Gazette

“Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.” — Anaïs Nin The message came up on my phone on Saturday morning and caught me completely by surprise. “Heather 420 party .” It was just a brief note I had put in my calendar to remind myself about my friend Heather’s upcoming 420 party. The number, of course, refers to April 20, the official stoner holiday, where marijuana smokers celebrate their love of weed. Heather had lost her partner, Jen, a few years ago. I rarely smoke weed, but I was really looking forward to seeing Heather again. But I didn’t go to Heather’s on Saturday night because she is no longer with us. I can’t believe I’m writing these words, but Heather died earlier this month and now these two bright lights in my life—and so many other people’s lives--are gone. I met Jen and Heather years ago when they came to a solo performance I was doing with a friend at a pe

I know the name Gideon mostly because of the Bibles that I used to find in hotel rooms. Gideon International, which put distributes bibles in hotel rooms, was formed in 1899 when two Christian sales wound up sharing a hotel room. Nearly every single hotel in the country put a Bible in their rooms, but that number has been coming down. However, Travel + Leisure reported in 2017 that bibles have been disappearing from hotels because Millennials are the least religious generation in the U.S., according to a study by San Diego State University. Still, if you really want to read Scripture, you can access the good word on your phone as roughly 98% of hotels off in-room Wi-Fi. Gideon gets a mention in Beatles 1968 song “Rocky Raccoon,” which Paul McCartney started writing in Rishikesh, India, where the band was studying Transcendental Meditation. The song was originally called “Rocky Sassoon,” but McCartney reportedly changed the title to because he though “Rocky Raccoon” sou

And now the t-shirt: “I Survived the New York Earthquake.” So, there I was Friday morning, sitting at my kitchen table and working on a story when a whole lotta shaking started going on. At first, I thought it was a helicopter flying overhead, and not just some news station traffic chopper, but a massive military monstrosity coming in low and mean. But it kept getting louder and my building started vibrating, and I decided it might be a good idea to put my ass in gear and get the hell out. I was halfway across my living room when the shaking stopped, but I decided to keep going to see if anybody else saw or felt what I did. “What the f*ck was that?” I asked no one, even though I sort of knew the answer already. Everything seemed normal when I went outside, and I thought for a moment that perhaps I was overreacting. But then a few of my neighbors start to emerge from their homes, all looking quite bewildered. “I thought it was just me,” one guy said. “I was thinki

“Labor without stopping; do all the good works you can, while you still have the time.” --St. John of God The qigong instructor on YouTube closed his eyes and put his hands on his chest. “I want you to feel your beating heart,” he said. “Your heart is a perfect example of unconditional love. It beats for your entire life and asks for nothing in return.” Oh, yes, after the last week, I am ever so grateful for my beating heart. This is Easter Sunday, and I am so happy to be celebrating this time of rebirth with my family. I am a bit more positive about my future after seeing my cardiologist on Thursday. This was our first face-to-face meeting since I got the stent put in on 10 days ago. “How are you feeling?” he asked. “A bit frightened, to be honest.” “Why? You’re the healthiest man in this room,” he told me. “At least we know what kind of shape your heart is in.” His assistant had given me an electrocardiogram, which my doctor said, “looked beautiful,” and he told I ca

“You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.”— Marcus Aurelius I thought I would be home in a couple of hours. I was certain the doctor would tell me there’s nothing wrong, that the cardiac catheterization procedure I had to endure on Thursday would show that I was in tiptop shape, and I could go forth and live a happy life. It didn’t exactly work out that out. I was stretched out on a table in NYU Langone, my right hand strapped down, while a surgeon inserted a miniature camera into my wrist and through my arteries to get a live picture of my heart, which appeared on a widescreen TV in the operating room like a hockey game in a sports bar. The surgeon had advised me prior to the procedure that if he found any serious blockage, he’d have to put in a stent, but I knew that was ridiculous. I work out regularly, I watch what I eat. I’m in the clear. And then he poked his head out before behind a protective screen. “When you work out, d

“Good morning, my name is Melinda.” I nodded and returned the greeting, or at least I think I did. I was still kind of bleary-eyed, having hauled my keester out of bed at 5AM on Saturday, made a predawn, five-block walk through the nearly empty streets, so I could get a transthoracic echocardiogram, yet another one of my cardiologist’s recommended tests. What made it even funkier was that, upon my arrival, the facility at Fourth Avenue and Senator Street, a century-old structure that once housed a city welfare department office, was completely empty. There was no security guard in the lobby, no receptionists on the second floor, no other patients sitting in the waiting area—the damn lights weren’t even switched on. I had full run of the place, as I walked up and down the hallways, shouitng “is anybody here?” while the lights in various rooms automatically lit up as I passed by. I heard voices and for a moment I thought I’d found a fellow human, but it turned out to be comin

“Ahh, but the strawberries! That's - that's where I had them.” – Captain Queeg, The Caine Mutiny Court Martial I walked 30 blocks on Friday morning just to prove a point. I’m not exactly sure what the point was, but I’m glad I made the effort. This was the culmination of a rather strange week with some very happy events and a couple of senior moments I sincerely could’ve done without. And along the way I confronted some character flaws that I would like very much to correct. It started on Tuesday. I was at the gym, all set to begin my heavy bag workout, where I put in a pair of earbuds and listen to boxing combinations as they’re called out on the Precision Striking app. But on this morning, I opened up the earbud case and saw one my buds was AWOL. At first, I couldn’t imagine what had happened and then I remember that the carrying case had fallen out of my gym bag a few days earlier. I quickly retrieved it, but apparently one of the buds had shaken loose and I d

“You may breathe now.” I came sliding out of the CT scanner like an overcooked pizza and resumed taking in oxygen just as the android voice commanded. My cardiologist has suggested that I get this test—a CT coronary angiogram—and I happily complied, though I wish they’d find a way to take the word “coronary” out of the title. I hadn’t eaten all day, as per doctor’s orders, but I wasn’t even remotely hungry, due to a particularly vicious stomach bug that had invaded my innards the night before and played merry hell with my digestive system. This old heart of mine got quite a workout as I staggered through a crappy week marked by frustration on so many levels, personally and professionally and even on the national level thanks to the Supreme Court and a certain orange-hued scumbag who shall remain nameless. The hospital emailed the test results to me within hours and while it was packed with medical terms that I didn’t begin to understand, I couldn’t help noticing one line that

“Music is the soundtrack of your life.”--Dick Clark. In 1983, German musician Peter Schilling had a hit single with the song “Major Tom (Coming Home).” The song, which features a character unofficially related to Major Tom from David Bowie’s 1969 song “Space Oddity”, peaked at No. 14 in the U.S. on Billboard’s Hot 100 singles chart during the final week of the year. I remember hearing “ Major Tom (Coming Home) ” while working out at a neighborhood gym and one of my buddies starting whistling along with the chorus. “ Earth below us, Drifting, falling, Floating weightless, Calling, calling home... ” The song faded from my memory for the longest time, but it made a surprise comeback a few days ago when I decided to enlist Major Tom in my Mental Health Hit parade. Let me explain. I struggle with depression, anxiety, hostility, and a slew of other issues that circle my brain like a colony of vampire bats swarming around a 20-story blood bank. But I’m on a journey to become my

The minute I saw the guy I knew it was time to end this thing. The guy in question was a former friend and fellow blogger whom I had not communicated with in three years. But then here he comes walking back into my life and I say to myself, enough already, just go over and talk to him. Life is too short for this nonsense. So, I approached my friend, stuck out my hand, and said I was sorry that we had disagreed. He returned my handshake, and for a few seconds, I was feeling pretty good. Until I realized he was dead. Well, all right, the guy isn’t dead in real life. This was a dream, so none of what I just described actually happened. I had met this man through blogging several years ago. He was so supportive and friendly and he always left these wonderful comments on my posts. I’ve been blogging for nearly 20 years now—oh, God, is that possible?—and, to be honest, there were times along the way when I felt like calling it quits. But then I’d read one of his glowing

Hey, what’s the deal with San Antonio? That may sound like an opening line from a cut rate comedian, but seriously, people, why does this Texas city that I’ve never visited keep popping up in my life? San Antonio is the second-most populous city in Texas after Houston, as well as the site of the Alamo Mission, where Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, and many others died in 1836 in the infamous battle with Mexican troops. The city of 1.4 million people is also known for Paseo del Rio, a 15-mile-long river walk, the McNay Art Museum and the Natural Bridge Caverns. I once had a five-minute crush on a woman from San Antonio many years ago. She was an operator for a credit card company, or some other outfit and I was just so pleasantly surprised by her kindness. We chatted for quite some time, long after she had helped me solve whatever problem I had called about. The conversation was flowing so naturally that I dropped a hint that, hmm, maybe we should stay in touch? I know this

In 1957, a year that will live in infamy for many baseball fans, the Brooklyn Dodgers packed up all their cares and woe and headed west to Los Angeles. Brooklyn fans were devasted by the news and they directed all their hatred toward Walter O’Malley, the real estate businessman who acquired majority ownership of the team in 1950. The 2007 HBO documentary, “Brooklyn Dodgers: The Ghosts of Flatbush,” noted that if you asked a Brooklyn Dodger fan whom they shoot if they had a gun with only two bullets and were facing Hitler, Stalin, and O'Malley, the answer would be “O'Malley, twice!" Now, all you of old time Dodger fans, please put down your weapons, because, as I note in my blog’s bio, I was “born in Brooklyn in the same year the Dodgers moved out”-- and I had absolutely nothing to do with it. The team was once known as the Brooklyn Trolley Dodgers, which was reportedly coined by Manhattanites to mock the Borough of Church’s extensive surface transit system. Tr

I knew I saved that fortune for a reason. Whenever I do one of my wonton-soup-and-movie nights, I like to get a stack of fortune cookies to munch on whilst I enjoy my flick. I’ll readily admit that soup and fortune cookies don’t make for the healthiest meal plan, but I like to give myself a pass on the weekends. And I make sure to read every single fortune in the pile—both for entertainment as well as instruction because good advice can come from anywhere. The other day I found an old fortune on my kitchen table that read “we are taught by every person we meet.” The concept is not new, of course. I’ve seen a couple of variants on Instagram, including one attributed to John C. Maxwell that says, “each person we meet has the potential to teach us something.” The important word here is “potential” because we can’t learn a lesson unless we are willing to receive it. This can be quite challenging when we run across the seemingly endless supply of dopes, dickheads, liars and

I had to ask. It’s cold in New York right now, cold as a bastard, to be honest, and car owners of a certain generation might be familiar with the expression “dead as Kelsey’s nuts.” I was speaking with my brother Saturday morning while walking face-first into a freezing wind and he reminded me how our father loved to use that colorful phrase, which means something is done for, kaput and out of commission. After speaking with my brother, I recalled how Dad had dropped that line on me one time in the Eighties after he’d gone out to start up my old Toyota Corolla, which had given up the ghost in our garage. “It’s as dead as Kelsey’s nuts,” he said upon walking into the kitchen. I was too angry and upset about my lifeless car to ask him where the hell he had gotten such a weird expression. This was one of many phrases my parents used to say that hark back to an earlier time, such as “another job well done by your Treasury men in action,” which my father liked to say, and whic

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I’ve been looking all over my house today for my father’s prayer card. The card, which was given out at his wake, featured an image of St. Patrick on one side and a poem on the other. My mother’s prayer card had a portrait of St. Martin de Porres and for years I used to carry them both with me everywhere I went. It felt good to have them close to me, but I realized now that I haven’t seen St. Patrick in a while. Today is the 17th anniversary of my father’s death and I feel like reconnecting with him in some small way. My father had been hospitalized after falling and hitting his head a few weeks earlier. My sister and I saw him briefly in the intensive care unit and we were told that his condition was critical but stable. Early the next morning, my sister called me to say that he had died. It was five years after we’d lost our mother. “The new year is one week old and with the passing of Little Christmas on Saturday, he died right after the holidays officially ended,” I w