The Luna Park Gazette

“Didja' ever get one of them days when you should-a stayed in bed.” – Elvis Presley. If this had been a movie, I would’ve met the love of my life. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a movie, it was a real life and so, no, I didn’t meet the future missus, but I am trying to extract a lesson from Saturday’s disastrous experience. Okay, so what happened was one of my MeetUp groups was doing a tour of subway art, which is a great idea—no two ways about it. There are so many amazing murals and sculptures in the New York City subway, but I’m usually too busy rushing someplace to stop and take a look. The tour would be a great chance to slow down and view some of this fabulous work, while the group’s leader provided the background on the art work. I was definitely into it when I signed up for the tour. In fact, I was disappointed when the event was postponed two weeks ago, and I made sure to get on the list when it was rescheduled. But I woke up Saturday morning and I wasn’t feeling ...

Well, I’m glad I finally got that settled. Whenever I visited my Uncle Joe in Los Angeles, I could always count on him to use the word “Hijole!” several times during my stay. I got used to hearing this expression, but it never occurred to me to look it up or ask him what he was talking about. Now that he’s gone, I finally got around to find out what “Hijole!” actually means. Pronounced “ee-hoh-leh,” it is interjection used in several Latin American countries “to express surprise, exasperation, or to convey that someone is impressed.” Translations include the likes of “wow”, or “gosh.” Wikipedia tells me that hijole is an univerbation, which may sound dirty to all you degenerates out there—and shame on you, by the way—but it only describes a linguistic process that involves combining multiple words into a single word. For example, the word albeit comes from the Middle English expression al be it, in which “al” means although. Hijole is an ellipsis of “hijo de puta”, w...

As soon as I woke up this morning, I reminded myself to call Uncle Joe. Sunday is the day I usually call my dad’s younger brother in Los Angeles to get the latest on the West Coast branch of the Lenihans. And then I remembered I couldn’t call Uncle Joe today—or any other day. Joe died on Wednesday and so the last member of my father’s family left this world on the first of the new year. Joe was in his nineties and in failing health, but it’s hard to believe that I won’t be talking with him on the phone anymore or seeing him when I go out there for a visit. My sister and I have been staying with Joe and his wife Sara for so many years now. They took us all over the place to see the sites and meet up with our cousins. If I recall—and don’t quote me--I first went out there in the late Eighties when I was living in Pennsylvania. Joe and I had trouble finding each other when I arrived in LAX, but we met up and I sat in the back seat of his car recovering from my post-flight trau...