The Luna Park Gazette

Years ago, I offered my seat on the subway to an older gentleman who was standing close to me. He was using a cane and seemed to be having some difficulty, so I thought it would be a nice gesture to let him sit him down. However, he politely declined my invitation and then turned to a woman I presumed was his wife. “Do I look that bad?” he whispered to her. Now that I’m a senior citizen myself—ye gods—I’m starting to understand how this man felt. People aren’t hopping aside for me on the D train, (far from it) but one of my neighborhood businesses managed to irritate me. Now I have no trouble asking for senior discounts. Obviously, I wish I were younger, but since that’s not an option, then I will unashamedly demand my geezer markdown on my telephone bill, subway fare, even my car rentals on those extremely rare occasions when I rent a set of wheels. My supermarket has joined the fossil parade, offering a 10% discount every Wednesday to all people 65 years old and ol...

Boy, I sure hope I never see that guy again. This dude was so miserable and unhappy. Forever the victim, he couldn’t wait to tell you how he’d been wronged. The guy had a black belt in self-pity and a PhD in despair. It took a great deal of work, but I managed to push this fellow out of my life, and I don't want him coming back. Now this man wasn’t a former coworker, a neighbor, or a distant relative. No, I’m sorry to that his person was me. Specifically, I’m talking about the man I used to be years ago back when I was trouble with both my health and my career. I had gone through a bout of mononucleosis back in the Eighties and it developed into Epstein-Barr syndrome, where the mono-like symptoms would flare up repeatedly. People have some terrible times with this affliction; they’ve been forced to quit their jobs and severely curtail their lives. My condition was bad, but it paled in comparison to what these poor folks were suffering through. But nevertheless, I wa...

Many years ago, I had this dream where my brother Peter died. I was in my late teens or early twenties at the time and the strange thing about the dream was that even though Peter was dead, he had somehow been given a few more hours of life. I was the only one in the family who knew what was going on and I remember sitting at the dining room table across from Peter while we both cried because we knew he’d soon be leaving us forever. It’s been so long now that I can’t begin to recall any incident that might have triggered this dream or why he had been given that lease on life. I tried writing a play about the dream, but I don’t think I ever got beyond a first draft. Peter died back in May, and I still feel this terrible gap in my life. I’ll see a story on the news or watch a TV show or movie, and I still have the urge to tell him all about it—until I realize he’s not here. I think the dream came back to me after my brother’s widow sent some photos of Peter. There’s a pictu...