The Luna Park Gazette

Well, that was pretty careless of me. I climbed out of the comfort zone last week by signing up for the Gowanus Open Studies 2025, which is billed as Brooklyn’s biggest celebration of local art and artists. The event features hundreds of artists across dozens of venues in the greater Gowanus neighborhood, who opened their doors for a look inside the old factory buildings that have converted to studios. I attended one of these open houses last year and I had a great time, but, of course, when the appointed day arrived, I found myself cranking out a litany of excuses for skipping the event and chilling out home alone. I’m happy to say that I had ignored the voices of defeat and headed down to the former industrial zone around the Gowanus Canal to join the other members of the Meet Up group. I have childhood memories of driving through this area with my father, before it had been yuppified, and I remember how dark and spooky the place looked. Our leader, Ron, puts together som...

The conditions could not have been worse. I rarely watch movies on airplanes, as I don’t think it’s fair to shoehorn a filmmaker’s work into those tiny screens in front of my face. And to be honest, I’m usually either so frightened of flying or so stoned on Xanax to appreciate what I’m watching. But during my recent flight home from Denver, I had just the right amount of narcotics in my system where I was calm without being comatose. I shelled out 8 bucks for a pair of headphones, checked out the cinematic bill of fare and came across Flow , an absolutely beautiful animated film that won the Academy Award for best animated feature, while also being nominated for best international feature—the first film from Latvia to do so. The film, which also won a Golden Globe Award, is a kind of visual poem that features no dialog as it tells the story of a cat trying to survive in some post-apocalyptic world that has been devastated by a great flood. The fact that I was able to lose m...

Well, now I know what “corybantic” means. I recently returned from a trip to Denver and rural Nebraska, and I have to say I’m rather proud of myself. There were so many times that I wanted to bail on this journey. In addition to my fear of flying, I was also renting a car, and being a New Yorker, I was convinced my lack of driving experience would result in all manner of destruction. My brother, his wife, my niece and her husband live in the Denver area, and I was really looking forward to seeing them. I was going to Nebraska, though, to do research for a play that I’m writing. As soon I booked the trip, I wailed to my sister that I was facing certain doom all for a play that nobody would ever produce or even read. “Don’t look at it that way,” she said. “Think that you’re going out there to research a Pulitzer Prize winning play.” Now, that’s the right attitude. But I was still terrified. When Rob, our family’s designated car service driver, dropped me off at JFK at 5...

Hey, peeps, just a quick note to say that I'm taking a break for a litte while for some R&R I've been going through the usual pre-trip hysteria over flying, driving, getting lost, being kidnapped, losing my wallet and a few thousand other atrocious scenarious that don't bear repeating. Other than that I'm fine. I doubt if I'll have much time for blogging or reading your posts, but I promise to get up-to-date upon my return. Take care and enjoy life.

I looked down at my phone as soon as I heard the ping. “Hey, did that parcel I sent make it to you?” Parcel? The only packages I’ve been getting lately have been from Amazon, so, no, I didn’t, whoever you are. I wonder if this the same person who texted me on Friday. “I see your number, but not your name,” it read. “Can you tell me who are?” Probably not. Why would you send a parcel to someone you don’t know? Or maybe it was that individual who texted me last month, asking “how about going for coffee tomorrow afternoon?” “This is my new number,” the stranger added. “Please save it.” Okay, but if you really knew me, then you’d know I don’t drink coffee. But that’s all right, I’m about to make a killing in the stock market. “Goldman Sachs, yesterday's stock soared 80%,” a recent text told me. “Tomorrow's pick aims for 60%. Reply yes for free signal.” No, I don’t think I want a free signal, whatever that maybe. But at least one person cares about me. “Hey, ho...

I had just left my house this morning for my hike to the gym, when I saw a woman walking her dog. She was standing by a garden while her doggie took care of business. I was also set to walk around her when she turned toward me. “Have you ever stopped here and smelled the grapes?” she asked. Grapes? I didn’t even know there were grapes growing in this garden, never mind smelled them. She stood aside, whereupon I stepped up, took a deep breath and got a pleasant whiff of vitis larusca . “That’s nice,” I said. “I’ve heard of stop and smell the roses, but you can also stop and smell the grapes.” We laughed, I wished her a good day, and I continued to the gym. I’ve been trying all sorts of positive techniques to improve my rather dark disposition, and I recently came across the concept of the awe walk. This is where you shift your attention outward during a walk to notice and appreciate the wonder and beauty in the world. This can be found in nature, art, or acts of kin...

It was such a beautiful day, just like it was 24 years ago. This is the anniversary of 9/11 attacks that destroyed the World Trade Center, severely damaged the Pentagon and killed nearly 3,000 people. The sun was shining so brightly back on that morning in 2001, the kind of day where you’d think nothing could possibly go wrong. And then it did. I watched the reading of the names today, like I do every year, and it was so painful to hear the stories, to see how these poor people have suffered for all this time. Many of the readers hadn’t been born when the attacks occurred and they have grown up with a terrible gap in their lives. The world has changed so much since the attacks and not for the better. For a while people would ask if we had learned anything from the 9/11 attacks, but I haven’t heard that one in a while. And with good reason. Human beings—especially Americans—aren’t very good at learning from tragedies. And I include myself in that group. I can distinctly re...

The word “havoc” has quite a history. The term for widespread destruction dates to the 15th Century when the expression “to cry havoc” was a command for soldiers to begin plundering. Shakespeare gave us the line “Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war” in Julius Caesar . Havoc is also the title of a particularly hideous movie starring Tom Hardy, Forest Whitaker, Timothy Olyphant and a whole bunch of other people who should’ve known better. I Netflixed this film last week when I was looking for something light to view after a long day. Look, I was tired, and I knew I was aiming low, but I had no idea I was going down the sewer. The story—and I’m using this word very loosely—involves corrupt cops and a whole lot of shooting. Honestly, the scenes are little more than a set-up for the next blitzkrieg, as the poorly drawn characters engage in enough gunplay to reenact the Battle of the Bulge. And victims never get hit with just one bullet. Oh, no, a single slug is for wimps....

The bus driver got on the PA system as we reached Third Avenue on Saturday evening. “We’re now in Bay Ridge,” he told us. “Thank you for letting me take you home this evening.” Wait, what? You’re thanking me? This is New York City, right? I nodded off on the way home, maybe I was still asleep? But, no, this was really happening, and this young man had just provided a fitting end to a perfect day. What it makes it even more remarkable was that the day had fiasco written all over it before turning out to be a real gem. My plans for Saturday fell through at the very last minute and I was supremely bummed. I had this vision of myself sitting in my local park all day and going through the old Netflix and takeout routine that I do far too often. I didn’t want to let that happen this time, so I jumped on Meetup.com and looked around for a last-minute event. There were plenty of intriguing things happening, but nothing grabbed me. And then something caught my eye. The New York Ci...

There I was, sitting in the dentist’s chair, waiting for the show to start. I was getting for a temporary crown on my tooth and I was looking around when a sign on the wall caught my eye. “Please do not use cellphones in the torment room,” I read. Wait, what? The torment room? I was here to get a crown, not reenact the horror scene from Marathon Man . But then I looked harder and realized the word was “treatment”, not “torment” and realized that my overeager eyeballs had gone negative once again . I can’t say I’ve ever looked forward to visiting the dentist—and I really dread when the bills come due—but my doctor and his assistant are great people, and I wound up doing a fair bit of socializing amid the drilling and spitting. In addition to the good company, my dentist—it’s a father and son team—has a good office sound system and I often hear some nice old tunes over the racket. One song--“ Couldn't Get It Right ” by the Climax Blues Band—had been on my mind just a da...

“The only thing about America that interests me is Coney Island.” – Sigmund Freud Even the Native Americans thought the place was special. Back in the 1980s, I took a walking toward of Coney Island, the unique amusement area and neighborhood in the southwestern section of Brooklyn. Our guide told us that the place has always had its own kind of magic, long before the Cyclone, and the boardwalk, and Nathan’s July 4 annual hotdog eating contest. The Lenape, the original inhabitants, dubbed the place “Land Without Shadows,” which made an impression on me when I first heard it. The name had this eerie, otherworldly sound to it that conjured up images of spirits and sorcery. I thought it was pretty funky, but upon reflection, I realized that it is the beach, after all, and maybe the Lenape just meant that shade was hard to come by. But I still like it. Dutch settlers arriving in the 17th Century called the place “Rabbit Island”, although that’s about the only creature I ...

And now a word about Dr. Vanderspeigle... I just finished watching the final episode of Resident Alien , and it feels like I’m losing a dear friend. There I was, all set to write about a completely different topic, when I learned that one of my favorite TV shows was coming to an end. I should mention that this post may contain spoilers, so if you haven’t seen the series finale yet, you may want to stop right here. About a month ago I wrote that an episode of this sci-fi dramedy had brought me to tears. Little did I know what was in store for me this week. I’ve been a fan since Resident Alien’s debut in 2021 and looking back, I can’t believe how I hemmed and hawed about whether I should record it or not. Frankly, it didn’t look particularly good in the commercials, and I didn’t want to get hooked on yet another TV show. And then I watched the first episode and I was hooked. I still laugh at the scene where Harry, drunk after his first experience with alcohol, dances arou...

There was whole lotta shakin’ going on in Brooklyn on Saturday night and it had nothing to do with Jerry Lee Lewis. Officially the Magnitude 3 earthquake happened at 10:18 PM in Hasbrouck Heights, NJ. It is being described as a “small earthquake” though my feeling is that only small earthquake are the kind that happen somewhere else. All I know that I was minding my own business when my living room started vibrating. I was tired, having seen the Irish Repertory Theatre’s fabulous production of Conor McPherson’s The Weir , with my sister and auntie, which we followed up with a massive Chinese dinner. So, I wasn’t in the mood for any more drama, especially the kind that rocks my house. I kept telling myself that it was a low-flying jet rattling my windows, but it seemed like it was going to plow into my kitchen. Finally, the house stopped moving. I forgot all about it until Sunday morning when I was on the Stairmaster at my gym and saw the news on TV. My landlady, by th...

“Hold on a minute,” the voice on the other end of the line said, “I’ll put her on.” “Okay…” The “her” was in question was a former co-worker of mine whom I had not spoken with—nor even thought about, really—in quite a while. Yet, there she was on the other end of the line telling me that she had just delivered a baby—which I could hear crying in the background. This was intriguing, especially since we had worked together at a newspaper and midwifery hadn’t been on her resume. Of course, she wasn’t a midwife, she hadn’t delivered a baby, and she wasn’t on the phone. And there wasn’t even a phone. No, the whole scenario was streaming out of my subconscious to create yet another one of my oddball dreams. This one occurred late last week and while normally I can do a decent job of deconstructing my dreams, this one has me a bit stumped. I’ve been trying to identify the person who told me to hold on. I knew who the person was during the dream, and I suspect that she was ...

One of earliest blog posts I ever wrote was a little item entitled “Violent Swiss Almond.” At the time, I had noticed this habit I have where I would read a word or phrase, and my mind would take the first few letters and rush to a bizarre and completely incorrect solution. The title refers to my misreading of an ice cream flavor called Vanilla Swiss Almond. There have been countless other such screwups over the years. Once, while walking through my local supermarket, I noticed a food spread in the refrigerated section called “Don’t Eat.” Don’t Eat? What a strange name for a product, I thought. Why would I buy something with a name like that? But I looked again and saw that it was actually called Down East, which seem a little more sensible. (I later joked that they were going to call the stuff Tastes Like Shit, but it didn’t test well. Rimshot! ) It has finally dawned on me that nearly of my misreads are negative. I don’t think I ever came up with an encouraging screw-...

I reached for my notebook the moment the tears started to flow. “You’re crying over Resident Alien ?” I scribbled in my journal. I have made no secret of being a shameless weeper. I cry over anything, old movies, new movies, TV shows, songs and don’t even get me started on that Kohl’s Christmas commercial from a few years ago. Seriously, don't get me started or I'll fall apart all over again. You know things are bad when the women in my family—my sister and auntie—are fed up with all my waterworks. “Don’t start bawling!” is one my sister’s common commands. On Saturday morning, I was watching the latest episode of Resident Alien the Syfy channel’s comedy series based on a comic book that I’ve never read. The show debuted on January 27, 2021, and I was hooked immediately. Alan Tudyk plays the titular hero who is known on this planet as Harry Vanderspeigle, the town doctor in Patience, Colorado. The program is in its fourth season now and while it may have...

This one's for Old San Juan. Every time my sister goes on vacation or a business trip, she always brings back a T-shirt for me. Canada, Atlantic City, California, I’ve got a whole wardrobe of gift T-shirts. I really appreciate my sister's thoughtfulness and it’s pretty cool to walk around advertising all these funky locations. On Saturday morning, I was heading to my supermarket when I passed a couple on Bay Ridge Place. “We were in Old San Juan,” the man said to me. “It’s beautiful.” For a second there, I wasn’t sure what he was talking about until I realized I was wearing an Old San Juan T-shirt that my sister had gotten for me during a trip to Puerto Rico. “My sister was there,” I said. “Maybe it’s time for me to pay a visit.” We chatted a little longer and went our separate ways. It’s one of these casual encounters that I am learning to appreciate more. I used to take these occurrences for granted, but I see now in this harsh world in which we live, a pleasa...

I was in my gym Saturday morning when I saw the chyron running across one of the TV screens. The words “Woman injured in apparent shark attack” floated over my head, and immediately I heard John Williams’ famous movie theme playing in my head. “Here we go again,” I thought. Of course, I had recently seen Jaws , Steven Spielberg’s epic shark attack movie for the first time in 50 years, so that might explain my frame of mind. Yes, let’s pause for a minute and acknowledge the mind-numbing passage of time. Fifty years, a half-century, since the film credited with creating the summer blockbuster came bursting into movie theaters. I was 18 freaking years when I first saw this water-logged monster movie, back when Gerald Ford was president, eggs were going for 61 cents a dozen, a gallon of gas cost 57 cents and the median home price was $39,300. Jesus, I gotta lay down… My sister and I had gone to see a VHS screening of Jaws at Hi-fi Provisions, a funky record store located...

Sometime back in the Seventies, I had a whole lotta love that suddenly turned into a mountain of heartache. I was a student at Hunter College, and I had a serious crush on a woman that I had met through an after-school job. We’ll call her Kate. I was always hoping Kate and I could move beyond friends and start dating, but I felt awkward, and I was worried I’d lose her friendship if I tried to take things further. So, I did nothing, except sit back and hope that my dreams would magically come true all on their own, something I still do far too often. Kate had recently returned to Brooklyn from Los Angeles where she had been visiting her sister. We got together shortly after she got back, and I immediately sensed something was going on. “I’m in a bummed-out mood,” she said, using a popular expression of the day. After a little more prodding she told me that she was moving to L.A.—and now I was in a bummed-out mood. I finally blurted out my feelings for her, and, what a surp...

One night back in the 1980s, I came home to find my brother Peter and his wife had stopped by our house for a visit. They were sitting in the living room with my parents and when I walked in, my brother loudly called out, “hey, it’s Uncle Wimp!” Peter and I had a long history of relentless ball-busting, so I shrugged off his latest sophomoric insult and tried to move along. But he wasn’t letting it go. “Hey, Uncle Wimp,” he said. I was about to tell to shut his trap when I realized that the key word in his two-word insult was “Uncle”—meaning my sister-in-law was pregnant, and that I was indeed going to be an uncle. Well, I forgot all about the “wimp” business and gave my sister-in-law a hug, I was just so damn happy. The time flew by and the next thing I remember I was sitting at my desk at the Bay Ridge Home Reporter when my phone rang. “Robert,” my mother said urgently. “You’re an uncle!” “Boy or girl?” I shouted. “Girl!” “All right!” I hung up the phone, ran r...