The Luna Park Gazette

Somewhere in my apartment there is a photograph from the 1960s of me and my brother Peter dressed as altar boys. This wasn’t a Halloween party or some kind of irreverent prank. Peter and I were both very briefly altar boys while we were on vacation one summer at St. Mary of the Mount in Mount Pocono. We were staying at a nearby resort called Merrill’s Breezewood Lodge, a place our family absolutely loved. Apologies if I’ve written about this before, but we had such great times there. The property consisted of three houses spread out through the woods, and we would stay at either The Vacationer—a lovely white two story building—or The Hideaway, which was well named, as the gray house sat up on a steep hill and was virtually hidden from the rest of the world. The place had a swimming pool down by the main house where my siblings would swim and I’d flop around in the shallow end. At night, we’d all gather with the other guests around the pool to shoot the breeze and lo...

I was standing on the Court Street subway platform with my sister on Friday when I caught this guy looking me over. We’d just had a lovely afternoon at Brooklyn Bridge Park and were heading to the R train to get back to Bay Ridge for dinner at a local Thai restaurant. But now I was getting the skunk eye from a total stranger. New York’s subway system has an… intriguing cast of characters riding the rails and stalking the platforms. In fact, these people are so interesting that I strongly prefer taking the express bus or the ferry—which is how we got to downtown Brooklyn in the first place. The guy was standing with a young woman and, as we got closer, his gaze intensified. Finally, he spoke up. “I like that shirt,” he said. Shirt? What’s he talking about? It’s just a shirt, guy. What’s the big deal? And then I remembered: oh, right, I was wearing my “Funcle” T‑shirt, which my sister had gotten me a few years ago. The word is a portmanteau of “fun” and “u...

I was walking through Shore Road Park on Friday night when I made three new friends. It was early evening, and I was on my way to the 69th Street Pier in Bay Ridge to attend the local 9/11 Memorial Service. Nearly 240 people from the neighborhood were killed in the attacks, and memorials can be found at local schools and on street signs. I decided to cut through Shore Road Park to enjoy a little greenery, and on the way in I ran into a young father and his adorable little boy. The kid was so outgoing and friendly; he gave me a big wave, and when I got close, we happily high‑fived. It was exactly the kind of moment I needed on this day. And just when I thought things couldn’t get any better, another equally adorable little guy approached me. It turned out they were twin brothers, both with lovely smiles and big, beautiful brown eyes. “What’s this fellow’s name?” I asked, pointing to my high‑fiving amigo. “Led Zeppelin,” their father replied. I was con...

I saw the faces, but I couldn’t hear the voices. Today was the 25th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks — a quarter of a century since the deadliest terrorist attack in American history. As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I was standing across the street when the planes hit the World Trade Center, and it was a long, horrible trip home as the towers collapsed and spread toxic clouds throughout lower Manhattan. My mother was in the hospital for lung disease, which would end her life less than a year later, and my father marked his 80th birthday. Twenty-five years. I’ve returned to Ground Zero for some of the major anniversaries, but since I’ve started working remotely, the trips have been less frequent. When I can’t get there, listening to the reading of the victims’ names is an essential part of the commemoration for me. Today I had to be there. I hemmed and hawed about going all week, but I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t make the effort. I was reluctant to...

I wonder what was in that bag. My luggage played a significant role in a dream I had last week, as did my brother Peter, who died over a year ago. I’ve forgotten most of it, but I remember stepping off a train that looked like the BART in San Francisco and seeing my brother. “Do you have my bag?” I asked, as the train doors closed behind me. Peter shook his head, and I turned around to see my bag sitting on the train that was slowly pulling out of the station. Things got fuzzy after that, but I don’t recall being particularly upset about the lost luggage. Still, it was very important to me. Okay, so clearly this dream was about loss. The case resembled an old style fencing bag, and since my brother was on Hunter College’s fencing team in the 1970s, perhaps losing it was symbolic of losing Peter. I still have these dark moments when I think about my brother and feel the terrible gap in my life. Then it passes and I feel better — at least for a little whil...

I saw her coming from half a block away. She was an older woman, although as I close in on 70, I’m not very comfortable labeling people as elderly. This lady was walking up 72nd Street this morning, hunched over her shopping cart, which doubled as a walker. I recently came across the term dowager’s hump on Google — an abnormal outward curve of the upper back, formally known as hyperkyphosis. This was near the end of my 30 block walk around the neighborhood, my attempt to get some kind of physical activity since my latest back attack is keeping me out of the gym. The good news is that I’m no longer shrieking every time I make a move, and my sister and I were able to make our yearly pligramge to Coney Island for the fireworks show and a spin on the Spook-A-Rama. But I still can’t do my cardio-iron pumping routine at Harbor Fitness Go. I’ve always been a gym junkie, so being sick or injured makes me seriously antsy. But I’m trying to be sane about this. My logi...

On Saturday morning I got out of bed without screaming. That may not sound like big news to most people but, given how I had risen to meet the morning on Thursday and Friday, it was quite an achievement. I did something to my back — big time. I suspect it started about ten days ago, when I was doing my daily qigong routine, one of the gentlest forms of exercise you can find. I reached down toward the floor, as the YouTube instructor told me, and turned to the left and then to the right — and something went bad. Of course, I tried to shrug it off. Of course, I went through my regular gym routine with only slight variations. And I didn’t feel anything, except perhaps some mild discomfort. In fact, on Wednesday, I went to a doctor’s appointment, picked up my laundry, and did my weekly shopping routine and didn’t feel a thing. But within a few hours I was in agony. I’ve had back problems for a long time now. Usually, it manifests as severe pain in my lower ...

“Don't look back. Something might be gaining on you.” --Satchel Paige. And I thought they’d last forever. Two iconic buildings where I spent a total of nearly 10 years of my life are empty shells now and I’m still a little shocked. I worked at newspapers in Pennsylvania and Connecticut from the late Eighties to the mid-Nineties, where I had plenty of thrills, laughs and temper tantrums, and I learned recently that one is up for sale and the other is for rent. Time moves on, nothing last forever, all things must pass. I get all that, but it’s jarring when it happens to you. The two structures could not look more different. The now former Pocono Record building on Lenox Street in Stroudsburg, PA, where I started my first daily newspaper job in 1988, is a 21,000 one-story building on a 1.79-acre lot. The Waterbury Republican-American building at 389 Meadow Street in Waterbury, CT is a landmark in the west-central Connecticut city. The building is a form...

“Everybody thinks you reach a certain age and you're a grownup, but it's not true. Nobody grows up until the day they croak.”—Keith Richard The timing was spooky. I’m planning to retire in about nine months, which is both scary and wonderful. Yeah, I’m very much looking forward to finally stopping work, but I still can’tbelieve I’ve actually reached retirement age. I finally stopped by my local senior center at the urging of my landlady last week, who told me the place has a gym. I wanted to check out the equipment in hopes of using it as a backup on rainy, cold, or busy days when I can’t make the 15‑block walk to my health club. Plus, I figured I’d check out their classes — Tai Chi, stretching — and maybeeven the cafeteria. Okay, first, I want to say it’s a great place that does wonderful work. I met some very nice, helpful people, including one who gave me a tour and explained everything the center has to offer. The problem is me. I’m still having trou...

So, are you glad you did this?” The question came from Jerry, the director of my one act play Mercy Road, as we sat in the lobby of the Chain Theatre on Wednesday night. It had been one hell of a ride—fear, panic, joy, and ultimately, a ton of gratitude. Jerry was the backbone of this project, taking time out of his schedule to find the actors and bring this show to life. And it’s all rather amazing, considering this production came very close to not happening. As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I never thought I’d get this far. I sent my play to the Chain in May and promptly forgot all about it. So of course I had a massive conniption fit when the theater accepted the damn thing. I was inches away from turning them down, convinced I’d never be able to find actors, get a director, and have everyone ready to take the stage by July 12—the first of three engagements. But Jerry talked me out of it, strongly advising me not to pass up such a wonderful opportuni...

“There is no duty we so much underrate as the duty of being happy. By being happy we sow anonymous benefits upon the world.” Robert Louis Stevenson “Relax,” Jerry said softly. “Take deep breaths.” He was right, of course. Inhaling a healthy hunk of air slowly and deeply into the lungs is a great way to stave off anxiety. We were sitting in the third-floor lobby of The Chain Theatre on Sunday evening, where the second performance of my one-act play "Mercy Road" was about to begin. Jerry is the play’s director and the guiding force of this production who kept everything on track while keeping me out of the loony bin. Opening night had been an absolute blast, but that was two weeks ago—plenty of time for all the anxiety and terror I went through the first time to make a return engagement. My wonderful sister was coming again and bringing three of her friends, and my writing coach Rosemary was also attending with two of my buddies from our class. I di...

“ The Mets have shown me more ways to lose than I even knew existed .” — Casey Stengel, New York Mets manager, 1962 to 1965. On June 21, 1968, Earl Warren submitted his resignation to President Lyndon Johnson after 15 years as Chief Justice of the United States. On this first day of summer, Secretary of the Army Stanley Resor announced that the Army had sharply reduced its support of civilian marksmanship programs and would no longer sell pistols, only excess rifles. The move came in response to demands for tighter gun controls following the assassination of Robert F. Kennedy, who had been murdered in Los Angeles earlier that month. Mort Sahl was playing at the Village Gate. The Party , starring Peter Sellers, was showing at the Alpine Theater, just a few blocks from my family’s home. And way up in Flushing Meadows, the New York Mets clobbered the L.A. Dodgers. “If some benevolent dream merchant decided to compose a script for the satisfaction of New York Mets fans among ...

I’ll get right to the point—thank you, St. Genesius! We had our first performance of my one-act play Mercy Road at the Chain Theatre on Sunday and it was a blast. I was absolutely out of my mind leading up to the show, conjuring all kinds of hellacious scenarios, none of which—surprise!—actually happened. My new best friend, St. Genesius of Rome, came through with interest. The two cast members acted up a storm, and the audience appreciated every second of it. Of course, I was short-tempered and completely irrational leading up to showtime. I freaked at every single disruption no matter how small. The big blowout occurred when I entered the building and mistakenly thought both of the elevators were out of commission and we’d all have to walk up three flights of stairs to the theater. “My aunt can’t climb all those stairs!” I wailed, as a young woman pressed the button for the front elevator…which was working. “I’m sorry about the outburst,” I muttered as t...

Okay, St. Genesius, it’s up to you now. For the last week, I’ve been furiously praying to the one-time thespian who became a Christian martyr and the patron saint of actors, clowns, comedians, dancers, and musicians—along with lawyers, barristers, people with epilepsy, printers, stenographers, and victims of torture. That’s quite a roster, come to think of it, but right now I just need St. Genesius of Rome to please, please, pretty please with two tons of sugar on top, look down upon and bless my one-act play Mercy Road , which kicks off tomorrow for a three-show run at The Chain Theatre in Manhattan. As we got closer to the premiere, I became so twisted that I pounced onto Google, hammered out “patron saint of theater” in search of divine intervention, and learned about the Roman comedian who used to perform in plays that mocked Christianity. According to legend, Genesius had a rapid change of heart while performing before Emperor Diocletian. He had planned to thu...

"We learn the rope of life by untying its knots." — Jean Toomer The name Evan traces its roots to an ancient Hebrew moniker meaning “God is gracious.” As a standalone Hebrew word, it translates to “rock” or “stone,” while it’s sometimes used as a shortened form of Greek names like Evander (“good man”) or Evangelos (“good messenger”). All those terms work for me, and they apply to a neighbor who came to my aid last week when I was seriously tangled up in blue. Evan walked into my life during my weekly visit to the laundromat. I was about halfway down my block when the drawstring on my laundry bag got caught in the wheels of my shopping cart, and everything came to a grinding halt. I looked down at the snarled mess gripping the axle of my cart. The cords of the laundry bag had a lo mein–level stranglehold on my ride, and I couldn’t move an inch. I have since learned that knots are among humanity’s oldest technologies, predating even the Stone Age. ...

We interrupt this week’s blog post with some monstrous news: if you’re going to be in New York next month, please stop by the Chain Theatre. Back in May, I submitted my one-act play Mercy Road to Chain’s summer festival and promptly forgot all about it. I was certain it would go nowhere and I’d get another cordial rejection letter thanking me for participating while pointing me to the exit. But then this theater company on West 36th Street pulled a fast one on me. They said yes. Wait — what? That’s exactly what they did. Suddenly I was responsible for assembling a director and a cast, and I didn’t begin to know what to do next. I was sorely tempted to withdraw from the running, but my buddy Jerry — an actor who’s appeared in several Chain productions—talked me out of it. He offered to find the actors and direct the play as well, thus saving my keester. I’ve been promising for the longest time to get out of the comfort zone, and I certainly think this qualifies. We’...

One of the things I miss most about my brother Peter is his laugh. He would call me just about every day, and I loved getting him laughing with a joke or funny story. When it came to laughter, Peter did not hold back. I was thinking recently of one of my favorite Rodney Dangerfield jokes — one I know would’ve had him roaring. “My doctor told me I was crazy,” Rodney lamented. “I told him I wanted a second opinion. He says, ‘You’re ugly, too!’” We also traded war stories about our father, who could get mighty ornery with very little provocation. Today is Father’s Day, and tomorrow is Peter’s birthday, so it feels like a one‑two to the heart. Peter loved his daughter Kristin so much, and I know he was incredibly proud of her. He also loved animals, particularly dogs, and I recall how he once started crying when he told me about a movie where someone’s canine died. And Peter wanted absolutely nothing to do with A Dog’s Purpose, a 2017 film where a dog dies and is reincarnated...

I was wheezing my way through a Stairmaster workout last week when I took a half‑century backward. Like most fitness clubs, my gym has music pouring out of the sound system nonstop. They keep it at a decent volume so you can enjoy the songs, but you can also tune out the tunes you don’t like. For years I worked out in the early morning, when the club played a solid hour of Frank Sinatra — probably to please me and my fellow dawn‑patrol geezers. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of mentioning how much I liked it to the staff, and it seemed like a short time later Old Blue Eyes went silent. The last time I heard Frank at my gym, the sound system abruptly cut him off midway through “You Make Me Feel So Young.” That made me feel so old. But my Stairmaster flashback concerns another Sinatra — his daughter Nancy — whose voice suddenly filled the gym in the midst of my stationary ascent. I strained to hear the lyrics over the clang of barbells, the gym chatter, the pounding ...

“ Hell is truth seen too late.”—Thomas Hobbes And then the dog showed up. I joined my sister and her friend on Saturday to see The Fear of 13, a play based on the life of Nick Yarris, who spent 22 years on Pennsylvania’s death row before becoming the state’s first death row inmate exonerated by DNA evidence. The play, written by Lindsey Ferrentino, is based on a 2015 British documentary film and stars Adrien Brody as Yarris and Tessa Thompson as a death row volunteer, both in their Broadway debuts. It was also one of the most exhilarating theatrical experiences I’ve had in years. I knew next to nothing about the play when we walked into the theater, and I’d never seen the film. But I was in tears by the time the lights came up. Brody is simply extraordinary as he takes us on the brutal journey of Yarris’ life — how this stupid young kid with a knack for stealing cars ended up convicted and sentenced to death for a 1981 kidnapping, rape, and murder. Director David Crome...

Skip the sneakers. That’s just one nugget of advice that comes up when you google “how to dress for a job interview.” Men are advised to wear polished leather dress shoes or oxfords to go with a navy, charcoal, or black suit with a light-colored button-down shirt, “along with a conservative, high-quality tie.” But you can’t wear kicks. Of course, I already knew that. I always put on my dress shoes when I meet with a prospective employer, no matter how laid back the company appears to be. And yet I did that very thing when I went to inquire about a reporting position at the Washington Post. Well, it wasn’t a real interview. This was a moment in yet another very weird dream of mine where I had gone to the 149-year-old publication in the nation’s capital and made a string of rookie interview mistakes that looked like a career suicide note. This wasn’t a full-blown nightmare where I wake up trembling and thanking God none of the horrifying events actually happened. No, this w...

They never saw it coming. That was the tagline from a movie called Derailed, but it pretty much describes my feeling about aging. By the grace of God, I turned 69 today, and I was reviewing my birthday blog post from 2006, which I described as “a quiet affair—just me, my dad, and my sister.” I titled the post What Hath God Wrought? , which was the first official message transmitted over a commercial telegraph line in the U.S. on May 24, 1844. Patti LaBelle, Bob Dylan, the Brooklyn Bridge, and my grandmother also celebrate their birthdays today. “Mary, my dad's aide, made a delicious pasta dinner, my sister got the cake and sang ‘Happy Birthday’—my dad didn't seem able to join in—and then we watched Derailed on DVD,” I wrote on that day. Back then I was shocked that I would be turning 50 the next year. Now, I’m just kind of numb to the numbers. “I couldn't help but think of my mom when I looked at the cake's candles flickering in front of me, I could almost...