The Luna Park Gazette

It was a great day to be me. I celebrated my 57th birthday on Saturday and by some miracle I was able to put aside all my worries, complaints, fears, resentments and hallucinations and have an absolutely fantastic day. Of course the fact that I was out with the two ladies I love the most—my sister and my auntie—had a lot (everything!) to do with it. First we saw Sea Marks, a charming two-character play at the Irish Repertory Theatre, then headed over to Le Zie 2000 for delicious dinners and decadent desserts, and after that we walked along the High Line, a public park built on an elevated freight rail line. Some people feel compelled to dive out of airplanes or throw lavish parties to celebrate their birthdays, but I felt truly satisfied and grateful for this simple, yet lovely day. We had great food, a lot of laughs and much love, the key ingredients any truly happy birthday—and a happy life. And I’m very slowly starting to see the importance being grateful for what you ...

I ran to the bus stop on 69th Street in Friday night’s downpour just as the B9 was turning off Fourth Avenue. Excellent timing , I thought, as I fell in behind a woman lugging a pair of shopping bags. I felt lucky to make the connection, but my traveling companion looked across the aisle at me as soon as we sat down and shook her head. “Last bus driver wouldn’t stop,” she told me in a pronounced Russian accent. “Driver close door in face !” It seems she had been waiting for the B64, which had come by a few minutes earlier. The driver of that bus, however, didn’t feel like picking up passengers apparently and left her high and dry—in the pouring rain. “I bang on door,” the Russian lady told me. “I wave at him. But he don’t stop. I don’t like to curse, but I shout, ‘ you asshole! ’” I listened to her story and tried to comfort her. It certainly sounded outrageous and even our bus driver muttered some kind of apology on behalf of his inconsiderate coworker. I was in a good mood...

I usually hate the sight of graffiti, but today I spotted a message in the subway that looked as if it had been written just for me. I was riding the N train and as we pulled into 36th Street—one stop short of my destination--I looked out through the open door and saw two words crudely painted across a pillar. “ Love yourself .” That’s it. Just a simple phrase, scrawled in black ink on a mustard-colored girder. But I felt like I had discovered the secret of life. I paused for a second because I really wanted to get home and enjoy the sunshine, but I didn’t want to leave those words behind, not on this of all days. So I jumped off the train, took out my smart phone and lined up a shot… I thought I could get through Mother’s Day without any kind of emotional turmoil, but I wrong. Even though my mother has been gone for nearly 12 years, I still feel the pain of losing her. It started earlier in the week when I walked into a Hallmark store near my office to get a birthday card...

I thought doppelgangers were the stuff of legend and horror movies. It just didn’t seem possible that anyone else out there could look as stunningly handsome as yours truly. But then there was this time in my life when I applied for job in Honolulu and now I’m not so sure. Yeah, seriously, Honolulu: sunshine, luaus, ukuleles, Steve McGarrett, the whole Hawaiian fantasy. Now let’s all pause for a moment and try to imagine me, a lifelong Brooklyn knucklehead living in the Aloha State. I went to Hawaii on vacation a few years ago and loved it. So when I saw ad for a job that matched my skills, I sent in my resume just as for a laugh. I never thought anyone would ever get back to me. Well, they did. The editor of this particular publication shot me an email within days of my response and we set up phone interview. We talked for over an hour and I have to say this interview was more intense than many of the face-to-face job encounters I’ve had with prospective employers. The ...

I thought I was hearing things. I was sitting in my nice, comfy seat on the X27 bus Friday morning, all set to slip into my commuting coma. This is a blissful state of mind where I daydream, meditate and enjoy the occasional X-rated fantasy. And by “occasional,” of course, I mean “non-stop.” I was just about to step off into the abyss when a young woman got on the bus at 65th Street and stood right over me. I expected her to keep going until she found a seat when I realized that there probably were no seats left. I paused for just a moment before I looked up at her. “Would you like to sit down?” I asked. I’ve done this many times before. On each and every occasion the woman in question says “no, thank you,” and I cheerfully remain on my keester with a clear conscience. Only things were a little different this morning. Instead of saying “no, thank you,” this young lady said, “oh, thank you.” Oh, as in “oh, you mean you really want me to give you my seat?” Yes, that’s ...

I met Cathy on the B9 bus one Saturday night when I was coming home from Manhattan. It was a cold, colder than it had any right to be, and I couldn’t wait to get back to my apartment. Cathy, an elderly lady with a shopping cart, was sitting across from me. “Are you going to Shore Road?” she asked a teenaged girl sitting a few seats away. The girl shook her head no and looked down to the floor, so I put my hand up. “I am,” I said. “Can you walk me to my door?” “Yeah, sure.” The teenager got off at the next stop so it was just Cathy and I riding to the end of the line. As she struggled to stand up, I saw that Cathy needed the shopping cart to help her walk. “I fell down in my own house one time,” she told me. She wanted me to walk with her because she was afraid of the winds that blew in off the Narrows. Those winds can be fierce. Back in my jogging days, I used to run along the bike path that runs along the Narrows and on freezing winter mornings I could actually see...

Let the record reflect that I did my very best to make this thing happen. I’m known the world over for hemming and hawing on any and all decisions. Given the right conditions, figuring out what I want for lunch can turn into a veritable opera of torment and self-abuse. So just imagine the torture I inflicted upon myself when I recently received an email from the School of Visual Arts announcing a two-week screenwriting course in Rome. The class was expensive, more than I wanted to spend, honestly, but it sounded great. You get to see Rome, work with film instructors at an Italian university, write short scripts and then—best of all—hand your work over to actors who would then perform the scenes. I’ve taken courses with the SVA before so I know they’re a good outfit. Two summers ago I took a director’s course there and then waaaay back in 1980, I went on a two-week trip to Trinity College in Dublin for a screenwriting class with Ernest Tidyman . I met one of my best friends d...