The Luna Park Gazette

This could’ve been the beginning of a beautiful friendship, if I had just been a little bit smarter. During my recent flight out to Denver I made the acquaintance of some very lovely people, but it didn’t last long. The plane was crammed with bodies as I made my way down the aisle and I’m sure the airline would’ve stuffed people into the overhead compartments if the FAA had given them the thumbs up. I had the window seat, much to my dismay, since I don’t particularly enjoy being reminded how high up I am. Aisle seats allow to me to imagine that I’m going to the movies instead of streaking through the sky five miles above the world. Plus I like being closer to the can. I checked my ticket one more time then looked at the elderly couple sitting in the first two seats. “I think this is me,” I said. And then I looked down and saw that the gentleman had no legs—seriously—just two aluminum supports starting at the knees. “I can sit in the aisle seat so you don’t have to get up...

The handwriting on the envelope looked awfully familiar—and just plain awful as well. I came across this mysterious letter while going through my mail on Thursday afternoon. There was no return address, but I immediately recognized the pathetic penmanship. Hideously hacked scribble that could drive a boatload of nuns to drink, distraction, and dementia, there’s only one person on God’s green earth who has handwriting this bad. And that person is… me . But why the hell would I write a letter to myself? I know my memory is slipping but I didn’t think I had resorted to churning out midnight missives in my sleep. Or had I? I held the letter in my hand for several seconds trying to figure out what it was all about, studiously ignoring the obvious solution—like opening the goddamn thing. I thought of my father, who used to pull the same exact stunt. He’d actually hold his own letters up to the light to try and read their contents, even though the envelope was addressed to him. ...

It took three tries but I finally made it to Colorado. I’m back in Brooklyn after a two-week visit with my oldest brother’s family in Fort Collins, CO. I’m jetlagged, stuffed with all sorts of evil foods, surrounded by several tons of dirty laundry, piles of junk mail and a bloated DVR and I don’t a howling rat’s ass about any of it. I’m happy, goddamnit! This time neither snow nor illness blocked my way west, allowing me to spend time with my family’s western contingent. I saw spectacular scenery, crossed paths with bizarre individuals, treated myself to a mineral bath, frolicked in a hot tub under the stars, and, on the very day that Robin Williams died, I looked upon the most incredibly beautiful rainbow this side of The Wizard of Oz . It was a hell of a trip. Yet, of all the fabulous sights and experiences, I have to say without a doubt that the highlight of my vacation was my beautiful, crazy, nutzoid niece Victoria. This 19-year-old whirlwind had me laughing so lo...

Of course it’s going to rain tomorrow. Naturally the weatherman says there will be downpours all morning, the very same morning that I’m scheduled to fly out to Colorado. The idea of flying isn’t terrifying enough for me; oh, no, I had to have a monsoon rolling into town when I take off into the sky. “Saturday will be a good day to stay in bed,” the meteorologist on NY1 said yesterday. If only, pal, if only. I’m taking a third run at visiting my brother and his family in Colorado, the last two attempts having been scrubbed due to illness and hideous weather. I’m hoping the third time will really be a charm, but the pre-travel agita is gnawing at me something fierce. I’m worried about the flight, about the drive to the airport. I’m worried I’ll forget something or that there’ll be something wrong with my plane ticket. I’m worried about things that I can’t even name. My mind is on total recall, dredging up all the mistakes and missteps I made in the last 20 years. No...

Whenever I walk into my kitchen, I get this feeling that I’m being watched. I live alone and I have no pets, but I do have a microwave oven that I have been steadfastly ignoring for the last few months and I think it’s starting to get pissed. The thing sits on the counter eyeballing me, soundlessly demanding to know what’s going on. What’s the story? It seems to say. Why haven’t you used me for so long? What can I say? Breaking up really is hard to do. And in this case, my dear little food zapper, it’s not me; it’s most definitely you. There was a time when my microwave was the only thing between me and starvation—or at least eating a lot of raw food. I lived to hear the sound of the little ping telling me dinner was ready as anxiously as a hamster hoping for his next food pellet. I watched the seconds tick away on the timer like Major Tom commencing countdown, engines on. But something happened after all those years of take-out, heat up and throw away. I started cookin...

Somewhere amidst all the noise, I heard music. I was sitting in my dentist’s chair last week with my head cranked back and my mouth wide open while Dr. Cohen went about cleaning the old ivories. No cavities, thank God, and in just a few minutes I would be out in the world enjoying the gorgeous summer weather. But above all the whirling and sloshing I could hear someone singing. Was I imagining things or had my dentist been working on a ventriloquist act in his spare time? “I have often walked down the street before but the pavement always stayed between my feet before…” Wait a minute. That’s “ On the Street Where You Live, ” a lovely song from My Fair Lady . It seems my dentist has music playing in his office, but he keeps it so low—and I am apparently so clueless—that I had never heard it before. And I like this tune so much that I was tempted to ask Dr. Cohen to hold up his noble work until it was over. But I kept my mouth shut--even though it was open. “ Tomorrow ” from...

I’m always on a subconscious search for pleasant memories of my late parents. I’ll be sitting around, reading or looking at TV and suddenly some random bit of the past will pop into my brain like a hot slice of toast. I recently recalled a scene from my childhood and even though it’s only a fragment, I think it says a lot about my parents’ personalities. This was about 50 years ago. (Good God ...) I remember sitting in our living room with my dad watching a horrendous Italian science fiction flick called Battle of the Worlds or Il pianeta degli uomini spenti . The movie starred Claude Rains, one of my favorite actors, in his final movie role. While he worked in television for a few more years, it’s a shame that Rains, who did such tremendous work in Casablanca, The Invisible Man, and Mr. Smith Goes to Washington to name a few, should have such a howling dog on his resume. But you do have to pay the bills. So we’re watching the movie when my mother walks in and sees Claude...