The Luna Park Gazette

Whenever we went on vacation, we always took our dogs with us. Kennels were absolutely out of the question as we considered our pets to be members of the family. You don't put your loved ones in a cage just because you feel like getting out of town for a few weeks. There were a few occasions, though, when we were staying at my aunt’s farmhouse in the Berkshires when we had to leave our dog, Casey, at the house. Usually we’d be going to the movies or dinner and it wouldn’t be right make him sit in the car for two or more hours. And just before we left my father would explain the situation to Casey. “Casey,” he’d say, “you have to stay home and guard the house. Guard the house .” My dad usually said it twice to drive the point home, but honestly he didn’t have to tell Casey even once. Dogs are natural born guardians, ready to lay down their lives for their loved ones without a moment’s hesitation. I thought about the dogs in our family recently when my sister and I made ...

On March 31, 1980, WBA Heavyweight Champion John Tate was on his way to winning his first title defense when his opponent, Mike “Hercules” Weaver, landed a massive left hook to Tate’s head and sent the young fighter crashing face forward to the canvas. It was a stunning upset , something that just wasn’t supposed to happen. Weaver was considered a journeyman, even though he had given Larry Holmes a rough time in a losing bid to win the WBC belt. (Illustration by Brolga) I was watching the fight at home with my father on that March night and my dad let out this roar when Tate tumbled limply to the mat. “ Whoa! ” my dad shouted. We watched as Tate’s handlers rushed into the ring, turned the fallen fighter over and tried to revive him. He looked like a corpse. They gave him oxygen and when Tate finally did stand up, the sportscaster said four men were needed to help him out of the ring. “Shocking…” my father said. But things were about ...

As the recipient of many a rejection letter, I’ve gotten pretty good at recognizing when I’m about to get the heave-ho. The language is always polite and supportive, but the message is still the same: scram. And yet I always read every word on the outside chance that the latest letter may be the one that says “Yes” after all those “Nos.” I try to stay positive, I really do, but when I saw an email from Project Greenlight in my inbox the other day, I got that old familiar feeling. Project Greenlight is a TV show produced by Ben Affleck and Matt Damon, among others, that gives first-time filmmakers a chance to direct a feature film. The deadline to submit entries came up in August, on the very night before I was going to fly out to Colorado. I was sorely tempted to flag it: I had too much to do, my entry wasn’t top notch, I'm too old, and, the old standby—I didn’t have a chance in hell of winning. Excuses? I’ve got a million of ‘em. But this time I decided to rewrite tha...

I looked at the clock as I left my gym this morning and watched that red second hand sweep around the dial. It was 8:36 AM, September 11, 2014. In 10 minutes there would be a moment of silence to mark the time when the first hijacked plane struck the North Tower of the World Trade Center 13 years ago at 8:46. I thought of the second hand running around the clock, relentless, unstoppable. I’d give anything to back it all up, return to that beautiful sunny morning in 2001 and undo this nightmare. But time only goes one way. There’s a song by the Moody Blues called “ Isn’t Life Strange ” that’s been playing in my head for last day or so, even though I haven’t heard it in years. It’s a solemn tune that seemed to fit today’s mood. “ Isn’t life strange ,” it goes, “ a turn of the page. A book without light, unless with love we write. To throw it away, to lose just a day, the quicksand of time, you know it makes me want to cry, cry, cry…” I walked down Church Street and stood out...

I’m sending Isabel and Jack back to Colorado, but I’m going to let Sabrina stay around a little while longer. Isabel and Jack are brother and sister—I believe-and I first laid eyes on them last month at a used book store-coffee bar in Fort Collins, Co. when I was visiting my brother and his family. We had gone to this place one morning, and while I have far too many paperbacks in my house already, I couldn’t help but wander over to the used books section in the back of the store. I’m just going to look, I lied to myself. I’m not going to buy anything . And I was doing pretty well until I walked by the 50-cent shelf and spotted The Hook by Donald E. Westlake . I didn’t know this particular title, but I’ve been a Westlake fan for a long time. I thumbed through the book, trying to decide if I should buy it or not when a wallet-sized photo fell out from in between the pages. It was a picture of a little girl holding even smaller boy. On the back it said “ Isabel 3½ ” and “ Ja...

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. ...