The Luna Park Gazette

Have no fear, Elizabeth; your prayers will be heard. Elizabeth is from Yonkers and she’s suffering leg pain, hypertension, and sciatica, among other ailments. And she’s asking people to pray for her. I’ve never met Elizabeth, but I learned a little bit about her this week when I was walking home and spotted a form she had completed on the sidewalk. I was about to dismiss the folded sheet of blue paper as trash and continue walking, but once I saw handwritten notes across the back of the form I had to know what was going on. I’ve been picking stuff up off the ground ever since I was child, much to my late mother’s consternation, and there’s nothing more exciting than reading the words of a stranger. This probably qualifies as some kind of invasion of privacy, but I can’t help it. I like to read about other people’s lives. And it’s not just me: there’s an online publication, Found Magazine, that’s dedicated to this type of material. It turned out that this form was a request ...

I was singing along with Paul McCartney in the Key Food this morning when my voice started to crack. The supermarket’s sound system was playing “ Band on the Run ,” the title track from Sir Paul’s 1973 album, which dominated the airwaves back in those ancient times. My mother knew the song from hearing it repeatedly on her children’s various radios but she managed to mangle the lyrics by singing “ Man on the Run.” I set her straight on her mistake and we had a good laugh over it. But last week marked the 13th anniversary of her passing and hearing that song today was a sad reminder of the gap I still have in my heart after all this time. Still, I don’t recommend crying in the produce aisle as you’re liable to upset the other customers. This was my first full week since returning from vacation in Los Angeles. The good times are fading quickly from my mind much too quickly as the problems I shoved aside while staying at my uncle’s house were waiting for me as soon as my pla...

My sister and I looked down toward the ground and spoke in one loud voice. “Hi, Mr. B!” we said. Mr. B, a blind Australian cattle dog, also known as a Blue Rescue, turned his fabulous bluish-gray head in our direction and began barking. “Thank you!” his owner said. It was our pleasure. We met Mr. B and the lovely woman who had adopted him on Friday during our walk around Griffith Park in Los Angeles and she told us calling out to him was a very helpful part of his training. We were flying back to Brooklyn on the following morning and meeting Mr. B—who lost his sight at a very young age--did a lot to rescue us from our end-of-vacation blues. This whole trip was a rescue mission for me as I got to spend quality time in a great place with people I love. We stayed with my Uncle Joe and Aunt Sara, as we’ve done so often in the past, seeing some great sights, eating (too much) great food, and getting some much-needed rest and relaxation. All vacations should work out this we...

Get me the hell out of here! My sister and I are taking off for Los Angeles tomorrow morning and after the shellacking I’ve taken today I’m ready to ditch the plane and swim all the way out to the Left Coast if I have to. This might prove difficult given the large amount of dry land between here and California but then I ain’t thinking too clearly at the moment. Over the years I have come to expect misery of all stripes to strike as vacation draws nearer. It’s a working stiff’s rite of passage I suppose. Massive bills, sudden illnesses, work woes, and all manner of busted plumbing are to be expected as you prepare for some much needed rest and relaxation. But even I was stunned by the avalanche of madness that slapped me upside my life today. First I managed to somehow wrench my hip at the gym this morning. And what really burns me about this is the fact that I hurt myself after the goddamn workout. Yeah, that’s right, it was after the weights, after the boxing class, whe...

I never thought I’d say this, but thank God for Throwback Thursday. Like the rest of humanity, I waste entirely too much time on Facebook, liking, uploading, and complaining. Every day I swear that I’m going to cut down on my Face time and every day I’m right back on the insidious social network service, clicking away like a set of castanets. However, a recent Throwback Thursday, where people post old photos of themselves or their loved ones, brought back a fabulous 44-year old memory that I had totally forgotten. Mary, an old friend, onetime neighbor and former grammar school classmate, had posted a photo of her late mother. Now I love old photographs as they are just filled with stories, and, of course, seeing a friend’s golden oldies is even better. And this one was a real treasure. As I looked at that photo I had this flashback to my grammar school graduation dance. It was June 1971. Richard Nixon was in the White House and Our Lady of Angeles Catholic School in Brookly...

I’ve always been of something of a dreamer, effortlessly slipping away from reality into a world of my own making. When I was a kid my dad used to try to find out what was going on in my mind, which was pretty much a lost cause given all the strange activity going on in my noodle, but my father made the effort nonetheless. “What are you thinking about?” he’d asked me every so often. I usually just shrugged and looked away. I don’t remember the various scenarios my imagination was churning out back then—I can barely recall my thoughts from this morning. However, on this Father’s Day, I find myself thinking about the time The Three Musketeers made my dad cry. My father used to tell us about the books he read growing up and the Dumas classic was one of his favorites. And so when the Musketeers all left this world in The Man in the Iron Mask, it was too much for my father’s young self to bear. “I read the ending of that book,” he said, “and I went into the bathroom and I cried...

I saw the sign one Friday morning as I crossed Broadway on my way to work. It was on the back of Pepperidge Farm delivery truck parked on Fulton Street and I saw the words written especially for me: “God is in the Details.” He is? Hell, I thought the Devil was the in details. Had these guys switch duties without telling me? And why is Pepperidge Farm suddenly preaching the good word? I remember their commercials from the Sixties, which ended with some geezer with a straw hat, glasses and loose dentures telling us “Pepperidge Farm remembers…” The ads were an attempt to hark back to a simpler time when food was pure and healthy and not mass-produced in factories with ingredients that seemed more appropriate for rocket fuel than anything you’d want to eat. Then I looked closer at the sign and saw God wasn’t in the details. The slogan is “Good is in the Details.” Good God, I’m hallucinating again. No matter. God knows I needed some good news and I decided to accept this nonexist...