The Luna Park Gazette

I’ll be packing extra tissues today. It’s Christmas and I’m off to my sister’s house for great food, fabulous company and lots of weeping and wailing as we enjoy our favorite holiday movies. The two biggies are Scrooge , the very best adaption of the Charles Dickens classic and The Mousehole Cat , a beautiful animated story that puts me around the bend no matter how many times I’ve seen it. I've watched these movies many times over the years—particulary Scrooge - and it’s impossible not to think of my parents and, thus, it’s impossible not to cry. In addition, I’ll be having plenty of wine, pretty much guaranteeing that the tears will flow like the mighty Mississippi. During last year’s movie event I got a little lubricated, nodded off, and woke up just in time to start crying at some tender scene in Scrooge . “Go back to sleep!” my sister said and promptly threw a tissue at me. Ah, family, that’s what the holidays are all about. I keep telling myself that it doesn’t...

I met them back in the summer and I still don’t know who they are. Sometime in August I did a walk around the Central Park Reservoir with a Meet-up group I had just joined a few days earlier. It was a nice summer day, the people were cool, and the walk was excellent. By the end of the second—or was it the third?—revolution, I was ready for rest, food, beverage. We walked over to a bar on the West Side and sat down for what I thought would be good food and stimulating conversation. Well, the food was passable, but the conversation quickly went south when some people within the group started chattering among themselves and left me and a few other stragglers lingering in social limbo. I’m not sure how this happened and I guess I have to shoulder some of the blame for slipping into the void—it’s happened before--but it seemed like the stream of talk that came so easily during the reservoir walk dried up as soon as our butts hit the chairs. Whatever the reason, I decided it was t...

In 1843, the parish priest in the French town of Roquemaure asked a local a wine merchant and poet named Placide Cappeau to write a Christmas poem to celebrate the renovation of the church organ. Cappeau was seemingly an odd choice for this task, as he had never shown any interest in religion. But he obliged and wrote the poem “Minuit Chrétien" during a stagecoach ride to Paris. A short time later the composer Adolphe Adam set the poem to music and the song became “O Holy Night,” one of my very favorite Christmas carols. When done properly this song can bring tears to my eyes. And that’s exactly what happened last week when my sister and I took the train out to Long Island to meet up with our cousin Chris and her husband Art at the Milleridge Inn in Jericho. In the past we’ve had our Thanksgiving dinner with them at this historic spot, but we decided to take it easy this year and meet up the following week. It was nice sitting down for a meal at this place when it wasn...

I looked anxiously out the cab window as I rode with a friend through the streets of Paris on our way to catch a train. This was during my European vacation in the summer of 1982. The sun was coming up and there seemed to be no one around this most wonderful city. I was so tired and stressed about making the train that I don’t think I fully appreciated that beautiful morning. (And we did catch the train.) Sunrise will be at 8:25AM in Paris tomorrow morning. I only know this because my smart phone offered to share this bit of information with me when I hit a button and didn’t make my original request fast enough. This was one of a series of queries or tasks that my phone suggested, which included the score of the Giants game (I don’t follow football) and sending an email to Brian, whoever he is. Smart phones didn’t exist back in 1982, so I wasn’t carpal-tunneling my thumbs into numbness on Twitter or photographing the back of the driver’s head or shooting a video of the passing...

I did my best to keep it together, but I finally had to reach for the tissues. I’m a world famous weeper and I make no attempt to hold back the waterworks when I’m in the privacy of my home, where I can wail to the rafters and nobody’s the wiser. However, on this particular occasion I was at the Signature Theatre on 42nd Street in Manhattan taking in a performance of Athol Fugard’s Master Harold…and the Boys. But I couldn’t keep from crying, despite the crowd, as this is simply one of the most heartbreakingly beautiful plays I’ve ever seen. The language is fabulous and the emotions so raw that I never had a chance. I don’t know what the man sitting next to me was thinking when I start sobbing and after a few seconds I didn’t care. This was the third time I’ve seen Master Harold since 1982 when my oldest brother and I saw it with James Earl Jones and a young Danny Glover. I saw it again in 2006 with my sister and our late father and this time Danny Glover was playing the o...

I think I’m getting better at this. I had two book signings this week for my novel Born Speaking Lies and I’m starting to get this whole author thing down. On Wednesday I had a book launch party at the Mysterious Book Shop on Warren Street in Manhattan, where I’ve attended many readings. Now it was my turn. For years I’ve dreamed of standing in front of a group of people and reading from my work, but when I first arrived I saw nothing but empty seats. The list of attendees wasn’t that long to begin with and I had four cancellations before I even walked through the door. “It might be just the three of us,” I told my dear auntie and sister when they arrived. I was trying to chalk it up to experience; this was my first book, people have busy lives, and the old standby, shit happens. But none of that took away from the numbing sadness that had gathered around my heart. This was going to suck. When a UPS driver showed up to make a delivery I half-jokingly suggested we make ...

Thank God for the theater. My sister, auntie, and I saw Finian’s Rainbow at the Irish Repertory Theater today and we enjoyed a wonderful show filled with beautiful songs, fine acting and no Donald Trump. It was the closet thing to a remedy from Tuesday’s nightmare scenario that has one of the country’s largest KKK groups planning a parade next month to celebrate Trump’s election. Racist attacks have skyrocketed around America since Trump's victory so we shouldn’t be surprised that the boys in the white sheets have decided to come out of the closet. Trump claimed that he wasn’t aware of the incidents (was he in a fucking missile silo?), said there was only a small amount and told people to “stop it.” It seems fitting that there’s a character in Finian’s Rainbow who is an avowed racist--until he’s magically turned into an African-American. He learns pretty quickly what oppression is really like and amends his bigoted ways. Where’s a leprechaun when you need one? Trum...