The Luna Park Gazette

Every day after lunch, I get up from my desk, leave my office, and walk among my people. Well, they’re not exactly my people. They’re the tourists who come to the Wall Street in droves to visit Federal Hall, the stock exchange, the 9/11 Memorial, and so many other fantastic sights that the financial district has to offer. But seeing as I’m a born-and-bred New Yorker who has worked in and around this area for a dozen years, I feel a bit of a connection with these folks who have traveled to my hometown from all corners of the globe. They come alone, or with their spouses and families, and often in groups led by mic’d-up tour guides who stand before the building where American democracy was born and speak with great authority—apparently—in languages I don’t begin to understand. On Thursday there was actually two tour groups standing side-by-side before the towering statue of George Washington. I don’t know what they’re saying, but I get a real charge out of the energy coming ...

I had all my excuses lined up and ready to roll when my sister’s voice came slicing through my brain. “ Get on the train and go! ” This was excellent advice and what’s really interesting about the situation was that my sister was nowhere near me at the time. No, her urgently encouraging comment rang through my head like an alarm bell after getting a whiff of the Grade A bullshit I was trying to tell myself. Last week it looked like I was heading for yet solitary Saturday, where I go to the gym, catch some sun in my local park before heading home for a night of take-out and Netflix. I was actually trying to tell myself that I couldn’t find anything interesting to do—in New York freaking City. Yeah, I know, that’s a majestic load of crapola that bears absolutely no resemblance to reality, but the comfort zone works in all sorts of sneaky ways. I dismissed this screaming falsehood, checked a website listing for events in the Big Apple, and I came up with a humdinger. It seeme...

The instructor had a message for me emblazoned across her T-shirt, but I refused to see it. I went to my gym last week to take a cycling class and I was all psyched for a really great workout when a substitute teacher walked into the room. I had never seen this woman before in my life, but I immediately decided that the class was going to suck big time and I would get a crappy workout. I saw the words “Do Not Judge” printed on her shirt, but I was too busy judging her to notice. I want my regular instructor , I thought, channeling my inner infant. Who is this interloper? Why wasn’t I informed? And look her, for God’s sake—she’s kind of…heavy. What could she possibly tell a miraculous physical specimen like yours truly about burning calories? It turns out this woman—Tina—had a lot of tell me and not just about working up a good sweat. She also reminded me how important it is to embrace new things—and new people—and to stop being such an obsessive loon. I was still inwardly...

The heavyset woman walking toward me Saturday morning had a message on her tank top for all the world to see. I’d rather be sleeping , it said. I knew the feeling. I wish I could’ve stayed in bed myself, but I had someplace to be. I had volunteered to conduct podcast interviews for the IFC’s Festival of Cinema, which was being held in Forest Hills, Queens, a grueling 90-minute subway trip from my home in Bay Ridge. I did the same thing last week and it was an exhausting day that completely upended my precious little weekend schedule. But it was also a terrific experience where I met and worked with fabulous, talented people, and got a chance to expand my interview skills by speaking with filmmakers on camera—something new for this old print and website reporter. And this all happened because I ignored that “rather” that told me to preserve the status quo at all costs—even though it was doing absolutely nothing to improve my life. I’ve been doing an inventory of my “rathers...

I wonder what that woman was praying for. This morning I saw a woman in hospital scrubs standing before the Crucifix outside of St. Anslem’s Catholic Church on Fourth Avenue with her head bowed and her hands clasped in prayer. It was early and I was on my way to the gym, while I presume this woman was on her way to work. When she was done, she walked by me on the way to the subway. I had an urge to talk to her, but I wanted to respect her privacy. I was grateful that I witnessed this small act of faith, which can be very comforting during troubled times. Like now. We’ve had two mass shootings in less than a day in this demented country of ours that have left 29 people dead and more than 50 injured. In El Paso, the suspect, who allegedly authored a four-page racist screed about his desire to kill Hispanic immigrants, walked into a Wal-Mart with an assault rifle and a heart full of hate and killed 20 people, including a 25-year-old woman who was shot while apparently shielding...

One of my favorite Rodney Dangerfield bits has the legendary don’t-get-no-respect comedian imploring his audience to give him the OK sign. “All my life, all I ever wanted was one of these,” Rodney said, joining his thumb and index finger and spreading his remaining digits. “I never got one of these.” It’s been a crazy week, with all sorts of nonsense chasing me down, driving me nuts, and refusing to go away. But I’ve decided to overlook all that grief and take a moment to blow my own horn, pat myself on the back, and give an OK sign to my own reflection for an incident that happened on Wednesday. I had strolled up to the 7/11 on Fulton Street to feed my bottomless Diet Coke habit and I wanted to treat myself—or abuse myself from a nutritional standpoint—by getting one of those big drinks with tons of ice. Yes, I know I shouldn’t be guzzling that swill at all, but there is a good side to this story, I promise. I loaded up one of those monstrous cups with ice cubs, stuck it on...

“ You must learn to be uncomfortable! ” The cycling instructor at my gym made this comment well into Saturday’s class and I confess I was a little taken aback. Her classes are always gloriously difficult, for which I am incredibly grateful, as this is what I’m paying for, and what I currently need, given an annoying weight increase I’ve recently experienced. ( Oh, cheese , how could you do this to me?) And as a card-carrying Catholic school survivor, I live to be uncomfortable. I sprint from happiness like a deer flees a forest fire. Maybe I didn’t write the book on being uncomfortable, but I sure as hell added several new chapters. Of course, my instructor was talking about a different sort of uncomfortable. She was referring to short-term physical strain leading us to better health and trimmer waistlines. Saturday’s workout was quite different from her usual torture sessions and thus a bit disorienting—which is how you improve and grow. I, on the other hand, traffic in e...