The Luna Park Gazette

In retail, they call it “a soft opening.” New restaurants usually debut with a grand opening, as they announce their presence with all kinds of fanfare and hoopla. On the other hand, a soft opening involves working with a limited number of customers, so the owners have a chance to try out their menu on real people. I’ve taking that second approach for the New Year. Rather than waiting for the ball to come down in Times Square at midnight, I’ve been implementing—or trying to—some of my resolutions ahead of all the noise and confetti. I like this plan, but inner saboteur, as usual, is getting in the way of things. This morning I woke up with a bad case of the New Year’s heebie-jeebies, where I’m convinced that I’m not changing fast enough, and I go into emotional vapor lock. This usually starts in the first week of the year, but I guess my shadow self doesn’t feel like waiting. So, I’ve decided I’m going to ease into 2024. I’ll work on the stuff that needs fixing, but I’m...

So, let’s talk about last Christmas. It’s the holidays once again and I’m thinking about a song and my state of mind from Christmases of long, long ago—or at least 12 months ago. Okay, first the tune. “ Last Christmas ” is a song by Wham! that was released on Dec. 3, 1984, back when Ronald Reagan was president, the average cost of a home was $148,000 and Beverly Hills Cop was the No .1 movie in America. The song spent five consecutive weeks at number two in the UK Singles Chart and it was held off from the top spot by Band Air’s “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” on which Wham!’s George Michael performed. Michael wrote “Last Christmas” a year earlier in his childhood bedroom while he and instrumentalist Andrew Ridgeley were visiting George's parents. He played Ridgeley the song’s introduction and chorus melody, which Ridgeley later called "a moment of wonder". It was releases as a double A-side via Epic Records with "Everything She Wants" in ...

Two guys walk into a bar and one of them looks down to see he’s not wearing any pants. This isn’t the start of joke, or a reminder that No Pants Day is observed on the first Friday in May--I'm sure you already knew that--but rather a scene from a nightmare that came hopping out of my hippocampus late last week. This is a story of fear, confusion, a runaway faucet, and the crankiest plumber in creation. The dream starts off with me riding around in a car with a guy I hadn’t seen in over a year through the streets of some cartoon version of New York. Somewhere along the way I spot an old-time police car with a bubble light and fins, prowling through the streets. But the vehicle was heavily armored in a strange way that defied reality—which dreams tend to do. We get to the bar and I’m wearing this bulky turtleneck sweater that’s weighing me down like a bearskin rug. Everything seemed to be okay until I happened to look south of the border and then—ay, caramba!---I wa...

When I was young, all I wanted to read was science fiction novels. Every few weeks, I’d go to the Brooklyn Public Library on Ridge Boulevard and head straight for the science fiction section to find books by such writers as Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov, and Arthur C. Clarke. I am indebted to these authors because they—along with The Hardy Boys-helped me develop my love of reading. As I got older, my interest in science fiction gave way to crime stories with Raymond Chandler muscling out Robert Silverberg. I’ve since moved away from genre stories for the most part to more "serious" fiction. Obviously, our tastes change as we get older, but I do feel a little wistful sometimes when I think about the kid in his Catholic school uniform so eagerly looking for his next trip to space. I’ll still look at science fiction movies—if they’re good, but I’ve always had a bit trouble defining a good sci fi film. Recently, however, I watched two films by the same director that help...

It looks like Lon Chaney was ahead of his time. Several years ago, I went to Prospect Park to see an outdoor screening of a Lon Chaney movie called “ He Who Gets Slapped .” The 1924 silent film tells the rather bizarre story a man who is so shattered by his wife’s betrayal that he becomes a circus clown whose act consists solely of being slapped and abused by 60 of his floppy-shoed co-workers. It’s supposed to be a classic, but it was late, I was hungry, and I didn’t much feel like sitting through this battered Bozo story. So, I bailed. I had pretty forgotten the movie entirely until Friday when I caught some footage on YouTube of something called Power Slap. For those of you who have never heard of it, well, first of all, consider yourself lucky. Power Slap is a…sport?...freak show?...where two competitors face each other and, after a coin toss to decide who goes first, one of them hauls off and slaps the other one right across the face. Then it’s the other p...

Annemarie Wiesner should be alive today. She should have celebrated Thanksgiving with her family like so many of us did on Thursday and she should be looking forward to the holidays and the start of a new year. But that’s not going to happen. Annemarie Wiesner, 72, was struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver on Nov. 16 as she was crossing the street with a shopping cart. She was pronounced dead at the scene. The accident happened at Marine Avenue and 96th Street, which is a short distance from me and just a block away from my sister’s house. She was one of three people killed by hit and run drivers in New York City in a 24-hour period. Local news reports noted how Marine Avenue goes on for several blocks without traffic lights, speed bumps, stop signs or anything else to slow down the maniacs that tear through this neighborhood like characters straight out of “Mad Max.” I can hear them at night on the Belt Parkway, along Shore Road and other streets in this neighborhood...

We don’t need Sherlock Holmes to figure this one. Being a good Catholic boy, I live to feel guilty, and in the past few days as I climb out of the Covid abyss, I am getting those familiar stirrings once again. You should be working on your novel. You should clean up this apartment, it’s a hellhole. You should be eating better . There’s nothing like guilt to let you know you’re healing. When I’m sick, I don’t give a damn about writing or cleaning or reading or healthy eating, or any of the other various vows I have made to myself over the years. And guilt is nowhere to be seen. But now, I’ve finished my first week of work since coming back from L.A., I’m starting to feel a little stronger, and, thus, thoroughly ashamed of my inaction. Yes, I’ve been watching far too much TV. My living couch has permanent dent in the cushion where I’ve parked my keester for far too many days. But my head has been too fried for reading. I’ve been especially enjoying the old Sherlock Holm...