The Luna Park Gazette

My cousin Erin stood before a large crowd of guests at my Uncle Joe’s 85th birthday party in L.A. last week and recited an Irish toast. “May your home always be too small to hold all your friends,” she said. And that about sums it up for my Uncle Joe. The room at the Marina Del Ray Hotel was filled with friends, former coworkers, and, of course, family on this most special day. There were Lenihans up the wazoo at this gig and I got to meet many of them for the very first time. The theme of the event was “Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries,” a slight variation on one of my uncle’s favorite sayings. My sister and I were even part of the entertainment, providing the voiceover for a video presentation of Joe’s life that was written in the tough-talking style of the old Dragnet show. I must say that my sister played the neurotic nun role perfectly, but I’ve got to work on that Jack Webb impersonation. I might need it again some day. Joe is my father’s younger brother and it’s a ...

“Tell me your name,” the priest said to me. I hesitated for a second. I’ve been doing the Ash Wednesday routine for a long time now and no priest has ever asked me to identify myself. Was he going to hit me up for a donation? Or enter my name into some kind of sinners logbook that I suspect all priests have hidden in their cassocks? Being from Brooklyn, I was within my rights to snarl “what’s it to ya?” But I didn’t. I answered like a good little Catholic boy, even though we were in an Episcopal church. And all the man did was personalize the line from Genesis about remembering “thou art dust and to dust thou shall return.” As I do every year, I quickly forgot I was wearing ashes so whenever I looked in the mirror today I had a split-second freak-out as I wondered what the hell was on my forehead. Yes, it’s all a ritual, but it’s my ritual and Lent has taken on a special significance for me this year. Father Mark at Trinity Church described Lent as “a most exciting tim...

"Volare" will never sound the same to me. The 1958 hit tune—officially titled “ Nel Blu Dipinto Di Blu ”—crops up during a rip-snorting love scene in “ Room in Rome ” and it’s certainly a vivid variation on a theme. The film tells the story of two people who come together for a night of love, passion and, quite possibly, a new life together. It also features some of the most seriously smoking girl-on-girl hook-ups it’s ever been my perverted pleasure to witness. This thing makes “ Bound ” look like “ Toy Story .” I know, I know. I’m a pig, a degenerate, a lowlife sexist, chauvinist loser who should be mortally ashamed of himself. And, believe me, I am. Shame was a key ingredient of my Catholic upbringing, after all, along with bad nerves, low self-esteem and an irrational fear of penguins. But I can’t help myself. These love scenes are incredible. What? You say you want some plot details? All right, if you insist. Alba and Natasha meet in a bar in Rome, go bac...

Pandemonium was breaking out in my local supermarket today and I was so happy to be a part of it. I try to avoid crowds when I shop, but with the oddly-named blizzard Nemo clawing its way toward New York, everybody and his brother was crowding the aisles of Key Food in search of the last ounce of everything. The mob scene didn’t bother me, though. I was happy to be amongst humanity. After the preceding few hours I was happy to be at all. Last night I had sat down before the computer determined to make some progress on a short story that’s been giving me fits. Elmore Leonard once said writers should forget about short stories and focus on novels and screenplays. Now I know what he’s talking about. You have such little room to work with in a short story that if one bit doesn’t sound right, the whole thing goes off the tracks. I was just getting down to business when I started to feel this strange pressure in my chest. It’s your imagination, I told myself. It’s not…you kno...

My dad was a wholesale meat salesman and he once told me about a butcher he knew who had been caught overcharging customers. “It was an honest mistake,” the butcher cried to a dubious city inspector. “It was an honest mistake!” “So what happened?” My father asked. “What happened?” The hapless merchant lamented. “I’m talking; he’s writing!” Now I know how that butcher feels. I recently made the mistake of walking into the wrong place, which is how a lot of stories begin and how a lot obituaries end. I was making my way down 42nd Street on a very cold Saturday night to meet up with some friends at a horror-theme bar called Times Scare. Much like Grand Central Terminal , Times Square has improved exponentially since the 70s, when pimps, prostitutes, and drug dealers lurked on every corner and porn theaters and peep shows lined 42nd Street and the neighboring blocks. People ran Three Card Monte games right out in the open as if it were a perfectly natural thing to do. I witnes...

I had to be there. Today is the 100th anniversary of Grand Central Terminal and I made sure to swing by for a little while this morning and enjoy the party. There was an orchestra warming up in the middle of the terminal when I arrived. A crowd was quickly forming and security was tight with police officers and National Guardsmen patrolling the place. The luggage area was filled with displays detailing the history of what is quite possibly my favorite New York City landmark. I am certainly not knocking the Statute of Liberty (She’s officially in Jersey), Central Park, the Empire State Building or any of the many museums, art galleries, or theaters that this city has to offer. It’s just that Grand Central Station has a special place in my heart. I remember the terminal back in the bad old days of the Seventies, when it was essentially a massive homeless shelter. On a cold winter’s night, people with no place to live would move into station in search of shelter and very agg...