The Luna Park Gazette

In the 1987 gangster epic, The Untouchables , the infamous bootlegger Al Capone, brilliantly portrayed by Robert De Niro, tries to downplay his well-deserved reputation for violence. “I grew up in a tough neighborhood,” Capone tells a group of reporters. “And we used to say ‘you can get further with a kind word and a gun than you can with just a kind word.’” We already know the on-going horror show that guns have inflicted upon this country, but lately I’ve been amazed at the healing power of a just a kind word. I was in the PATH station in Hoboken one recent morning adding money to my Metrocard when one of the station employees, this very pleasant African-American lady, approached me to see if I needed any help with the machine. “No, thanks,” I said, appreciating her concern. “I’ve got this.” She walked away while I slipped my card into the appropriate slot and waited. And waited. And waited. The Metrocard machine made all kinds of clicks and squeaks but refused to return my ...

It took much longer than it should have, but I finally broke down and ordered my first pair of reading glasses yesterday. I have been putting this off for years, as I fought a losing battle with small print by squinting, using a magnifying glass, or just flat out giving up and hoping to hell I hadn’t missed anything important. I actually “lost” the prescription and had to request a duplicate from my doctor before finally parking my keister in front of the computer and making it happen. It wasn’t easy. I’ve always had good vision, bonehead typos notwithstanding, and I was so proud of how I had staved off failing eyesight for so long. But even I have to admit that things were getting bad. I’m holding newspapers up to my honker and cranking up the zoom on my computer until it looks like skywriting. My eye doctor put it simply. “You’re 58!” he declared, a little too loudly for my taste. That said it all. Stop lying to yourself, cut the crap and get the goddamn specs. You’re ol...

Well, what do you know? It really does take two to tango. This rather obvious lesson was driven home to me in yet another one of my carnival side show dreams that, as usual, had me rolling out bed with a hearty cry of “what the hell?” before I was able to unravel its twisted message. I should stress that this really wasn’t a nightmare, certainly not in comparison with some of the head-banging shock rides that I’ve suffered through over the years. This was more awkward than awful and it was also instructive. In the dream I had volunteered to put on a tango demonstration for my coworkers at some kind of company function. We already know it’s a dream because it has the words “volunteer” and “tango” attached to my name, which could never happen in the real world. Obviously the tango is a partner dance, a beautiful, sensual experience that cannot possibly be performed by one person, especially if that person is me. Tango advocates suggest that the dance “makes people feel more ...

What else can be said at this point? There was yet another mass shooting in America on Thursday. Another isolated loner psychotic with access to all sorts of horrific weapons walked into a college in Oregon and shot nine people to death before killing himself. As usual this massacre was followed by calls for gun control on one side and hysterical shrieking about Second Amendment rights, and the Founding Fathers and all the other happy horseshit the gun crowd drags out whenever bullet-riddled bodies start hitting the deck. Churches, schools, theaters—places of worship, knowledge and entertainment--have all become potential slaughterhouses. And what will happen? Not a fucking thing. If Sandy Hook couldn’t change anything in this sick, morally bankrupt and spiritually comatose country, nothing, absolutely nothing will. We’ll go through the tired ritual with the goddamn candlelight vigils, we’ll see all the photos of the victims, hear from their heartbroken friends and family m...