The Luna Park Gazette

Uncle Joe was mighty proud of me. I like to talk to my uncle in Los Angeles regularly to see what’s going on with the West Coast branch of the family. I’ve stayed with Joe and his wife more times than I could possibly count and it’s always nice to shoot the breeze with him. Joe called me this morning and I filled him on a recent trip I talk to Fort Wadsworth in Staten Island that turned out much better than I had anticipated. “So,” he said after I finished, “you got up off your arse and did something different?” Indeed, I had. I had been trying to decide if I wanted to go on this trip with one of my Meetup groups and, as usual, I was coming up with all kinds of excuses not to join in. My apartment was a mess, I haven’t been doing enough writing, I was tired. And I don’t know my way around Staten Island—what if I got lost? But I also knew that if I stayed in my comfort zone and spent the day by myself, I’d be miserable. Finally, late on Saturday morning, I made up my min...

I saw many fabulous sites during my London trip this summer, and one of them was just around the corner from me. I was staying a (very) small hotel near Bayswater Road and, though I was only there for 10 days, I miss my old neighborhood. I’d take my morning walks in Hyde Park, catch the tube at the Lancaster Gate Underground Station, and whenever I got the munchies, I’d bounce around the corner, walk by the Greek restaurant that was always packed, and get fruit, cheese, or similar stuff at one of two grocery stores. On the way back to my hotel one night, I saw a plaque on an empty building on the corner that had been put up by the Greater London Council which honored the American author Francis Bret Harte , who lived in London for several years before his death in 1902. I know that name , I thought. I know I do. Now, who the hell is he…? The title “Outcasts of Poker Flat” emerged from my old high school English class memories, followed by absolutely nothing else. I had to lea...

Christopher sounds like quite a guy: he wants to save the country, build houses for the homeless and be a good citizen. I became slightly acquainted with Christopher this week while walking along Third Avenue one morning last week. I was coming home from the gym when I saw a composition notebook on the ground. I have this fascination for lost writings and photos, so naturally I stopped to take a look. I saw instantly that the notebook belonged to a child—I couldn’t make out the last name, but “Christopher” was written clearly across the cover. I was a little surprised to see an old-school marble notebook, since I figured kids today are using I-pads, smart phones, and robots to do their homework instead of pencil and paper. I’m not good at determining children’s ages, but Chris is probably a first or second grader. He proudly declared his desires about adulthood on the first page: “ When I grow up I want to be in the army ,” he writes, “ so I can go and save the country from ...

Well, at least we can send thoughts and prayers. I just finished reading the Times’ story on Stephen Paddock, the latest American psycho to unleash his twisted fury on innocent people—this time at a country music festival in Las Vegas, where he fired down into the crowd from his hotel window, killing 58 people and wounding hundreds—yes, hundreds, of others. The carnage has been called the deadliest mass shooting in American history—until the next one, of course. And we all know that there will be a next one. Paddock is a man contrasts, according to the Times , who doesn’t fit the mass shooter profile, but we do know he was a fucking lunatic with ridiculously easy access to a shit-ton of firearms. The video footage of the shooting is sickening, with the unmistakable sound of machine gun fire ripping through the air while the singer on stage stops to figure out what’s going on and then turns to run. It makes me ashamed to be an American. The stories emerging from the shooting a...

I’m not sure, but that might’ve been a panic attack. I’ve been bouncing in all directions for the last few weeks, so I guess this probably wasn’t the best time to watch The Light Between Oceans , an incredibly moving story that I thoroughly enjoyed, though I’m sure some people would dismiss it as just a tear-jerker. Fuck them. The film tells the story of a couple living in a lighthouse in post-World War I Australia, who make an understandable but nonetheless disastrous decision when a boat containing a dead man and a live baby comes ashore on their island. It’s painfully ironic that people who are entrusted with providing this guiding light could stumble down such a dark path, but so many of us have trouble finding our way even at high noon. The thing had me weeping and wailing as the inevitable confrontation takes place, but I also found an excuse to conjure up all these terrible thoughts about what a lousy son I was, how I caused my parents all kinds of worry and misery with m...