The Luna Park Gazette

I won’t be sorry to leave behind the fright night elevators and the arctic air conditioning, but I’ll sure miss Marisol. My company closed down its Wall Street office on Friday after more than 20 years on the 15th floor; and we’re taking our act one train stop and a world away to Brookfield Place , a.k.a. the World Financial Center, right across the street from the World Trade Center. Moving crews were pulling TV’s off the walls on Friday afternoon as we emptied the contents of our desks into boxes. Even the company logo over the reception desk was removed and packed away. It was kind of eerie. I have a divided history with the place, having worked there for two years from 2006 to 2008, and then returning last March for my latest gig with the company. I’m also divided emotionally. I’ve already mentioned my rather terrifying history with the building’s elevators , but we also had a psychotic air conditioning system that blew freezing cold air through the newsroom even in the dep

If you’re going to get your ass kicked, you might as well have a good soundtrack. I learned this rather painful lesson yesterday when I sparred with a Russian boxing instructor at my gym for what turned out to be a remake of Rocky IV . I’ve been taking boxing classes at the New York Sports Club for--ye gods--more than 20 years now. I get a great work out, I train with some really fine people, and I don’t have get to my cardio in subzero temperatures like I did back in my old jogging days. Most Saturdays I break the routine by going to a cycling class at the Bay Ridge club on 86th Street. I work up a serious sweat without having to trudge into Manhattan for a boxing class on my day off. Before class I hit the weights and loose up in one of the studios so I’ll be pumped for the cycling class. And for the longest time I’ve seen these two Russian dudes in there going through a boxing workout. I didn’t understand what they’re saying, of course, but it was obvious one was teachin

I've made a career of playing sons of bitches.—Kirk Douglas And now a word about the ragman’s son. We lost Kirk Douglas last week, and even though he reached the incredible age of 103 years old, it still doesn’t feel like enough time. Born Issur Danielovitch Demsky in Amsterdam, N.Y., Kirk Douglas grew up in extreme poverty--literally the son of a ragman, which was also the name of his autobiography-and went on to become a Hollywood legend. He had a way of commanding the screen and he could play heroes and villains with equal brilliance—some thing that many fine actors can’t pull off. And even if the film turned out to be a dog, Douglas would still give a top-notch performance. In 1981, President Jimmy Carter awarded Douglas the Presidential Medal Freedom. Bear in mind, of course, that this was before we were giving our highest civilian honor to racist, pill-popping radio hosts. Douglas’ resume includes such classics as “Spartacus,” “The Bad and the Beautiful,” and

We were just four ships that passed in the night. I went to the Japan Society one recent Friday night to catch a jazz combo and break out of the Netflix-and-takeout syndrome. The organization hosts some enjoyable events, including music, lectures, and film screenings, and I always enjoy strolling through the gallery. After taking in the sights and sounds for a while, I decided to call it a night. As I walked to the front door, I saw that three young women were coming in. I had a little of bit lead time on them, so I did the gentlemanly thing. I opened the door, stepped to one side, and held it for them as they walked into the lobby. And they kept on walking. They were doing a lot of talking, these three, but one thing they didn’t say was “thank you.” This trio of ingrates didn’t even look in my direction. I’ve experienced this kind of insensitivity occasionally and most times I shrug it off, or even laugh at some people’s amazingly crass behavior. But this night was d