The Luna Park Gazette

“ Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. ” That saying dates back to the philosopher Sun-Tzu, who wrote The Art of War , and is probably most closely associated with The Godfather . It’s undoubtedly a good approach for generals and mafia dons, but I prefer the advice that my my father gave me many years ago. “Stay in touch with the good people in your life,” he said. “There are so many people I lost contact with and now I regret it.” It sounds simple enough, but like a lot of things my father told me, it took me a long time to appreciate what he was saying. My father’s words came back to me recently when I recalled a kid I knew in high school named Wayne. We were in the same freshman class together and we hung out a few times after school. He was quiet and a bit shy, and he wanted to be my friend. But the friendship never really went anywhere. And it was my fault. I didn’t make a serious effort to keep things going. I’m not sure why I was so lax in my atti

The notice on my phone’s calendar this morning was short and to the point. “ Rob Lenihan is 64 years old today .” I was all set to say “dang, that guy is old ,” until I realized that it was me. Yes, today I officially entered into Beatles territory by turning 64. It’s a bit hard to believe, but then I’ve been saying that since I turned 20. My most wonderful sister got things rolling on Saturday by taking me to the Industry City complex in Sunset Park. This incredible facility dates back to the 1890s, hit the skids in the 1960s, and is now experiencing a revival as a home to all kinds of funky businesses. My sister treated me to both lunch and dinner and then we headed back to her place for a little TV. On Sunday, I participated in a Zoom reading with other members of my fabulous writing class. I had rehearsed all week and made sure to read slowly and clearly. It was a great night. Today I have decided that the best way to celebrate my birthday is to shut down

Damn it, I should’ve recorded that voice when I had the chance. For nearly 20 years, I’ve been taking a boxing class at the New York Sports Club with an incredibly gifted instructor named Abby Saez. Abby taught a brutal but thoroughly enjoyable session, mixing vast boxing knowledge with punishing drills and withering sarcasm. The class was tough, but the toughest—and, oddly most enjoyable--part by far was the one-on-one mitt round where you faced off against Abby and tried to survive his non-stop attacks, both physical and verbal. Whenever he wasn’t pleased—which was pretty much always—Abby would yodel the Spanish version of my name at the top of his voice. “Roberrrrrto!” The sound echoed throughout the room and more often than not, some wiseass would pick up the call and piss me off even more. I always felt like a kid being called home by his mother in front of all his friends. Only this was more painful. But I always came back for more. Well, that’s all come to an e

And now they’re all gone. Johnny Crawford, who played Mark McCain on the classic Western TV show The Rifleman , died a few weeks ago at a personal care home. He was the program’s last surviving cast member. Crawdfor, who was 75 years old, had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease in 2019. He later contracted COVID-19 and pneumonia, but recovered, according to his wife, before succumbing to the Alzheimer’s. Running from 1958-1963, The Rifleman starred Chuck Connors as Lucas McCain, a rancher and widower raising his son in the fictitious town of North Folk, in the New Mexico Territory. This was the first network television series to portray a single parent raising a child. The program was created by Arnold Laven and developed by Sam Peckinpah, who would go on to direct such films as Ride the High Country , The Wild Bunch and Straw Dogs . I vaguely remember the show during the end of its original run and in reruns later on when I was in grammar school, but, out

Every Saturday, as I was leaving my sister’s home after our weekly pandemic sanity session, she would always remind me to say goodnight to Smokey. Smokey was my sister’s cat and it is with the heaviest of hearts that I report this wonderful soul crossed the Rainbow Bridge last week. He was 18 years old and he'd been having health issues for a while. It finally got to the point where my sister had to make that decision that I wouldn't wish on anyone. A handsome fellow, Smokey was a regular fixture at our family’s various get-togethers over the years and I can honestly say that I liked him more than a lot of people in this world. I got to see a lot more of Smokey after Covid-19 crashed into our lives. The world was cut down to our immediate neighborhood back in those early days, so my sister and I got into a routine of an outing of some kind each week-preferably outdoors--followed by dinner and a movie. Smokey was a vital part of those evenings. He would often

I was in the middle of relating my latest tale of woe when my sister interrupted me. “Wait,” she said. “I have heard this story before.” Why, yes, as a matter of fact, she had heard this story before—many times, actually, along with my aunt, my various shrinks, and you, too, if you’re a regular reader of this blog. But after today, I promise you won’t hear it anymore...I hope. Okay, so my sister and I were out on one of our COVID excursions. This time we had taken the ferry to downtown Manhattan and stopped at Brookfield Plaza to grab a snack. My office is located in this building, by the way--back when we still went to offices. I was whining to her because I had done an internet search for a guy I knew in grade school--I’ll call him Jerry--whom I have not seen or heard from since we escaped the clutches of Catholic school back in the Seventies. His name just popped into my head one day when I should’ve been focusing on something else. So, I did a search and fou