The Luna Park Gazette

Fifty-four years ago today, my family got together with a group of friends to watch Dr. Richard Kimble walk out of a courtroom a free man. This was the final episode of The Fugitive , which starred David Janssen as the doctor wrongfully convicted of murdering his wife, who escapes after the train taking him to the death house crashes. Kimble travels around the country searching for the mysterious one-armed man who actually killed his wife. Each week, William Conrad, a fabulous actor who later starred in the Seventies detective show Cannon , recited the opening and closing narrative in his singular voice. Kimble would “toil at many jobs…and run before the relentless pursuit of” Lt. Girard, portray by Barry Morse, who was obsessed with Kimble’s capture. The program aired for four seasons and it was the first show in television history that actually ended, instead of just disappearing from the airwaves. That may sound a little odd today, when TV programs like The Soprano

On Saturday, April 13, 1968, Mr. and Mrs. John A. Sherman of Park Avenue, announced the engagement of their Donna in the New York Times . “Plans have been made for a wedding this spring,” the announcement said. Donna Sherman was a professional singer who graduated from the Brearley School, attended Vassar College, the Aspen Music School, and the Yale Summer Music School. She was engaged to Donald Alan Ewer of Toronto, who was a director and actor in theater and television in Canada and the U.S., according to the Times announcement. I know all of this thanks to the Times’ online archive, the TimesMachine , which can transport you to different eras and lives with a few clicks. I’m researching material for a novel and I’ve found the website invaluable in bringing the past to life and turning history into breaking news. The one drawback, however, is that I tend to get distracted by the old articles, announcements, and even the advertisements. The front page of t

In 1979, I flew out to San Francisco to stay with my oldest brother who was living in Berkeley at the time. One of our father’s brothers, Bob, lived nearby and we visited him a few times during my stay in California. On the night before I was scheduled to fly back to New York, we stopped by Bob’s apartment so I could I say goodbye. “Boy,” he said as we sat down in his living room, “I didn’t do fuck-all today.” I don’t think I’d ever heard that expression before—hey, I was young—but I knew what my uncle was talking about. After Saturday, however, I now have a much deeper appreciation of those words. Saturday was a bit of a dud, to put it mildly. It wasn’t so much a bad day; it was a completely pointless one. My sister and I had made tentative plans to do something, but she was tired (as was I) and the weather looked crappy, so we agreed to just stay in our respective homes and chill. I have a to-do list the size of the Encyclopedia Britannica, and since initial

My sister and I were rumbling our way out to Coney Island on the N train Friday night when this shocked look came over her face. “You’re not wearing the shirt,” she said. I was confused for a few seconds, but then I realized what she was talking about. And that I had seriously messed up. I had forgotten to wear the striped green shirt that I had worn for five pre-COVID years in a row, when we took our annual spin on the Spook-a-Rama, a classic funhouse ride that opened in 1955 during the Eisenhower Administration. I was crushed. I couldn’t believe I had made such a thoughtless blunder. I looked down at the black t-shirt I had gotten years ago while volunteering for a film festival at the Brooklyn Museum. It’s a nice shirt, but it's the shirt. For those of you in the dark about this, well, that’s a large part of Spook-a-Rama. Riders (victims?) are roughly pulled around a dark room in a small car while a variety of ghouls and monsters leap at them and vile screams

I’m never going to hear Jen’s voice again. I’m never going to see her smile, hear her laugh, and I’m never going to read one of her Facebook comments that always, always , ended with the words “I love you.” Jen Lifland was a friend of mine, a beautiful, lovely soul, who left this world today. I first met Jen and her partner, later wife, Heather, years ago when I did a solo performance at an incredibly small theater on the West Side of Manhattan. It’s the kind of event that normally only your closest friends and dearest family members attend—if you’re lucky. But Jen and Heather had seen it listed on some website and they approached me after the show. They were so kind, loving and friendly and they invited me to go out drinking with them, which I readily did. We ended up at a bar near Madison Square Garden with Jen stroking my cheek and saying “he’s so cute!” "Can I be your lesbian friend?” she asked. “Well,” I said, “every man should have at least one.

“This is a day the Lord has made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.” – Psalm 118:24 I stopped by my local thrift store this morning and got some great advice without paying a dime. Most Sunday mornings I hit the gym and then bounce across the street to stock up on disposable masks and a few bottles of my favorite poison, better known as diet soda. The store owner is a very friendly Middle Eastern gentleman who always makes me feel welcome. We were chatting about how relatively cool the weather had been lately and I mentioned that it was supposed to rain today. “It doesn’t matter,” he replied. “It rains, it’s sunny, whatever it is, you should thank God for the day.” I paused for a moment. Yes, that’s exactly what you do. Instead of complaining or being miserable, you give thanks for being here to see the day. His timing was particularly important because I was still smarting from some rather unhealthy behavior. I had gone to Rockaway Beach on Saturday with one of