The Luna Park Gazette

The words of the prophets aren’t always written on the subway walls and tenement walls. Sometimes they’re right at our feet. I learned this lesson on Saturday while standing at the express bus stop on 23rd Street and Fith Avenue. I was waiting to get the X27 back to Brooklyn when I looked down and saw a sentence written on the sidewalk. “ What opportunities have you provided for your child ” The line—I’m assuming it’s a question—was written in neat white lettering and it appears the author had taken his or her time, which is interesting as this is a rather busy intersection. I was wrapping up an afternoon in the city that began with a visit to Rennert’s Gallery on W. 17th Street where I saw a fabulous collection of vintage posters for “Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show.” This was a bit of compromise since my conscience was telling me to attend a Meetup event in Queens where I could see something new and enjoy some human company. But I also wanted to visit the gallery.

"If you don’t ask, the answer will always be no.” It’s amazing how the simple can suddenly become sacred. My mother’s been gone for 20 years now and I’m still reluctant to part with anything that she’s written. I still have many of the birthday, Christmas, and Easter cards she gave me over the years, as well as a handful of newspaper articles that she thought I could use, and a yellowing copy of a poem called “Don’t Quit” that I taped on the wall just above my computer. It was much worse in those terrible days immediately after her death when I couldn’t even part with her shopping lists. A scrap of paper ticking off such everyday items as milk, bread and eggs turns into a priceless artifact when the person who wrote those words is gone forever. It was an entirely different story when I was a kid and I’d go shopping with one of her lists in hand. I was extremely self-conscious back then, determined not to cause a stir, and whenever my mother put something on the list

I was walking home from the gym this morning when I heard church bells ringing. The tune was “God Bless America,” which struck me as an odd choice for a Sunday until I remembered what day it was. Today is September 11, the 21st anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. My father would’ve been 101 years old today. Each year I try to get down to Church Street and find the spot I was standing when that second plane hit the World Trade Center’s South Tower. I say a prayer for all those who died and for their loved ones who have suffered every day since. I’m listening to the reading of the victims’ names as I write this, and I sincerely wish I had put off the damn gym for a little while and gone downtown. I feel like that I owe much to the people who never came home. Watching the ceremony on TV doesn’t begin to compare to walking those streets and recalling that horrible day. The awful explosions, people running for their lives, the towers collapsing and the hideous clouds of

There’s nothing like working out with Old Blue Eyes. I’ve been going to a new gym for the last few months, and I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the owners’ musical choices. Of course, there’s the usual health club mix of dance music, rap and other such pump-you-up ditties. But in the wee small hours of the morning, you can actually hear a string of Frank Sinatra songs. Listen Here At first, I thought it was a fluke. Somebody must’ve hit the wrong button as no self-respecting gym would play these ancient tunes. I waited for the Chairman of the Board to be cut short and replaced by some screeching techno thump-a-thon. But no; the morning seems to be reserved for what I call “The Sinatra Hour”, when a lot of a geezers like your truly work out. Whatever the reason, I love shadowboxing and pounding the heavy bag with "My Way" or "Learning the Blues” as my soundtrack. This morning I was doing my warm-up when the song “Goodbye (She Quietly Says)”