The Luna Park Gazette

Okay, this is getting weird now. I’ve been on a wild journey down nightmare alley for the last several evenings while recuperating from a nasty cold. There was the David Letterman comedy show fiasco that I described in last week’s post. But prior to that I dreamed that I met up with an old frenemy I haven’t seen since the Eighties and another instance where I had a telephone chat with a long-lost girlfriend. I believe these are both straightforward examples of wish fulfillment. In the case of the frenemy, my subconscious mind wanted to bring back the friend part of this guy’s personality and ditch the enemy, the one who liked to mock me in front of other people and then claim it was all a joke. The ex-girlfriend call was a case of letting her know that I was okay, that I had recovered from that distant time when she quite rightly parted ways with me. I was a mess back then, to be honest, and I was doing nothing to climb out of the hole I had dug for myself. There was no ...

"I wouldn't give your troubles to a monkey on a rock.”--David Letterman Now that was a bad set. Over the years, I’ve been told many times that I’m funny, with several people even suggesting that I should give stand-up comedy a try. I never pursed the comedy route, though, favoring fiction over joke-telling. I’ve gone to a few comedy clubs, and I find them a bit tiresome after a while, where even laughter becomes a chore. And let’s be honest, fear is also a factor here because I dread the idea of facing a roomful of heckling drunks. I had a shrink who once gave a blunt assessment as to why I didn’t take the stage. “You’d be good at it,” he said. That observation hit a nerve, which, of course, is what I was paying the guy for. I do have a long and miserable history of self-sabotage, but I have also suffered from that most malicious malady known as the Disease to Please, where I crack jokes hoping—usually in vain—that people will like me. I also kid around wit...

It was the story I didn’t want to hear, but I’m so grateful that I did. As the years go by, I keep learning things about my late parents that amaze me. Of course, it’s not terribly surprising, since as kids we tend to worship our parents. We learn more about our folks as we move into adulthood and realize that they were just people, not superbeings who never knew fear or doubt, but mere mortals who were doing the best they could. A few years ago, my aunt told me that my mother had seen Frank Sinatra at the Paramount Theater in the 1940s. I always knew that she was a fan of Ol’ Blue Eyes, but I had no idea she had been a bobby soxer, the name of Sinatra’s virtual army of teen-aged fangirls who were known to wear the ankle high hosiery. It’s hard to imagine my mom shrieking “ Frankie! ” along with an auditorium full of her swooning contemporaries, but she wasn’t my mother yet. She wasn’t even an adult, so she had every right to enjoy this moment. I got such a kick out of this...

"Envy is the art of counting the other fellow's blessings instead of your own." Did you ever wonder why paratroopers shout “Geronimo!” before they jump out an airplane? The question occurred to me while I was working on a story about golden parachutes, those hefty payouts that executives get on their way out the door. That name, by the way, comes from a 1961 attempt by creditors to oust Howard Hughes from control of Trans World Airlines. They provided Charles Tillinghast Jr. an employment contract that included a clause that would pay him money if he lost his job As far as invoking the name of Geronimo, that got started by U.S. paratroopers in 1940 who saw a movie about the Apache military and spiritual leader and yelled his name when they made that big step into the sky. I was thinking of working the Geronimo angle into my golden parachute story, but I didn't pursue it. However, while doing my research I came across a familiar name. We'll call him ...

Years ago, I offered my seat on the subway to an older gentleman who was standing close to me. He was using a cane and seemed to be having some difficulty, so I thought it would be a nice gesture to let him sit him down. However, he politely declined my invitation and then turned to a woman I presumed was his wife. “Do I look that bad?” he whispered to her. Now that I’m a senior citizen myself—ye gods—I’m starting to understand how this man felt. People aren’t hopping aside for me on the D train, (far from it) but one of my neighborhood businesses managed to irritate me. Now I have no trouble asking for senior discounts. Obviously, I wish I were younger, but since that’s not an option, then I will unashamedly demand my geezer markdown on my telephone bill, subway fare, even my car rentals on those extremely rare occasions when I rent a set of wheels. My supermarket has joined the fossil parade, offering a 10% discount every Wednesday to all people 65 years old and ol...

Boy, I sure hope I never see that guy again. This dude was so miserable and unhappy. Forever the victim, he couldn’t wait to tell you how he’d been wronged. The guy had a black belt in self-pity and a PhD in despair. It took a great deal of work, but I managed to push this fellow out of my life, and I don't want him coming back. Now this man wasn’t a former coworker, a neighbor, or a distant relative. No, I’m sorry to that his person was me. Specifically, I’m talking about the man I used to be years ago back when I was trouble with both my health and my career. I had gone through a bout of mononucleosis back in the Eighties and it developed into Epstein-Barr syndrome, where the mono-like symptoms would flare up repeatedly. People have some terrible times with this affliction; they’ve been forced to quit their jobs and severely curtail their lives. My condition was bad, but it paled in comparison to what these poor folks were suffering through. But nevertheless, I wa...

Many years ago, I had this dream where my brother Peter died. I was in my late teens or early twenties at the time and the strange thing about the dream was that even though Peter was dead, he had somehow been given a few more hours of life. I was the only one in the family who knew what was going on and I remember sitting at the dining room table across from Peter while we both cried because we knew he’d soon be leaving us forever. It’s been so long now that I can’t begin to recall any incident that might have triggered this dream or why he had been given that lease on life. I tried writing a play about the dream, but I don’t think I ever got beyond a first draft. Peter died back in May, and I still feel this terrible gap in my life. I’ll see a story on the news or watch a TV show or movie, and I still have the urge to tell him all about it—until I realize he’s not here. I think the dream came back to me after my brother’s widow sent some photos of Peter. There’s a pictu...

Well, that was pretty careless of me. I climbed out of the comfort zone last week by signing up for the Gowanus Open Studies 2025, which is billed as Brooklyn’s biggest celebration of local art and artists. The event features hundreds of artists across dozens of venues in the greater Gowanus neighborhood, who opened their doors for a look inside the old factory buildings that have converted to studios. I attended one of these open houses last year and I had a great time, but, of course, when the appointed day arrived, I found myself cranking out a litany of excuses for skipping the event and chilling out home alone. I’m happy to say that I had ignored the voices of defeat and headed down to the former industrial zone around the Gowanus Canal to join the other members of the Meet Up group. I have childhood memories of driving through this area with my father, before it had been yuppified, and I remember how dark and spooky the place looked. Our leader, Ron, puts together som...

The conditions could not have been worse. I rarely watch movies on airplanes, as I don’t think it’s fair to shoehorn a filmmaker’s work into those tiny screens in front of my face. And to be honest, I’m usually either so frightened of flying or so stoned on Xanax to appreciate what I’m watching. But during my recent flight home from Denver, I had just the right amount of narcotics in my system where I was calm without being comatose. I shelled out 8 bucks for a pair of headphones, checked out the cinematic bill of fare and came across Flow , an absolutely beautiful animated film that won the Academy Award for best animated feature, while also being nominated for best international feature—the first film from Latvia to do so. The film, which also won a Golden Globe Award, is a kind of visual poem that features no dialog as it tells the story of a cat trying to survive in some post-apocalyptic world that has been devastated by a great flood. The fact that I was able to lose m...

Well, now I know what “corybantic” means. I recently returned from a trip to Denver and rural Nebraska, and I have to say I’m rather proud of myself. There were so many times that I wanted to bail on this journey. In addition to my fear of flying, I was also renting a car, and being a New Yorker, I was convinced my lack of driving experience would result in all manner of destruction. My brother, his wife, my niece and her husband live in the Denver area, and I was really looking forward to seeing them. I was going to Nebraska, though, to do research for a play that I’m writing. As soon I booked the trip, I wailed to my sister that I was facing certain doom all for a play that nobody would ever produce or even read. “Don’t look at it that way,” she said. “Think that you’re going out there to research a Pulitzer Prize winning play.” Now, that’s the right attitude. But I was still terrified. When Rob, our family’s designated car service driver, dropped me off at JFK at 5...

Hey, peeps, just a quick note to say that I'm taking a break for a litte while for some R&R I've been going through the usual pre-trip hysteria over flying, driving, getting lost, being kidnapped, losing my wallet and a few thousand other atrocious scenarious that don't bear repeating. Other than that I'm fine. I doubt if I'll have much time for blogging or reading your posts, but I promise to get up-to-date upon my return. Take care and enjoy life.

I looked down at my phone as soon as I heard the ping. “Hey, did that parcel I sent make it to you?” Parcel? The only packages I’ve been getting lately have been from Amazon, so, no, I didn’t, whoever you are. I wonder if this the same person who texted me on Friday. “I see your number, but not your name,” it read. “Can you tell me who are?” Probably not. Why would you send a parcel to someone you don’t know? Or maybe it was that individual who texted me last month, asking “how about going for coffee tomorrow afternoon?” “This is my new number,” the stranger added. “Please save it.” Okay, but if you really knew me, then you’d know I don’t drink coffee. But that’s all right, I’m about to make a killing in the stock market. “Goldman Sachs, yesterday's stock soared 80%,” a recent text told me. “Tomorrow's pick aims for 60%. Reply yes for free signal.” No, I don’t think I want a free signal, whatever that maybe. But at least one person cares about me. “Hey, ho...

I had just left my house this morning for my hike to the gym, when I saw a woman walking her dog. She was standing by a garden while her doggie took care of business. I was also set to walk around her when she turned toward me. “Have you ever stopped here and smelled the grapes?” she asked. Grapes? I didn’t even know there were grapes growing in this garden, never mind smelled them. She stood aside, whereupon I stepped up, took a deep breath and got a pleasant whiff of vitis larusca . “That’s nice,” I said. “I’ve heard of stop and smell the roses, but you can also stop and smell the grapes.” We laughed, I wished her a good day, and I continued to the gym. I’ve been trying all sorts of positive techniques to improve my rather dark disposition, and I recently came across the concept of the awe walk. This is where you shift your attention outward during a walk to notice and appreciate the wonder and beauty in the world. This can be found in nature, art, or acts of kin...

It was such a beautiful day, just like it was 24 years ago. This is the anniversary of 9/11 attacks that destroyed the World Trade Center, severely damaged the Pentagon and killed nearly 3,000 people. The sun was shining so brightly back on that morning in 2001, the kind of day where you’d think nothing could possibly go wrong. And then it did. I watched the reading of the names today, like I do every year, and it was so painful to hear the stories, to see how these poor people have suffered for all this time. Many of the readers hadn’t been born when the attacks occurred and they have grown up with a terrible gap in their lives. The world has changed so much since the attacks and not for the better. For a while people would ask if we had learned anything from the 9/11 attacks, but I haven’t heard that one in a while. And with good reason. Human beings—especially Americans—aren’t very good at learning from tragedies. And I include myself in that group. I can distinctly re...

The word “havoc” has quite a history. The term for widespread destruction dates to the 15th Century when the expression “to cry havoc” was a command for soldiers to begin plundering. Shakespeare gave us the line “Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war” in Julius Caesar . Havoc is also the title of a particularly hideous movie starring Tom Hardy, Forest Whitaker, Timothy Olyphant and a whole bunch of other people who should’ve known better. I Netflixed this film last week when I was looking for something light to view after a long day. Look, I was tired, and I knew I was aiming low, but I had no idea I was going down the sewer. The story—and I’m using this word very loosely—involves corrupt cops and a whole lot of shooting. Honestly, the scenes are little more than a set-up for the next blitzkrieg, as the poorly drawn characters engage in enough gunplay to reenact the Battle of the Bulge. And victims never get hit with just one bullet. Oh, no, a single slug is for wimps....

The bus driver got on the PA system as we reached Third Avenue on Saturday evening. “We’re now in Bay Ridge,” he told us. “Thank you for letting me take you home this evening.” Wait, what? You’re thanking me? This is New York City, right? I nodded off on the way home, maybe I was still asleep? But, no, this was really happening, and this young man had just provided a fitting end to a perfect day. What it makes it even more remarkable was that the day had fiasco written all over it before turning out to be a real gem. My plans for Saturday fell through at the very last minute and I was supremely bummed. I had this vision of myself sitting in my local park all day and going through the old Netflix and takeout routine that I do far too often. I didn’t want to let that happen this time, so I jumped on Meetup.com and looked around for a last-minute event. There were plenty of intriguing things happening, but nothing grabbed me. And then something caught my eye. The New York Ci...

There I was, sitting in the dentist’s chair, waiting for the show to start. I was getting for a temporary crown on my tooth and I was looking around when a sign on the wall caught my eye. “Please do not use cellphones in the torment room,” I read. Wait, what? The torment room? I was here to get a crown, not reenact the horror scene from Marathon Man . But then I looked harder and realized the word was “treatment”, not “torment” and realized that my overeager eyeballs had gone negative once again . I can’t say I’ve ever looked forward to visiting the dentist—and I really dread when the bills come due—but my doctor and his assistant are great people, and I wound up doing a fair bit of socializing amid the drilling and spitting. In addition to the good company, my dentist—it’s a father and son team—has a good office sound system and I often hear some nice old tunes over the racket. One song--“ Couldn't Get It Right ” by the Climax Blues Band—had been on my mind just a da...

“The only thing about America that interests me is Coney Island.” – Sigmund Freud Even the Native Americans thought the place was special. Back in the 1980s, I took a walking toward of Coney Island, the unique amusement area and neighborhood in the southwestern section of Brooklyn. Our guide told us that the place has always had its own kind of magic, long before the Cyclone, and the boardwalk, and Nathan’s July 4 annual hotdog eating contest. The Lenape, the original inhabitants, dubbed the place “Land Without Shadows,” which made an impression on me when I first heard it. The name had this eerie, otherworldly sound to it that conjured up images of spirits and sorcery. I thought it was pretty funky, but upon reflection, I realized that it is the beach, after all, and maybe the Lenape just meant that shade was hard to come by. But I still like it. Dutch settlers arriving in the 17th Century called the place “Rabbit Island”, although that’s about the only creature I ...

And now a word about Dr. Vanderspeigle... I just finished watching the final episode of Resident Alien , and it feels like I’m losing a dear friend. There I was, all set to write about a completely different topic, when I learned that one of my favorite TV shows was coming to an end. I should mention that this post may contain spoilers, so if you haven’t seen the series finale yet, you may want to stop right here. About a month ago I wrote that an episode of this sci-fi dramedy had brought me to tears. Little did I know what was in store for me this week. I’ve been a fan since Resident Alien’s debut in 2021 and looking back, I can’t believe how I hemmed and hawed about whether I should record it or not. Frankly, it didn’t look particularly good in the commercials, and I didn’t want to get hooked on yet another TV show. And then I watched the first episode and I was hooked. I still laugh at the scene where Harry, drunk after his first experience with alcohol, dances arou...

There was whole lotta shakin’ going on in Brooklyn on Saturday night and it had nothing to do with Jerry Lee Lewis. Officially the Magnitude 3 earthquake happened at 10:18 PM in Hasbrouck Heights, NJ. It is being described as a “small earthquake” though my feeling is that only small earthquake are the kind that happen somewhere else. All I know that I was minding my own business when my living room started vibrating. I was tired, having seen the Irish Repertory Theatre’s fabulous production of Conor McPherson’s The Weir , with my sister and auntie, which we followed up with a massive Chinese dinner. So, I wasn’t in the mood for any more drama, especially the kind that rocks my house. I kept telling myself that it was a low-flying jet rattling my windows, but it seemed like it was going to plow into my kitchen. Finally, the house stopped moving. I forgot all about it until Sunday morning when I was on the Stairmaster at my gym and saw the news on TV. My landlady, by th...