The Luna Park Gazette

I was almost done removing the tape from the windows this afternoon when the wind started up again. Trees were bending, dark ugly clouds tumbled through the sky, and I thought, here we go.. . Hurricane Irene had been busted down to a tropical storm and was heading off to New England with her head hanging low. But, of course, now that I had removed the protective tape from my windows, she would make a bloodthirsty U-turn and come roaring down my block shrieking “ I ain’t done with you yet, skinhead! ” All right, so maybe I’m a little oversensitive, but it’s been rough couple of days. I was trying not to worry about the storm, but it seemed like every five minutes we were getting reports of Irene’s destructive progress as she stomped her way up the East Coast. Friends from all over the Internet wished me well, including one in Florida, which was kind of spooky since I always thought of the Sunshine State as a hurricane haven. If a Floridian is worried about you ma...

So when does the lava start flowing? I’m sitting here in my family’s nearly empty house waiting for Hurricane Irene to show up and raise all kinds of hell and high water. The storm is supposed to make landfall in North Carolina early Saturday morning and then churn its way up the East Coast and hit our fair city tomorrow night. The Alpine Theater on Fifth Avenue has removed all the lettering on its marquee, the oil delivery company on the corner has taped up its windows, and my local grocery store was crammed with anxious shoppers stocking up on food and water. (I was one of them.) I still can’t believe it--a hurricane coming to New York. It’s the kind of thing that I read about happening in other places, not in my hometown. I mean, they're closing the subways--the subways!--and there's talk of mandatory evacuations. I got a good look at the destructive power of hurricanes when I went to Florida in 1992 to cover the aftermath of Hurricane Andrew for the Pocono...

I never thought I’d be able to walk from one end of our basement to the other in a straight line, but the day has finally come. That probably doesn’t sound like big news, but if you had ever seen the basement of my family’s house, you’d probably be as stunned as I am right now. Our basement had been something of a garbage dump for as far back as I can remember, filled with old refrigerators, furniture, books, toys, and boxes, boxes, boxes. In fact, other than the Arc of the Covenant and Jimmy Hoffa’s mortal remains, it’s hard to imagine what wasn’t down there. We recently hired a crew of extremely capable contractors to come in and haul all the stuff out. Sergio, the head man, took time to show us old photographs, papers and other items he thought might be valuable to us, but pretty much everything else got the heave-ho. When the crew drove off the first day, I said to my sister “thank God there are guys like them to do jobs like this.” These men don’t sit behind ...

Who is Jeffrey Meyer and why is saying those terrible things about me? It seems that Mr. Meyer, whom I have never met, is telling people on the other side of the globe that I am no longer amongst the living. I know I don't have the most active social life in the world, but I think putting me on the DOA list is a little harsh. Michael Williams, the director of the Bank of Africa, that venerable financial institution, sent me an email wanting to know if I had authorized Mr. Jeffrey Meyer of West Virginia to claim funds of $500,000 “because he informed us that you were involved in a fatal car accident.” He informed you of that? Funny, Mr. Jeffrey Meyer never informed me. Hell, it was the least he could have done since he wants all that dough. I wonder how it happened. The inheritance funds had been used to open an online account for me at Bank of Africa by the United Nations Compensation Unit, which we all know and love. “So if you are still alive," Mr. Wi...

In 1997, I moved back to Brooklyn from Waterbury, CT, to take a job at a trade magazine in New York. My plan was to stay at my parents’ house for a few months and then get an apartment, preferably in Manhattan. Things didn’t work out that way. I could make all sorts of excuses as to why I didn't move—my career difficulties, my parents’ illnesses—but that’s just what they are—excuses. And I’ve had a bellyful of those. Both of my parents are gone now, our two-family home is empty except for me, and I’m finally, finally , moving on. It’s not Manhattan, L.A., the left bank of Paris, Park Slope or any of the other exotic places I’ve dreamed about. No, I’m still in Bay Ridge. I’ve found a very nice apartment just a block away from Shore Road. It’s a longer walk to the subway, but it’ll be worth it for all the space I’m getting. The express bus stop is just around the corner if I feel like treating myself and with this bum leg of mine that’s not such a bad idea. I was hoping to move a lon...

Oh, yeah, I really needed this. It’s been 9 days since I somehow managed to injure my right leg and while it has improved a little bit, I’m still limping around like Long John Silver and dealing with a lot of pain. And the worst thing is that I don’t know what the hell happened. All I can say is that I went to my gym last Friday, did my usual workout and went home feeling just fine. A few hours later, though, I could barely walk and it hurt like hell when I tried to sit down. I haven’t been this seriously laid up since I broke a bone in my arm while I was taking a jiu-jitsu back in the Seventies. And even then I heard the damn bone crack. This time around I felt nothing and I’m starting to wonder if someone is sticking pins in a voodoo doll version of me. I’m already living with the twin miseries of looking for an apartment and working with my sister to clean out our family home, so this little bit of grief is not appreciated. What’s worse is that I’ll be feeling better ...

I cranked up the DVR last week and took a ride through a sea of memories on the back of man-eating dinosaur. I had recorded The Beast From 20,000 Fathoms , an old time monster flick from 1953 that I watched scores of times when I was a kid. I remember sitting with my family in the glow of the old Motorola and enjoying this classic that starts with an A-bomb blast in the North Pole and comes to a fiery climax at the Cyclone in Coney Island. (It was actually shot an amusement park in Long Beach, CA, but it's still pretty cool.) There were no DVRs or DVDs back then, just plain old TV with commercials and everything. But we seemed to enjoy ourselves. The plot? Well, let’s see. A nuclear test in the frozen north accidentally defrosts a prehistoric predator who does the backstroke down to the Big Apple, climbs out of the water and promptly does more damage to my hometown than Donald Trump. The Seventh Seal it ain’t, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Named as the first movie to sta...