The Luna Park Gazette

I called my auntie back in New York just before dawn as I walked down Kalakaua Avenue one morning last week to tell her the news. “Marie,” I said to her phone, “I just went to confession for the first time in more than 40 years. And…” I paused for a second, searching for the right words. “Well, let’s put it this way,” I continued. “It was a good idea.” I still can’t believe I went to back into the confessional during my trip to Honolulu after a decades-long defection from this sacrament. Most people go to confession after vacation to atone for the sins they racked up while they were on the road. But I was doing all sorts of different things on this outing and it felt like the right time for a spiritual cleansing. I had attended mass at St. Augustine-by-the-sea after meeting and eating with the wonderful members of the Tongan choirg and I thought that going to confession would be the next logical step. This was not an easy decision, as confession was one of the scarier a

My Christmas miracle came a little early this year and it happened a long way from home. I experienced the magic of the season last week while wandering around Waikiki on the second night of my Hawaiian vacation. As I was walking down a street near my hotel, I could hear people singing and, since there are a lot of bars in the area, I incorrectly assumed that it was a bunch of drunks trying to show the world how much fun they were having. But I quickly determined that these singers were very talented. I listened closer and I recognized the melody of the song they were performing, but I couldn’t make out the lyrics. I was tempted to keep walking and just forget about it, something I do far too often. But I wanted to know who these people were and what they were singing. And since I was on vacation, I wanted to step out of myself a little bit and do something different. I followed the voices to the backyard of a small housing complex and stood in an alleyway listening until

I’ve gone nearly 24 hours without giving anyone the shaka, the Hawaiian hand signal that means everything from “hang loose” to “have a nice day.” This is probably for the best, since a gesture that involves wagging the extended thumb and pinky would probably be considered an insult in Brooklyn and result in yours truly being pummeled into a coma. No matter. I had an absolutely fantastic time in Honolulu and I am thoroughly bummed that my 11-day trip has come to an end. This vacation was a great idea and I can’t believe how I hemmed and hawed before I finally decided to go. I saw such beautiful scenery, like the Kualoa Ranch , where Jurassic Park and other films were shot. I had breakfast on the beach, watched the Honolulu Marathon, and did a wild downhill bike ride. I went to Pearl Harbor and boarded the USS Missouri , where Japan surrendered in 1945. I huffed and puffed up to Diamond Head , where I enjoyed the fantastic view while trying to restart my heart. I also met s

The future is a dark cloud, Christmas is kicking down the front door, and I’ve got a million things to do around the house. So naturally I’m taking off for Honolulu this morning. Yes, I decided that I needed a little more adventure in my life so I booked this trip a few months ago. Now that the day has finally arrived all I can do is think of my dear mother’s words whenever I did something totally ridiculous. “Oh, Robert,” she’d say. “Whatever possessed you!” Indeed. What the hell did possess me? I don’t know, but whatever the crazy spirit was it seems to have hit the road and left me here with a chorus of jangled nerves. I always freak before taking long trips. It’s kind of my thing. And I’ve made the Hawaii trip before, traveling to the Big Island with my family to celebrate Christmas several years ago. But now I’m on my own and juggling so many worries I could land a gig on the Ed Sullivan Show . No matter. I’m on my way and I know my mother would’ve been very proud t

One minute they were alive, and the next minute they were all dead. Yes, we had still another mass shooting in America. For some stupid reason I thought we might have gotten a break after the Paris slaughter, but it seems like the madness is escalating, gathering momentum like a boulder tumbling down a mountain. So now we have even more names to add to the list of victims--husbands, wives, sons, and daughters--who were taken away far too soon. We have more smiling photos of people of all races and creeds who have been savagely gunned down. I want to know all their stories, I want to reach out to all their families and feel what they’re going through, but there have been so many victims my mind is ready to explode. I scroll through the photos and my heart breaks again and again. Terms like “soft target,” “active shooter” and “shelter in place” have worked their way into our language and no one seems to have a problem with that. Various news programs and police departments a

My sister and I were leaving the Fairway in Red Hook with our Thanksgiving turkey Wednesday night when we overhead one of the employees explaining the facts of life to a co-worker. “Everybody’s got problems, baby girl,” she declared. I was barely listening as I had all sorts of holiday-related worries preying on my mind. But those words are coming back to me now that the long weekend is almost over, the turkey carcass has been reduced to bare bones, and my stomach is relentlessly pushing against my belt. This is a time of the year when we’re supposed to be grateful for all we have, and I really am so thankful for all the great people in my life. And yet I’m thinking of this slip-up I experienced just a few days before Thanksgiving. I was riding the subway and reading a book to pass the time while the R train crawled its way through the rush hour congestion. Or at least I was trying to read, but the lights kept switching off every time I focused on the page. I looked down

I stood at the bus stop on Shore Road one dark night last week with a fistful of lottery tickets and my eyes peeled for the X27. I wouldn’t have much time to do this. When the express bus pulled in I had just a few seconds to hop on board, meet up with Mary Ellen, this wonderful lady who had called me earlier in the day, and make a most important exchange. I was psyched, a little nervous, and quite grateful that this business was hopefully going to be settled in a few minutes. It all started in the afternoon when I received a voice mail from a number I didn’t recognize. “Hello, my name is Mary Ellen and I have your company ID card,” the message began. “It was wedged between the cushions of a seat on the X27.” I was stunned. I hadn’t even noticed that my ID card was missing. I always keep it securely clipped to my belt; there’s no way it could fall off. When I come home every night I put my phone, wallet, house keys and ID card all on in one place on the kitchen table so I ca

Last year I was speaking with my aunt about some horrific terrorist attack, and how it had sparked a nearly equally insane demand for revenge. “Somewhere the Devil is smiling,” she said. Oh, he sure was. And if Satan was smiling then he was must be laughing his horned head off right now at the slaughter in Paris and the wave of bloodthirsty ignorance that has followed in its wake. The right wing propaganda machine didn’t even wait for the bodies in Paris to get cold before launching attacks on President Obama, fuming about gun rights, and repeating their cries for war, war, and more war. Now as an eyewitness to the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center, I know full well the terror of radical Muslim fundamentalism. I didn’t watch the carnage on Fox “News”, I didn’t need Rush Limbaugh to explain the situation to me, I was there, so I don’t want any flag-waving fuckhead telling me how things are supposed to work. I hate those terrorist mother fuckers with a passion that could

It was no time to talk about politics. I get up hideously early two days a week to lift weights and lurch my way through a 7AM boxing class at the New York Sports Club’s City Hall gym and the greeting from the young lady behind the desk--we’ll call her Kathy—is one of the few bright spots of my pre-dawn morning. She’s quite pretty, with dyed blond hair, belly button ring, and cool little glasses that makes her look both nerdy and sexy at same time—just the right ingredients to make a geezer like yours truly get all hot and bothered. I like to kid around with her when I sign in, and though she’s always polite, I’m getting a vibe that says something along the lines of here’s your towel, gramps, now go punch yourself in the head and have a nice day. But I might be wrong. On Tuesday Kathy caught me off guard by diverting from the usual pleasantries. “It’s election day,” she said. “Oh, that’s right,” I replied, having completely forgotten. “Vote for me and I’ll set you free!”

One of the worst things about a temper tantrum is that it feels so good when you’re middle of it. Logic and good sense bounce off your brain like bullets hitting Superman’s chest, as you wrap yourself up in a cloak of self-righteous anger. You are the injured party here, damn it, and you're entitled to shout, curse, and pound the desk with your shoe like Nikita Khrushchev at the UN. It’s only when the anger wears off, when the Incredible Hulk turns back into Bruce Banner, that you realize you look rather stupid. I had this point driven painfully home to me at work when I had a 20-megaton conniption fit over my abominably sluggish computer. I wasn’t feeling particularly well that day, either physically or emotionally. And to be perfectly honest, my work computer is old and in chronic need of an overhaul. It seems that no matter what command you give the damn thing, it’s first reply is to light up the message “Not Responding” at the top of screen. Eventually it’ll do what

In the 1987 gangster epic, The Untouchables , the infamous bootlegger Al Capone, brilliantly portrayed by Robert De Niro, tries to downplay his well-deserved reputation for violence. “I grew up in a tough neighborhood,” Capone tells a group of reporters. “And we used to say ‘you can get further with a kind word and a gun than you can with just a kind word.’” We already know the on-going horror show that guns have inflicted upon this country, but lately I’ve been amazed at the healing power of a just a kind word. I was in the PATH station in Hoboken one recent morning adding money to my Metrocard when one of the station employees, this very pleasant African-American lady, approached me to see if I needed any help with the machine. “No, thanks,” I said, appreciating her concern. “I’ve got this.” She walked away while I slipped my card into the appropriate slot and waited. And waited. And waited. The Metrocard machine made all kinds of clicks and squeaks but refused to return my

It took much longer than it should have, but I finally broke down and ordered my first pair of reading glasses yesterday. I have been putting this off for years, as I fought a losing battle with small print by squinting, using a magnifying glass, or just flat out giving up and hoping to hell I hadn’t missed anything important. I actually “lost” the prescription and had to request a duplicate from my doctor before finally parking my keister in front of the computer and making it happen. It wasn’t easy. I’ve always had good vision, bonehead typos notwithstanding, and I was so proud of how I had staved off failing eyesight for so long. But even I have to admit that things were getting bad. I’m holding newspapers up to my honker and cranking up the zoom on my computer until it looks like skywriting. My eye doctor put it simply. “You’re 58!” he declared, a little too loudly for my taste. That said it all. Stop lying to yourself, cut the crap and get the goddamn specs. You’re ol

Well, what do you know? It really does take two to tango. This rather obvious lesson was driven home to me in yet another one of my carnival side show dreams that, as usual, had me rolling out bed with a hearty cry of “what the hell?” before I was able to unravel its twisted message. I should stress that this really wasn’t a nightmare, certainly not in comparison with some of the head-banging shock rides that I’ve suffered through over the years. This was more awkward than awful and it was also instructive. In the dream I had volunteered to put on a tango demonstration for my coworkers at some kind of company function. We already know it’s a dream because it has the words “volunteer” and “tango” attached to my name, which could never happen in the real world. Obviously the tango is a partner dance, a beautiful, sensual experience that cannot possibly be performed by one person, especially if that person is me. Tango advocates suggest that the dance “makes people feel more

What else can be said at this point? There was yet another mass shooting in America on Thursday. Another isolated loner psychotic with access to all sorts of horrific weapons walked into a college in Oregon and shot nine people to death before killing himself. As usual this massacre was followed by calls for gun control on one side and hysterical shrieking about Second Amendment rights, and the Founding Fathers and all the other happy horseshit the gun crowd drags out whenever bullet-riddled bodies start hitting the deck. Churches, schools, theaters—places of worship, knowledge and entertainment--have all become potential slaughterhouses. And what will happen? Not a fucking thing. If Sandy Hook couldn’t change anything in this sick, morally bankrupt and spiritually comatose country, nothing, absolutely nothing will. We’ll go through the tired ritual with the goddamn candlelight vigils, we’ll see all the photos of the victims, hear from their heartbroken friends and family m

I’m turning into Captain Queeg. I have yet to see The Caine Mutiny in its entirety but I’ll never forget the scene in the 1954 film where Humphrey Bogart’s crazed captain went bananas over some missing strawberries. I came down with a wicked cold and I’ve been absolutely miserable, handling things in my usual way, by freaking out at everything and letting my inner Queeg chart a corrosive course through the Sea of Insanity. It started on Wednesday, the first day of autumn, when I thought I was having trouble with allergies. However things got worse and by the time Friday rolled around I was coughing, sneezing and wishing I could crawl under a rock for the next six months. I took a day off from work and canceled my weekend plans, which was really annoying since I don’t socialize enough to begin with. I then sank into a ruinous routine of bad television, lousy food, and rotten thoughts. By Saturday I was feeling marginally better, but I was out of food, so I staggered up to t

It seems like one minute I was happily surfing the Internet and the next minute I was on the floor. I fell asleep in front of my computer a few weeks back, and with nothing to block my fall, my body did the whole Isaac Newton thing and hit the deck like a sack of wet laundry. I woke up with my computer looming over me and the carpet under my nose. It was bizarre and a bit scary to just slide off my chair like that. This has never happened to me before and I’m grateful that I didn’t get hurt. I didn’t think I was particularly tired, even though it was late, but then clearly I called that one wrong. I’ve been nodding off a lot more lately. I don’t know if it’s age or the difficulties I’ve had sleeping at night, but whatever the problem is it seems to be getting worse. I’ve actually conked out momentarily at the office, which can be awkward since I sit in a low-walled cubicle and anyone walking by can see me—top brass included. Luckily I have yet to tumble out of my chair. It’s

“ To give value to others, you have to begin by valuing yourself. ” ― Tim Fargo My Aunt Marie has a singular way of expressing herself. I’ve been keeping a list of some of my mom’s sister’s best lines and I’ve found her observations to be both funny and insightful. For example, a few years back, my auntie, sister and I were going to a St. Patrick’s Day concert at a church in Bay Ridge and my aunt had brought along some health food bars for us to snack on. Being a hyper hypochondriac and demented fitness fanatic, I immediately asked if the ingredients were in fact good for me. “No nothing bad!” my auntie breathlessly declared. “Wow,” I snarked, “they’re really good for you!” I was teasing her about the momentary language lapse, but the more I thought about the phrase “no nothing bad” the more I liked it. It’s a good way to look at life. I am notoriously negative so the idea of pushing the positive beyond the grievous grasp of grammar appeals to me no end. What do I want

I wanted to stand across the street from the Freedom Tower at 8:46 this morning, but I didn’t make it. I was stuck in traffic on the BQE somewhere near 26th Street when I looked at my phone and saw that it was the same time when the first plane hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center 14 years ago. My plan was to start praying the Rosary at that time and place in memory of all the people we lost in the 9/11 attacks. But traffic was abysmal, which is not surprising given all the activity in lower Manhattan, and I should’ve used my head and taken the damn train instead of the express bus. And then in an attempt to console myself, I decided I would take my place on Cortland Street next year. Next year? If there is any lesson to be learned from the waking nightmare of 9/11 it’s that nothing is guaranteed, not next year, not even the next minute. All those people who were killed on that day in 2001 had plans for the future, too. I did my praying on the bus and in some ways I

Oh, summer, how can you do this to me? It’s suddenly Labor Day Weekend and the bright, seemingly endless supply of beautiful summer days have dwindled down to a precious few. I must confess this has been a great summer, with a lovely vacation in California and nice nostalgia ride to Coney Island . But as usual I’m shocked at summer’s swift departure and I now dread the coming cold weather. And, as usual, I’m making my annual threat to pull up stakes and finally move the hell out to L.A., something I do with the same dependability as geese flying south for the winter. Except the geese actually leave—as opposed to yours truly. My late mother and I shared a strong aversion to the end of summer. When we vacationed at my aunt’s house in the Berkshires, where the fall starts even earlier, I remember my mother shaking her hand at the rapidly changing leaves. I went to the Chase branch on Fifth Avenue yesterday, where my mother worked for so many years back when it was the Lincoln

All right, ladies, let’s give it a rest, okay? I just got done ranting about a pile of cyber-dreck by Sherry Francis and the incredible Dr. Orissa, who helped Sherry get back her wandering husband, and now “Julia Andrea from USA” clogs up my comment section with the story of her husband coming back to the fold. As my mother used to say when one of us spoke out of turn, “who stepped on your button?” Oh, and Julia? It’s the USA . I’m sure you already knew that being such a good American and all, but I thought I’d point that out to you in case you go crashing somebody else’s blog. “ I never believed that i could finally get back the happiness and the love that was gone after my husband left me totally, ” Julia tells me in a totally unsolicited spiel. “ I couldn't just believe that spells and magic could turn my thoughts and my dreams into reality in getting back with my husband after he served me with divorce papers…My ex husband after the divorce never showed up to me and