The Luna Park Gazette

As I limped into my chiropractor’s office on Friday afternoon, the sound system was playing “ I Wanna Be Sedated .” And, as I prepared to get emergency treatment for yet another flare-up of my merciless back trouble, the Ramones were quickly followed by the Beatles singing “ Help !” WFML was playing the soundtrack to my life. Once again my back has gone bad on me, once again I’m limping around in agony, and once again I’m cursing the fates, my luck, and anything else that comes into my line of vision. The only thing different from the last two back attacks is that this time the excruciating pain is radiating out of my left leg, not my right. And make no mistake--the pain is excruciating. It hurts when I stand, it hurts when I walk and it even hurts sometimes when I sit—including on that most important seat in the house, if you know what I mean. Now that's just cruel. It started midweek when I woke up with a slight discomfort on my left side. I thought I had probably slep...

So what was I talking about? Oh, yeah, forgetting stuff. I know your memory is supposed to get fuzzier as you get older, but I experienced a few brain blips during the last week that are making me a little nervous. The first and worst of these was the ham sandwich affair. I bring my lunches to work to save some money and one night last week I got all set to make myself a ham sandwich from the leftovers I had in the refrigerator. I know I should avoid salted meats, but I like to treat myself every now and then. The only problem was I couldn’t find the ham. I knew for a fact that I hadn’t eaten it all yet there was no sign of the remaining slices anywhere. This was ridiculous. I had just made a sandwich the other day. There had to be leftovers. I pulled everything out of the refrigerator, but the ham had gone on the lam. Either I had thrown it out by mistake or a team of vigilante vegetarians had broken into my house in the dead of night and pulled the pork. Neither scenario...

I love the Beatles but they were wrong when they said “All You Need Love.” No, I’m sorry, but when it comes to getting ahead in this money-grubbing society all you really need is nerve. The following is true, even though I still don't believe it. My aunt, who doesn’t have a computer, called me last week and asked me to go online and buy her a bus ticket for a trip to New England. No problem, my pleasure, it’s the least I could do. I just had to call up the Greyhound website, chose the particular bus my aunt wanted to take out of the Port Authority Bus Terminal, and click away. What could be simpler? So I hit all the buttons, fished out the credit card, and got ready to do business. But first I had to answer one question. “Is the primary cardholder traveling on this trip?” I wasn’t sure why they wanted to know. But, Catholic school refugee that I am, I went ahead and told the truth even though I had a feeling I’d regret it. Why no, I said to my computer screen, t...

I parked my car on West Main Street and walked into the woods in search of misery. I had just heard the police and firefighter departments being called out on the scanner, but I couldn’t decode what particular type of havoc was occurring. This was Stroudsburg, Pa., a spring night sometime in the early 90s, and, as the police reporter for the Pocono Record, I decided it was worth the five-minute drive from my office to see what was happening. Illustration by Ryan Bakhsh I didn’t see any of the usual bedlam that goes on at car crashes or house fires. There was no roiling sea of flashing emergency lights, no screaming sirens; no manic assembly of police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances. There was nothing to indicate that anything was out of the ordinary—until I saw the county coroner walking toward me. “What’s going on, Bob?” I asked. “Come here and take a look,” he said. We walked a little farther in the woods until we came to a clearing where the cops and firefighters h...

Thirty-eight years ago I sat in the old Fortway Theater on Fort Hamilton Parkway and watched Charles Bronson knock people down. This probably sounds like every Charles Bronson movie ever made, but in this case I’m referring to Walter Hill’s “ Hard Times ,” where the man the French called Le Sacre Monstre played Chaney, a bareknuckle boxer in Depression-era New Orleans. Bronson has always been my favorite action movie star and, as a teenage tough guy wannabe, I got a vicarious thrill watching him take on all sorts of roughneck characters in illegal boxing matches. The movie was on cable last week and though I’ve seen it several times, I couldn’t resist recording it and giving it another look. It holds up very well. Yes, it’s a guys’ movie, but it’s a really well done guys’ movie. James Coburn plays Speed, a promoter who becomes Chaney’s manager. In contrast to Bronson, who barely spoke 500 words in the entire picture, Coburn has several excellent lines and he delivers th...