The Luna Park Gazette

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