The Luna Park Gazette

“A soldier will fight long and hard for a bit of colored ribbon.” – Napoleon Bonaparte When Alexander the Great encountered the Gordian knot in 333 B.C., rather than untying the mass of tightly entangled ropes, the young king drew his sword. “It makes no difference how they are loosed,” he declared, slicing the knot with a single stroke. That’s often my style when I’m faced with tough problems—for better and usually for worse. But on Christmas Day I decided to give the Alexander technique a rest in exchange for a little patience. My sister, auntie and I had gotten together for our holiday dinner where we ate, laughed, and tried to forget about Covid-19 for a little while. After watching The Mousehole Cat , one of my favorite holiday movies—yeah, smartass, I cried, okay?—we returned to the kitchen for dessert, which included a stack of Italian Christmas cookies, wrapped in plastic and held together with a brightly colored ribbon. Any other time, I would’ve grabbed

It’s Christmas and what better way to celebrate the most wonderful time of the year than by watching one of the scariest movies in creation? My sister and I did that very thing recently when we viewed The Haunting , Robert Wise’s stunning 1963 adaption of Shirley Jackson’s novel, The Haunting of Hill House . This film has been scaring the screaming bejeezus out of my family for a generation and I am happy to report that it delivered the ghoulish goods once again. We had gotten together for one of our Saturday sanity sessions, where we emerge from our respective Covid cocoons for dinner, TV, and some much-needed social interaction. Netflix was on the fritz on this particular evening, so after rummaging through my sister's DVR collection, we settled upon our favorite fright flick. I was thinking that this was an odd choice given the time of year, but then I remember that A Christmas Carol , the mother of all holiday stories—is packed to the rafters with all manner

It’s the holidays, that time of year where I spend much of my time hurling swear words at my widescreen in response to all the shameless advertising. There are few things I hate more than some money-grubbing corporation telling me that it won’t really be Christmas unless I buy whatever overpriced crap they’re peddling. Most of these ads are about as subtle as one of those door-busting holiday sales that department stores insist on staging--and about as pleasant. These spots blatanly hijack beloved carols and regurgitate them as pathetic jingles. They dragoon Santa Claus and Ebenezer Scrooge to serve as pitchmen, encouraging us all to have a Merry Christmas as we run our credit card bills into the stratosphere. One car company is particularly outrageous. I refuse to mention the name, but the ads depict smiling simpletons giving each other brand new cars—complete with oversized bows—as gifts. Oh, yeah, everybody I know gives out cars at Christmas. I have this reoccur

Okay, so where did this one come from? I had another one of my 20-megaton, head-banging nightmares last week and I’m still wandering what the hell brought it on. This was one of those horrific hallucinations where, when I finally do wake up, I look straight up to the heavens and thank God that it was only a dream. I haven’t one of these beauties in years, so I guess I was overdue. And my mind made sure to make up for all that lost time. Okay, so this freak show starts off with real bang—right below the belt. I had …shall we say…an acciden t where I had to pull off my jeans and throw them into the trash. Yeah, that kind of an accident. Now that little disaster alone would seem like plenty of material for a Grade A nightmare. Demolishing your drawers in public is certainly my idea of a really bad dream. But, no, it turned out my sadistic subconscious was just starting up this spook house ride. For some reason, I had a meeting in downtown Manhattan with a guy I kn