The Luna Park Gazette

So many celebrities are turning 70 this year. The list includes Tom Jones, Don Imus, Chuck Norris, Herbie Hancock, Alex Trebek, and, yes, Ringo Starr. But the biggest name on the list is Bugs Bunny. I’m a lifelong Looney Tunes fan—Bugs, Daffy Duck, Porky Pig—I love the whole crew. I worked an eveing shift when I was a reporter at the Pocono Record. Since I leave nearby, I often went home for dinner where I could relax for a little while and watch the cartoons at 6pm instead of the nightly news. TNT used to run their cartoon program in the morning and the evening. They had a great commercial for the show that appealed to the child in all adults. The spot featured a series of rapidly edited scenes of various Warner Brothers characters pounding the beejesus out of each other while a driving drum beat kept time with the mayhem. “On twice a day,” the announcer intoned, “because you need it now more than ever!” Truer words were never said. Recently I was thinking of a Bugs Bunny short called...

There’s nothing like visiting a cemetery to remind you that life is fleeting. Everywhere you look there are memorials to people who were once living and breathing just like you and me. My sister and I visited our parents’ grave on Saturday, one day after the eighth anniversary of my mother’s death. It was brutally hot, just like the day we buried her. I remember riding in the limousine that day and watching people on the street in shorts and t-shirts walking around as if it were any other day. And for them, of course, it was. Now eight years have passed. It sounds strange, but I never thought I'd be in this situation. Obviously, nobody lives forever--that's why we have cemeteries. But the thought of my mother and father being gone from this world was something I could never accept. I thought we’d be the only ones there on this bright summer day, but a man and his son showed up a short time after we got there and went to a nearby plot. The son, who appeared to be his twenties, t...

I went to check out something new today and wound up going back in time. The Sadam Ali Boxing & Fitness Center opened its doors at 68th Street and 5th in Bay Ridge, right near the Alpine Theater at the site of what was at one time Nielson’s Furniture Store. I can’t remember what went on at that location in the more recent past and that’s making me a little nervous. Oh, my poor old brain cells... Anyway, I have an interest in boxing, as I've been taking the boxing classes at the New York Sports Club for close to 10 years now. The instructors are great and you accomplish so much in just under an hour. You work with other people—as opposed to cranking away on a stationary bike by yourself—and you get to go nuts on the heavy bags. After a hard day at the office, hitting something is the best kind of therapy around. It would take a lot to get me away from the NYSC crowd, but I confess I like the idea of a boxing gym right around the corner from my house. If nothing else, ...

Over the years, I've grown to expect that every important lesson in life must be spawned by a huge event. You know—the burning bush, the parting of the Red Sea, the Great Flood—I have this tendency to believe that any occurrence that doesn’t resemble a scene from a Cecil B. DeMille picture probably isn’t worth a second look. Maybe it's a result of growing up Catholic. Fortunately, life has a way of reminding me how wrong this kind of thinking can be. In one weekend I received two important lessons that came out of seemingly trivial episodes. The first one happened at the recent Senator Street block party. I have to say that I had a blast at this thing. We had great weather, I met people who had been living on my street for years for the very first time, and I got a chance to stuff myself with all the food I know I should avoid, like hot dogs, hamburgers, sausage and pepper sandwiches, and eggplant parmigiana. There were plenty of attractions, including a pony ride for the kids....

There’s a tombstone in St. Paul’s Cemetery on Fulton Street with a biblical quote reading “The Souls of the Righteous are In God’s Hands.” It’s pretty hard to miss and whenever I see it, I can’t help but think “ and the rest of you losers are in very deep shit .” I’ve been thinking more about the End of Days these days. I suspect it has something to do with a pamphlet I recently read that predicted the Rapture is coming our way next spring. I picked up this item while walking through the Grand Central subway station on my way to the shuttle to Times Square. The passageway is a popular spot for musicians, prophets, and other assorted street performers who save souls or sing songs to the disinterested masses. You’ve got a built-in audience down there, especially during rush hour. On this particular day I saw a sign taped to a pillar proclaiming “ The End of the World is Almost Here! Holy God Will Bring Judgment Day on May 21, 2011! ” The world is going to end in less a year? Holy crap! I...

I've been searching through my house for Phoenix Prime , a fantasy novel by Ted White that I read when I was in high school. I'm not particularly interested in re-reading this book and I doubt seriously the story would hold up after all these years. What I really want to see is the book’s cover. The cover illustration for Phoenix Prime shows the muscular back and shoulder of man on some distant—and quite hostile-looking--alien terrain. He’s clutching a stone in his right hand as a pack of red-eyed wolves move in on him. I had been laboring under the mistaken impression that this classic image of man versus beast had been created by James Bama, my favorite book cover artist. But a quick jog around the Internet revealed that the painting had actually been done by Frank Frazetta, my other favorite book cover artist. I grew up reading science fiction and fantasy novels and I can only guess how many of these books had cover art by either Bama or Frazetta. Their work helped me and a...

I don’t expect much in the way of surprises anymore when I open my mailbox. With everything shifting to the Internet, all I usually find in there when I come home at night are bills, junk mail and menus from just about every restaurant in North America. But last week I learned that conventional mail can still hold a few jolts. The first one actually came to my family's old house on 86th Street some 66 years ago in the form of a post card from my Uncle Walter to my Aunt Marie. My uncle was a pilot during World War II and he was writing to my aunt from the air base in Lawrenceville, Ill. There is a photo of Beechcraft Trainers on the front of the card and it is postmarked Feb. 19, 1944. The card came fluttering off a bookshelf in my bedroom while I was rearranging some paperbacks. I must have put it up there a long time ago for safe-keeping and, as usual, forgot all about it. I certainly don't remember reading it before. It's just a couple of handwritten lines, but looking b...