The Luna Park Gazette

“There are no great men, there are only great challenges that ordinary men are forced by circumstances to meet.”-- Fleet Admiral William Frederick Halsey, Jr. Who would have thought that such a minor decision would lead to such a fabulous experience? Most mornings on my way to the office I stop by a local drug story to pick up my daily supply of that satanic beverage known as diet soda. (Yes, I know this crap is bad for me, but that’s not what this story is about.) The store is vast and it is part of what was once the Bank of Manhattan Trust Building, but now it belongs to some orange-haired reality show psychotic whose name escapes me. There are registers one either side of the store and I usually check out on the Wall Street side, rather than the Pine Street side. On Thursday, however, I felt like a doing something different, breaking my routine even in the slightest way, to see if there’s any truth behind the whole Butterfly Effect business. The Pine Street register is us...

It’s hard to believe now, but there was a time in my life when the phrase “active shooter” did not exist. No one told you to “shelter in place” and there were no such thing as bulletproof backpacks. A security consultant came to our office this week to give us a rundown on emergency procedures. I’ve been in the workforce since the Eighties so I’ve heard these routines many times now. The consultant covered such topics as blackouts, explosions, and natural disasters. But then he started talking about active shooters, reflecting our changing times and deteriorating society. Mass shootings are not new, unfortunately, but they were a hell of a lot less frequent when I was younger. And I don’t recall getting safety tips on what to do if one some gun-toting lunatic shows up at the office. Now we have run, hide, fight scenarios, though I’d hate like hell to stand before an armed killer with nothing but a stapler and a swivel chair. The consultant talked about sheltering in place,...

"There’s a huge amount of freedom that comes to you when you take nothing personally.”—Don Miguel Ruiz That was one rough night in Charm City. I’ve never been to Baltimore and after a hellish experience I had recently, I’ll be putting off the experience indefinitely. Fresh off my vow to shine a light on my darker emotions, I went on an emotional search and self-destroy mission last week that was so hideous I ended up behind bars. Fortunately, this prison stretch wasn't real. It was just a bad dream, although the word “just” hardly does justice to the heinous horror show I subjected myself to the second I closed my eyes. The madness started Tuesday evening when I attended a get-together at a restaurant in lower Manhattan. The room started getting rather crowded and I felt that reflex anger of mine starting to kick in, so I came up with yet another coping mechanism for my psychological tool box. It’s based on an old fire safety drill on what to do in case your cloth...

I threw the light switch on in my bathroom Friday night and winced in surprise. The bathroom lights had fizzled on me earlier in week, the same time I was hacking my way through a cold, and the return to normal service had caught me by surprise. I had been living in both darkness and denial, hoping that the situation would somehow work itself out on its own, and the lights would come back to life like Tinker Bell. Oddly enough this approach—which I apply far too often in my life--did not work, so after a couple of mornings of showering in the dark, I decided to arrange for an electrician to stop by and take a look. This plan proved to be successful and now I can shave without having to wear a miner’s helmet. I’m feeling better now, but I decided to permit myself a little more TV time this weekend, which allowed me to check out an old Twilight Zone episode called “ I Am the Night-Color Me Black ” that deals with a much more toxic kind of darkness. I had already seen this epi...

“Forgiveness is not an occasional act, it is a constant attitude."--Martin Luther King Jr. I don’t have much in common with Elton John, but this weekend the Rocket Man and I were both appearing live in sick city. For Sir Elton, who told fans that he was “extremely unwell,” it meant canceling the Indianapolis leg of his farewell tour. For me, who was also pretty goddamn unwell, it meant hacking and sneezing while working from home on Friday and watching my weekend Halloween party plans with my sister blow out like a candle in the wind. It sucked big time, but I’m trying to extract something good from this extremely crappy turn of events, so I can continue my efforts to make this the Best Year Ever (BYE). I keep a pretty tight schedule—work, gym, writing class—and this cold has forced me to slow down. In the last few days, I’ve been watching tons of crap TV, putting off my clean-up plans, and—ugh—eating bread. I’ve also taken time to detach and observe my thought patter...

Don't go through life, grow through life—Eric Butterworth So, when does a routine become a rut? When do you cross the line that separates a reliable pattern from a toxic drill? Our lives are made up of routines. Most of us have to go to work, unless we’re rich or retired, and move through routines or patterns within our particular occupations. They can vary a great depending upon your line of work, but there has to be some basic duties or functions that you have perfected by constant repetition. Routine also applies to recreation, as we apply ourselves to such pursuits as tennis or running or weightlifting, which all offer rewards for repetition as our skills improve the more we practice. The problems start when that routine becomes dull and your interest wanes. The rut-vs-routine question came to mind yesterday when I returned home from the gym—another routine--and sat down to watch two episodes of “Have Gun Will Travel” I had recorded. Only I hadn’t recorded them...

“ Hey, long time no see! ” I walked into the Sunflower Beauty Parlor Saturday night to a surprisingly warm greeting. Up until my accident two years ago, I used to get massages regularly at this spa on Third Avenue. In fact, just before I hit the deck, so to speak, I had earned myself a free massage for racking up 10 rubdowns on my reward card. The lengthy hospital stay and recuperation obviously put a damper on that routine, but I didn’t go back after I recovered. I think I just got out of the habit and then after a while, I felt like I couldn’t go back because I had been away so long. Plus, I wasn’t sure if the reward card had expired or not and I didn’t want to go in there and look foolish trying to get a free massage. But that’s all irrelevant anyway because I misplaced the damn card. But luckily last night, I hit the “Override” button in my head, tuned out the absurd thoughts, and treated myself to a friendly welcome from the manager and a much-needed massage. Overri...