The Luna Park Gazette

“Hey!” my neighbor’s young son shouted as I raced by his house this morning. I turned and saw that he was pointing at his chest, proudly displaying his Spiderman costume, which came complete with rippling muscles. “Spiderman!” he declared, making sure I had gotten the point. “You look great!” I shouted. “Happy Halloween!” I ran down to the corner just in time to see the back end of the 8:20 bus to Manhattan driving down Shore Road. This was actually the second bus I missed this morning, as I had raced down to the same corner a few minutes earlier in a losing effort to catch the 8:15 bus. I had thought catching the 8:20 would be a breeze, but then I realized I had left my lunch back on the kitchen table and I scurried back to my apartment to get it. Missing two buses in one morning is some kind of an achievement, I supposed, but if I had gotten the earlier one, I would’ve gone to work without my lunch—turkey sausages, green peppers and kasha—and more importantly, I wouldn...

I got up early Saturday morning to do something for my health, but I wound up getting all kinds of mental. I clicked onto YouTube to watch a video on qigong , an ancient Chinese practice that aligns the body, breath, and mind through a series of simple, relaxing exercises. I find these routines to be a nice compliment to my lunatic gym workouts. I was on tight schedule because I had to get to the gym for a cardio kickboxing class, get cleaned up, and meet with my sister for one of our theater outings with our auntie. So I switched onto one of my favorite qigong videos and…nothing. There was a message about updating something, but I, in my diehard digital ignorance, couldn’t make any sense out of it. Inching ever closer to the panic button, I Googled what I thought was Adobe’s home page and downloaded a ton of misery. My homepage was promptly hijacked by some outfit that offered to clean the living crap out of my computer—for a price, of course. I freaked, forgetting all about...

Godzilla may be able to flattened Tokyo with a swish of his tail, but he proved to be no match for a pack of paper dolls. I came to this conclusion during a recent weekend of excessive TV viewing. I had started my Saturday off by watching The Adventures of Prince Achmed that I had recorded off of Turner Classic Movies. I knew virtually nothing about Lotte Reiniger’s 1923 silent classic except that it is one of the first full-length animated films. I had anticipated something as visually stunning as Max Fleischer’s fabulous work, but my hopes were quickly cut to ribbons when I learned that this film “starred” a collection of black cardboard figures, which Reiniger had created with a pair of scissors and brought to life with stop motion photography. Did I seriously really want to spend my morning watching a 91-year-old feature length shadow play? How could I possibly stay interested in such a crudely made cartoon? How did I stay interested? Very easily, that’s how. Once Prince...

When I was a Cub Scout so many years ago, we used to sing this little ditty as we returned home from our daytrips in honor of the bus driver who had made the outing possible. “ Three cheers for the bus driver, ” we'd all sing, “ he’s fat and he’s jolly and built like a trolley… ” I supposed that bit about being fat would be considered offensive today, but we said it with love and I don’t think “morbidly obese and jolly” makes for a particularly nice song. This tune came climbing out of a dark corner of my memory recently when I thought about this fabulous driver who used to work on the X27 line that I take to and from work. Ride the Express Bus long enough and you start recognizing the various drivers. This particular fellow stands out because he is just so damn nice. I believe his name is Mike, and if isn’t, well, Mike will just have to do, won’t it? The great thing about Mike is that he makes you feel like you’re entering his home rather than climbing aboard a bus. “He...

I walked out of my grocery story the other night convinced I was going to make it last all week. I had just picked up a package of Swiss cheese to satisfy some midnight munchies that had come barging into my appetite a few hours ahead of schedule. I knew I wanted something to eat as I entered the story and while I couldn’t—or wouldn’t--name it, my subconscious mind steadily steered me through the aisles until I was standing in front of the dairy case. And then I wanted cheese and nothing else. Seriously, chronically, and borderline homicidally—I wanted freaking cheese . I told myself a 20-ton whopper of a lie that I would get the Swiss, have a slice or two tonight, and save the rest for my lunch over the next five days. Oh, bitch, please. The last time I gave into my cheese cravings I tore through a pack of Polly-O mozzarella in under two hours. Towards the end of that barbaric binge I was asking myself why I even bothered slicing the stuff. I should've just lugged the w...