The Luna Park Gazette

“Some people dream of success, while other people get up every morning and make it happen.” -- Wayne Huizenga In Latin, the phrase is “ veritas lux mea .” It is the motto of Seoul National University, among other things, and it can be translated as “the truth is my light,” or “the truth enlightens me.” Either way, these words will be my guide for 2020—and beyond. Yes, we’re coming up to New Year’s Day, that wacky time of year when I gear up to make all sorts of incredible changes in my life. And even though the ball won’t be coming down in Times Square for a few days yet, I’m already feeling the January jitters, an entirely self-inflicted and completely insane need to rebuild my entire existence from the DNA up. Nothing outrageous, of course. I just want to finish my novel, shoot a film, produce a play, move to Los Angeles, and fall madly in love all before Groundhog’s Day. Hmm…perhaps that’s a little too ambitious. Now I just want to say that 2019 was a darn good year. ...

I walked up to the ticket counter, took out my credit card, and pointed to the price list. “One adult and one senior, please” I said. The time was earlier this month and the place was the fabulous Norton Simon Museum in Los Angeles, where I was visiting my uncle and his wife. My uncle had stayed home on this day, so it was just my aunt and me. Now when I’m out with family, I tend to be the youngest in the crowd—unless my nieces are around, so I didn’t think there was anything unusual about my request until my aunt pointed to the price list. “It says ‘Seniors over 62,’” she said. Yeah, I know what it says. So? And then everything stopped—except time. I turned 62 in May, so that means…I am now eligible for the senior discount? In the immortal words of W.C. Fields, “Mother of Pearl!” Don’t get me wrong: I’ll gladly take any discount I can get, but I’d rather take three decades off my age than 3 bucks off a museum ticket. The sign was a little spooky, but the next day I...

I came around a curve on the Occidental College campus on Saturday morning and made a new acquaintance. It was early, just before sunrise, and I was doing my morning walk from my uncle’s home in Los Angeles where I had been staying for the last week. This would probably be a good time to tell you that I had an absolute blast. I got to hang with my uncle and his wife, had lunch with one of my cousins who was in town for a day, hit such hot spots as Little Tokyo and the Farmers Market, and I finally had an in-person meeting with the fabulous Mark Brown , a writer I’ve known for the last 10 years or so solely through blogging and Facebook. And I also had plenty of time to lay on my keester and do absolutely nothing. Not bad, huh? Especially in light of all that emotional hullabaloo that I’m subjected myself to just a week ago. I’m always on the lookout for symbols and saying that can help calm the psychic typhoon that rages nonstop inside my noodle and I came across a humding...

Yes, those Ukraine girls really knock me out, but I’m heading west and I’m leaving them behind. I’m taking off for Los Angeles tomorrow to visit my incredible Uncle Joe and his lovely wife for a week of R&R. As always, I’ve got the pre-vacation, oh-Jesus-I hate-flying jitters, but I’m hoping this passes with a little faith and shit-ton of Xanax. And, as usual, I’m running through my standard fears and worries. I’m regretting my decision, I’ve got too much to do, the bills are piling up, it’s too close to Christmas for a vacation, and other such assorted emotional khazerai . Of course, I’m missing some really cool-sounding events the week I’m gone, but that’s always the way with vacations. If you leave home for any extended period, you’re bound to miss something because you ain’t there, Einstein. Can I get “Duh!”? Then on Thursday I received an e-mail that helped me see life from a different angle. It was slugged “Date Ukrainian Lady” and it contained a photo of a l...

At some point in my childhood, I caught myself in the unthinkable act of enjoying The Wizard of Oz . Today, of course, I’m proud to say that I love this magical film with all my heart and that the 1939 classic takes me over the rainbow every time I watch it. It was a much different story when I was a kid. Back then I absolutely hated this flick. I couldn’t stand Dorothy and her nitwit friends: the Tin Woodsman, the Cowardly Lion and the Scarecrow. Every time the movie was broadcast--usually on a holiday--I would sit and sulk in front of our old Motorola while these losers followed the freaking Yellow Brick Road. My mother adored Judy Garland and I was stunned to learn a few years ago that The Wizard of Oz made its debut on August 15--my mother's birthday. The flying monkeys were pretty cool, but I still had to put up with all those stupid songs and the dancing midgets. I kept hoping that Godzilla will wander in from another movie and stomp them all to death. My bigge...

“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...

Whenever my father was feeling overwhelmed by life, he’d shift into an Irish brogue and loudly declare “ take me out, coach, I’ve had enough! ” Like so many of my father’s routines, I don’t know where this particular ditty came from—it might have been a line from an old TV or radio program, a song lyric, or something my dad cooked up in his head. And since he’s gone now, the answer is most likely lost forever. But this phrase continues to resonant with me. The most recent example was this week when I opened a letter from my cable company, Spectrum—or Sputum, as I like to call them—to learn that they were jacking up my already-outrageously-high bill to a shockingly new sum of $200 a month. I’ve been looking at this situation logically and dispassionately for the last few days and I keep coming back to the same question: Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve already been suffering with the basic, no-frills, happy horseshit service from these jackals for years and now they want to c...

And to think I was just starting to doubt myself. This morning I sat down to write about my latest attempt at curbing my anger. I have a variety of techniques that have worked to some extent, but since I declared 2019 to be my Best Year Ever (BYE) I decided to go old school—as in old Catholic school—and find a saint that can me help out with my rage issues. One of the great things about being Catholic—and that’s an awfully short list—is that you can find a saint for just about anything that ails you. I have prayed to Saint Martin de Porres and Saint Jude over the years, but I wanted to find someone whose intercessions are fury-centric. A quick Google search came up with Saint Jerome, who translated the Bible into Latin directly from the Hebrew texts of the Old Testament, instead of relying on the Greek translation. In addition to anger management, Jerome is the patron saint of translators, librarians and encyclopedists. And I was astonished to learn that St. Jerome is cred...

I placed the headphones over my ears and strained to hear the beeps. I was taking a hearing test at a facility in lower Manhattan on Wednesday where I was required to sit in a soundproof booth and listen. I hadn’t had a hearing examination since grade school and the only thing I recall from that distant time was how frightened I was that I’d get something wrong—as if you could actually study for a hearing test. This time out I was confident that I was killing it, but I soon found out otherwise. The only reason I was here in the first place was due to a reoccurring earache that seemed to be getting worse over the last few weeks. Naturally I began inventing all sorts of horrific scenarios that all ended with me checking out of this life and--God willing!--passing through the Pearly Gates. I thought perhaps I should see someone for a second opinion and I found this fantastic doctor, Kamran Jafri , just a few blocks from my office. He believes the earaches are the result of a ...

Hey, boys and girls, according to the clock on the wall, it’s time for another look through the old spam mailbag. Every so often I like to bring the lunatic fringe out to center stage and try in vain to make some sense of all the gratuitous gibberish. These robo-comments are stuck onto the nether regions of the blogosphere the world over like barnacles on the bottom of an oil tanker. They peddle various products and services while actually pretending to give a rat’s ass about my ravings as they dump their messages on unsuspecting posts like a team of over-fed Clydesdales. So, when I wrote a post about my local massage service back in 2014, Chassiday felt compelled to tell me about “the pretty queens from Pakistan” who are “extremely the fantastic call girls in Dubai.” “Dubaikik (?) bring the charm and luxriousness girls from all over the Pakistan in Dubai,” the comment continues. “If you are a true fan of Pakistani hot girls and are looking to appoint one of your desirable Pak...

I got off the ferry this evening and saw a group of school kids gathered on the pier. They were musicians who were taking part in the local 9/11 memorial services. As I walked by them, a man who had been riding on the ferry with me stopped and nodded in their direction. "They don't look old enough to remember 9/11, do they?" he asked. "No, they don't," I said. It's 18 years today when the World Trade Center came crashing down to earth, when fundamentalist psychotics crashed hijacked jetliners into the iconic buildings, destroying thousands of lives and ripping right through this nation's heart. All that time gone by since I stood with the crowd across the street from trade center, outside the Brooks Brothers store, and watched the North Tower burn, and ran with everyone else when the second plane crash into the South Tower. All those years, all those people. It was my father's 80th birthday and I always tell people how beautiful t...

I am writing to you from deep in enemy territory. I’m in my computer room, the place where I blog, write my fiction, think my great thoughts, and watch kitty videos on YouTube. It’s my Bat Cave, my Fortress of Solitude, the adult version of the little boy’s tree house. It is also dump. I don’t like saying this; it’s quite painful to admit, actually, but it’s the truth. And what hurts even more is that I am the reason that this allegedly sacred space is in such awful condition. There are piles of stuff all around, stacks of books and papers, there’s a plastic storage container filled to the brim with God-knows-what and a “caja grande” cardboard box that the movers gave me when I first arrived here something like 8 years ago. Every single year on January 1st I say that this is the year I get organized, the year I throw out all the junk, crap, and trash, and every year it doesn’t happen. I’ve been telling myself this pathetic lie that all I need is a few hours on a Sunday aft...