The Luna Park Gazette

“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