The Luna Park Gazette

You never know when Ol’ Blue Eyes will show up. I made a surprise connection with Frank Sinatra last week at the most strangest time. Of course, I suppose any time you make a connection with someone who died 24 years ago it's bound to be a bit bizarre. Nevertheless... In my last post, I described the category five level of frustration I had to deal with when buying a new compound. Well, it seems that streak of outrageous fortune is trailing after me like a rabid bloodhoundas I tried to migrate my data from the old machine to the new one. Thanks to the geniuses at Apple, I had to do perform this procedure myself. And it was nothing short of hellacious. I got on the phone with the company and buckled down for a long night of tech torture. I was talking with one woman for a solid 30 minutes—who was quite helpful, actually—until the line went dead. I called back and got patched in with a fresh techie. By this time, I was a bit frazzled, and I dropped an

“ Hey, Kamikaze ,” my text message read. “ Show me a life if you get a chance. ” You’d think by now I’d be accustomed to voice-to-text screw-ups, where I say something into my smart phone and get some very stupid results. Some days I wonder why I don’t I just type my messages in the first place, instead of speaking and freaking at what I see on the screen. ‘How’s that?’ The only thing my phone seems to properly record is the f-bomb, which I spew in great numbers upon viewing its horrendous transcriptions. This latest one, however, was just a hunk a burning marlarkey. I was texting my friend, Jodi, and asking her to contact me, so I said “Hey-comma—Jodi,” which my phone mutated into “Hey, Kamikaze.” It was unadulterated gibberish, but I must say that it pretty much sums up my recent interactions with man and machine. I am supposed to be writing this post on a new computer. My old Apple, which I’ve had since 2015, is a fossil in tech years. The thing was getting

“If you going to get cancer,” my doctor said, “this is the kind you want to get.’’ And with those words he set about removing a small brown doodad on the side of my head. I had seen this thing a few weeks ago and I wanted to believe that it was a shaving cut, but something told me that it was a bit more serious. I was long overdue for a trip to the dermatologist anyway, so I went in for tests and waited for that phone call saying that there was nothing to worry about. Unfortunately, the phone call I received was one telling me to come in for surgery. The good news---the fantastic news--was that it wasn’t melanoma. My doctor said I could leave it alone, but the thing would just keep getting bigger. I was concerned that my love for sitting out in the sun might have caused this problem, but he dismissed that idea. “These things just happen,” he said. So now I have a line of stiches on the side of my head that would do Boris Karloff proud, and I’ve got to change the dre

So, there I was on Thursday hitting the heavy bag at my gym as I usually do three mornings a week. Everything was normal...except the building reeked of smoke, the weight room downstairs was in total darkness and there was soot all over the place. If you haven’t guessed by now, my gym had a fire last week. A dude walking out the door warned me about the smoke, but I figured that since I had gotten up early to work out, I might as well work out. This situation does bring up a very important question: What the hell is wrong with me? Am I so set in my ways that I’ll keep working out even when half the lighting is on the fritz, every surface is covered in filth and the air is borderline unbreathable? Well, uh…yes, apparently. I would like to think I would have left if the building was in flames, but I’m glad I didn’t have to find out. It was so eerie walking through that darkened weight room, where several machines had been flipped over. I saw one guy trying to