Author: genenewman

According to Shakespeare: “All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players.” He was so right! Our lives are like Broadway, TV and Hollywood productions with crises, climaxes and denouements.

Although we’re given some control over the outcome, in the important area of casting, it’s largely in the hands of Fate and we are rarely consulted. Take my life, for instance. I have no complaints about the leading character choices, but the selection of those in supporting roles and even the walk-ons, have caused a considerable amount of anxiety.

Fate made a big mistake near the beginning in casting my kindergarten teacher. Someone like Doris Day would have provided a great start to my scholastic career and instilled a sense of fun and adventure in my pursuit of knowledge. Central Casting sent in Norma Desmond and I had to be dragged to school every day, kicking and screaming.

My first real job was as a drug store delivery boy. I was a pre-teen and eager to learn. If the pharmacist had been a Jimmy Stewart type, I might have gone on to eventually win the Nobel Prize for Medicine. But Casting sent in Peter Lorre. The closest I got to dealing with medicine was planting rat poison in the cellar.

Think back over your last few weeks and the characters Fate has pushed into your path. Do you realize how these supporting players have changed, at least temporarily, the tone of your life? What about that waitress last Friday evening? After a very rough work week , great food and friendly service was what you needed. Dorothy or Aunty Em would have been perfect servers, but the Wicked Witch of the West was sent out. She spilled the soup on your new suit and claimed you’d tripped her.

Supporting players on a typical work day have such minor roles we often fail to recognize their effect on our psyche. Dealing with a grouchy bus driver (Ralph Kramden) or a weird subway passenger (Freddy Krueger) can impart a sense of imbalance to your day. Would it make a difference if the office security guard who greets you each morning was Jack Lemmon or Bela Lugosi?

Why is it every time I’m called in to authenticate my income tax deductions I have to deal with Inspector Clouseau or Howard Cosell? And how come I was stuck with Felix Unger for my State’s car inspection? He failed me again. For dirty bumpers.

I have to end here. The Three Stooges just arrived to fix my water heater which was recently installed by Homer Simpson.

We astraphobia sufferers, past and present, disagree with the dictionary’s definition of a phobia as an intense irrational fear. An astraphobia sufferer’s fear of lightning is very rational and, unlike irrational fears, can be mollified by studying the way lightning works. The odds of survival are very much in our favor especially if we know the the nuts and bolts (especially the bolts) of a lightning storm.

We should consider the first thunder boom as the starting gun of the storm. The boom comes right after the lightning bolt. If you count the seconds between bolt and boom and divide by 5 you’ll know the number of miles between you and the approaching storm. If the answer is one or less, get into a hardtop car (not a ragtop convertible), or a house, right away. Both are very safe.

But don’t stand under a tree. They are often the targets of lightning bolts and a strike will increase the internal temperature of a tree 50,000 degrees F. The tree will explode and you might end up on the collateral damage report having been clobbered by a falling limb. Also, bolts hitting trees have been known to continue traveling underground to strike nearby animals and people. So, skedaddle!

I’ve never been a fan of lightning. Who would be, except maybe Dr. Frankenstein and Ben Franklin? As a five year old I was trapped with my family in our stalled car during a tremendous electric storm. A nearby tree turned into a tower of flame and crashed down. The following thunder sounded like we were inside a bass drum. I loudly recommended that we evacuate, but cooler heads prevailed and we stayed in the safe car with no other trees nearby.

I was a serious sky watcher for a year or so but calmed down when I learned our very favorable odds. For instance, in the U.S.A. in 2023, lightning strikes killed 13 people and injured about 50 others out of a population of over 340 million.

We can make our houses even safer during lightning storms by avoiding dish washing and baths (no problem) because pipes and water are electrical conductors. So are wires, so avoid landline calls and electric appliances till the boom-booms end. It was quite a relief to learn there was most likely no bolt out there with my name on it, just like there’s no big lottery ticket’s winning number that matches my social security number.

Of course we can forget all of the above if we go by my Mom’s explanation of a thunder storm when I was a wee kid. “It’s just the noise the angels make while they’re bowling in heaven.”

The most dangerous party in the world is no longer the Communist Party which enslaved vast populations before it crumbled. The second most dangerous party, the office party, continues to promote chaos, organizational upheaval, dyspepsia, fisticuffs and unemploymnet.

The recent holiday bash of the Whimsey Widget Company for its loyal staff contained two volatile ingredients. First was the pretense of a spirit of camaraderie in a group which is used to the stringent rules of a chain gang. When the second ingredient, alcohol, is mixed in, the results can be staggering.

The festivities begin with a merry speech by Vice President Cuthbert Mainchance, an infrequent visitor to the office. He usually cuts everyone dead, but today he’s a jolly elf with inaccurate first name greetings and feeble handshakes.

Underlings smile politely, reflecting on Mr. Mainchance’s rise to the top owing to his courage to marry President Whimsey’s middle-aged daughter. Every employee has a warm feeling in his breast for V.P. Mainchance. It’s very similar to heartburn.

Mr. Mainchance does not dwell on boring company performance details. This is a party, after all, and he knows very little about these details. In fact, he’s not sure what the company makes, but he knows, to the penny, what he makes.

Checking his notes, he praises the acheivements of key employees like Office Manager Simon Hartless who “treats the staff like his own family.” Everyone nods in agreement, knowing Mr. Hartless’ real family ran away years ago.

There’s an expression of appreciation for veteran switchboard operator Mrs. Smirf (who often takes calls from a giggly female named “Boopsy” who leaves messages for a certain V.P.) And special praise for old Mr. Coot in accounting who’s been with the company longer than anyone can remember, including Mr. Coot.

New employees must be embraced into the bosom of the company, V.P. Mainchance says as he introduces steno clerk Zelda Zowie. A slight disturbance occurs as two mailroom boys attempt to obey the order.

He expresses pride in the elegant buffet table which is “loaded with the traditional delectable dishes and mouth-watering desserts.” There is whispered disagreement by some who claim last year’s fare was much better. Others say it is actually the thawed out leftovers from last year.

But the drinks are fresh and, according to Ms. Zowie, so are the mailroom boys. She has locked herself in the ladies room and they are pounding on the door. Mr.Hartless has just opened his present from the staff, a wooden plaque with the burned-in message, “To a Swill Guy.” He will have it checked for fingerprints.

Old Mr. Coot, under the influence and also under the table, is mumbling something about his upcoming trip to South America just before the next audit.

Ms. Zowie has accidentally tripped the burglar alarm as she escaped through the ladies room window and a dozen policemen have burst into the building, slipping and falling on discarded hors d’ouevres. Well-oiled V.P. Mainchance ignores the commotion and turns to his bleary-eyed audience to announce, “In contusion….”

“There’s a bulge in the living room ceiling! We have to clean out the attic,” I told the family.  “Clean out the attic? There’s nothing up there but fond memories and keepsakes!” they protested.

 “You’ll remember, last fall we found the storm windows under a pile of fond memories and when we dug out the Christmas ornaments, they’d been crushed by 100 pounds of keepsakes. The junk has to go!”

So the six of us climbed up into the upper reaches with leaf bags and boxes and a great deal of resolve. “We must be brutal about this,” I said. “We have to put aside sentimental nonsense.”  

“You can count on us to the end, Dad,” they shouted.  The end came about ten minutes later when the first Barbie doll turned up. Soon everyone was busy album-flipping, toy-winding, clothes-modeling and hula-hooping.

 “Get a grip on yourselves!” I shouted. “You’ve got to let go of the past and toss out these foolish mementos.” I was actually getting through to them. They’d put aside the Parcheesi game and paid attention, but then the effect was ruined when my roller skates slipped out from under me and I dropped my Mickey Mouse jelly glasses.  

 “You should be setting a better example,” my wife Barbara said.  “You’ve got as much junk up here as the children.” 

“Junk? These are perfectly good roller skates.  I might need them if there’s another bus drivers strike.”

 “What about these science books you bought at a garage sale years ago?  I know you haven’t read them.”

“I definitely intend to, but first I have to learn German. Please give me a chance!”

We invented a voting system to decide on the heave-ho items. The majority would rule, but each of us had one veto vote to save a cherished item. After three hours of rummaging and voting we’d tossed four wire coat hangers and a questionable bicycle pump. I’d used my veto vote to save my ukulele. “Such a fine old instrument,” I said, caressing its frets.

    “Dad, how can you call it a ‘fine old instrument,'” Steven asked.  “It’s made of plastic and has a picture of Donald Duck on it.”

     “And you never really played it,” Janis added… “You just made funny noises with it,” Carolyn recalled… “Over and over and over,” Denise added.

     “Those were chords,” I protested. “I was on the verge of playing ‘Billy Boy,’  I might have eventually made it to Carnegie Hall.”

“We might have rented Carnegie Hall just to get you and that fiddle out of the house for awhile,” Barbara said.

That did it. I offered to toss the uke if everyone else would make a similar sacrifice. The white elephants began to march out to the curb and there was room enough in the attic to swing a dead cat.  Thank goodness we didn’t find one. 

 Six a.m. the next morning I was awakened by strange sounds outside. I saw the garbage truck out there and, perched on our broken rocking chair, stroking the ukulele, the dreamy-eyed driver was playing a familiar tune.

I opened the window and shouted,  “By George, you’ve got it! I’m sure you’ve got it! O-ho where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?”

“Who me? Santa Claus? Not a chance!” I said.

“You forgot ‘Humbug,'” Barbara scolded.

“Now don’t try to make me out as Scrooge. I’m just home from a busy work day, the week before Christmas, a report to finish and my wife wants me to drive across town and play Santa, for goodness sake.”

“Yes, for goodness sake. Old Mr. Schultz has the flu and if there isn’t a Santa at the town’s tree lighting ceremony it will break a tradition. How sad!”

“Let me think about it,” I said as I opened the closet door to hang up my coat and spotted a bright red suit on a hanger. “You took me for granted!” I said.

“I took your Christmas spirit for granted. You should be flattered.”

Ten minutes later I was walking out the door, unsteady in Mr. Schultz’s size 13 boots and adjusting my new beard. “How do I look? The suit fits quite well, don’t you think? “It was made for you, dear. Just think how uncomfortable Mr. Schultz has been all these years. He had to use a pillow.”

I drove to the town hall, arriving just in time to help the mayor light the tree. I ad libbed a few ho-ho-ho’s and had my picture taken with the high school choir. An easy gig. But I was detained on my way back to the car by a greedy little boy who insisted on reading his long wish list to me. It took five minutes and sounded like the complete inventory of FAO Schwarz.

I told him if he obeyed his parents, was a good student, said his prayers and voted straight Republican, he’d eventually get everything he wanted. He bought that and I crossed the empty square to find my car. I got in, turned the key and NOTHING! A dead battery!

My wallet and cell phone were in my other suit, the one without the white fur trim. Muttering Christmas carols, I walked over to Main Street just in time to see the last store lights blink out and the first snowflake side slip past a street lamp. I pulled my furry hat down over my ears and headed for home.

A man was walking towards me through the flakes and I thought he might be able to help me avoid a two-mile forced march. ” Oh Buddy! I called, “can you….?

“Santa Claus!” he shouted, stopping in his tracks and wobbling a bit. “You remembered my name! I meant to go straight home from work, but the guys were going to Murphy’s….”

“Can you give me a lift, Buddy?”

“I’d love to Santa, but I don’t think I should be driving tonight after my stopover at Murphy’s. But Santa, where are your reindeer?”

‘They’re at the vets, Buddy. Something about an annual antler checkup. They’ll be ready for the upcoming flight. Thank you, anyway. Now walk home to your family and have a merry Christmas!”

“Okay Santa. Wait’ll the kids hear about this!….Antler checkup ?” He was only a fading voice in the swirling snow by then as I trudged on, beginning to marvel at the credibility that went with my eye-catching red hat, jacket and knickers.

Further on I overtook a little girl and, probably her Grandma. The old lady was shivering in a man’s overcoat as she pulled a sled carrying the girl and a large overflowing bundle of laundry.

“Susie!” she cried. “Look who’s here!” Susie was about five with big blue eyes. I leaned over the sled and smiled at her. “Susie, I know you’ve been a good girl and I’m going to bring you something nice for Christmas. How would you like……? ” I caught Grandma’s signal….”a pretty doll to take care of?” She laughed and reached up to touch my beard.

I pulled the sled for a while towards the laundromat sign shining through the snowfall. It’s a beautiful doll!” the old lady whispered. “Just like the one you brought me when I was her age, remember?” I told her that I did.

I helped by carrying in the the laundry, not realizing the effect of seeing Santa walk in carrying a large bag. Everything seemed to stop in the laundromat. A young couple sorting clothes, paused and eyed me expectantly. A teenaged girl jumped back with hand to mouth and did an impromptu dance.

An old man stopped unloading a dryer to stare at me. I recognized him as a nodding acquaintance who was recently widowed. My neighbors said he was taking it hard. “Merry Christmas, Michael, I whispered to him. “Try to take comfort in the real meaning of the season, the promise of it.”

“Thank you Santa. Thanks for stopping by,” he said.

The snow was deepening, but I was nearing home and I made it almost without another incident. I told Barbara about the dead battery, but the homebound adventure accounts would have to come later. I was tired and accepted her offer of a mug of her famous chicken soup as I sank into the welcoming sofa cushions. “Aren’t you going to change your clothes?” she asked.

“Not yet. I want to dream by the tree with you for a while. ” She asked about my important report work. “Oh the elves will take care of that ,” I said. “Please come and sit beside me.” We gazed at the colorful lights for awhile and then Barbara said, “You make a nice Santa, quite authentic, but how did the seat of your pants get torn, Santa?

“I was jogging the last twenty-five yards to keep warm when I was joined by an over playful shepherd.”

“Santa wrestled with a shepherd at Christmas time?

“A German shepherd.”

Many years ago when I was a reporter, I received a letter from a man that contained his account of a very strange Christmas Eve experience. He wished to remain anonymous and hoped, if his letter was published, the inside addressee would get to read it. It went like this:

“Dear Santa: I’m sorry I haven’t written to you in 60 years. You might remember in my last letter I asked for a pony and you brought me a hobby horse instead. I forgave you for that many years ago.

I’m writing now about the very big favor you did for me when we met last Christmas Eve. That evening I’d attended a quiet get-together with friends in a local inn. Apparently the coffee was too strong and it affected my ability to concentrate. I was also having some difficulty standing up straight.

Exiting the inn, I couldn’t remember where my car was parked or whether or not I owned one. In any case, my indisposition ruled out driving so I walked off in what I hoped was the general direction of my home.

While trudging down a dark back road, I almost tripped over a reclining stranger. I first thought it was a little boy until I noticed his beard. He was wearing rather odd clothes that ended in pompoms and points. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Brixnitzl!’ he replied, pointing to the huge sack he must have been trying to drag. It was obviously much too heavy for him. So I helped him get it down the road and into a grove of holly trees.

That’s when I met you, Santa! I was sure from your very first ‘Ho, Ho, Ho’. Your red suit, the reindeer and the elves clinched it. I was having a Saint Nicholas encounter!

You thanked me for helping Johann with the sack of toys that had fallen off your sled and you asked what I was doing out in the woods on Christmas Eve. I explained my predicament and you winked and said, ‘We’ll be glad to give you a lift, won’t we boys?’ They all shouted, ‘Brixnitzl!’ which is apparently a friendly affirmative. I did notice Prancer was eyeing my bulk and wincing.

Santa, that was the most thrilling airborne, deer-powered ride I’ve ever had, flying over my home town in the hushed silence of a Christmas Eve, broken only by an occasional Ho, Ho, Ho and the huffing and puffing of the reindeer. I hope Prancer’s strain has healed by now.

I’m writing, not only to thank you, but because you’re the only one who’ll believe my story. I was assured Mr. Newman would publish this in his newspaper in hopes you’ll get to read it. I don’t know if he believes in you or in my tale, but he’s been known to have an unbridled imagination. For instance, he’s a New York Mets fan.

Santa, I wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Please tell Johann and the boys, ‘Brixnitzl’ for me.

P.S. I know it’s a silly question, but I’d really like to know, Santa. Who got that pony fifty years ago?”

Have you ever accidentally bumped into a famous person for whom you’ve nurtured feelings of contempt? It can become a little awkward. Way back in the last century I crossed paths with Howard Cosell, …. “An audacious commentator on Channel ABC’s ‘Monday Night Football’ “…….”A most loved, most hated sports broadcaster.”……. Those are actual quotes from Britannica. Ask your Dad or Grandpa about Howard and his acidic tongue.

Looking to entertain Don, my visiting buddy, I’d mooched tickets to a Yankee Stadium suite to watch the Yanks play the Oakland Athletics. The game became so Yankee-dominated, it was boring and, as I gazed around, I spotted my surprise prey. “That’s Howard Cosell over there!” I whispered to Don who tried to feign disinterest. “I wouldn’t even turn my head,” he said.

Howard was strutting down the steps, puffing on a cigar so long, the ashes posed a threat to the fans in the lower seats. We returned to the suite later and found him pontificating from an easy chair to the young black man who’d handed us cold beers when we arrived. Now, I suddently recognized him. “Isn’t this a Giants running back you’re talking to, Howard?” I asked.

“This is the great number 30 of the New York Giants, the fleet-footed Ron Johnson,” Howard replied and I thought (“Good heavens, this guy speaks the same on and off camera! I bet when he orders breakfast it sounds like an inaugural address.”)

Guests from nearby suites drifted in and surrounded Cosell. I’m sure that’s just what he wanted, an audience. Ron Johnson posed a question: “Howard, I’ve wondered why you never worked with a black sportscaster. How come?”

“Now, Ron, you’re becoming truculent,” Cosell cautioned and I wished I’d brought my thesaurus. “You must remember I once got you a position on ABC.” Johnson was thrown for a slight loss and the others began lobbing questions at “The Acid Lungs of Channel 7.” I suddenly realized, (“They’re baiting him. What a great idea!”)

“Matt Snell was not a good football player, he was a great football player,” Howard corrected a fan. By then I was standing behind him, primed with two beers, looking down at his famous hairpiece and struggling against a powerful impulse. But I had a bigger plan.

“I remember saying to my friend, the late and great Vince Lombardi….” Howard was dropping so many big names people had to step around them to get to the john. Boxing champ Ali was referred to in lofty sentences of marble and gold, but Joe Namath had to settle for less. There were groans and even fist-shakers in the crowd. A Chicago Bears wide receiver was being dissected when my pal Don looked into my glowing eyes and said, “I think we’d better leave!”….. “Not yet,” I replied. “There’s something I want to do.”

“I can see that,” Don said. “That’s why we’d better leave!”

“You don’t understand, Don. I’m going to put down Howard Cosell when he gets to a subject I’m familiar with. Then I’ll pounce! It’s the chance of a lifetime! Sooner or later, if he’s actually a human being, he’ll have to pause to inhale. Then I’m going to say something really piercing, like, ‘Says you Cosell !’ I’ll be famous!”

“You’re out of your class, kid,” Don said, grabbing me by my collar, as he propelled me to the door, upsetting a pile of exotic adjectives that was growing in front of Howard.

As the door slammed behind us, I twisted out of Don’s grasp and shouted through the keyhole, “You’re all wrong, Cosell!” He got me in the eye with a blast of expensive cigar smoke.

I’ve always been a follower of the popular sports fads, but I never achieved expert or even “promising amateur” status in any of them, and now I wonder why I usually stuck to it, gathering insults and injuries instead of trophies.

There were the shin splints of jogging and the surgical splints of skiiing, but the worst were the psychological wounds suffered as a stubborn tennis rookie.

“Forty love again!” my opponent would shout for everyone on the other courts to hear and smirk at. There would be triumph in his voice and not a trace of pity. “Forty-humiliation!” was what he meant.

My tennis instructor had warned me against playing in singles matches. “It’s too fast a game for you right now,” he warned. But after watching me perform in a few doubles games, he was still not satisfied. “But there’s no such thing as a triples match,” I protested.

“Then how about switching to ping pong?” he said. “I don’t want any of my students physically or mentally injured. There’ll be no charge for your lessons if you’ll promise never to tell anyone I was your teacher.”

I decided to be self-taught with daily sessions of hitting the ball against a handball court wall to sharpen my eye and reflexes, playing imaginary games. I quit the day I lost 6-0, 6-2. The wall was learning faster than me.

I then began hanging out in public tennis courts until someone needed a partner or an opponent. I would step forward, faking a slight limp, hoping that might soften my opponent’s killer instinct. It never worked.

Now and then I’d manage to score a point when, reacting to a blazing serve, I’d raise my racket in self-defense and the ball would bounce off and land two or three inches on the other side of the net.

Under severe pressure I sometimes resorted to subterfuge. “OUT!” I would call with just the right mixture of authority and sympathy for my opponent. “You can’t be serious,” he’d complain. “It was decidedly out, old man,” I’d reply, and he would be sullen for the rest of the match, which usually affected his performance. The trick was, I never shouted, “Out of bounds!” What I meant was, “Out of reach!”

There came a day when I lost all hope and tossed out my expensive Wilson. (Didn’t that happen with Tom Hanks?) My wiles and my luck weren’t working. I had just been aced and imagined a wisp of smoke from my right sneaker which had been grazed by another well-aimed bullet serve. “Game, set and match!” my opponent shouted for all to hear.

“Beautiful form,” I replied, holding out a limp hand and smiling mechanically. “How about a rematch this evening? I’ve got a court reserved for nine.”

“Sorry, can’t make it. I’ve got homework to do and my Mom doesn’t let me stay out that late.”

Anyway, I always dreaded winning an important game and having to risk my neck leaping over the net. I’d already dropped out of my gymnastics class.

There was something magical way back then about being ten years old on a beautiful summer day, standing alone in a weed-infested right field, hearing the crack of the bat and seeing the ball arc gracefully across a clear blue sky and watching it descend, growing larger and larger while your teammates shout encouragingly, “Catch this one, Butterfingers!” And feeling the sharp pain as the ball bounced off your head. Those were the golden days!

Statistically, right field gets the least action, but I was never completely safe from concussions. I prayed more fervently there than in church. “Lord, please don’t let there be any lefties batting today. But if a southpaw comes up, please, no line drives!”

I could handle grounders, but the team didn’t like the way I ran alongside them till they slowed down. On a crucial play, I’d throw my body in front of the ball and maybe hold the hitter to a triple.

On the rare occasions when I was able to grab the bouncing ball while the runner was still rounding first, I’d haul back and heave it with all my might. I enjoyed seeing the ball fly fast and straight, usually into the grandstands . If it bounced into an adjoining ball field it usually threw that game into angry confusion.

There were no umpires for kids’ ballgames in those days. Every pitch, every foul or fair ball, every putout attempt could lead to a matter of opinions. And there were no parents in the stands urging us to accomplish the impossible.

As poorly as I played, I think I was happier than the current major leaguers who must cringe after a strikeout or a fielding error, weighed down by their enormous wealth like Dickens’ gloomy Ghost of Marley. He would have been much happier if he’d played right field instead of the stock market.