Author: genenewman

“Let’s have a cozy cookout this evening, ” Paul said to his wife Barbara one summer morning years ago. “I’ll pick up franks and rolls on my way home from work this afternoon.

“A good idea,” Barbara said. “And I’ll make a big delicious salad.”

After Paul left, Barbara realized she was out of mayo, so she called her neighbor, Carolyn. “Paul and I are having a cookout this evening and….”

“Thanks, Barbara. Bill and I would love to come, but his cousins from Arkansas are visiting. “

Barbara heaved a sigh of relief, “Well, in that case…”

“You’re a dear, Barbara. I hate to turn you down. We’ll be there. There are only three cousins.”

Barbara realized later she didn’t know what Arkansas cousins ate and were they adults or children? Did they eat something strange like chitlins. “Where can I get ready-to-eat chitlins?” She called Carolyn again.

“Don’t worry Barb, they’re three sweet old ladies, all atwitter with the news and out in the kitchen cooking like crazy. By the way, the Whitneys next door were going to invite us over but when they heard about your cookout, they volunteered to join in, since our three backyards connect. Is that okay?”

“Uh, yes,” Barbara muttered. “Let’s see, I think that makes twelve. I’ll have to pick up a few things”

“It’s more like seventeen, Dear. The Whitneys are minding the Brock kids while Janis visits her mother. But don’t worry about the food. Claudia Mango said if she comes, she’ll have her Cub Scouts do some cooking as a project.”

“Cub Scouts?”

“It’s Claudia’s den meeting night, Dear.”

“Oh, good,” Barbara mumbled, signed off and went out into the kitchen realizing she’d forgotten the mayo again. But a strange inner voice asked, “Who the hell will notice?”

About then, Al Blake from down the street called. “I know how spur of the moment these block parties can be, but I need more notice. I won’t be able to hook up the sound system for about an hour.”

Sound system ?

Mayor Bumkum rang in ten minutes later. “I wanted you to know I’ll be happy to attend your festival tonight.”

“Festival ?”

A rock band exploded as His Honor rambled on (“….people of this fair city….”) “What will Paul say?” she wondered. “How can I explain all this to him? (….”in this critical election year”….) “Paul only wanted to grill a few hot dogs for us. (….”Eager to contribute some wild boar steaks”….) “How can I explain the crowds, the awful music and now I hear fireworks!”

“Wild boar steaks?

The crowd began to thin out around midnight and Paul finally got home through the traffic. He found Barbara standing dazed on what used to be their lawn. “Sorry I’m so late, Sweetheart,” he said. “The neighborhood roads became parking lots. What happened?”

“It’s very complicated, Dear. Have a seat on that overturned amp box and I’ll try to explain after I heat up your wild boar stake.”

“Wild boar steak?” I was looking forward to a hot dog.”

White Castle was one of the popular eatery companies back in the last century that was closest to the present day fast food chains. It managed to survive the Depression, World War II, the Korean War and all the later uncertainties of the business world. And it seems to be thriving today.

As a little kid in the 1930’s my mouth watered at the mention of a White Castle five-cent hamburger and its fabulously delectable dill pickle. I figured then that five cents was its forever price or why else would they permanently include it embossed on every White Castle tower?

And there it was, a very large black “5 CENTS” on a white background. Even as a grade school boy I thought, “If you think you might have to raise the price someday, don’t make it a part of your building.”

When I was eight years old I had my “White Castle Escape Plan” in case life became too boring or too demanding. My “One-dollar getaway fund” would provide me with 20 White Castle hamburgers when I ran away to join a circus or become a cowboy.

I figured the burgers would get me through a week or so until I was working as a clown for Barnum and Bailey or herding cattle someplace out west. The plan seemed quite reasonable at the time.

Fortunately, my life turned out to be quite active and enjoyable so I spent the fund on ten comic books. If I’d saved those first edition Superman and Batman comics, I’d be a rich man today, but I most likely traded them for bubble gum or Hershey Bars.

Cell phoners today pay big bucks every month for their private use of the airwaves. Back in the 1960’s the monthly charge for a landline phone was under $20. Talk was cheap.

And you could make it $2.00 cheaper by having a party line. That was the approximate price of 10 loaves of bread or six gallons of gas in 1960. However, having party line service was like giving wire-tapping priviledges to as many as 20 other party liners. In some rural communities it provided the information we now get from Neighbor News.

When you picked up your phone then to call Aunt Martha or your bookie, you might discover the line was already in use. You could try again later or hang on, waiting quietly for the line to be free and maybe having a pencil and paper handy to take notes. I only interrupted once, to break up a prolonged chat between two teenagers who couldn’t decide which movie to go to that day. “They just gave “Andy Hardy Falls in Love” five stars last night,” I said and hung up.

Some people preferred party lines as a form of entertainment and a way to keep up with local events like getting some background info on the new family down the block. It was the precursor of today’s Neighbor News.

There were legal penaties for not yielding to an emergency call and for faking an emergency call. A Florida gambling conviction was overturned when it was found the police had gathered evidence by listening in on a party line instead of using a court-ordered wire tap. I never heard of a casual snooper being hauled in. That was probably because there were thousands of us. Maybe millions.

There was the story of a phone conversation between a woman and her mother being interrupted by some loud cursing . “My goodness” the mother gasped, ” Was that you swearing, Dear?”

“No mother. That’s Mrs. Busybody’s foul-mouthed parrot. I guess she’s listening in again and forgot to cover the cage.”

“I am not listening in!” Mrs. Busybody shouted, and slammed down the phone.

After reading Albert Einstein’s biography, I’ve suddenly realized there are significant parallels in our lives. For instance, he is said to have been born with an enlarged head. All of my parts were quite large at birth. I was such an attraction that a nurse carried me around the wards to show me off. Actually, it required two nurses.

Albert and I were both considered odd balls and nonachievers in our youth. He went on to win the Nobel Prize and great popularity. All I’ve got up to now is a second place spelling bee medal. My picture accompanied some of my newspaper columns so I am frequently recognized on the street, but so far I’ve been able to avoid serious injury. (Some people just can’t take a joke.)

I share Einstein’s love of classical music. He was a good enough violinist to play in benefit concerts with the great Fritz Kreisler. I once accompanied the Budapest Quartet at Carnegie Hall in a Mozart sonata until an usher ran down the aisle, reached in and yanked my harmonica right out of my mouth.

Einstein was a small boat enthusiast, but he was reportedly a “comically bad sailor”, often running aground or capsizing. My rowboat, the “Pourous”, ” sometimes submerges without warning and, as a rower lacking a rear view mirror, I’ve collided with other boats, docks, ducks and an occasional Canada Goose.

“Imagination is more important than knowledge,” Einstein claimed. I agree and my blog title backs me up. There seems to be a definite pattern here. Perhaps I’ll make my late start by completing Einstein’s search for a unified theory. I’ll start by brushing up on my multiplication tables.

Whenever I feel sad not seeing today’s kids playing outside on a sunny Saturday afternoon, I remind myself how I’d spent many sunny Saturday afternoons in a dark, “fan-cooled” movie house back in the 1930’s, watching two feature films, a cartoon, a newsreel and the latest chapter of an adventure serial.

That was during the Depression when money was scarce and a kid’s 10-cent admission price was significant. (It was also the price of a loaf of bread.) But we were resourceful, we knew where generous uncles and empty Coke bottles with their two-cent returnable rewards, were to be found. .

The latest adventure serial chapter was always a big draw for us boys. We’d impatiently sit through a BORING full length love story movie until the final kissing scene (Ugh!) It was enough to make a red-blooded American boy upchuck his Jujuebees.

The management was smart enough to include a Tom Mix or Buck Jones adventure with plenty of horseback chases and six-gun shoot-outs. We kids never noticed that the villains Tom and Buck shot last Saturday were back rustling cows and robbing banks a week later, minus their mustaches.

My little pal Henry always sat in the front row, somehow believing that made him part of the cast and he might get a chance to participate in the action. During one Jungle Jim Adventure episode a ferocious lion seemed to leap out at the audience. We all ducked and Henry hit the deck hard, scratching his knee and spilling his candy. He told his mother later he’d been clawed by a lion that ate his Milk Duds.

Eventually, one Saturday, we got to see again, the final scene of the previous Flash Gordon episode that had not only satisfied our blood lust, but left us almost convinced that Flash, our hero, had perished. But, down deep, we knew he’d survived. That was only Chapter Four when Flash’s rocket ship was bombarded by the Death Ray Cannon blasts of Ming, the evil Emperor of the Planet Mongo.

It helped that the closing promo invited us to return next Saturday to see chapter five, entitled “Flash Gordon’s Revenge”. Of course, we just had to find enough empty Coke bottles and uncles in order to return. You don’t get a measly flesh wound from a Death Ray Cannon.

Most adults knew enough to avoid Saturday matinees where the hyper young audience would be a high-decibel problem. My mother once talked my father into breaking the rule so she could see the romantic film. Dad complained constantly about the noise and distractions of the young hyper audience.

“Look at that wild boy down there now!” he said. “He’s actually jumping over the seats!”.

“That’s our son, Gene,” Mom replied. Wasn’t that a graceful leap?”

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This is a strange but true story. Some names have been changed, but not to protect the innocent. Every character is innocent and two are actually saintly or sainted. I had to invent some names because my old brain is rather leaky now.

These events took place around 1950 when I was stationed on an Air Force radar site atop a Vermont mountain about 15 miles from the Canadian border. That’s an important point and so is the fact that Canadian bars stayed open later than Vermont bars then . We usually had large northbound troop movents on Saturday nights.

I had to work the late night shift one Saturday and when I got off I met Wade, my barracks buddy. He seemed quite distraught. I could tell, because he was cussing loudly and often, which was very unusual for him.

“I got out of my car feeling sick (Wade could never handle more that two beers.) on a dark road someplace over the border and I lost my #!*+ wallet!” he wailed. “I looked for it for an hour in the gutters, the bushes and even the woods. No %!**# luck ! My driver’s license, my pilot’s license and most of my last month’s pay, GONE ! ”

Wade was a southerner and maybe a Baptist and not familiar with the long list of favorite saints that Catholics depend on for special help.

“How much money did you lose, Wade?” I asked.

“Close to seventy bucks. Why?”

“If I can get it back along with the licenses, my fee will be ten dollars.”

“How the *!x#& are you going to get it back?”

“Well, not me, but Saint Anthony. He’s the patron saint of of lost and stolen items. It’s amazing the way he finds the unfindable. So please stop swearing. I’m sure he’s already on the case and is nearby. He shouldn’t have to listen to your foul language.”

As the days went by and Wade’s loss began to seem permanent, he at least got some pleasure out of repeating the Saint Anthony “fable” to the other guys in the barracks. Some shook their heads and laughed, but the Irish and Italian boys had their own interesting Saint Anthony stories. I hoped they were pressing the good saint to defend his reputation.

About a month after the event, Wade received a package with two inside letters from his father. His wallet, with all his money, and both licenses were included. His Dad apologized for the delay, but wrote he’d had trouble finding someone to interpret the sender’s letter which was in French and signed by a “Father Antoine”. (Even I knew the English translation of “Antoine”.)

The good Father explained a parishoner of his found the wallet and asked him to return it to the owner. Wade’s name and home address were on the licenses.

I’d promised Saint Anthony to split the fee with him. I’m sure the local church’s Poor Box was an appropriate drop site.

I once Googled my own name hoping my blogs were going viral and I was becoming famous. Most of those blogs actually did go viral. Based on Webster’s definition of “viral”, they died. That can happen with infectious humor.

Google surprised me by coughing up about a dozen Gene Newmans as well as websites that offered to find more. Wouldn’t it be interesting to meet 50 or more of your unrelated complete namesakes? I’d like to know how these other Gene or Eugene Newmans have been getting along with our common names.

I was named after Grandpa Eugene who preferred his middle name and called himself Owen. My middle name came from Grandma Frances but, not wanting to fight my way through grammar school, I stuck with Eugene (or the cooler Gene.) However, my earliest nickname was “Genie”. (Ugh!)

A Gene Newman convention would be quite unique. Unlike other conventions we wouldn’t need name tags and a group photo would be captioned: “Front row left, Gene Newman, etc, etc, etc,…….”

We’d probably drive the hotel desk clerks crazy trying to figure out the bills of 50 same-named guests. And if one of the Genes is crafty enough, he could run up huge tabs in the bar and restaurant and sign his name with various room numbers. We’d have to make background checks before sending the invitations.

I once had a scary experience because of a renegade namesake. In 1962 I had to convince two FBI agents I wasn’t the Eugene Francis Newman on their Most Wanted list. Unrelated Eugene was still on the loose following his armed robbery.

Fortunately I didn’t have his telltale tattoos and, although we were about the same age, we weren’t look-alikes. Also, I was with the Air Force in South Korea when he pulled the job

If that Eugene has become available and law-abiding when we have our convention, he would have some interesting stories to tell and maybe he could bring his parole officer.

My printer, Balky, has died and I feel betrayed and deserted rather than bereaved. He wasn’t an old, trusted friend or even a helpful machine that could be relied upon for faithful service or solutions to problems (most of which he created). How many deadlines have I missed because of this miscreant? How much of my copy has been mangled within his bowels?

My PC often aided and abetted Balky’s schemes. I suspect it was a team effort. “The printer is not turned on.” I would read on my screen although Balky was sitting there with all lights blinking and with a background noise that sounded a lot like giggling.

Often, the PC would tell me my “PRINT” command was not enough. A complete diagnosis of the delicately balanced printer was necessary. But what about the delicately balanced writer? Ten minutes later the “Trouble Shooter” would report “No problems discovered” Balky would then invent a false paper jam and I’d have to probe through his innards and falsely report I’d cleared it. Two can play this game.

Expensive techies, after long efforts, gave up trying to revive Balky or to retrieve the original documents of mine he’d swallowed. I decided I need a reliable printer that can deliver true copies of my work with no if’s, ands or giggles.

I’ve returned to historic basics by teaming up with an Irish Monk who will produce perfect prints of my usually messy but legible originals. After all, County Kerry is electronically just as close as Silicon Valley. I am convinced Irish monks, after many centuries, are still devoted to making precise copies of important documents and even so-so blogs.

I have already made a test run. Two days ago I Emailed the first draft of a blog to Brother Brendan in County Kerry. And now, that’s got to be a FedEx guy pounding on my door.

I am about to open the package. This is an important moment! Will devotion to duty prevail over a sloppy attitude and giggles?

Wow! What exquisite calligraphy! Two versions of impeccable script with beautiful marginal ornamentation! My blog readers will be so impressed. If only they could read Latin or Gaelic.

Alfred Hithcock’s 1963 movie “The Birds” changed my life. I more than half believed his premise that our feathered friends may someday turn on us. In the movie, birds of all breeds joined forces to fiercly attack us groundlings and there were casualties. I had reason to believe this is possible.

As a small boy I had an unpleasant encounter with what I thought was a fine feathered friend. A parrot bit me as I offered him a cracker. I scolded him and he replied profanely. Adults had to break us up and I think the parrot circulated the false accusation that I am anti-avian.

Since then I have been regularly pecked by parakeets, jeered by jays, taunted by titmice and awakened most mornings by a mocking bird who can expertly mimic an alarm clock.

The USA bird population is estimated at about 20 billion which would be 60 birds per human target, but if you’ve ever been on a December bird count, you would know 20 billion is a very rough estimate.

Our long ago shivering bird-counting group was attempting accuracy but the birds never cooperated. How many smirking mourning doves were watching from inside the fir trees? How many southbound craven ravens were too swift or too high for an accurate count? How many “feathered friends” didn’t really want to be counted? (That trouble maker parrot!) It was around that time I saw the Hitchcock movie.

Last week I had a terrible nightmare after watching “The Birds” for the umpteenth time. In the scary schoolyard scene, a small flight of crows quickly grows into a squawking black cloud that blocks the sun and attacks panic-stricken school kids who are fleeing for their lives.

In my dream, I’m walking my dog Molly down the hill to fogbound Lake Parsippany. The fog is lifting and I see one Canada Goose swimming just offshore. I turn to watch Molly making a DNA check on a telephone pole and when I turn back there are hundreds of geese climbing the embankment followed by squadrons of swans and mallards.

“Get me outta here!” Molly shouts. (Molly can always talk in my dreams, but that’s another story.) We’re both past our prime but Molly and I skedaddle up the hill followed by this hissing, quacking attack force. The swans begin swooping and swiping. (Swooping, swiping swans can be very dangerous.)

We are overrun just as we reach home and I struggle with the hard-beaked attackers, but I am soon pecked down. Just then, thank Heaven, the annoying mocking bird outside begins his predawn alarm clock imitation and awakens me.

I’m relieved to hear Molly snoring beside my bed, but she is almost covered by feathers and I realize I’ve been fighting with my pillow.

Visitors to my home have often called me an “inferior decorator”. Not to my face, of course, but as they exmine my creations, they tend to roll their eyes or gasp. Some lift their cell phones to take pictures or call friends to describe the scene, giggling all the while. I don’t mind a little constructive criticism, but giggling is really offensive.

They don’t understand my eclectic style which depends heavily on the current garage sale and flea market inventories. By relying on availble components I sometimes have to blend Pennsylvani Dutch with Art Deco and Victorian, plus a touch of the popular Oscar Madison and Cosmo Kramer creations.

According to our strict household rules, my upstairs setting displays are limited to my tiny office, but I have complete artistic freedom for my creations in the cellar between the furnace and the washing machine. ( Viewings are by appointment only and not on wash days. )

Inspired by Gustav Stickley’s Arts and Crafts movement, I have become a dedicated amateur furniture creator and also consider myself a Jackson Pollock advocate of furniture design. We free-wheeling abstract impressionists observe no boundaries or arbitrary disciplines.

My very first creation was an informal sitting room chair made from Rockaway River and Lake Parsippny drift wood and assorted flotsam.

“What do you think?” I asked my wife. “I was attempting a casual Old Colonial look.”

“Well, you’ve certainly achieved ‘old’ , ” she said. “But you’ve gone way beyond Colonial. I think you’ve acheived Paleolithic. Please explain why your chair has six legs, Dear.”

“You’re very observant, ” I said. “That’s how I solved the stability problem and anyway, why have only four legs when six add more character, especially when all six are unmatched?”

“I have another surprise,” I said. “I’ve also chainsawed the components of a companion side table. If you come back down to the cellar in a couple of hours, I’ll have it all screwed up.”

‘I’m sure you will, Dear.”