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June 23, 2013
Ode to Portsmouth: Paradise by the Piscataqua
Ode to Portsmouth: Paradise by the Piscataqua
 By
John Breneman
PORTSMOUTH — Seriously, Chicago Tribune travel writer
Josh Noel?
Portsmouth is that perfect? "So ideal that I ache,
I envy and I curse my childhood for not including your idyllic
splendor?"
In case you haven't heard, "perfect" Portsmouth
got a poetic pat on the posterior last week from a Windy
City travel columnist who blew in for a quick visit and
discovered a charming, brick-lined paradise where the only
litter is dollar bills and homeless people dine on free
lobster.
The breathless opening of his
Port City paean — mimicked, then quoted above
— has inspired considerable fresh-roasted coffee talk
about whether his overly effusive tone and whimsical sentimentality
included at least a modicum of gentle mockery.
Now, as a longtime resident whose family has operated a
downtown business since 1978 — and as a writer who
has oft paid homage to Portsmouth's incomparable charms
— I consider myself to be among the most ardent champions
of our fair Market Square.
But the gentleman from Chicago has raised the bar to Old
North Church steeple-like levels.
Among my favorite lines:
"Oh, Portsmouth, lovely little town of 21,000 with
the perfect dab of salty grime behind the ear, mostly from
the naval shipyard that calls you home."
Little-known fact: Our intoxicating salt air is a special
blend combining industrial sodium chloride, dusky New England
road salt and a top-secret seasoning first discovered in
the Orient by Portsmouth explorer Macro Polo.
Oh, Portsmouth: "Your cozy downtown streets curve
just so, with rows of adorable shops bending out of sight
with the promise of more adorable shops."
Little-known fact: Local lore has it that our signature
9-degree street curves were designed by Sir John Wentworth
based on theories advanced by Leonardo Da Vinci, Copernicus
and Michelangelo.
Oh, Portsmouth, thy charm flows forth "in your waterfront
seafood restaurants, where boats stream by as if on cue."
Little-known fact: Our rugged waterfront tugs — those
hard-charging, oft-photographed symbols of life on the river
— have consistently been voted "most picturesque
on the Eastern Seaboard" by Tugboat Aficionado. (My
brother Bob once distilled their iconic significance to
our city, and their power to both pull ships and inspire
souls, into the slogan: "Portsmouth — Tugs at
the Heart.")
Oh, Portsmouth: "You seem to be almost wholly made
of the most perfect red brick I have ever seen."
Little-known fact: If you lined up all the bricks in Portsmouth
end to end, they would stretch all the way to Jupiter, with
plenty left over to build three or four gigantic, unnecessary
hotels.
Oh, Portsmouth: "You have been lauded as one of the
nation's most kid-friendly, walkable, food-centric, historic,
livable and romantic cities. On any East Coast car trip,
you are a charming little must."
Car trip, you say?
While Mr. Noel's ode has created quite a buzz, he avoided
poking his finger into the hornet's nest that is Portsmouth's
parking "situation" (also routinely described
as a "quandary," "crisis," and full-on
"debacle").
Little-known fact: Another reason homeless people might
be inclined to love Portsmouth: They generally do not possess
"cars," and thus do not need to "park"
them.
(Note to any homeless people considering relocating to
Portsmouth: The all-you-can-eat free lobster deal is only
available to direct descendents of Tobias Lear, Celia Thaxter
and Captain John Paul Jones.)
Oh, Portsmouth: "You stir the soul for a simpler time..."
Little-known fact: When President George Washington came
here in 1789, he did not book the presidential suite at
the Sheraton Harborside.
Finally, our visitor from Chicago, in his glowing report
that is certain to draw ever more tourists, quoted a local
old-timer complaining that the place has become overrun
with tourists.
"Really, it's your own fault," Mr. Noel concluded.
"It's what you get for being so darn perfect, Portsmouth."
Touche! And thank you.
If Portsmouth ever gets too full, we'll just sent the tourist
overflow to Chicago — where the shimmering lakes are
a perfect crystal blue and the homeless people eat free
deep-dish pizza.
* This column appeared in the Sunday, June 23, 2013, Portsmouth
(N.H.) Herald. See
more.
Twitter: @MrBreneman
Posted by John Breneman at 12:37 PM | Permalink
June 16, 2013
Father's advice to son was 'write stuff'
Father's advice to son was 'write stuff'
 By
John Breneman
What's that, chum? Father's Day kind of snuck
up on you again. Well, no need to panic. Heartfelt gifts
for Dad can be found just about anywhere — from Walmart
to the corner Pump 'n' Pay. These last-second surprises
are sure to let Dad know exactly how much you care:
Tube socks: Dad'll feel like a million bucks in these buck-ninety-nine
($1.99) beauties — each emblazoned with the three horizontal
"racing stripes" that say "he's the man."
Tie: Wait'll the boys at the office get a load of Dad in
this swell corporate-looking necktie — fashioned from
durable, non-flame-retardant polyester.
Coffee mug: His eyes'll twinkle like they did on the day
you were born when he sees this one-of-a-kind "World's
Greatest Dad" mug.
Pack of smokes: This one's a no-brainer if Pop's a smoker.
Sure they're unhealthy; but hey, who cares what that bossy
Surgeon General says. Dad'll love how the intoxicating blend
of tar and nicotine makes him feel manly and super cool.
Slippers: Comfort is important to hard-working dads in
their leisure time and these lightweight Taiwanese "mock-asins"
are perfect for kicking back in the La-Z-Boy. (Newspaper
not included.)
Can of mixed nuts: These generic morsels pack a party in
every can. Coupled with a Post-It note reading "I'm
nuts about Dad," this item helps you express the true
meaning of Father's Day.
Roll of duct tape: Perfect for household projects or Homeland
Security preparedness, this space-age super-product will
help Dad feel like the ultimate handy man.
Greeting card: Though it actually requires some thought,
devoted offspring often like to compose a personalized message
for Dad on his special day (example: "You're a champ,
Pops!"), while creative types may add a "heart"
symbol to underscore their affection.
Lighter: Give Dad the ability to make fire with just the
flick of his thumb. He'll be so grateful, he'll bust out
the T-bones and fire up the grill — instant barbecue!
* * *
Of course, I am kidding — just having a little fun
with the idea that dumb Father's Day gifts are one of those
oddball American traditions.
My dad died a few days before Christmas in 2005. And, boy,
did he love to laugh. He also, as parents do, possessed
profound insight into the lives of his children.
When I graduated from college, I knew that I loved to write
but had little idea about what type of career to pursue.
But my dad did. He told me to go see the woman ran who
our hometown York Weekly — guiding me directly into
what has become a deeply fulfilling 30-year career in journalism.
Yet another "light-bulb moment" from a man who
used to bring home the bacon creating advertising campaigns
in a Pittsburgh skyscraper with the firm Ketchum, MacLeod
& Grove. Yes, my dad was an ad man like those guys on
"Mad Men."
Over the years, I have thanked him in print for nudging
me into the newspaper world — a field with limitless
possibilities for creativity and personal discovery.
June 1999, in this newspaper, I roasted him with a rollicking
Father's Day salute under the headline (borrowed again today):
Father's advice to son was "write stuff." It began:
"I'm in the newspaper business today thanks to the
nurturing influence of a very wise gentleman. Nelson Mandela."
No secret that my ever-present impulse to blend humor and
humanity comes from my dad — self-described "Depression
baby" turned dashing young Air Force pilot, advertising
exec, mid-life adventurer, small business co-creator —
and from my mom.
I am also joking when I say that his words of wisdom included:
"Keep your eye on the ball to prevent ghastly facial
injuries" and "Wait at least 30 minutes after
eating lemon meringue pie before scuba diving for pirate
treasure in the York River."
June 1991, in this newspaper, I interviewed him on the
subject of fatherhood.
He was never big on those "when I was your age"
speeches. You know the ones: The old-timer tells how in
order to get to school each day he had to crawl 12 miles
on his belly through the jungles of Vietnam, swim through
a boiling tar pit teeming with leeches and piranhas, and
then pole vault over a barbed-wire electric fence to beat
the first-period bell at 4:45 a.m.
Asked about being a father by his first-born child, he
dialed the Humor Meter down to 3 and dropped a few pearls.
"The joys of fatherhood are so bountiful and overwhelming.
...; It's like the emergence of spring a thousand-fold,"
said Ernie Breneman, describing "a cycle of fulfillment
that comes first with your own growth and then with the
growth of others you brought into the world."
Upon his death, at a small service in his honor, I knew
he'd want to hear some wordplay. Here is a small snippet
of what he moved me to say:
He loved laughing with everyone, he was gentle and kind.
And there was something truly special about his beautiful
mind.
Contemplation. Rumination. Meditation. A million-and-50-watt
imagination. Still (and forever) feeding me inspiration.
* This column appeared in the Sunday, June 16, 2013, Portsmouth
(N.H.) Herald. See
more.
Twitter: @MrBreneman
Posted by John Breneman at 1:01 PM | Permalink
June 3, 2013
Local warming comes with a warning: Sun may cause fun
Local warming comes with a warning: Sun may
cause fun
 Ah,
summer ...
Yes, the official start of summer is a little ways off.
But we all know that when the calendar hits June, summer
can strike at any moment.
And I think the heat may already be getting to me because
I'm supposed to be writing something on deadline, but I
can't seem to stop gazing out the window.
The sun is shining. Birds and bees are chirping and buzzing.
And we're all wearing, on average, 1.7 pounds less clothing
than this time last week.
For the human species, summer signals a return to those
warm-weather passions like going to the beach, bobbing around
on boats and grilling up heaps of juicy, charred animal
flesh.
Yes, hail to the sun. O, benevolent provider of Vitamin
D. It nourishes and sustains all life, and just basking
in its rays can make you feel sky high.
But, beware, because this evil yellow blob of hydrogen
and helium can also put you in the ground.
I'll get back to the good stuff in a minute, but it would
be irresponsible to talk about how great the sun is without
acknowledging the risk of skin cancer.
So be sure to rub sunscreen onto exposed skin surfaces
all summer long — (as George Carlin might say) taking
time out for meals, of course. But enough about hideous
melanomas and the sun's ever-growing death toll ...;
Let's have some fun.
Let's go to the movies.
Summer, of course, is the season of silver-screen blockbusters.
From "Iron Man 9" and "Hangover 11"
to "Superman 35" and "Fast and Furious: Please
Make it Stop," Hollywood is primed to regurgitate epic,
big-budget remakes.
Coming soon to a climate-controlled theater-plex near you:
"Citizen Kane 2: Rosebud's Revenge," "Rebel
Without a Job" and "A Fast and Furious Streetcar
Named Desire."
Also: "Lawrence of Arabia 2: The Trouble With Syria,"
"Mr. Smith Gets the Heck Out of Washington" and
"Old Frankenstein: Don't Cut My Medicare."
And of course: "Rosemary's Toddler: The Terrible Twos,"
"Drone Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" and "Ben-Hur
2: Pimp My Chariot."
I actually have a few scripts in the works myself. Seeking
to cash in on America's fascination with terrorism, I've
got several projects currently in development, including
"Sleeping With the Yemeni," "The Anthrax
Chainsaw Massacre" and "Al Qaeda on the Western
Front."
Studio executives are also clambering to get their hands
on several of my older screenplays: "Bullets Over Baghdad,"
"Allah Doesn't Live Here Anymore" and the sizzlingly
erotic "Last Tango in Pakistan."
Visiting the multiplex is one way to stay cool when the
mercury hits the mid-90s. But medical professionals agree
it is also important to stay well-hydrated throughout the
summer.
Though some folks favor homemade lemonade, root beer floats
or vodka tonics, old-timers know there's nothing quite like
a refreshing Roast Ox Smoothie to take the edge off on a
sweltering summer day.
INGREDIENTS
1 600-lb. ox, freshly killed
2 dozen cloves of garlic
3 large sacks of onions, cubed
9 gal. Worcestershire sauce
1½ fistfuls of paprika
8 oz. plain yogurt
Sprig of anchovy
Throw the onions and garlic into a mixing bowl and thrash
them viciously with a studded leather belt until they begin
to resemble a pile of severely abused chunks of onions and
garlic.
Rub some of the garlic and onion mix onto your teeth and
gums to ward off evil, then place the rest in an all-weather
trash bin. Fling the paprika on top and seal with duct tape.
Next: Decapitate, skin and gut the ox using an ordinary
household oxen shiv, medium-sized chainsaw or a crew of
illegal Mexican laborers. Lightly brush the grotesque uncooked
flesh with Worcestershire marinade and cover with a tarp
to protect from flies and maggots and neighborhood dogs.
Dig a hole in your back yard and fill with wood, coal and
construction debris. (Environmental enthusiasts may prefer
to substitute alternative fuels such as switch grass, Duraflame
logs or oxen dung).
Construct a makeshift oxen spit, then muscle the bloody
carcass onto the contraption. Douse the bonfire pit with
lighter fluid or gasoline (at least 89 octane for best results)
and ignite, making sure flames do not exceed 15 feet in
height.
Cook for approximately half a day, continually rotating
the gigantic slab so it chars evenly while the center remains
pink and tender.
Remove from heat and trim into blender-sized slabs.
Shovel ingredients into industrial-sized food processor
and puree for 45 minutes.
Dump into a tall glass over ice, garnish with a sprig of
anchovy and serve.
* For a Long Island Roast Ox Smoothie, simply add rum,
vodka, gin, whiskey, tequila, absinthe, ouzo, cognac and
grain alcohol.
* This column appeared in the Sunday, May 26, 2013, Portsmouth
Herald. See
more.
Twitter: @MrBreneman
Posted by John Breneman at 9:24 AM | Permalink
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