Ric Seaberg's Useful Information/Blog

Don't Tell Jen

2012-01-17T15:04:00.000-08:00

Just lookit that swell young gal up there, training her chocolate Lab puppy at the park, what a sweetie. Being a dog lover myself, I can imagine what a great time she is having training that dog. When you get a dog, he or she becomes part of the family structure. We have a couple little Bichons at our house, as I have gone on about here before, so I know how she feels. She loves that dog!!

But dogs can be a handful, ours sure are, and it is a huge commitment, to care for a dog, walk them and feed them, talk to them, pet them, train them, and make them part of the family. On several occasions, our dogs have slipped out the gate and ackkkk!, I freak. Luckily we have always found them nearby, rooting around in the neighbor's yard, or standing on our front porch saying, "let me in you dopes, sheesh, the gate was wide open!"

I had a neighbor once who I think feared for his very life when he once allowed the family dog to escape while his dear wife was at work. There he stood, the poor sap, looking like a scared child, because he was envisioning, I'm sure, having to tell his wife, like that nice and loving woman above, that the dog had escaped and run away on his watch. Seemed like a great topic for a tune. As always, Tim Ellis, Portland's own guitar beast, provides guitar parts.

Click here to listen to Don't Tell Jen

Ric's website: www.ricseaberg.com

Buy Ric's songs at Broadjam

or iTunes

Green Tea!

2011-12-29T07:55:00.000-08:00

I have been a coffee drinker for all of my adult life. Love the stuff. The fragrance of fresh ground beans, give me a break. Nothing like it. I like to buy a pound bag of, oh, say, Stumptown Coffee's "Hair Bender", and then, while I am putting the groceries away in the kitchen, just open that sucker up, and reef up a few capital nose hits right off the bag to torture myself til I get a cup made.

But long about turning 50, coffee started kinda buggin' the tummy, with it's acid content, so I started slowing down a bit, and then, had a full blown episode or two of GERD, look it up, it hurts, it's scary, it's your stomach saying, stop fucking with me, you're old now. Marie brought me home some green tea to try, much to my skeptical dismay, I mean much to the skeptical dismay of Mr. Acid Stomach Can't Drink Coffee Weepy Depressed Brooding Old Guy, Moi.

One Sunday morning, we brewed up a cup, she had her regular latte, and then we sat in the garden trying to wake up, she, enjoying the fresh hot perfect beeyotch latte, and me over here with my no more coffee for life jail sentence green tea.

I drank that cup down, and as we awoke 'midst the chirping of birds and the fragrance of our summer garden, I suddenly realized, I felt like I had a jolt of caffeine in me. I was all talkative, and of course, my first thought was, holy shit, green tea is fucking good! It might even be great! I think I'll have another cup!! So I drank another, and fully discovered, on that day, that the English aren't so damn stupid after all. Tea rules! And also Elspeth Huxley, she's English, wrote The Flame Trees of Thika.

I could go on and on about the discoveries I have made about green tea over time, it's medicinal qualities, the fact that it doesn't bother my stomach, how I've learned to love the taste and the mellow glow I get from it in the morning (and evening), but I am typing this on my iPhone with my index finger so let me just say, discovering green tea and enjoying it so much has been just great. For me. Here's the wikipedia entry for green tea.

So I like to share the news, though I am certain I do not possess the fundamentalist gene so you, you can take it or leave it, whatever. For me, wow, it's been a blessing. I still drink coffee, one cup, half decaf, almost everyday, but I'm really a green tea guy.

So my pal Grant, that guy up there with me in our kitchen, has been contemplating cutting down on the coffee. So I offered to show him my green tea routine tonight, and fed him some red meat too, cuz we're both grizzled and hardcore iron pumpin' dees dems and dose kinda lumberjack types.

When Grant arrived, I started my primer by showing him my green tea, which I purchase at Portland's Foxfire Teas on SE 11th. I really like the owners, Quinn and Katherine, and they have a nice store, great service, and tea knowledge. "Tea is Fun", is their motto, and they're right!

The way I make my tea is by putting a teaspoon of loose leaf tea (I'm now using "Jade Fire") into a 2-cup Pyrex measurer with cold water. Then I microwave it on high for 3 minutes. Then I wait a few minutes, and then pour it through a small strainer into a large mug. I immediately put the leaves back into the Pyrex container with water and start it in the microwave, so it will be ready when I've finished drinking my first cup. Most days I toss an ice cube in that first cup, cuz I'm a no nonsense gotta move dude and I've got shit to accomplish, and I want my tea to be the right temperature to drink NOW!

The photo on your left is the teaspoon of loose leaf tea floating on top prior to microwaving. The photo on the right is post microwaving, with the tea leaves starting to unfurl and flavor the water.

Ok so I'm certain there are tea aficionados who may read this blog and pass out cold when they see how I make tea. I dunno. Not too formal over here I guess. But I sure love that green tea!

Try it! Especially if that coffee is taking its toll on you. Thanks for reading this. Now go get some good loose leaf green tea!!

Ric Seaberg's Website: www.ricseaberg.com

I Love To Vomit

2011-12-23T09:01:00.002-08:00

Every summer, for the last few years, my daughters Stacey and Amy have kindly allowed us to host our 3 grand daughters, Caitlyn, Caledonia, and Ellery, for several fun filled and Disney channeled days. Here they are, pictured with Marie, who anticipates their arrival all year long, dreaming up crafty and messy stuff to to, which leaves

us with wonderful memories and, occasionally, a paint spattered deck table. Last summer, we also visited the new Wings and Waves water park in McMinnville, Oregon, which features an actual Boeing 747 sitting atop the structure. It was a blast.

Time can move a bit slowly sometimes for the young ones, I mean, with all that

energy and free time, but we keep them busy. Well, ok, with a nod to Hannah Montana.

This past summer, on, oh, maybe the second day of their visit, Caitlyn, (pictured on the right) my daughter Stacey's youngest child, got all crafty. At some point during the day, as I sat in my easy chair, dozing off on some kiddy sit com, Cate handed each of us a fan she had made, pretty much like the one I've recreated above, and instructed us to write something about ourselves on each fold of the fan. Then, I guess, you read them out loud and maybe learn something about a person, or even, heh, get a laugh.

I wrote down a few things right away with my Sharpie, drives a van, owned a bakery, some other stuff, but when I got to the last fold, that mischievous part of grandpa came out, as I scrawled, knowing fully it'd be well noticed, "Loves To Vomit". I had almost forgotten about it when, a couple hours later, Catey held it up in my face, and with a look that said, "grandpa, you've finally lost it", announced loudly to the room, all giggly, "Grandpa loves to vomit!!" Of course, turning over this kind of info to three little girls aged 6-9 is going to get you some hoots, and basically, non-stop attention for 48 hours or so. Bingo!!

Some weeks later, oh Lord, say it isn't so, I heard a little chorus come down, and punched it into my iPhone, just for safe keeping, and then, as I walked the dogs, said to myself, "Nope, not gonna happen. There cannot be a song in this world written by me that is titled I Love To Vomit. I mean, surely this is something that even Ric Seaberg cannot abide".

But that dang little chorus kept coming in, and I had to admit, when I sang it, I laughed, and thought about how others (well, Cate, Calla and Ellery!!) might laugh too, having been there when the original I Love To Vomit caper went down, there in the TV room at Grandpa Ric's and Grandma Marie's crib.

So well, now the song is complete, having been written, recorded, and sung by me. My buddy Tim Ellis, my loyal and adequately nutty guitarist, is just the greatest for joining me in my, shall we say, less than mainstream numbers, and as you'll hear, once again, nails this sucker.

The process of writing a song, and going down the path of crafting the song so that it says what you want it to say, and sounds good, as you add instrumentation and vocals along the way, is just the bomb, for me anyway, and is a thread that has been running through my life since I was 13 years old. You get the basics recorded, drums, bass, a scratch lead vocal, and then the surprises start to happen. "Oh my God that falsetto harmony part on the chorus is perfect! Tim, that signature part you put in the second verse, I love it! Lets put it in all the verses!'. That kinda thing.

But something especially awesome happened this time, as the process of recording "I Love to Vomit" continued. One evening, after Tim had played his parts, I sat Marie down to listen to the song for the first time. I explained to her how, well, I knew it was really weird, and that I knew I was surely out of my ever lovin' gourd, I mean, to write and actually record such a song, and I admit, she pretty much had a look of agreement on her grille.

Near the end of the song, there appears a rap section, where the singer makes an even stronger case, admonishing the listener to do all things that might lead one to enjoy the finer pleasures of hurling. After I played Marie the song, and she had a better idea of where I was going with it, she said, "Okay honey, firstly, i know you very well, and I can attest to the fact that of all the people I have ever met, you are the person who hates to vomit most. Secondly, you have definitely and completely lost it, you are mad, I married a crazy person, you have catapulted yourself completely and utterly off the deep end this time and.....I'll do the rap."

Marie loves rap, and I sometimes hear the lilting sounds of Eminem or some other rap god blaring out of her home office as she answers email or writes tracts of her own. Or I will be sitting in the kitchen, and the bass line of one of her many rap selections will rattle the fire extinguisher which hangs on the kitchen wall, as I sit, wide eyed, crunching down an asian pear. So I knew it was a natural. And it took about one second for me to say, YESSSSS, you do the rap, PLEASE do the rap!!!!!!!!

I thought she might need a little extra inspiration, I mean as we each contemplated her impending rap performance, so I went online and bought her some gear, which she can be seen modeling here. Ah, Marie. My pluperfect spousal enigma. One minute, worried to death over whether or not the birds in our backyard greenway are getting enough to eat as we enter winter. The next minute, thrown' down some sorta gang signs on her husband's blog. On the street, they call her Marie D. Chill a.k.a. Luscious Money. Here's an interview with Luscious.

It's Christmas week, 2011. I am going to say right here and now that this song is not a Christmas present to my grand daughters. But we love them so much, and they do all figure into the creation of this wacky thing, so I hereby dedicate the song to them. Cate, Calla, and Ellery, you rock. And well........ so do we. I mean me, and Luscious Money.

Click here to listen to "I Love To Vomit"

Ric Seaberg's website click here

I Love To Vomit

I like to go to a park I know and walk around on my hands

I like to sit on a stuffy plane when

I'm flying home from Japan

I never wash the germs from my skin

When I've used the loo

And once I ate a mint I dropped

That landed by some poo

Cuz I love to vomit, I love to hurl

Yes I Love to vomit....vomit's number one in my world

Washing my hands takes way too much time

There's more important things to come

I like to eat all the pot luck food

When it's set too long in the sun

I say t'ya giardia is just around the bend

And other types of bacteria

Are surely my best friend, when

Chorus

Rise

Forget plain soap, and soap on a rope

Hand sanitizer's dumb

Oh I'm doin' flips, when I'm blowin' chips

What could be more fun, cuz

Cuz I love to vomit, I love to hurl

Yes I Love to vomit....vomit's number one in my world

Repeat out

Rap

When you're really in luck

It's time t upchuck

Drink water in the pool

Regurgitatins cool

Here's some more tips

Lick your dog on the lips

Eatin what he's snarfin could lead to you barfin

What's all a yer chatter

It really doesn't matter

Whether or not

You drink somebody's pop

When the flu comes t' town

Pass it around!

It's gum, just do it!

Pick it up and chew it

What's totally cool is the 5 second rule

Eat a lotta fries

Then go on some rides

What’s the fuss?

The porcelain bus

is yours t’drive

Sakes Alive!

When ya feel queasy

It’s so easy

t’forget the blues!

Ralph on your shoes!

Get down, get funky

Blow a little chunky!

I know you're on it

Cuz u love t’vomit!!!!!!!!

Christmas 1949

2011-11-20T13:06:00.000-08:00

Before there was reel to reel audiotape, and cassette tape, and 8 track audiotape, and CDs, and other forms of digital recording, there was "wire recording". People would buy wire recorders, mostly portable size, (but heavy as hell) like the one shown above, or even consoles, like the one shown below, and then, through through the miracle of modern technology, pull out a little mic, and record, using the machine, while a thin wire, like a really thin picture wire, would spool by. Much like the later tape recording machine, only with wire instead of tape. We had such a machine in our home, console style, almost exactly like the one shown here, when I was very small, and a good supply of these little wire containing boxes, available at Sears and other

fine electronics stores. My grandparents lived in Chicago, where I was born in June 1948, but my folks had settled in Portland, Oregon. My sisters Elaine and Julie came along later. My folks were tight with my Dad's parents, and they would visit at least once a year, though in those days the trip was more difficult, I mean, even by noisy propeller aircraft. But during the months that my grandmother, Hildur, and my step-grandfather, J. Edward Martin, were in Chicago, one way we all stayed in touch was by, you guessed it, the wire!

We would gather round the wire recording machine, on say, someone's birthday, or a holiday, or when my Dad got a raise, or I had a song to sing, and record onto the wire, which would then be sent off to Chicago, for Hildur and Ed's edification, and pleasure. We would get back a tape now and then, my grandma going on about their latest trip to Europe or the Orient, or the turmoil in The Christian Science Church hierarchy.

When my grandfather Ed passed away in 1978, my grandmother moved to Portland, and I swear, brought every little gadget and morsel of her entire life with her. Like shoe boxes full of those little rain bonnetty things ladies used to get at cosmetic counters and tire stores as schwag. But luckily, one thing she brought that received great approval, by me especially, being an audiophile, was all those wires my folks sent off to her when my sisters and I were little. Bonanza! There is nothing quite like hearing the sound of your own voice, and personality, at say, 5 or 8 years old. I hope I have mellowed some since those days of being a loud mouthed egomaniacal little boy, but really, when I hear myself on those wires, I feel compassion for the child. I like him. I want to help him. I'm glad I AM him.

Christmas Day, 1949. Ricky is 18 months old. My folks, Lorraine and Bob, and my Aunt Ruth and Uncle Clair, are gathered on Pine Street in SE Portland where we lived. The house, photographed here in 1949, still stands. The fragrance of strong Swedish egg coffee and fresh Oregon Douglas Fir fills the air. The wire recorder is switched on. "What's that, Ricky?"

So I humbly present to you the original wire recording of Christmas at the Seaberg house, 1949. Click here. And here are are couple more photos of me when I was a kid. I mean to placate my egomaniacal streak.

Ric Seaberg's Website

Click here for a free download

Ric's song, "Love is What You Want (for Christmas)"

Freaky Irrational Whiner

2011-11-14T07:25:00.000-08:00

Turns out, I kinda like the tv show Bridezillas. Where they find these folks, I dunno. But even if the producers make it very clear that they want controversy and tell the brides to be as bitchy as they possibly can, still, they blow my mind. The gal pictured above, maybe she got a layer of lemon cake on the wrong tier. Good reason to try to make everyone around you miserable on your wedding day I guess.

But the real reason I wrote a song titled Freaky Irrational Whiner is that my friend Jim was complaining one day about some mundane thing, not even like real complaining, and then called himself an irrational whiner. So just to tease him, i said, "dude you're a freaky irrational whiner." Those words rolled offa the tongue so nicely, and since I am a song writer, and a humorist of average intelligence, a song was born. Thanks Jim.

And lest some of you may think I am somehow given to misogyny, or that my lyrics have somehow been inspired by my own wife's behavior, well, I can't help what you think. I fabricated the story in the song just to use the title. Marie loves Bridezillas too, and rubs my shoulders when we watch it. Oh man, Marie, she is a rational and wonderful partner, and only complains when I turn the basement light off on her. And when contractors and gardeners wreck her plants.

Tim Ellis and I have now recorded over 150 of my songs together. I can't thank Timmy enough for his magnificent guitar parts, which basically turn my tune smithing into actual songs. His parts on Freaky Irrational Whiner, which you can listen to for free here, are kinda like crack. Tim is no guitar playin' amateur. He is kind of a whiner though.

Listen to Freaky Irrational Whiner, here.

Ric's Website, here.

Buy digital music at Broadjam, here

That's One Hell of an RV Park

2011-11-11T15:59:00.000-08:00

That's Marie and I in the photo above, sitting pretty in some lovely Oregon RV park, a couple years ago. We love our Airstream, as I have waxed on about here many times, and even took the tripod along, apparently, to catch Ma and Pa Kettle at their most relaxed.

Last summer Marie's side of the family staged a large family reunion, in southern Oregon, where Marie grew up. We thought about taking down the trailer, but this time we thought we'd take two separate vehicles, since Marie's mom Ethel had been staying with us for a few days just before the reunion. My son Blaine and I took my rig, my Sprinter, which is fully equipped for a disabled guy like Blaine, with a powerful lift on the side and a van seat made just right for him to transfer into from his wheelchair.

Blaine and I stayed at the Seven Feather's Casino, in Canyonville, Oregon, while Marie and Ethel stayed at Marie childhood home in Cottage Grove. It was a whirlwind stay, with Blaine and I actually winning at the casino, then there was the reunion, and we all ended up in Cottage Grove at Mom's where we did some fixin' for granny. On the last day at the casino, I mentioned to Blaine that I had seen that a large RV park was under construction at the casino site, on the mountainside, and that I wanted to drive up there before we left Canyonville to check it out. We had some breakfast, loaded our gear and our fortune, and headed over to The Seven Feather's RV Resort. As we entered, we could see that about half the park was already finished, and loaded with RVs, a beautiful lodge looking swimming facility, lush landscaping, man, the works. Just a beautiful RV park, which gets me all fired up, because I love trailers and Airstreams and the whole schtick, and am also given to bingeing into superlatives, owing to the fact that I am my father.

Anyway, lest I go on and on about it here, I mean about how absolutely awesome The Seven Feather's RV Resort is, suffice it to say that it is just well, absolutely awesome.

Some weeks later, I heard a little melody come down, and before you know it, a new song was born, and that's just how that happens. After I laid down the rhythm tracks, using software and Garageband, my friend and magnificent guitarist Tim Ellis came over. We had a great day today, recording his parts on four songs. Hope you like this one.

That's One Hell of an RV Park, here.

Lyrics, here.

Ric's Website, here.

Mayhem at the Guggenheim

2011-09-23T19:33:00.000-07:00

My friend Randy McCullough, a very good songwriter and bassist from Austin, recently moved to New York with his wife Barbara, who transfered there for her job. Randy has been enjoying himself, I can tell, by his frequent emails and stories of their life residing within walking distance of Central Park. He sends me songs, I send him songs. I miss Randy. I'm glad they're having a great time in New York.

Ran's latest email included the story of their recent trip to The Guggenheim Museum (of modern art) with a visiting relative. I just cracked up as I read the story, which started with a certain enthusiasm for the sightseeing day ahead, and ended with Ran slipping on something and planting his foot squarely on a work of art, much to the shock and awe of other museum patrons. As they climbed the staircase to see other art, they could look behind them, and as far as three floors up, still see the footprint he had left on the canvas sheet he had defaced.

The second I finished reading his email I began writing the words to a new song, "Mayhem at the Guggenheim", which was the subject of his email. I pulled out my laptop, cranked up my bluegrass band, and recorded the tune. Click on the title below to hear it. Headphones or earbuds please!

Mayhem at the Guggenheim, the song.

Ric's Website

The Pee Bottle Song

2011-08-18T20:27:00.000-07:00

I'm tryin' to have a good attitude about getting older. I'm 63 now, Social Security has kicked in, and I can get the Patty Melt at Dennys for half price. Mostly, I'm doin' pretty good. The brain is working quite well. It's the bod that has its problems. I'm not gonna go into those problems here. I have plenty of cronies to commiserate with. There is a sudden Fellowship of Infirmity Sharing that forms right about this age.

But I have always loved to cut up, and laugh, and still do. When I was about 40, and just beginning to feel the affects of aging, like say, occasional stiffness, I saw an older person on TV quip that, when he gets down on his knees for some reason, before he gets up, he asks himself if there is anything else he can do while he's down there! This totally cracked me up, since I could already identify, and I have been giggling about aging ever since.

So I hope you will enjoy my latest musical endeavor, which is a rockin' little number, and written for my baby booming friends with the ol' weakening bladder. Man I wish I didn't have to pee so often.

My Buddy Tim Ellis, who is a magnificently accomplished musician, plays guitars on this tune. He didn't balk when I asked him to play on this recording, so that makes him at least partly responsible for this song being in the world.

To listen to The Pee Bottle Song click here

For Lyrics click here

Ric's website: www.ricseaberg.com

Man Cave Sunday

2011-08-14T07:51:00.000-07:00

The only thing I like about the days growing shorter in summer is the fact that football is just around the corner. When I was younger I loved to play football, and now, watching it is almost as good as playing was. Pro, college, high school, intramural, all of it. I just plain love the sport.

After I became an adult, I realized also that, along with the crisp fall air and apple cider, one could receive other fine gifts during football season, like the killer tailgate party or, as I have recently taken to calling it, man cave sunday. Man cave sunday is described as the moment when all your buddies, (girls allowed) come over to your sweet man cave and eat, drink, and watch a football game, say, when your alma mater is playing, or your home town team. The adult beverages flow, the sushi rocks, the chicks are wearin' tube tops, and the hollerin' is heard for blocks. What a blast. I wrote a song about it. Tim Ellis plays guitars. That's Danny Shauffler, the crazed Crazy Eights sax man on sax. Dude can blow.

Man Cave Sunday: the song

Ric's Website

Bad Listener

2011-07-17T16:01:00.000-07:00

Every few months I go through a period of not having an idea in my head whatsoever for a song. This bugs the living shit out of me. I like writing songs, and recording. It can be hard work, but it is also so much fun. What disturbs me the most is that feeling like, hmmm, I just have absolutely nothing to say. I am totally uninteresting. Even to myself. Ok it's a genetic fault.

But this weekend two songs came through, and they were fun recording. First came "Bed Bugs", and then, the song which bears the title of this blog post, "Bad Listener". Both of these songs have been brewing in my pea brain for awhile, and finally fell out onto paper.

All of my songs have at least a small portion of the writer's experience in them. Not that I am a bad listener. But I think somebody told me I am, at some point. Or I read it in a book or something. I mean about men being bad listeners. But of course that would not mean that I myself am a bad listener. Or ever have been.

Here is the song, hope you like it.

Click here for Bad Listener, the song.

Website: Ric Seaberg's Useful Information

Bed Bugs

2011-07-16T19:26:00.000-07:00

Ok so maybe the whole bed bug scare is nothing more that another case of "worst case scenario news". I mean, the media goes off ad nauseum about any number of things that turn out to be not so bad after all, maybe this is one of'em. Still, every time I hear a bed bug story, some poor soul has to burn his house down to get rid of his bed bugs, or some neighborhood has to be fumigated, or a whole hotel, yuck. We've had enough trouble with ants over the last few years, and I know I don't want any of those critters in my bed.

So I'm driving along listening to NPR a couple weeks ago, and I am enjoying the Rick Steve's show. He interviewed his own son, who apparently travels and writes too, and then Rick interviewed an owner of a Youth Hostel. During the conversation, this fellow brought up the subject of bed bugs, and how they have been a real problem in the Youth Hostels, not his of course. But I was a bit taken aback, I mean, not really good advertising for the Youth Hostels of the world. Thought I'd write a song about it. Heh.

Click to hear Bed Bugs, the song.

Website: Ric Seaberg's Useful Information

KNIGHTZ

2011-05-04T19:08:00.000-07:00

1962. I am in the eighth grade. Mom dropped me off one morning in the tiny Atkinson parking lot, on a warm Spring Portlandia day. I strode in my black low top converse and white socks toward the school door, and suddenly, I saw, to the right, our grade school principal, the perky and respectable Mr. Petersen, whom my mother spoke highly of. Mr. Peterson stood around 6’ tall and had a big brown styin’ haircut. “Well, Ric!”, he spoke as I passed, “just a second.” Mr. Petersen locked his car door and walked toward me, with a warm smile. “I want to talk to you Ric”, he spoke. “So it’s almost time for graduation, Ric,” Mr. P said, and stuck his hand out to shake mine, white guy style. “Ric, you’re a great kid, and it has been a real pleasure and honor being your principal these past years. Now you’re going off to high school, and you are really gonna make your mark up there. I just bet a day will come when I will hear that you are the student body president of that high school! So let’s get our day started shall we?" We walked into the school his arm over my shoulder, very warm and encouraging but not weird at all. I felt special.

So I go to high school, and I did become the vice president of the senior class, and I did run for class president once, but I was sick in the hospital, no kidding, when running for office speeches were given, and lost. But the other guy was gonna win anyway cuz he was more popular and also had the mo.

And during high school I was president of a YMCA high school club named KNIGHTZ, which I had joined almost like one joins a fraternity. I was elected president of KNIGHTZ by my peers, so I did spend some time runnin’ shit. But what I was thinking about tonight was, that each letter in KNIGHTZ stood for something. Kindness. Nobility. I cant remember. (maybe intitiative) Generosity. Humility. Tolerance. Zeal. I was driving down the road and I suddenly thought, geez, if everyone would just drive kindly, generously, with tolerance, there wouldn’t be any wrecks. Or way less, he said to the skeptics. And these words have rung true in my ears all these years, and I believe I have held these values up in my mind, and thought of them as something to live up to. Crazy. But striving to be in “KNIGHTZ, to be a member, turns out to be a really good thing. And Mr. Peterson’s kindness! Wow. What a star, makin’ a kid feel good about himself.

So I’m just sayin’ this stuff cuz it just reminds me to be kind, and generous, and tolerant, and to be nice to the kids and take a minute to tell them they’re great. I mean, so they don’t turn into Crabby Appleton. Mr. Petersen, Yo! The words you said to me that day, I dunno, I can’t remember exactly how it went. But I remember your eyes, and I remember that you told me I was doin’ good. I have remembered that moment and attempted to live up to your expectations all my life. Good move.

website: www.ricseaberg.com

The Coffee Song

2011-05-01T08:07:00.000-07:00

I have been working on these lyrics for over 5 years, just wanted to share. We do need our waker-upper, eh?

The Coffee Song

Americano latte macchiato breve, bring me some caffeine please

Frappuccino 6 shot, sugar free, extra hot'n one of those Chinese teas

We don' work for nothin', we got bills to pay

But if you ask why I do it, this is what I'll say.......

Chorus

I'm jus' keepin' my Starbucks card in the black

That's why I do it, that's why I break my back

t'keep my Starbucks card in the black

Roll me outa bed yo, grande espresso, to get me back on track,

If you wanna treat me, then you can meet me, down at the coffee shack

I got lots of bills to pay....I guess that says it all

And when I'm on my knees today, workin’ in the driving rain

Chorus

Solo

Bridge

I don' need no Android, no Mercedes Benz

All I need to satisfy, is the last and greatest legal high!!

Americano latte macchiato breve, bring me some caffeine please

Frappuccino 6 shot, sugar free, extra hot'n one of those Chinese teas

I try hard to wreck my jeans, yet another pair

Well I may not get rich this way, but I don't really care.....

Chorus, then

Last chorus

I'm jus' keepin' my, keepin' my Starbucks card in the black

That's why I do it, that's why I break my back

t'keep my Starbucks card in the black

Challah'n Ham

2011-04-23T20:42:00.000-07:00

I believe it was about 1978 when I realized there aren't enough Easter pop songs. I was operating my bakery, Richard's Bakery, in Tualatin, Oregon, at that time, and during the holidays, say, Christmas, St. Patty's Day, I liked the idea of playing appropriate atmosphere enhancing lively music at my counters, and it was easy to find. Except for Easter. I dunno, maybe it's too serious a holiday for there to be much pop music. All you've got is basically, "Here Comes Peter Cottontail, Hopin' Down the Bunny Trail", and that Easter Bonnet song, "In your Easter bonnet, with all the frills upon it, etc." And of course there are many hymns, all sad and serious. Well, it is pretty serious when somebody wakes up from bein' dead. Anyway, I decided to write an Easter Pop song, since it "popped" into my musical brain, all drummin' and thumpin' and rhymin' and firin' off couplets, here are the lyrics. A link to the song appears below too.

Challah'n Ham
Copyright Ric Seaberg 2011

When the sun comes up on Easter morn, I roll outa bed
I put some green tea on the stove, and make the deviled eggs
I bake a pie and clean the house, I do the best I can
And when our friends show up for brunch
We serve challah'n ham
Chorus
If that's just wrong! I don' understand!
Can't there be a way?!
Cuz nothing's better than challah'n ham
On Easter day

Dad was a Swede, Mom was a Jew, from that windy town,

They both told us everyday, don't put other people down
I turned out white with Hebrew blood, that's jus' who I am
So it's a natural for me, to serve challah'n ham
Chorus
Solo
Bridge
The world is full of races blending, friends and lovers everyday
Rich and poor and straight and gay, that's how the world rolls today!

A regulation challah braid is hard to make, you bet!
So I just use the diagram I found on bread dot net
I turn the tv off to dine, I call around the clan
Then we break bread with family.....challah'n ham
Chorus
If that's just wrong!
I don' understand!
Can't there be a way?!
Cuz nothin' works like challah'n ham
On Easter day

Click here for Challah 'n' Ham, the song

Ric's website: www.ricseaberg.com

Daddy Is A Songwriter

2011-04-06T12:05:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I opened a letter addressed to me that contained the largest royalty check I have ever received. Sizably larger than any I have ever received. I think I am experiencing a bit of shock. But in a good way.

When you are a songwriter, the songs, or the ideas for the songs, in my case anyway, "come through", that is, they are out there ready to be written down, and one just pops into your head, like, oh, that's a cute melody, hmmm, ok here are some words coming too, like that. So it's not something that one can brag too much about, cuz it just happens. But the part after the song is born.... recording it, making the lyrics better day by day, sending out cds and mp3s, managing a website, buying all the stuff you need to record, now that's some shit. So I am gonna deposit this check, after I take a picture of it, with so much pleasure, pleasure that only another songwriter could understand. It has been a long road on the ol' songwritin' front for Ricky. It's not like I can say my ship has come in or anything, but I feel validated for my work more than ever, or maybe, finally. Whoever you are out there, paying good money to play my songs on your radio stations and tv shows, you have made me very happy. Thank you from way way way down deep.

Here's a song I recorded awhile back, it kinda tells the story. I especially love Tim Ellis' guitar parts on this tune. After I post it, I'm gonna go get me a lox trim bagel to celebrate. But I gotta focus on that salmon, cuz I don' wanna look like a dope tearin' up in Noah's.

Daddy Is A Songwriter, the song

Ric's website

The Hoarder Song

2011-01-09T07:21:00.000-08:00

We watch all the tv shows about hoarders at our house. What a fascinating disability, I mean, I am certain folks wouldn't subject themselves to such squalor and their families to such pain if they weren't ill. But.... I dunno, when I watch this stuff, there is a part of me and my republican tendencies that wants to say, "People, take responsibility for your trash! Dont leave chicken in your fridge 'til it turns into a science experiment! Don't treat animals of any kind inhumanely!" That's the part that bugs me the most, treating those poor animals so horribly, sorry, under no circumstances is that ok. But I do feel compassion for those hoarder people.

The Hoarder Song

Download the Hoarder Song

I can't smell that cat shit

Over by the door

Up and down the hallway

I don' smell it anymore

I keep my collections everywhere

Some are out in the yard

Now they say I have to clean it up

Man that's gonna be hard!

I am not a hoarder

Of tools and food and such

Cuz if I was a hoarder

It wouldnt be worth much

And when I put these beer cans on eBay

These magazines and trolls

I'm gonna be a millionaire cuz that's jus' how I roll

I can't see the toxic mold

Creepin up the walls

Underneath these boxes full of

Telephones and dolls

I keep my collections close to me

All my special stuff

Now they say I have to clean it up

Man that's gonna be tough!

Chorus

Bridge

I haven't opened up that fridge

Since 1999

But it has all been cold

So I am sure that chicken's fine!

I can't let those bureaucrats

Tell me what to do

I've spent many years collecting

Avon and shampoo

I keep collections all around

So careful where you go

You might disturb the skeletons

Of pets I used to know

2010-11-20T14:07:00.001-08:00

Don't touch my junk, I dunno, what a funny string of words. I knew there were likely a thousand songwriters jotting down lyrics with the same title, but I decided to do it anyway.

Don't Touch My Junk
Copyright Ric Seaberg 2010

Download "Don't Touch My Junk"

or Watch

Loup Dargent's video of "Don't Touch My Junk"

You can touch me on the wrist or my funny bone.
You can look at my keys when I'm flying home
You can X-ray my shaver and dirty comb
But don't touch my junk

You can snap on your gloves like a doctor does
You can check in my shoes for some traces of
Explosive devices and other stuff
But don't touch my junk

(Bridge)
Oh the TSA has been inclined
To have our safety in mind
And I know there's terror all around
Cause there's terror down in Nethertown

Solo
Repeat bridge

You can look for suspicion into my eyes
Before I fly on your plane in the friendly skies
You can pat all you want on my inner thighs
But don't touch my junk

You can judge me and profile the way I stand
Confiscate all my fruit and my contraband
You can treat me like I am the Taliban
Just don't touch my junk

I Hate That Broken Heart S**t

2010-08-07T14:51:00.000-07:00

Ever since my 31 year old step-son Blaine started working at FreeGeek here in Portland, first as a lowly volunteer and now as a lowly volunteer build instructor, (more like champion build instructor), Marie and I have acquired a plethora of young Geek Friends, many of whom we have adopted. I recall taking Blaine down to “The Geek” as we fondly call the place, on the first day, and meeting Matthew Harris, who spent the day with Blaine, helping him remove the bowels from a Compaq computer and explaining the different parts. I felt grateful and inspired by Matthew, who was then, and is now, one of our finest geek friends, not to mention brilliant, and very funny.

Matthew has moved on to Montana, but was here in Portland a couple weeks ago. He stopped by for a visit, and it was great to see him. As usual, we spent a goodly amount of time laughing at Matthew’s usually funny take on the world. At one point, Matthew was waxing on about the Many Loves of Matthew Harris, being the Geeky Ass Bandit Wannabe that he is, and touched on the subject of disappointment in relationships. At that moment, I chimed in, “I hate that broken heart shit”. Matt immediately looked my way with a gleam in his eye, and as he is wont to do when making light of my rocker ways, stated, “That’s a song title!”. Matt, this one's for you. You get 10% writer’s credit. Left to my own devices, I don’t think it would have occurred to me to actually write a song with shit in it. My buddy Tim Ellis came over to capably play all the guitar parts.

Free Download: I Hate That Broken Heart S**t

Ric Seaberg's Website

Freedom of Expression

2010-07-12T20:12:00.000-07:00

I really like usin’ the F word. In conversation, or writing, there’s just no other adjective that says it like fuck. Throw down a fucking this or fucking that, you get the most mileage outa your sentence. Is it unbelievable or unfuckingbelievable? I do pretty well not using expletives among my grandchildren, lest my daughters give me the look, but among friends, I fucking use fuck a lot. No shit. That’s how I roll.

But as I mentioned above, there are sometimes that one just doesn’t need to cuss a blue streak, like among the grandkids. Or around your mom. And if I may digress, I don’ wanna see cigarette or hard liquor ads on TV, and I am glad we outlawed that. So let’s just say I love to be able to express myself freely, in this great country of ours, but there are limits. It’s a good thing to have some limits.

But as far as politics and discourse on the issues goes, it’s no holds barred with me. I wanna hear it all. In order to have a perfect union, we have to have firm resolve on freedom of religion, and free speech. Free speech is da bomb. I might hate what you have to say, but I am gonna defend your right to say it and make your point every time. That’s what makes our country great. So throw down some weird political or religious gobbi gobbi on me, I am gonna think you are an idiot. But I am going to be civil to you, and give you the floor while you blow. Then I am gonna say you’re an idiot, and tell you why.

Wrote a song about it. It’s titled Freedom of Expression. Listen here, and thank you. Hope you fuckin’ like it.

Ric Seaberg's Useful Information

So-So Title

2010-06-17T07:27:00.001-07:00

I have been writing songs and recording them, off and on, since I was 16 years old, that would be, uh, 46 years. I've waxed on here occasionally about my small triumphs, like having my song "The Noise Pollution's Gone", become the theme song of NoiseFreeAmerica, or, most recently, having over 500 videos on YouTube using my music as a sound track. These things please me so, because besides being born to be a husband, father, gardener and steakeater, I was probably born to write songs, given it's recurring chorus.

Somewhere back there, I think I was in my late 30s, back in the days when one would make a master cassette tape of a song, and send it off to a publisher for approval, or disapproval, I got a lengthy letter back from one of them, with my rejected cassette. It was a lovely letter, really, from a Rusty Someone, full of observations about my songs, and even some kind comments. But I had used the word "spouse" in one of the songs I had sent him, (it was titled, "Knocks the Heart"), and Rusty's comment was that "spouse isn't a song word".

In the past ten years or so I have been submitting songs in the present day mp3 format, online, which is way more convenient. There are online services which will forward your worthy songs to publishers and others for use, as my representative "Rumblefish Music" has done for me by placing my songs on YouTube. I could just about keep my Starbucks card in the black with the royalty checks Rumblefish has been kindly sending each quarter.

Another online company with contacts to recording artists and others who need songs like filmakers and tv producers is Taxi.com, acompany which has placed many songs from li'l ol' writers like me with big recording stars. Each time a writer submits a song to Taxi, the writer receives a critique, a process I have enjoyed, and loathed. The artists and writers and industry professionals at Taxi who critique ones work are mostly kind, but honest. One part of the critique form rates your songs title, including one check box that says "So-So Title". Given my checkered songwriting past, I thought So-So Title was a pretty good title.

Listen to So-So Title, The Song, here

So-So Title

That song’s too majory....a little bit too linear

Spouse isn’t a song word....ya got a so-so title

Make the chorus stronger.....with a different melody

A universal message....might solve the problem

Bridge

You’ll never get this turkey to a country star

They like a lot more meat in their repertoire

A little repetition goes a long long way.....

Ya got a so-so title

Solo

Bridge

You’ll never get this turkey to a country star

They like a lot more meat in their repertoire

A little repetition goes a long long way.....

Ya got a so-so title

I heard that hook before.....in a Coke commercial

Ya need a better rhyme there...it’s not commercial

Better start your re-write...at the beginning

No Grammy winners...with a so-so title

Visit Ric Seaberg's Useful Information

Home Court Advantage

2010-05-28T09:01:00.000-07:00

I'm not a guy who thinks much about God. Well, that’s not completely true, cuz sometimes I wonder about folk’s weird conceptions of God, like those time honoured drawings and paintings of a old bearded white guy, reaching out to touch the hand of man, running the planet from the heavens, making it sunny or rainy, allowing school kids to mercilously bully other kids till they commit suicide, and giving my son spina bifida, the joker. Never really had all that much faith in God. But I do have faith in man.

Faith in “man” is what it’s all about. To me, that is the whole message in a nutshell, the message that Jesus and all those other cats want us to get, which somehow gets agonizingly misinterpreted. But it’s not an easy concept to grasp.

It’s not easy to have faith in man. Sometimes men, and women, do disappointing and foolish things, like lie to you, or steal your car, or break into your house, or fuck your best friend, or kill your dog. Sometimes people who seem to be perfectly well adjusted folks, pillars of the community, and who have done many good works, turn out to be rapists, child molesters or abusers, and serial killers. Or they do some other less appalling but still sinful dirty deed, like stealing money from the cash register at their work. Lessee, make the lunch for the kids, fill the bird feeder, send the ‘lectric bill, kiss the spousal unit and wish them a good day, drop the kids at school, call mom, oh crap look at all those 20s in this till, shit, I’m takin’ a couple.

Everyone (except my wife Marie, the most virtuous person on this mighty orb, no kidding) has done something bad in their life. I stole something from someone one time, when I was a teenager, over 40 years ago. I have regretted it SO MUCH all my life, but it did happen. That experience has also propped me up to never do anything like that again. I have gone on to better myself.

But while I don’t believe in God, I do believe in the collective unconscious. Call the collective unconscious God if you wish. If we all have faith in man, and talk about the good things that men and women do and can do, put the emphasis on that all the time, that’s the ticket. I get so tired of all the bad news on TV. I don’t think it’s healthy for the collective unconscious to dwell so much on the negative. Sure it might be titillating and interesting to see all the “worst case scenario” news on Channel 8, or watch a documentary about some serial killer, but I would love to see more balance, more good news. We need to have more faith in man, and faith in man will breed more faith in man, and more and more faith in the collective unconscious, and better behavior by all citizens. That’s the message! That’s what Jesus thinks! When men (or women) disappoint with negative behaviors, turn the other cheek! And if we all do that, and have faith in each other to do the right thing, magic happens.

Im not saying that you don’t lock up the serial rapist and throw away the key. But you do treat him humanely, and give him treatment. And when you catch someone in a lie, you don’t write them off as a lost cause and never trust them again. You tell them how disappointed you are, you tell them how they broke your heart, and you tell them to stop that shit. Then you forgive them. And you try with all your heart to have faith in them, as you go forward. And if you do that, they just might not lie to you again, and your faith will be affirmed and rewarded.

I have often wondered about home court advantage. There is no disputing the fact that teams win more at home than they do away, or, that they more often lose on the opposing teams home court. It is not impossible, for example, for the Phoenix Suns to beat The Los Angeles Lakers in LA, but it is more likely, as was the case this past week, that professional teams will win more games at home. The stats are overwhelming that there is actually truth to the concept of “home court advantage”. Is it because the guys or girls on the teams are just more comfortable at home? That they got more rest in their own bed? That they got to have their favourite breakfast, "moon over my hammy", at their favourite Dennys? Oh, that might be a little part of it. But what I think makes teams win more at home is that the home crowd is cheering and screaming and having faith in their team, and that’s what tips the balance. The collective unconscious of the crowd believing that their team is going to do good, do the right thing, and rousingly exclaiming their faith. Simple.

So I am gonna have faith in man and go forward believing that men and women are gonna do the right thing. And if they don't I'm still gonna give them the benefit of the doubt, and know they can do better.

Oh and Steve, that $5000 you owe me, fuggedaboudid. Call me. I miss you.

Ric Seaberg's Homemade Dog Food

2009-09-09T08:27:00.001-07:00

We are completely in love with our Bichon Frises, Pippi and Poppi, as I may have mentioned here one or twice. Pip and Pop are a big part of our family. When we are all together in our sitting room, watchin' the same House Hunters for the third time, with our dogs curled at our feet, all is well.

But both our dogs have had some medical problems, Pippi, pacreatitus, and skin issues, she's an itchy dog, and Poppi, the larger yet younger pup, a herniated disc, which required major surgery. I think it was mostly because Pip has itchy skin that I decided to try to make our own dog food, without preservatives and other lengthy word additives. It has been a boon to our dog's health.

This recipe, (or formula as we say in the bakery business), is a knock off from others you might find online, but I have expanded it to make a larger batch, so you can freeze a bunch of it and therefore make it a task that you might actually stick with, as I have. It's pretty easy, well, maybe it takes a bit of strength to stir it up in the final stage, but it's worth it. Here it is:

Ric Seaberg's Dog Food Formula

3 lbs brown rice (try to buy 3 lb bags to make this part easy. Or 2 lb and 1 lb bags!
1lb 5oz oats (1/2 large unit quaker oats)
Equivalent of 3-#10 cans veggies, yams, carrots, corn, peas. Diced carrots and yam pieces available in #10 cans at United Grocers and other food markets which cater to professionals. Varying the veggies in this recipe each time you make it will help supply your dog with a larger variety of nutrients.
5 lbs chopped pulled chicken mostly dark meat (United Grocers carries 10lb boxes of frozen "mostly dark" pulled chicken.

In very large professional size kettle with lid, bring rice to boil and cook on low boil for 35 minutes in 16 pints (16lbs) water (or 8 quarts)
Add oatmeal and cook on low for 5 minutes. Set aside to cool. If you are using any frozen veggies, like peas or corn, add these now. I buy frozen corn, it cools the mixture down which is helpful. When ingedients in kettle have cooled for an hour, add canned veggies. Drain canned veggies before adding. Some yams come in very light syrup so i drain the yams well and rinse. When adding yams squish in your hands as you add to insure that they will mix well. Wash your hands and stir this mixture well right in the large kettle with your hand and arm. You may store this food in larger containers as I do, just because I don't enjoy making individual servings at this point, or you can drop individual servings with a large ice cream scoop on pans which have been prepared with parchment paper. Freeze pans. When frozen, transfer servings to plastic bags for easy storage.

Makes approximately 120 scoops dog food

At our house we feed approximately 4 scoops per dog per day, in morning and late afternoon. At 4 per day total for 2 dogs, this recipe will last 30 days or one month.

Ric Seaberg

The Colonoscopy Song

2008-04-19T12:08:00.000-07:00

Let's just say I'm in the last half of my fifties. And, since I'm mostly normal, I get to experience, as I go forth into the second half of my life, certain aging related joys, like the occasional back going out, various aches and pains, a tooth implant here and there, other stuff. You don' wanna see my toenails. But I'm super wise.

Our family doc, Brian Trafficante, is a great doc, a great guy, laughs easily, and characteristcally, I mean as a doc, harps on about weight, cholesterol, and oh yeah, Ric, you need to schedule a colonoscopy.

Recently, I finally got around to making an appointment for that over 50 test, and did the prep, the day before, liquids only, etc., got the test, and the findings were very good, so, though oldish, my butt's really healthy.

Marie drove me to and from the test, since a person is sorta out of it after a colonoscopy, given the dose of morphine they give you to keep you quiet. Some people fall asleep, Marie does, but I was awake the whole time.

But later, at home, in my cozy chair, trying to focus on the TV, I was in a bit of a daze.

I could barely hear Marie talking to her girlfriend Joyce on the phone, explaining to her that, since I was so out of it, we might have to cancel our plans to attend a lecture together that evening. Joyce relayed the situation to her husband, my friend Tom, as Marie listened in. At that moment, Tom, who loves to rattle my cage, whether or not I am in a morphine induced stupor, spewed, " Oh! I suppose now there's gonna be A SONG about a colonoscopy!!"

Later, after I came to, Marie told me about that chump Tom's smartass comment, about how, since I tend to write an OCCASIONAL quirky song, that, having just had a colonoscopy, I might be moved to write a song about it. That probably, after lying there, all doped up, while some stranger probed my colon wth a scope, I'd likely go all poetic. Pshaw, Tom. Get a grip. Never gonna happen.

Listen Here: The Colonoscopy Song

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NO FRUITCAKE JOKES!! 2007

2007-12-22T14:40:00.000-08:00

OK, so one of my songs, “ The Noise Pollution’s Gone”, is the official theme song of Noise Free America. My song, “If Oprah Was President”, was first adopted as the official theme song of Oprah for President 2008, and then enjoyed a few plays on CNN behind the story of her staunch if misguided supporters. Two of my songs, “We Talk About Cars”, and “Didn’t Say I Love You Right”, appear on CDs born of NPR’s Car Talk guys, Click and Clack, the Tappet Brothers, aka Tom and Ray Magliozzi. Several of my tunes have been used in little movies and videos, most notably by Maria Deathstar, and can be seen on Youtube. Hundreds of podcasters have glommed onto my songs to use as featured or backing music on their podcasts, and I continue to actually keep my Starbucks card in the black by digital sales of my songs on iTunes and elsewhere. And my song, “Superbowl Andy” for some unknown reason, logs over 10,000 plays per month, as a free download, from China.

But these achievements pale in comparison to the fame I have enjoyed over the years, since 1989, when Maria La Ganga of the L.A. Times, in her article on fruitcake, referred to me as “The Father of the Fruitcake Revolution in America”, a title I continue to nobly honour and protect, given my fervent support of fine quality fruitcake, as a former bakery owner and writer. Nary a holiday season inches by without some sort of fruitcake patter, a queery for a statement from a reporter, or a phone call from a radio station in Fargo, or Duluth. This years’ request for an interview came from right here in Portland, when Peter Korn, a fine journalist for the Portland Tribune, sat me down for a series of questions. Peter must’ve gotten his training from those sixty minutes guys, cuz he grilled me like a pink salmon, till, at one point, I almost walked off the set. But in the end, we shook hands, and I must say his Q and A is one of the most thorough pieces of investigative journalism I have ever read. Here’s the link.

NO FRUITCAKE JOKES THE ORIGINAL
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The Doggy Bag Wave

2007-09-29T18:54:00.000-07:00

Here in Portland, Oregon, when we're not huggin' trees, or beautifying our standard issue one quarter-acre lots, we're taking care of our dogs, feeding them the finest dog foods (available only at the vet), playing with them, snuggling and petting them, or walking them through the family friendly hood. I love this town.

As I have mentioned before in my blog entry titled Where Bitches Pee, it is absolutely incumbent upon the dog walker to remove all doggie excrement from neighbors lawns and gardens, by using any hand protective measures possible, a plastic grocery sack, bread bags, those gauzey thin transparent things the newspaper lands in, or, in our case, special 9"x 12" non-gusseted blue plastic bags, designed and sold specially to the discerning dog owner for pick up and discardment of canine feces, which come in a roll of 15, and actually attach to the 20' retractable yuppie dog leash I use by means of a little round container in the shape of a fire hydrant, or, in the case of my wife Marie, who prefers the multicolored single length leash style, a doggie bag container in the shape of a bone, or "boney" as we dog owners may be sometimes heard to utter in an excited tone, as in "Pippi, where's your boney?"

We have two dogs, both bichon frises, The Precious Pippi and Poppi, and the three of us, Marie, Blaine and I, pamper them relentlessly. As chief dog walker, I take them out 5 times a day, for them to do their doggie bizness, sniff other dogs pee scent to their hearts content, get their extracurricular petting from neighbors and passersby, and to take their requisite dumps. I hold both leashes in my left hand, generally, and when its time to pull out the doggie bag from its little plastic fire hydrant home, I do so with my right hand, and then, on the rest of the walk, carry that used bag in the same right hand. Oops, all out of hands!

Portland is a smallish town, and I have lived here for most of my life, so occasionally, a car will pass by, as I walk my dogs , and honk a friendly honk, the car horn of a friend, maybe a business associate, a neighbor, my sister. It's at those times I find myself stuck for an appropriate response, hands full of leashes and dog poop, but I give it my best shot. Here I am in pre-poop scoop mode, waving the empty hand in bag salute, fully ready to greet a pal or pick up shit. When you see me do this, please know I am just trying to be polite.

And of course, many times, I have already scooped the poop, when an old high school pal, or my wife's boss, come rolling by in their corn oil powered cars, so I offer the view next of what they might see. That's me again, charming and delighted to see you, saying hi with my blue bag plumb full of doody. Nice and friendly fella, that Ric.

But walking and coddling our dogs is not all we dog owners do for our pets, as was the case this Fall as we faced life threatening illnesses with both of them. Pippi, the elder stateswoman, and boss-o-me, stared down pancreatitis, a malady common to bichons, and, gratefully, has come through with colors flying. But two weeks ago, the world's sweetest bichon, our perfect Poppi, began showing signs of a back or neck issue, and has been saved by herniated disc surgery, where, as you can see, they enter from the front. In two weeks, she'll have about 30 stitches removed, (staples). meanwhile she's feeling much better, but still in some pain, so we are confining her in her new styley green canvas kennels (one for each floor) and filling her with meds, including codiene and 5mg valium. Here she is tethered to the bed in my studio, on a very short leash, mugging in my baseball hat, which, usually, she will shake off in about 2 seconds, but, well, she's tranqued up.

We love our dogs so much, they are truly a part of the family, and losing one them just isn't an option. We are thankful that we have dog insurance, which will pay for about half the expense of this latest round of vet bills, but where these guys are concerned, it's gonna be a small price to pay to see them both healthy again.

So when you're drivin' by later, and see me out on the corner of 26th and S.E. Madison, and I raise my right hand and send the doggy bag wave your way, all smiley and rosey cheeked, know one thing. Pickin' up crap twice a day for years has begun to feel more like meditation and less like drudgery, and I'm so damn glad my dogs are still kickin'! I mean, these here little live stuffed animal ones.

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Blackjack!

2007-08-24T22:17:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure exactly when it was I realized that my step-son Blaine is mathematically gifted. Given his various downsides, like spina bifida, hydrocephalus, epilepsy, and other disorders, and my own lack of knowledge about his condition, back then, I may have been lulled into a stereotypical view of that crippled kid. But when Marie would say, as she sat doing bills, or some such other numberly work, “Yo Blaine, what’s 696 x13?”, and he would holler back, with very little hesitation, “9048”, you’d think a guy might take notice.

After I figured out that even someone with severe physical handicaps can be a math whiz, all proud of myself, I got into the action too. Like say, if I had 4 or 5 four digit numbers to add up, and I was calculatorless, or multi-tasking, maybe watching TV, I would call on Blaine to be my human calculator. Dude blows my mind. Where numbers are concerned, Blainey rocks.

I don’t think I can go as far as to say he’s “Rainman” like, but actually, I don’t really know. When I think about how he has amassed an incredible amount of knowledge about U.S. Presidents, and computers, and chess, and Motown, it’s easy to see that his mind works in a special, and rather unique way.

Blaine and I have a great relationship, and I feel privileged to be called step-dad. We comprise the sum of the male energy in this house, considering that Marie is a girl, and well, the dogs are too. We talk sports, The Blazers, watch games together, and..... surprise....razz each other. Sometimes, when I pick him up from his volunteer job at FreeGeek, around 7;30pm each night, we sit in the van, after we get home, and listen to half an inning of the Mariners game, before we go in the house, where of course, we immediately crank up the tube.

I have elaborated on this blog previously about how our maleness, and doing things guys do, can tend to overwhelm the most important and female member of our clan. But Marie mostly takes our whooping and hollering in stride, with a shake of the head, maybe a glare, or sometimes, an exasperated, “God, you guys!”.

One activity we favor that Marie “cannot abide” as she puts it, is gambling. Blaine and I like to spend a little time at the casino, risking our savings, a sport I have taught him with the love and tenderness of a real dad. And man, with his numbers skill, this cat can play Blackjack. Blaine doesn’t win everytime we go gambling, but lets just say, where Blackjack is concerned, he doesn’t make any mistakes.

The cards were pretty good to Blaine this past week when we spent two days at Spirit Mountain Casino, in Grande Ronde, Oregon, our current favourite, about an hour and a half from home. While I threw my money gleefully away on the slots, or sometimes roulette, Blaine hit the Blackjack table exclusively, his usual plan. I don’t see much of him during the day, when I am busy attempting to win that big slot jackpot, but I stop by his table now and then, just to see how he is doing. Sometimes, when I wend my way to the food kiosk, where one can live on the succulent chicken wrap, I pass by and slug him in the back. Not hard.

But this time out, and even though Blaine is a conservative bettor, I could tell that he wasn’t completely satisfied with his financial state. Sometimes, the cards just don’t go your way. So I wasn’t terribly surprised, that, about 10 minutes before our agreed leaving time, he came out to find me on the main floor.

Looking up at me excitedly, as he sometimes does, from his wheelchair, and squeezing the life out of two 100 dollar bills, he spoke. “Ric, I want to ask you something”, to which I replied, slowly and deliberately, intuiting that he was up to something, ‘Yes?” He took his time then, but finally spoke, grinning..... “Well, do you think I should go crazy?”

I knew immediately what was on his mind. He was thinking about placing a large bet on one hand of blackjack. Suddenly, I felt my father genes kick in, as Blaine blurted, “I’m thinking about betting the table max, $250, on one hand of blackjack, for once in my life.”

Now, you have to remember who we are talking about here. At 28 years old, and though this is a young man who possesses vast knowledge, and is well read, there are certain things in life Blaine has not, and will not experience. He is not going to catch the winning touchdown pass. He is not going to hit a walk-off home run. He is not going to run through the sprinkler. So, with the love of a dad who knows how guys think and did once hit the walk off, I began my schpeil.

“Well”, I spoke in a considered and cautious tone, if you are going to do that, I mean, put all that money out there for one bet, you have to be prepared to lose it, and know that if you do, you just have to chalk it up to experience and take pleasure from just giving it a shot, and if you can do that”.....but as I spoke my last few words, he was gone. I mean, he just went roaring off to that table in his chair. I followed.

Blaine had not been gone for long from the short, accessible Blackjack table in the non-smoking room, his preferred spot. The table was full of gamblers, none in wheelchairs, maybe 8 people all told, and several of the players welcomed him back with statements like, “he’s back!” and “well. you weren’t gone for very long!” Blaine placed his two 100 dollar bills in front of him, just beyond the bet circle. The dealer gave him a glance. Blaine spoke up. “ I’m going to bet the max”, he announced, to a very interested table, “for once in my life”.

The other players, with their $3 and $5 bets sitting before them, oooohed. For a second, the dealer looked very afraid, and then gave Blaine $200 worth of chips. Blaine added some chips, and stacked $250 in his bet circle. I stood behind Blaine. The lady to his right patted his arm and back. The guy on his left stuck his hand to his own forehead. And before he dealt, the dealer put his palm on the space in front of Blaine, and looked at him, and carressed the table, in a circling motion, as if to wish him good luck. The pit boss came closer.

The dealer turned the shoe and brought out one card for each player, and then his own card, which was a jack. I thought that everyone, including me, was relieved to see that Blaine had been dealt a king. No cigar, but a good start. And then, the dealer slowly brought the second cards out, to a completely hushed table. When he got to Blaine, he hesitated, and then.....very deliberately, and with a snap in his wrist, popped down....... an ace! .... onto Blaine's king. BLACKJACK!!!! The table erupted. One male player raised his fist and yelled “YESSSSSSSS”. The lady gave Blaine some more pats. I slugged his back. Hard. The dealer finished the game with the other players. Everyone sat back as others approached the table, wives, husbands, to find out what all the ruckus was about. As Blaine gathered his $625 worth of chips, other players related the story of Blaine’s “hunch”, and his blackjack. I doubt the non-smoking blackjack table at Spirit Mountain has seen that much excitement in weeks.

To his credit, Blaine wheeled immediately to the cash window and redeemed his chips for actual money. We got a hot chocolate at The Dutch Brothers drive-thru in Newberg. We called Marie on my iPhone so Blaine could tell her his story. And then, we talked, just a coupla’ crazy gamblin’ boys, about Blaine’s blackjack, exactly like the one pictured above, all the way home.

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2007-02-17T16:12:00.000-08:00

Thanks for viewing my true life stories pages. Please choose from any of the titles to the left, and you may stumble upon some useful information to help you in your own life, like maybe about the time I chatted up Jim Morrison, or my dad's penchant for gadgets, or how my plugs are firin'. Feel free to leave me a comment: I will respond. Enjoy!

The photo above was taken in Portland a few blocks from my house, on an actual bus stop bench, about 2003. It was an advertisement for a casino. I am trying to take it's message to heart.

Best Regards,
Ric Seaberg

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Ass Whuppin' on the Produce Aisle

2006-10-29T17:25:00.000-08:00

I dunno, maybe it’s because I owned a retail bakery for years, that I have developed a serious need to always know what’s in our fridge, I mean the one in our kitchen, and the freezer part too. And in the fridge in the basement. And the freezer part too. And the small but free standing freezer in the basement.

Like say, you wanna try some of Marie’s corn chowder from last spring, just ask. I know exactly where it is. It’s on the second shelf in the free standing freezer, about two-thirds of the way down, buried under some boysenberries and raspberries and blueberries and some pastry I baked a few weeks ago to accomodate my son’s jones for sweets. Or maybe you need to know if there might be a leg of lamb left from that Costco trip where we bought 4, for summer barbecues. Nope, none left. Used’em all. They were on the third shelf, way down deep, but don’t go there, they’re gone.

Marie and I take turns cooking for our family, trading places every two weeks. I enjoy my time in the kitchen, and even feel a little sense of loss when it’s Marie’s turn to take over. When it’s my turn, I am sure that there are plenty of ziplock bags at my disposal, and paper towels, and foods for all occasions. And I know where every frickin’ thing is, the mayo, the yogurt, the cheese, Blaine’s pastry, hot dog buns, whatever. And how much is left.

Today it’s Marie turn to take over. We are having guests for dinner, and early this morning, I found her making up her menu and grocery list for the week. Marie likes to take ownership of the kitchen during her stay, keeps the counters neat and sparse, where I tend to load up the counter with bowls of apples and chestnuts, candles, post-it notes, other stuff. She’s a great cook too, and I must say that I love it when I can find a sec to do a chore, instead of cook, or just watch TV, and wait to be presented a plate of some killer dish, prepared by my spousal gastronome.

Sometimes I will go shopping with her when it’s her turn, at our favourite grocery store, “New Season’s” which is basically like “Whole Foods” but local. They stock all manner of organic foods, which we prefer, in all departments, especially organic fresh fruit and vegetables. Today, when we were there, I spied not one, but two different varieties of organic persimmons.

Though I consider myself to be something of a God when it comes to my knowledge of just exactly what we have in our cupboards and retarders, Marie is not so impressed. I have noticed on past excursions with her, to the grocery store, that as she places something in the basket, which I know full well we already have plenty of at home, and I tell her so, a look of disgust and know it allness spite rises in her, which at first, I didn’’t get. I mean, why buy yet another pack of cheese bagels, if there are still 3 in the freezer? Or more of those small yogurts, when there are still 5 or so, almost past pull date, languishing on the top rear of the salad drawer? I finally realized that, even though I was thinking I was being helpful, my presentation was belittling and terse, which of course, I have never heard before. So I have vowed to actually hand the kitchen over to Marie without my bossy interference, and I think my sweet wife is glad about it.

Today, as we left for the store, I announced with full bravado that I was going to be pleased to supply her with all the information she would need to know as we shopped. She immediately objected with her eyes and body language, which only encouraged me to continue. So I promised that, to make things easier, I would just remove anything from her cart that I knew we didn’t need. Simple! Marie turned my way with a bit of a grin, as she announced, “Sure mister, go ahead. I mean, if you want your ass whupped on the produce aisle.”

There is definitely a surfeit of hot dogs in our home, at this time, which our son loves, but I am not all that worried about it. Even unfrozen, hot dogs last like, 9 years, so, when Marie placed those Hebrew National Kosher dogs in the cart, I spoke not. Besides, an occasional hot dog sandwich is a guilty pleasure of mine. Plus, my wife still loves me. And I can cheerfully report that my ass, well, it’s unwhupped.

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Indie Queen

2006-10-11T17:45:00.000-07:00

We are a bit disappointed, Marie and I, after finally escaping Portland for a few days, that here at Washington’s Cape Disappointment State Park, the rains have come. But at 8 am, as we sit drinking our coffee and tea, our puppies cuddled at our side, on the Airstream divan, we are snug as a bug in a rug. This is campin’. After years of waking up in leaky tents, I must say, this gettin’ old thing, the way it calls one to seek certain comforts, like a hot water heater and a refrigerator and shower and bathroom and comfy bed, kinda rocks.

My son Blaine purchased a new iMac last week, and so, as Marie and I waited for him to complete his transaction, we walked the store with our credit cards burning proverbial holes in our pockets. Marie found a hard shell backback to carry her laptop in, as she rides her bike to work, down Portland’s Eastside Esplanade and into the Pearl District. Me, I stumbled upon a retro look iPod amp, the “Specktone”, which Marie and I immediately deemed perfect for the Airstream, and had to have. With our eyes still half-mast, I realized some minutes ago that I was waking up to the sounds of The Magnetic Fields lovely morning anthem, “Chicken With Its Head Cut Off”.

Sometimes late in the evening, or on weekends, Marie will retire to her office to do some work, pay some bills, read, whatever. I see her sitting at her computer as I lumber by, and occasionally, the iTunes window on her monitor. Turns out, one of Marie’s favourite activities is to cruise the iTunes store. She finds new and unusual indie artists, and songs, and then, like the perfect wife of an indie artist, clicks on “buy”. As a result, I get to hear, as I quaff my chai, new and interesting and wonderful indie artists. There is so much great indie music out there, man.
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The Wisteria Building

2006-09-07T14:09:00.000-07:00

In 1993, after having been in bakery business for 18 years, I dived headlong into the purchase of the commercial building where my bakery, “Favourites” was located. It was a no brainer, really. The building was for sale, my bakery was the flagship tenant, and took up almost all of the leasable space in the building at that time. Plus, I was anxious to embark on another kind of work since I felt that my baking career was nearing completion. As I have said to others along the way, 20 years in the bakery business is quite enough.

Finding the money to make such a purchase, though, was a bit more problematic than the decision to buy. But eventually, I was able to convince the building owners to allow me to buy it for zero down, which in a nutshell, is a perfect metaphor for the old adage, “ it never hurts to ask ”. One month, I was still a tenant, the next, the building’s owner, no down payment required. I will always be grateful to Jack and Diane Baker for their kindness and generosity as they turned the keys (and responsibility) of the building over to me.

I went to work right away, improving the building such that it would accomodate more tenants, and, over the last 14 years, I have spent many, many thousands of dollars, and many, many hours of plotting and planning and waiting for plans examiners to call my name. But I have loved it. Turning this old building, which was originally built in the 1920s, into a living, breathing commercial property has been rewarding. We will soon open for lease a fourth retail store on the property.

Last week, I signed a lease with Francisco Diaz, who will operate his fifth Cha! Cha! Cha! Mexican Taqueria in my former bakery space in “The Wisteria Building” a name I conjured up cuz, well, I planted 4 purple wisteria in 1993, around the building, and now, they look like they have been here forever. Francisco makes killer burritios, and other usual and not so usual Mex dishes. If you are in Portland, we are at 4727 NE Fremont, also known as Beaumont Village. Stop by for a Margarita!

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The Compulsive Fixer

2006-08-31T22:27:00.000-07:00

I dunno, maybe it’s cuz I owned my own bakery for over 20 years, employing no less than 13 people at any given time, and all that bakery equipment, sheesh, which tended to break down now and then, needed fixing, and that’s how I became a compulsive fixer. Maybe it’s cuz the rol-sheeter seemed to always need a new bearing, or the thermo-couple on the oven was spent, or the proof box needed a new floatation unit, or the roof over the roof mounted air conditioner was leaking, or those oddball thinline flourescent lights in the cold case wouldn’t stay on, yikes, I could fill this page with all the little fixes that I have done over time, out of necessity.

Or maybe it’s cuz I have lived in old houses for most of my adult life, those lovely and gingerbready and broken down painted ladies, or those old Portland Craftsmen Style Beauties, with their chipped and buckling wainscoting and unfinished and freezing water closets attached to the back porch, that has made me the compulsive fixer I have become today. When I go down to my small basement workshop in my home, I am amazed at all the tools and tool stuff I have acquired over the years. But I still need a dust collection system, I mean for the table saw, hint, hint.

I have had a small warehouse attached to my commercial building, on upper N.E. Fremont Street, here in Portland, for almost 15 years, and last summer, we decided to clean it out, you know, sell off all the detritus of entirely too many marriages, and the lawn chairs piling up at one end, and the bakery related stuff that mounted to the ceiling before I sold my store in 1995, et cetera, and get it completely cleaned out such that I could turn the old warehouse into a nice 830 square foot retail space, bring a cute little store in there, to complement the other 3 businesses in the building. It has taken me a year to finally get a permit from the City of Portland to make these changes, that is, to secure a proper drawing which was completed by my friend and killer architect Dan Glennon, and to trudge through the permit process, and I have just recently ordered the installation of 5 very groovy skylights, which will be hoisted into place somewhere during the first part of September. My plate is fullish.

So it might surprise you to learn that, given this new project of mine, and other stuff, oh, music, the care and feeding of my commercial tenants, the care and feeding of my wife, the care and feeding of my son Blaine, keeping up a blog, other stuff, that I have decided to hang out a shingle as a fixer, a little enterprise i have coined “Call the Fixer”. I helped our neighbor Nancy with some projects a couple of months ago, around her tri-plex, and I enjoyed it so much, and made some money at it, so I have decided to go pro.

My wife might describe me as a compulsive busy person, not just a compulsive fixer, maybe even squeeze in the term “antsy”, but anyway you look at it, it’s a good fit, for me to come over to your house and do some much needed fixes for you. So if you live in Portland, or Vancouver, USA, and need me to put a handrail on that dangerous basement staircase, or install some light fixures, or put some molding ‘round that kitchen door, give your friendly, compulsive fixer a call. Or email me for details.

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Finding Rev Phil

2006-08-23T12:46:00.000-07:00

Lest I nauseate my flagging readership yet again, by spewing more platitudes about my wife Marie, the funny, talented, beautiful, pluperfect Marie, I must tell you a bit about one of her latest accomplishments, that is, her avocation as filmmaker. Documentarian, more precisely.

A couple of years ago, Marie announced, in no terms uncertain, that she would be buying a camcorder, a good one, and buying some books, and taking a class on filmmaking. You will have to ask her to tell you more about her road to actually knowing how to create a film, start to finish, but I gotta tell ya, in such a short amount of time, she has produced several films that are, for lack of a better term, GREAT!

Marie has been using her newfound skills at work, producing several short films, with the help of several other local filmmakers, to highlight non-profit organizations which have received grants from the philanthropic organization she works for.

But my favourite film of hers to date is one of her first efforts, titled “Finding Rev Phil”, which is a 20 minute documentary about one of Portland’s most interesting characters, genial iconoclast bike punk and all around good guy Reverend Phil, whom she met at FreeGeek, where our son Blaine holds court in the build department.

Suffice it to say, right before I direct you to the website where you can buy this little gem, that one of Phil’s great and fully documented stunts was the complete and overwhelmingly funny streaking of our local baseball venue, PGE Park, in 2005, much to the chagrin of local officials, but now, much to the pleasure of those of us who know and love the nut. The streaking incident, and even the local TV coverage during the mayhem is included in the philm.

To see a clip and read about the movie, click here.

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Blaine’s 27th Birthday Party

2006-08-02T08:38:00.000-07:00

As many of you know, my 27 year-old step-son, Blaine, (my wife Marie’s actual son), has a few “disabilities”, that is, he was born with spina bifida, and some other stuff. Blaine is paralyzed from the armpits down, which of course makes for a laugh riot when one is called on to cut his toenails, and maybe you nick him, by mistake, and say to him, “did that hurt?” Sometimes I tell him, when the pain of gout is bothering me, what a lucky fuck he is to not be able to feel his legs or feet.

I love Blainey to death, he’s my bud, and I tell him so, as I did last night, while his mother and I were watching the news, after I had driven him home in our lift equipped van from his volunteer job at FreeGeek. “I love you with all my heart and soul, Blaine”, I believe were my exact words. Sitting there is his wheelchair, bobbin’ and a weavin’, he gives me this look, like I am completely out of my mind, and says back, “yeah right”, and wheels off. The bastard. Blaine turned 27 just this past week, on July 21st, and since he is so lovable, we decided to host a party for him at the courtyard next to my commercial building, the same courtyard where we store our 1964 Airstream. I have a big barbecue up there, leftover from my days in the food business, and the garden is cute, so we sent out invitations to all of Blaine friends at FreeGeek. We barbecued sausage and served confetti bean salad and spinach feta pockets and salsa and cookies and lemon drops, Blaine’s favourite cocktail. We opened up the Airstream and threw some Pabst on ice. Partially inebriated geek patter filled the air and rose past the tree tops on N.E. Fremont.
Blaine’s strength and bravery are an inspiration to many, including me, and certainly his friends, since life in general, if you are disabled, can many times be difficult, and even exausting. I credit Marie, Blaine’s occasionally exausted Mom, with having helped Blaine achieve such a marvelous disposition and attitude, given the daily struggle.
Blaine graduated from Wilson High School, here in Portland, where his Mom drove him every day, since at the time (he graduated in 1997), Wilson was the most accessible for a person who uses a wheelchair. And though Blaine is not interested in college, he has received a great education by volunteering at FreeGeek, and can break down and assemble computers with the best of 'em. There is nothing wrong with Blaine’s brain. Except when he criticizes his step-dad for believing in the bunt, a baseball strategy which Blaine cannot abide.

Having raised two daughters, Stacey and Amy, I figured I was done having children, but in 1997, when Marie and I met, and fell in love, I began to figure out that I was going to get a son after all. I am one of the luckiest guys on the planet, for having met Marie, and then Blainey, and then having them welcome me into their lives and accept me and love me. Blaine allows me to call him son. Celebrating his birthday this year was great fun. He is one special cat. Blaine is kind, humorous, forgiving, brave, inspiring, generous, honest, charming, and smart. I mean, except about the bunt thing.

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Live Coverage of Nothing

2006-07-19T13:36:00.000-07:00

A nasty tragedy occured last week, here in greater Portland, when a Hawker Hunter, a vintage jet flown by veteran pilot Robert Guilford, crashed into a densely populated area near the Hillsboro airport, where the show takes place every year. The large explosion and ensuing fire destroyed two homes and part of a third, and unfortunately cost the pilot his life. I do not intend to make light of this horrific event. Luckily, no one on the ground was injured, and the fire was extinguished quickly.

Portland news coverage began in earnest immediately. Perhaps you know how much I love and trust local news reporting, which I ranted on about in a previous tract titled “Worse Case Scenario News”. I know, they’re just people with a job to do like the rest of us, but somehow, news reporters exhibit a kind of macabre enthusiasm when they are on the trail of really bad news, which can be, methinks, a tad self-serving, and sometimes, borders on the despicable.

Boy howdy, when that little jet went down, and sent Robert Guilford to his death, every news chopper and news van and news person in these parts was off to Hillsboro like a shot. Within minutes, every local channel was reporting live from as close as they could get to the scene, which was not very close, interviewing neighbors, firefighters, airport officials, and passersby. Helicopters filled the air above the neighborhood, as streams of water from firehoses filled the air.

As news trickled in, about the air show, the crashed jet, the fire, and the pilot, our local news teams were all over it. But eventually, within several hours, the news was basically, well, over. The fire was out. We knew all about the dead guy. The two destroyed houses were a black and wet mess. Conjecture about whether or not The Portland Air Show would ever play again at the Hillsboro Airport had been exausted. It was at that point that the reporting took a bit of a turn.

Maybe they coulda just decided that enough was enough, and gone on to other news, but NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, as John Belushi once moaned, they thought they had us all in the palms of their hands, that we were glued to the TV for any little additional crumb of info about the crash we might get. So what if they had begun to interview people about the crash who lived in the neighborhood, several blocks away, and were not home at the time of the crash, and did not see it, or hear it, and who, basically, were not in any way affected by the crash. So what if the cameras were panning in again and again to the same charred and steaming rubble, as ultra coiffed news gals offered up questions like, “How do you think this awful crash will impact the neighborhood in the immediate future?”, and “Do you think the future of The Portland Air Show hangs in the balance after such a terrible tragedy?”, that sort of thing, for like, at least two hours longer than necessary. And when breaking for the imminent commercial, one young male reporter, after having basically nothing to say, breathlessly required of his surely rapt audience “don’t touch that dial!”

It’s kind of funny, really, watching news folks squirm and stutter and scramble for more news in a story that has so obviously burned out.

It’s at times like this that my wife Marie, who is a bonafide headlines hound, and I, have eye contact, and with a wee bit of disdain in her voice, and a lot of sarcasm, she will make her feelings known about that which she believes is sub-par reporting. Sometimes she just lets out a nice big ARGGGHHHHH! , maybe a hearty laugh. This time, she looked absolutely disgusted as she spoke. “Man, we're watchin' Live Coverage of Nothing”, I think were her exact words, and, as I am sometimes driven to do, it is her words which I have stolen, to well, beef up the news.

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The Saran Wrap Dress Guy

2006-07-07T11:38:00.000-07:00

There runs amidst the white lined bike paths of Portland city streets a fervent bike cult, those who prefer the less polluting and petrol efficient two wheel form of travel. I do indeed count myself among the faithful, and although I do use a van for work, and to cart my son around, I dunno, life is just better on a bike.

Like any good cult, you have your various sects and factions, which in bike land, for example, include the Nike Aerodynamic Bike Suit clad, with their $1000 or greater sleek and sexy bikes, and those little dental-like rear view mirrors attached to their helmets. There are the The Family Bikers, young couples with their offspring who talk and giggle about their lives, which center around The Sunnyside Environmental Grade School, as they glide by my own impeccable and poisons-free landscape. There are the less serious bikers, like myself, and my wife, who just love the wind in their hair, on a ride along Portland’s east side riverview esplanade, and perhaps enjoy a tinge of the melancholy from glorious biking days past, when we soared with reckless abandon down the streets of Oregon college towns in our youth. And then, there is The Portland Wild And Crazy Bike Youth, those 17 through 20 somethings, not yet quite settled on career, or marriage, or family, and who perhaps, though they prefer beer to water, tend to be vegan. The hardcore bikers. The ones with green hair, poppin’ wheelies. The ones who rally for biker’s rights, know how to break a bike down and put it back together with a vice grips and a screwdriver, and on any friday night, may swarm to the streets for a good traffic halting protest. And if you catch’em on the right night, they might be buck naked.

Such was the case this past week as Marie and I travelled in our big white Chevy van, just minutes from our home, on our way to visit some friends. As we stopped at the red light on 20th and Morrison, I spied, on the corner, two young male bikers, who had apparently stopped to adjust something on one of their bikes, and, as I looked a bit closer, I noticed that one of them, the guy who was crouched down to look at something in his bike’s chain area, was wearing nothing but, get this, a saran wrap dress. “Oh, this is good”, I thought, as I pointed out the duo to Marie, whose mouth dropped open with lightning speed.

It was at that moment that I noticed, on the Saran Wrap Dress Guy’s bike, an entire giant roll of plastic wrap, the kind we used in my bakery days, to wrap bakery products for sale, perhaps 20 inches long, 8 inches thick, tied to the back of the bike, like a bedroll. You know, just in case you need to freshen up your look. And that’s it. No water bottle, nothing else attached to the bike. Just the guy, the wrap, and the saran wrap dress. I mean that I could see.

To describe the outfit a little more completely, well, imagine that you yourself were going to attempt this feat. The way you would do it is, first, get naked. Then, raise both your arms up, and with someone else’s help you begin wrapping yourself, under the pits, and across the chest and back, with many thicknesses of shrink wrap, and then, continue down ‘til you have a sort of mini-dress look, and then, cut off the wrap. Voila!

The other guy was dressed normally. I believe he had shorts on, and a T-shirt, and he was waiting patiently for Saran Wrap Dress Guy to finish fiddling with his bike, so they could cross the intersection.

Just then, the light changed. I drove on. Saran Wrap Dress Guy had mounted his bike, and was beginning to peddle our way, while our van crossed the intersection. As he began to peddle, his legs spread apart, providing us with a more thorough view of his undergarments. There were no undergarments. But he had something, something tan and black and small, attached to his, er, schwann. Maybe something like you might see in a National Geographic special about Natives in the New Guinean Outback, where natives adorn their genitalia with a variety of forest products.

It could’ve ended there, just a flash of something funny for Marie and I to remember over the years, in conversation, as we sit, and go forth, soon, into our twilight years, drinking wine spritzers in our beloved Pond View Chairs, but unfortunately, it did not.

Our dear friend Nancy, who lives within ear shot of our back door, has a way with gardening, as does my wife Marie, and the two of them are simpatico where flora rules. A few days ago, Nancy hosted yet another stellar dinner party, in her stellar garden, complete with her very famous barbecued Tandoori Chicken, an Eastern Indian dish she picked up while living abroad for many years.The scene was a delight. The garden's dining table was beautifully set, with Nancy's charming and eclectic outdoor plates and platters. Brightly coloured paper lanterns glimmered above spirited conversation. The fragrance of barbecuing Tandoori spices mingled with sweet mock orange blossoms in the warm evening air. Wine glasses were filled and refilled, and even our son Blaine wheeled over for the merriment. We finally sat down to dine, and at some point, I decided to butt in with my new favourite story. “Guys, listen to this”, I blurted, and then began a version of the story above, which you have just read, about the Saran Wrap Dress Guy, and his bike, and how Marie and I were so shocked and perplexed and well, you get the picture. But then, just because I have absolutely no sense, and because I am impulsive and immature, and occasionally needy for a laugh, when I got to the part about The Saran Wrap Dress Guy’s Genitalian Adornment, there at that lovely dinner party, attended only by wholly refined and intelligent guests, all smiley and attentive and polite, I suddenly exclaimed loudly and without reservation, “The guy, he had, well, HE HAD A CLOTHESPIN ON HIS PENIS”, which was not exactly true, but brief, and I immediately felt like a complete idiot, while some giggled and my wife trembled, in a cowering kind of way, in her patio chair by my side, there among the fine wines and exquisite foods, as I had proven, once again, that she just can’t take her husband anywhere.

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The Airstream Chronicles--”Ric And Blaine Go Gamblin’"... Lincoln City, Oregon

2006-07-04T10:56:00.000-07:00

He might not be able to do the mambo at the Taco Del Mar, but one thing my 26 year-old step-son Blaine does do, with aplomb, is numbers. Lest I neglect to mention it yet again, Blaine can add numbers in his head, well, savant-like. And do not even ever suggest that someone lay down a bunt, as you sit watching the Seattle Mariners attempt to make a comeback, because in “Sabremetrics”, the baseball stats philosophy that Blaine has embraced, the bunt, under any circumstances, is considered a statistical blunder. So I always try to mention, Evil Dad that I am, and with equal aplomb, that now would be a great time for a bunt. Then, when he looks at me like I am an idiot, and says, NOOOOOOO, no bunts!”, I say, “Ha! Made ya say it again!”

So when it comes to games, like chess, where Blaine holds a high rating, and reads chess books for fun, Blaine just sorta naturally rises to the top. Once, when I agreed to play him in a game of chess, just because I have masochistic tendencies, I began the game by moving one of my pawns forward. At that moment, Blaine looked at me with a little smirk, and exclaimed, in a kinda belittling sing song tone, “OHHHHHHHH,... the Sicilian”, apparently referring to my move, as if I actually had some learned plan in mind, some strategy culled from my many years of study and plying my trade on the chess circuit. Of course I still have absolutely no idea what "the Sicilian" is, but I know it's a chess thing.

We have fun together, and, given Blaine’s disabilities, his Spina Bifida, and other stuff, well, he’s just a huge inspiration to me, and to others, the way he has dealt with and deals everyday with his limitations, stuff that those of us who are able bodied take for granted. Blainey has never complained about his condition even once in his life, and I have seen first hand so many times how his presence inspires the good in others. He brings out the best in people. Never mind that he is such a social person, and is always wanting to make conversation with just about anyone. There is just something about my son that softens people and makes them instantly more balanced. I like him that way.

Marie and I travelled to Prairie City, Oregon, in our Airstream, just the two of us, a couple of weeks ago, and left Blaine home with our two Bichon Frises, Pippi and Poppi. We don’t normally leave Blaine alone at home, and it was kind of a first for us all. But Blaine held down the fort well, (we had other people lined up to stop by to lend a hand) and part of the plan, since the Airstream was already hooked up to the van, was that, upon our return from Prairie City, Blaine and I would then go forth on our own, and take the dogs with us, leaving Marie at home, to Lincoln City, Oregon, on the Oregon coast, just a coupla’ guys.

The four of us pulled into Coyote Rock RV Park with the toaster in tow and set up camp. We had a little something to eat, and then took off, in the van, to Chinook Winds Casino. Next morning, we got up, had a little breakfast, sent some email utilizing the wi-fi in the RV Park, walked the dogs, and went back to the casino.

With all his gamesmanship expertise, you’d think Blaine would be good at gamblin’, and he is. While I mostly stick to the slots and occasionally waste some money on the roulette table, Blaine’s game of choice is Blackjack, where he usually fares quite well. Of course, anyone can hit a rough streak. But Blaine doesn’t make any mistakes. He plays every hand the way it should be played, based on the odds. He read the Blackjack book.

We had a great time, plenty of laughs, and some decent scores. I hit a jackpot for $400 on a slot machine, and then, of course, proceeded to give the most of it back to other machines. Blaine was down a bit on the Blackjack table after two days, but on the third, made a gallant return to the black. As you can see in the photo above, wearin’ my shades, he’s dangerous lookin’. We’re gonna do it again.

Here’s a song about Blaine from my CD “Useful Information” titled “Like Him That Way”

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The Airstream Chronicles.....Prairie City, Oregon

2006-06-25T10:11:00.000-07:00

Some weeks ago, in order to perform a work related task, my wife Marie travelled to Eastern Oregon, one of the most beautiful places on this here spinnin’ ball, all by her lonesome, in her Silver Volvo Wagon V70. After she arrived, she met with officials in Prairie City, Oregon, to discuss the details of her visit. But her non-work related task, as we had discussed before her departure, was to scout out possible camp sites for us to visit on a mini-vacation we had proposed for just this week, my birthday week, and more importantly, the date of our 5th wedding anniversary, which falls on June 24th (And also happens to be our grandaughter Calla’s birthday AND Marie’s father’s birthday!)

Marie finished her official business in Prairie City, and the following morning, while still parked in that quaint little burg, called me on my cell as I went about my workday back home in Portland. “You should see this place”, my small town girl at heart reported excitedly. ”I am having my morning coffee at the foot of snow-capped Strawberry Mountain, right here in Prairie City proper, and it is unbelievably beautiful!” After we discussed how she might go about her mission of finding us a place to camp, we said our fond goodbyes and she headed out for another meeting. Before leaving Prairie City, she pulled into the much touted “Depot Museum RV Park”, which is right in town, and situated on a fork of the John Day River. Fishin’ Hole!

As you can see from the photo above, we found a killer spot in this little park when we arrived Wednesday evening, June 21st, 2006. There are about 25 full-hook up sites here, and very few guests. We have been enjoying a predictably relaxing stay, and after having tiptoed through a couple of fields with our eyes peeled for rattlesnakes, as Marie did as a child growing up in Southern Oregon, we have even heard from the locals that there are no rattlesnakes, for some reason, in this valley.

It’s quiet here. If you are willing to drive far enough, peace and quiet and the slow life await you in remote Oregon towns. Better not have a major medical emergency here, or need a cop, (there are no police), but I think the 200 or so residents of this special little corner of the world know exactly what they have here, and are perfectly willing to sacrifice the conveniences of a larger city for small town tranquility and small town values.

I leave you with one photo Marie snapped of me as I awaited The Strike of the Rainbow on Magone Lake, just outside of town, in the Malheur National Forest. Follow the special photo links below to see a lot more photos of our mini-vacation to Prairie City on my website.

More photos of Prairie City
Still more photos of Prairie City

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Gardening In Portland 2006

2006-06-04T09:06:00.000-07:00

My wife Marie and I met under the rose arbor at my last bachelor pad, near where we live now, as she was walking in our Hawthorne Neighborhood, here in occasionally sun-drenched Portland, Oregon, 97214. That was almost 10 years ago, and we have been married for five of those years. Our wedding anniversary is June 24.

On that wonderful day of our first meeting, and since my yard was all gardened up, Marie and I began talking gardening, and we haven’t stopped since. I come from a long line of gardeners, and I am convinced it’s in the blood. Gimme an acre of land stripped down, I’ll give you an arboretum in 5 years, complete with walking paths and fountains and bridges and ponds, maybe some raised beds for veggies and herbs. It’s a passion of mine. And Marie’s too! In our garden, Marie has done most of the design work, with me throwing in my two cents along the way, and then throwing out my back. We enjoy it so much, and it is an activity we share enthusiastically, especially in the Beautiful Oregon Spring.

When I awoke a couple of days ago, I walked out onto our front porch, and the sun was streaming in, and just right for a photo, so I grabbed the camera and took the picture, and then walked the yard shutterbugging among the bugs. Welcome to our garden.

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The Phantasmagoria Tranny Shop

2006-05-25T10:05:00.000-07:00

1993-1995 was a tough, but interesting time for me. My father passed away in 93, leaving us to tend to Grammy, his Mom, who was frail. It wasn’t a huge adjustment, caring for Gram I mean, since my sisters and I had always seen to it that we spent time with her regularly. But man, she was blue. “I just can’t believe he’s gone” she would remark, talking about my Dad, and her only child’s death. Over the months after Dad passed away, my sisters put me in charge of Gram’s estate, and we met with an attorney several times at her nursing home bedside, to be sure things were in order. Gram was relieved when that process was complete, and I think she felt permission, at that point, to let go herself. She passed away the same year, at the age of 93. We miss them both tremendously, my Mom too.

After Grammy passed away, there was a ton of stuff to do, parting out her belongings, giving some of them away, going through all her files, meeting with her accountant and attorney.

Gram had purchased a car a few years before, which my Dad used to ferry her about. The car, a huge silver LTD, was basically used most of the time by my Dad, as he made his rounds to see friends, to go swimming at his swim club, or to attend Kiwanis meetings, where he was a revered and hard working member.

I thought I might keep the car myself. It was a mighty plush buggy for an old hippie like myself, but it was basically my Dad’s car, and it somehow held a special place in my heart, as cars sometimes do, in the hearts of men, all that dark blue crushed velvet, the Corinthian leather, the stellar sound system (for its day), lots of old audio tapes of my songs lying around, and all the power one could ever want in a giant touring car. My Mom might have remarked, on the day Dad drove that LTD home from the dealership, in her occasional Chicago accent, “Bawb, whad’ya need a car with hot and cold door nobs for?”

As we settled my Grandmother’s estate, I asked for the car as my inheritance, and my sisters, bless their little auto-geneless souls, heartily agreed. The car needed some repairs, which I set about making, some myself, some by auto shops.

One morning, driving that grey tank to work, I heard a funky sound coming from the undercarriage. I talked to a couple of my car buddies about it, and they all said one little word in the english language.......”Tranny”.

I took the car to a local transmission shop not far from home. A couple of days and about a grand later, they called to say it was done. I picked up the car, and it was working great.

It was winter, and the windows were a bit foggy as I drove away from the transmission shop. Having not had the car for very long, I wasn’t sure if there was a rag or anything to be found, so I looked around a bit, in the back seat, in the lighted glove box, and then, under my front seat as I sat driving.

As I reached to check for a rag, maybe an old t-shirt, my fingers felt plastic, like a baggie. I got a grip on it and pulled it out at a stoplight. As I laid it in my lap I realized, Good Gawd, it was a full bag of weed. As in Pot, marijuana, Mary Jane, cannabis, reefer, Egypt Purple. “What the?”, I might have been heard to say, like the last words of a Praying Mantis male as a female bites off his head.

Apparently, since there is no way this was my Dad’s pot, the guys at the Tranny Shop, pardon my speculation, scored while they were driving the LTD around to check their work. Or maybe they just drove that Pimpmobile over to their connection’s house, to pick it up. Any way you cut it, to find a full bag of pot under the seat of your Dead Dad’s Car is a trip.

Later that day, I began to consider how I might proceed. I cracked up thinking about what one might do under these circumstances. Does one return a full baggie of reefer to the Tranny Shop, walk up to the receptionist and say, “Uh, I think this might belong to someone who works here, maybe the guy that put the new tranny into that car right there, my car?” Probably not.

For some reason I do not recall exactly what I did with the baggie full of pot that one of the guys from The Phantasmagoria Tranny Shop mistakenly left under the front seat of my Dad's LTD. I think maybe I gave it to a friend, or tossed it, I really don’t remember. My short term memory is shot.

Here's a clip from a song about my Dad’s “King Omega LTD”

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Flipper Yam

2006-05-18T13:35:00.000-07:00

I count myself among the ranks of the easily amused, along with my pluperfect wife Marie, God Bless’er, who laughs at my most insane gestures, whether I am telling her an old story about some stupid shit I have done, or even just cutting up, as I am sometimes drawn to do.

This morning, in the kitchen, brewing up another pot of "The Tao of Tea" brand Gemaicha Green Tea, (we’re into tea these days) I laid my eyes on our metal hanging fresh fruit and vegetable basket, and Lo and Behold, I discovered, right there in the basket, as if God were standing right there and talking to me personally, a yam in the exact form of a dolfin, and suddenly, like a thunderbolt, the words Flipper Yam popped into my head. ("Flipper" was the title of a TV show about a dolfhin named "Flipper" which ran in the 1960s, and a new version was produced in the 1990s)

Not being a particularly religious person, of course at first I was skeptical, but I do claim a spiritual life, and only moments later I felt as if I had somehow been chosen by a higher power to receive a message of some sort, so I removed Flipper Yam immediately from the basket, and tenderly and respectfully laid it on a paper towel on the kitchen island.

The longer I stared at Flipper Yam, the more I realized that something wonderful had happened. I carefully picked up Flipper Yam with two hands, and took it into my wife Marie, to get her reaction. I found her in the garden, and then, as I held it up high and close to her I announced in my best boss jock voice, “Call the Vatican, we've got Flipper Yam!”

Marie, having all too often been the recipient of my furtive and oftimes unusual imagination, broke out into a smile, but calmly replied, “Yes Ric , it’s a wonderful and mystical and amazing thing. If it starts shedding tears or bleeding, then you’ve really got something there.” I asked Marie if she could possibly whip me up about a 2 inch thorny crown. She didn’t seem too interested in making it herself, but suggested that one of her greenhouse plants, named “Crown of Thorns” would be perfect. I walked to the greenhouse and found the plant, and fashioned a crown of thorns for Flipper Yam, pictured above.

I dunno, maybe I’ve got the wrong idea here, this isn't exactly a case of stigmata. And those people who believe that they have found an image of Jesus on hunks of sheetrock and toast, maybe those items would be more metaphorically precise, I mean more than Flipper Yam. Still, I swear to God, this here is one special yam.

Perhaps I am still not exactly sure what the message from on high is, but I can tell you one thing for sure: as I was going through this entire ridiculous scenario, I laughed harder than I have in months, even making a sort of high pitched whoooooooo sound as I went on and on, and came to tears of joy several times, which required tissue to quell. It felt great. Kind of like having your prayers answered.

Later this afternoon, I swaggered into Marie's home office where I found her lounging on her pink faux suede fainting couch, and looked her way with my all-knowing, duck lippy look. "Whut?", she offered. I replied with a confident smirk, "Well, let's just say that, since I am the one who found Flipper Yam and all, that uh, I should mention that, down the road, there just might be Sainthood in a certain someone's future." Marie looked past her book, and rubbed her forehead very hard, eyes squinted, as she sometimes does at moments like this, and spoke. "Honey, don't quit your day job."

FLIPPER YAM ON EBAY

(5-28-06...Flipper Yam spent an illuminating week on eBay, but alas, did not sell)

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Competitive Eating

2006-05-13T07:12:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there lived a nice middle class family, right there on the fringes of maybe they could send their kids to college, or maybe not, depending upon if they bought the Marathon Bus RV they had always wanted, which they did, so Junior went to the local Junior College, and he thought the teachers sucked, so he quit.

Junior spent most of his days lounging about his folk’s house, in his pajama bottoms and a tank top, eating Cheetos and playing video games, watching TV, and once in awhile, if his Mother begged long enough, Junior would mow the lawn, maybe dig a few weeds, but not before he would moan about it, and then he would wait for his Mom to get home from work, when she would make him a whole Totinos Pizza, which he would devour, a little snack before dinner.

When Junior’s Dad would get home, dinner was served, and Junior, man, that dude could eat. Junior’s Mother and Father had taken to shopping at Costco, a sort of defensive move against Junior’s runaway eating habits, stocking up on those three packs of Baby Back Ribs, for example, since Junior could put away at least three entire racks on his own, along with a dozen corn on the cob, and at least an entire one of those Costco Deli Salads, the ones that come in those 7x11 black and clear domed containers, usually meant for 3 or 4 people to share. Dessert, later with TV, maybe Monday Night Football, or The Best Damn Sports Show Period, might consist of an entire coconut cream pie, and frequently a half gallon of Lucerne Chocolate Chip Ice Cream, peeled from its box after exactly 31 seconds in the microwave, and plunked down for easier access onto a green glass serving platter, once reserved for carved turkey, or roast beef.

After he quit school, Junior’s folks began to worry that their son was bound for slackdom, but they tried hard to not think about it, as they loaded up their RV for their next trip down the highway, bound for some noisy Washington State Campground, where Junior would consume several barbecued chickens, or 15 hot dogs, trimmed with relish, saurkraut, mustard, and mounds of sliced jalepenos. In bed at night, in the back of the bus, Junior’s Mom would confess her fears, teary-eyed, to her husband, whose comments didn’t help much, except when he would tenderly suggest that, at least, Junior had not shown any interest in becoming a mime. “True”, Junior’s Mom would reply, more contentedly, and roll over to find the Kleenex on her genuine oak laminate nightstand.

After about a year of floundering about, and after nearly eating his folks out of house and home, literally, one evening, Chris saw a TV show which changed his life forever. An eating competition, presented by the IFOCE, or The International Federation of Competitive Eating, caught Junior’s eye, heart and stomach. Only days later, Junior announced his intention to go for it. He would follow his bliss, and hit the road to join up with the competitive eating tour. Finally, a man had found his calling.....................................................

Now, I know there are people out there, like Junior, who truly get passionate about stuffing themselves, but, to be honest, I don’t understand it. And I have a hunch that most medical professionals would tend to agree that competitve eating is more than just a little crazy, given the artery clogging and stomach stretching and colon cramming such a competition bestows.

From 1986 to 1991, I ran a pie eating contest, each summer during “Fremont Fest”, a local festival, at my business, “Favourites Bakery”, in Portland, Oregon. After watching paricipants suffer greatly for the marginal kudos and prizes they might win, (We usually gave away a gift certificate to the winner) I finally decided I could no longer abide such a debacle. Just the sight of someone like two time winner Paul Geiger, pictured here, stuck somewhere between ecstasy and hurl, was enough to turn me against competitive eating. In the top picture, current popular Portland City Commissioner Erik Sten and his brother Matt enjoy diggin’ deep for more cherries, in their younger (and hungrier) days.

Check out The International Federation Of Competitive Eating website, these guys are serious.

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Bill Walton

2006-05-08T12:48:00.000-07:00

In 1977, I had been in bakery business, at Richard’s Bakery in Tualatin, Oregon, for about a year, as the NBA season was drawing near. Having been a jock in my youth, and also influenced by my friends and family, I thought it would be a kick to get a couple of season tickets for the Portland Trailblazers, call’em a business expense, give a few away to my salesmen and other business associates, that sorta thing, and also, go watch the games a bunch myself.

NBA tickets have always been exorbitantly expensive, just like any fun thing to do, and in 1977, though they were cheap by today’s standards, I can remember I had to bite a couple of bullets to get it done without freaking out. I called the ticket office, and opted for tickets that were rather high up in the stands, which I could actually afford, sort of on the borderline between nosebleed and brain hemorhage. A few days later, a whole pile of tickets arrived, and I held them in my grubby little hands, two tickets for every frickin’ Blazer home game, 1977. Suh-weet!

That year, the Trailblazers were good. With several excellent journeyman players, including the “enforcer”, power forward Maurice Lucas, and led by former All-American UCLA center Bill Walton, the Blazers were unstoppable. When Bill Walton wasn’t stuffing the ball through the hoop, he was making insanely precise unselfish passes to his teammates, Larry Steele, Bob Gross, Dave Twardzik, Kermit Washington, and others. It was so much fun to watch these guys play. In 1977 NBA parlance, they ruled the maples. And big Bill Walton, when he was healthy, was probably the best center to ever play the game. Okay I’m a Portland guy so I rank him over Jabbar, Russell, all of them. If you saw this team play, regularly, and watched Walton grab the boards and send the most perfect bullet outlet pass to one of his teammates on the break, over and over, like a machine, you’d be a believer too. In 1977, the first year I was a season ticket holder, The Blazers won the NBA championship, by beating the Dr. J (Julius Irving) led Philadelphia 76ers, in the seventh game, at home. I was there. It was awesome.

Bill Walton was injured now and then, and his legs tended to be finicky, one ankle in particular. He was forced to play through the pain a lot. But the local papers made a big to do about his health, since he was a vegetarian, how his diet was hurting his play, and the team, on and on. Bill stuttered a bit, didn’t talk much. The papers also picked up on his hippie lifestyle, and he had a fat red beard, and then there was this time he was somehow connected with the Patty Hearst thing, because he was a friend of a friend, and he was not opposed to smokin’ pot, and he loved The Grateful Dead, and followed them around now and then, so the talented NBA star Bill Walton was a bit challenging to some people, even in tree-huggin’ Portland. He left the NBA in 1988, after a final season with the Boston Celtics.

I personally did not hear much about Bill Walton after that, until I noticed, in about 2000, that he was beginning to emerge as a basketball broadcaster, providing color commentary on some televised NBA games. Having known that Bill was a bit of a stutterer, back in the day, it sorta blew my mind, when I saw him eloquently and brilliantly provide the patter behind some play by play guy. Bill is one great sportscaster, with a smooth and intelligent delivery, and I offer him my heartfelt congratulations for a job well done. On his website , Bill provides a page dedicated to his thoughts on stuttering.

So those of you who accuse me of choosing, shall we say, off the wall song topics, um, you got me on this one. In 2001 I wrote and recorded “The Bill Walton Song”, which I sent to Bill, and received a nice reply, altho I must say he should really make his producers play it over one of his broadcasts as they go to commercial, which would please me greatly.

“The Bill Walton Song” appears on my 2002 CD, “Useful Information”. The guitar parts, and the killer guitar solo, are played so capably (as usual) by my pal Tim Ellis. Listen free here.

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Cruel Gruel School

2006-05-01T11:30:00.000-07:00

My perfect wife Marie is a lover of books, so it came as no surprise to me, several weeks ago, that I spied her, yet again, curled up on the window couch, her psychedelic half glasses perched low on her nose, focused on fiction. “Is that a new novel?”, I begged, blowing through the living room, packin’ my requisite bucket-o-tools. “It’s not a novel”, she offered, as she turned the book around for me to view the title, “Ultra Metabolism”, by Mark Hyman.

At 56, soon to be 57, and 57, soon to be 58, Marie and I, though we recently both purchased bicycles, have spread out a bit, as it were, what with our love of food, and our “too busy to exercise” lives. Or maybe I should say “too busy to exercise because we are too busy eating” lives. Recently, we had decided to alternate weeks as head chef of the house, and man, we were eatin’ good. One week, I would bake a succulent Harris Ranch sirloin roast, medium rare, with all the trimmings, golden brown sauteed mushrooms, baked potatoes with sour cream and butter, asparagus, a bottle of burgundy, and there we would sit, with our our nearly toppling Fiesta Ware on our laps, watching American Idol. “Ric”, Marie might say, her eyes half rolled back in their sockets, “You’ve outdone yourself again”, and then we would barely say a word as we absorbed a zillion calories and carbs, until we would look upon each other some very short minutes later and utter, almost in unison, “Oh man, I’m stuffed”.

The next week, Marie would offer her unparalleled spaghetti and meatballs, giant perfect plates of Pasta and the most delicious and humongus garlicky meat balls ever devised, and with red sauce dripping down our gluttonous chins, we would sop up every last drop of sauce on our plates with dozens of buttered slices of Grand Central Bakery rosemary baguette, a bakery, which, unfortunately, is 2.275 minutes walking distance from our home. Add a nice big fresh green salad to this, loaded with ranch, baby, you got a meal.

And I must mention that, recently, one of us, I won’t say who, has discovered the joy of downing an entire pint of Dove Triple Chocolate Ice Cream, the one that offers a half-inch or so of chocolate ganache spread over the entire top of the pint, just in case you need more chocolate.

"What the heck is “ultra metabolism”" I asked Marie, propping my tool bucket on the coffee table. Marie spoke, “I think this guy really has some good things to say, honey, I’m doing some research. We both know we have to eat better and exercise more, for our health, as we get older, and this concept of firing up one’s metabolism, by, for example, eating only fresh foods, and no high fructose corn syrup, which is in so many things, is something we need to look at.”

A few days later, The Boss announced that we would be moving on to a different way of eating, and then, she went shoppin’. Many hours later, Marie returned home with one hell of a lot of groceries, and a serious game plan. As I helped her bring in the groceries, I snooped into the bags, where I saw everything from a ton of fresh fruit and vegetables to flax seeds and soy yogurt. As we put things away, Marie educated me further in the concept of super metabolism, and as I reached for my 5th cup of coffee, suggested that, instead, I might want to taste some green tea. We sat on the porch and discussed her plan, and I must say, I really enjoyed the green tea.

For the next few hours, the kitchen was abuzz with the sounds and smells of somebody cookin’ up a storm. Working in my office, I nearly salivated on my keyboard as the fragrances of sauteing garlic and onion and spices wafted their way upstairs. I finally went down to see how things were going. Marie was busy putting up foods for the coming week, entrees, salads, breakfasts, and said, “We’re going to start with Amaranth grain for breakfast, sweetie, made with soy milk and sliced apples. I’ll put it in this container, and when you come down in the morning, just take out about 2/3 of a cup, and have it for breakfast. Tonight, we’re having corn tortillas topped with a combination of fresh ingredients, veggies, salsa, other stuff”. Dinner was a huge hit, absolutely delicious, and I was perfectly content as we went to bed, not stuffed, and looking forward to the next eating adventure, as we dove headlong into heating up our metabolism.

When I awoke, I walked the dogs, took a few pills, and headed for the fridge, all smiley and chipper and positive, like that dufus in the Viagara commercial. I scooped out my 2/3 cup of breakfast, which looked sorta like Malt-o-meal, and willingly took a nice big bite.

I dunno, maybe it’s the soy milk, but the Amaranth Gruel For Breakfast, uh, it fairly sucks. But I ate it down, and then Marie ate hers, and then we agreed that eating it was well, basically, a gag fest. And then, we agreed to eat it for two more days, until it was gone.

On the second day of eating Marie’s Ultra Metabolism Amaranth Delight, Marie said, “Did you have your Amaranth?” “Yep”, I announced proudly, and she said, ‘I had mine too, and, you know, after this, I think we might be able to survive Armageddon, you know, since we can eat anything.”

We’re on to fresh fruit soy yogurt smoothies for breakfast now, which are, thankfully, really tasty. I have a shopping list for today, handed over this morning by my lovely wife, which I haven’t had a chance to look at yet. Call me crazy, but I have a hunch it doesn’t include any additional Amaranth.

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Oprah for President 2008!

If Oprah Was President

2006-04-26T12:06:00.000-07:00

A couple of years ago, putzin’ around in the garden, droolin’ and a’dreamin’, I started thinking about Oprah. I like Oprah. I think I must’ve seen her show that day, or a portion of it, and it got me thinking about what a great person she is, smart, kind, generous, charismatic, all of it. I said to myself, “Aha!, Oprah has such a huge following, and she inspires millions, Oprah would make a great president!”

Some days later, I penned a tune titled, “If Oprah Was President”, which basically captures my feelings about the issue, and then Timmy Ellis came over and we made a record.

It was great fun to record the song, as always, but it’s one of those nichey songs, as I am sometimes wont to write, that might sit in a drawer for awhile, after the newness wears off. In 2005, when we compiled the song lists for my CDs “Dubs On Trial” and “Who Come Down”, and even though we truly like the song, “If Oprah Was President” didn’t seem to fit into the scheme of things.

But last week, cruising the web, I found a website titled “Oprah For President 2008”, and sent an email offering my song for them to use in their campaign. And today, I am proud to announce that they have elected to make “If Oprah Was President” the “Official Song of Oprah for President 2008”. These guys are organized.

Apparently, Oprah has stated that she is not interested in the job. However, I do think that she might be convinced to run if there was a huge groundswell, since she is so dedicated and cares deeply about the state of the country and world. So I am grateful that I am able to do my little part to possibly make it happen. Maybe one day soon, my song will make its way to Oprah's desk. Perhaps, on that day, she'll be heard to say, “Oh, Gail, I wasn’t gonna run for president, but then I heard this song, “If Oprah Was President”, by that Ric Seaberg guy, and, well, now, I’M GONNA DO IT!"

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Sweet Peas

2006-04-20T10:26:00.000-07:00

When it comes right down to it, I have to admit that I like the fact that there are those of you who actually make an effort to come around here to read my blog entries. I would probably be writing this stuff anyway, but it’s nice to know that one’s audience is larger than say, oh, my wife and kids. Thank you. There are always lots of topics I’d like to write about, clammoring for further attention in my brain, so when I get a sec, I sit down at the Mac and bang something out. But sometimes, I am just not in the mood to crank out another life story, which I tend to labor over, digging deep for details and stupid shit I’ve done. So here for you, on national “light reading day”, is a little news about Sweet Peas.

Maybe it’s because my Mom loved Sweet Peas, and would grow them each year, or maybe it’s because they are just such an awesome plant, but when the sweet peas are in their place, and vining vigorously, and promising beautiful and fragrant blossoms in a few weeks, then, for me, all is right in the world. A few years ago, Marie and I created a large eastern exposure site, along our driveway, shown here, and we have planted lots of starts again this year. This is the before picture, and in 6 weeks or so, I will post the results. I wish you all a lovely Spring!

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Acquisition Mode

2006-04-14T14:37:00.000-07:00

Turns out, after a lifetime of acquisition, these days, I just don’t care that much about Things. Well, that’s not exactly true, I use the microwave a ton, and when it breaks, I will get another. And my tools, oh man I love tools, don’t make me give them up. But most of the things I require, like tools, and a guitar, and my recording equipment, have something to do with art, the making of something, the process of art. So I guess I can’t tell you that I am one of The Zen Men, meditatin’ away all of my worldly possessions, but I think you get my drift.

Now, coffee table books, I can live without. I already have, oh, maybe 131, ranging from China to Espresso, and though they are very nice, I never look at them, so they just sit shelved in our crowded library, collecting dust. And all that serving stuff, bowl after bowl after platter after platter, “hmmmmm, maybe I should get on my hands and knees, down in the basement where those platters are, behind those 50 or so baking dishes, and pull out the platter that has a picture of a fish on it, since we are serving Salmon to our guests tonight, and, oh yes, while I am down there, I MUST get out that wine bottle basket, the brown one made from actual dried grape vines, it would look so perfect on our table this evening!”, see what I mean?

I think it must be an aging thing. When one is young, Things are the trappings and evidence of success. And it’s probably a good thing, since when you get older, and eventually live on your savings and Social Security, (knock on wood), you can’t afford to buy a bunch of stuff anyway.

Marie and I spent some time a few nights ago in a gift shop, where we attended a grand opening in support of the owner, a friend. As I browsed the store, I was amused at how difficult it was for me to find anything to buy. I mean, it was all cool stuff. But do I need or want a new lunchbox? A stove trivet? A wall clock? New artsy covers for my lightswitches? I finally decided on a few candles, we can always use them, but as for the other stuff, stuff that I will take home, and put on the dining table, where it will sit for a week or two, and then struggle to find a place to store it, only to uncover it in two years time and not even be able to remember where I got it, that’s just not for me.

Not long ago, a very special man whom Marie has worked with passed her office, and handed her off a book that he had been given as a gift. When he handed it to her, he said that he and his wife were “no longer in acquisition mode”, which as you can see, stuck to me like glue.

And another thing. There is a young guy who lives up the street, and as he approached me this afternoon, in his stocking cap and sweat pants, cigarette smoke swirlin’ round his anxious face, as I was walking the dogs, he went off an a diatribe about how his fancy car had been recently hit while parked, and since I walk the dogs so much, and even if it is a “shot in the dark”, did I see anything? I did not see anything, and I expressed sympathy, but when I saw the damage he was so uptight about, what I really wanted to say was, “fuggedaboudid, son, don’ sweat the small stuff.” So we say goodbye, and I watch him walk to his apartment, all stiff and worried and like he has a permanent broomstick up his ass. All set for an anxiety attack, for which he will require valium, or several martinis.

So I know I am full of shit, since I do care about certain of my possessions, but, as a 57 year old guy getting older every year, letting go comes a bit more naturally. If someone puts a dent in my car door, as it sits in some parking lot, or on Hawthorne Boulevard, my first thought is, “ahhhhh, I guess I can worry less about this boat being stolen now!”

But my real message here is for those of you who shower me with gifts, and if I may, I would like to provide for you a list of things I would love to receive in the future:

1. A sunset as seen from Manzanita, Oregon on a warm summer day, my wife by my side
2. About 6 grandkids piled on top of me laughing
3. A look of contentment and health in my children’s eyes
4. Absolutely no boxing Nuns or Rabbis from a store like "Presents of Mind"
5. A barbecue at my daughter’s house with my sons-in law barbecuing
6. Marie and I hanging around outside ourAirstream trailer in the morning with a cup of coffee in a park with huge pine trees
7. The Grand Canyon
8. A subscription to National Geographic Magazine
9. A trip to a Mariner’s game with my entire family
10. Massage
11. Dinner at Castagna twice a month with my pluperfect wife and a dry Grey Goose Martini
12. No more war

That last one is a doozy, I know, but try real hard to get it for me, will ya?

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Instant Karma

2006-04-08T11:20:00.000-07:00

Last night, as Marie and I laid packin’ some much needed zees, snorin’ like a coupla’ frogs, after a long week, some little unconscious 14 year-old male, named Eddy, vandalized our front yard, by removing and breaking two of our solar powered landscape lights. When I walked the dogs, minutes ago, I found the parts lying about, in the street, in our neighbor’s yard, smashed on the sidewalk. When I returned with the dogs, after a brisk walk in serious rain, carrying my two little blue doggie poop bags, I cleaned up the remnants of Eddy’s fine work. Actually, I have no idea who the perp was. But being a boy myself, and having, ashamedly, done my own vandalizing as a kid, and having known first hand the teenage male energy which could create such a scenario, I have a very strong feeling that our vandal was a boy, likely 12-17, and I gave him the name Eddy cuz it’s greasy, in a sitcom kinda way.

When I walked into the house, my first comment to Marie was....”There is something intrinsically wrong with male humans”, to which she gave me a look which was a combination of all-knowing, mixed with a tinge of being caught unawares. “Why do you say that?”, she giggled over the Saturday newspaper, dutifully responding to my obviously loaded statement, her jazzy half glasses propped low on her nose. “Oh, some kid vandalized some of our lights in the front yard last night”, I replied, and we launched into a conversation about boys, and vandalism, and what the hell would make a kid wreck someone’s stuff for no good reason. Marie listened attentively as I spoke of my own experiences as a vandal.

I was 16, and I was a boy with plenty of need for the admiration and validation of my peers. That summer, several of us who had participated in “The Christmas Lane Egg Gang”, which was a rousing success, the previous winter, decided we should continue our efforts by launching eggs about the city from the back of a pick-up truck, or a car. I am not going to mention any names, because we are all certainly ashamed of ourselves, so many years later, for delightfully ruining the hoods of cadillacs and shopkeeper's front doors and even a turquoise cashmere sweater, once proudly worn by an unsuspecting matron, who, arriving for tea with friends on S.E. Belmont Street, 1964, took 3 extra large to the upper right shoulder. I am certain she had not flipped anyone off with such gusto in years.

The thing about being a good or even great egg tosser is that one must remain anonymous, that is, have a good arm, and be able to hit a target at say, 30 feet or so, such that one is not identifiable, and that one’s getaway vehicle, and license plate, especially if it’s your Dad’s car, cannot be documented. However, given the great pleasure one feels upon a direct hit, the satsifying sound of shell and albumen shattering on some poor soul’s fine cyprus knee gate, or herringbone jacket, one may be tempted to shoot off a few at closer range.

Such was the case, as my best high school friend and I trolled S.E. Powell Boulevard, one Sunny Summer Saturday, after stopping at the Quickie Mart for ammo. It was my turn to hurl, so he was driving my car. Well, my folk’s car, a 1962 Rambler, like the one pictured above. Idling at a side street stop sign, we allowed a couple of boys, perhaps a bit younger than us, to pass in front of the car. After they passed, and while they were no more than 6 or seven feet away, and much to my best friend’s shock, and praise, I sent several line shots in their direction, bing, bing. bing, and caught one of them on the butt, the other on the pants, as he wheeled to see what the heck was happening. Our eyes met.

Before I continue I would like to admit that, at certain times in my life, I have displayed behaviors that can only be descibed as despicable and stupid. The egg throwing is only part of it. As an adult, I hope I have distinguished myself by behaving oppositely.

But the truth is, that there are men everywhere, and surely women as well, who could report their youthful participation in vandalism, were they to be honest. This does not diminish the fact that I am mortified and humiliated by my own participation in such acts. But there is more to the story.

After shocking those two boys, just off Powell Boulevard, by scoring direct egg hits on both of them, my friend and I continued our foray, and eventually drove home. Later that day, I had to drive out to do some errands, buy some stuff, something, and I took the Rambler we had used that morning for our evil deeds.

I was not exactly headed for Powell Boulevard, but I did have to cross upper Powell, some distance from where I had egged the boys. Suddenly, as I drove, I looked out the car window, to my left, and saw the two boys, standing on a bluff above the street. I was shocked. I could tell immediately that it was the same two boys.

Maybe they recognized me, and the car. I won’t ever know that for sure. But in that moment, just about the second I recognized them, I saw one of them rare back, and heave something into the air. He was a long way off, but still, I stepped on it.

INCOMING!!!.........and without further ado, a good size rock hit the back window of the car, right behind my head, shattering the window. “Good God”, I may have been heard to think, “I could’ve been killed.”

I know it seems like a crazy coincidence, I mean that I ran into those same kids on the same day, but it really happened. I returned home, and after having reported the Completely Isolated Incident of Vandalism on Our Car by Some Bad People, my Mom gave me some money to have the window fixed, and I made arrangements at a glass shop.

I told Marie today that teenage boys should all experience the sport of boxing, so they can all get the idea that, if you are going to lash out, maybe hurt someone, there are going to be consequences, like maybe you are going to get your block knocked off.

She looked up at me, still jazzy in her glasses, and spoke. “Ric, back then, when you threw eggs on those boys, what would have been more meaningful to you.......having your block knocked off, or getting inside the lives of those two boys, and knowing what their lives were really like?”

Excellent question. I do remember feeling very guilty, some moments after I saw my eggs hit those boys. After all, they were totally innocent, and probably nice kids. But one thing for sure. After I saw that boy wind up, and give flight to that bullet, and then the rock exploded through my car’s window, and landed in the back seat, while 1962 Rambler glass went flying, well, that was then end of egg throwing for me.

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Breast Cancer

2006-03-30T13:40:00.000-08:00

No, this is not a photo of The Godfather, it’s just me and my daughters, at my daughter Stacey’s wedding in 1992. None of us has breast cancer.

Perhaps you have noticed that I occasionally expound on how absolutely proud I am of my children, Stace and Amy included, as they go about their lives with gusto, intelligence, kindness, bravery, and a page full of glorifying adjectives you might drift off on. These are two great and respectable human beings, and I just happen to be their Dad.

You know how some kids in a family grow up, and when they are growing up, they don’t have that much to do with each other, sorta stand-offish with each other? Well, that didn’t happen with these guys. From day one, they have been best friends, and it has continued to this day. They live very near each other in the Seattle area, by design. When I ask one of them when they might move to Portland, to be closer to the old man, they just say, “when my sister moves down there, that’s when I’m movin’.

Marie and I have sometimes discussed how blessed we each feel to have met, for lots of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I have inherited a wonderful son, and Marie two daughters. We care deeply about all of our children, and grandchildren, and when we both retire, I am certain that they will approve the construction of a permanent Airstream pad on the side of their house. Gary and Tim, git t’work on that will ya? A full hook-up site will do nicely.

Stacey and Amy both hold down important jobs. Stace, a mother of four, runs her own successful online operation, AnnabelleHandbags.com, and Amy, a mother of two, is a marketing manager for a large corporation. Being the marketeers that they are ( I like to think it’s in the blood), I wasn’t surprised a couple of days ago when Amy wrote to ask if I might post a link to one of her upcoming projects, on my site.

For the last couple of years, Stacey and Amy have lent their time and their legs to The Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation’s “Breast Cancer 3-Day”, a 60 mile walk, over 3 days, in Seattle, and across the nation, to benefit the foundation and their fine work. The 2006 Seattle 3-day takes place from August 25-27. Last year, when Amy was 7 months pregnant, she worked in food service as a Crew Member, while Stace and her mother walked the route. This year, Amy is pumped to be walking the route, while Stace manages all the offspring they have accumulated.

Making this walk for breast cancer research, and for the benefit of breast cancer patients, is a huge committment. For starters, a walker must pledge $2200 to the foundation, and then begin the process of seeking donations for their effort. I sort of like the idea of the financial stipulation the foundation makes, because it tends to really make a person get out and do it right, but it is a lot of money. Still, I know Amy, and I am certain that she is holding her head up high and kicking some philanthropic butt to make it happen.

I am going to ask you to help Amy and Stacey in their efforts. Amy’s husband Gary is going to walk the 3-day too, and so I should also mention that we have two great sons-in law. But I don’ wanna get too mushy about those boys yet, 'til I see how that trailer pad they’re makin’ comes out.

Click here to donate to Amy’s 60 mile 3-day walk for The Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. ANY amount would be greatly appreciated!

And here are some more photos of the sisters.

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The Remote Controlled Fart Machine No. 2 Too

2006-03-25T10:35:00.000-08:00

Some of you may recall my blog entry titled “The Remote Controlled Fart Machine No. 2”, which was basically the story of buying and displaying all the wonderful uses of such a device for my sweet wife Marie, who somehow, it turns out, does not find the electronic fart machine and its splendid sound-making capabilities nearly as useful as I.

But c’mon!, what could be funnier? When Auntie Rose is coming for dinner, first thing, you duct tape the fart machine to the bottom of her dining chair. Then, after the meal of Fresh Oregon King Salmon and Garlic Green Beans are devoured, and the Caramel Peach Bread Pudding (or Twinkies Flambe) are on their way, you make some comment like, “Good God that was a rich meal!”, and as Auntie Rose nods her head in agreement, without further adieu, you deploy the fart machine, repeatedly and without mercy, with the remote control in your pocket, which of course, as it sits directly under Auntie Rose’s chair, has begun emiting various and sundry killer fart sounds. At that moment, you get a horrified and shocked look on your face, and announce to your guests, “Well, yeah, I said it was rich, but I didn’t think it was THAT rich!

When I tell stories like this to Marie, as my step-son Blaine stands by with the giggles, she buries her head in her hands, maybe starts singing ”Mary Had a Little Lamb”, loudly, with her fingers plugged into her ears. I am sure it is just a Mars vs. Venus issue, and the fact that many women share a sensitive and sensible side that perhaps some of us men lack. But it’s ancient. I mean, when you are hunting the Tundra, and you finally bag a Woolly Mammoth, which will keep you and your family alive for months, isn’t it just so natural to sit around the campfire, way out there on the ice, and while you are wolfing down a seared, rare chunk-o-mammoth, rip off a few nice tear-ass creepers for your buddies to enjoy? Ancient men may have been short-lived, and had bad teeth, but surely they had a sense of humor! "Ayno, you boor!", one of them may have quipped, sinew in his cheek, "stop pulling Gargon's finger!"

Let’s just say, that approximately 105% of my male friends love The Remote Contolled Fart Machine No. 2, and if you sit it before one of them, just have them sit there, and begin to play the sounds, their reaction is not going to be one of dismay. It will take them maybe 3 seconds to start laughing, and then they will pick it up to examine it, and look at you with great wonder, and say, “Where, oh where did you get THIS?

But I don’t want you to think I have a deaf ear when it comes to my wife’s druthers regarding the fart machine. I mean, when Blaine and I discovered a little cubby hole up under our main dining table, and put the fart machine there, and left it there for many months, through dinner parties and other functions, we never once unleashed its delicious sounds onto anyone, all, of course, in deference to the lady of the house, who likely stood ready to clobber us, anyway, if we had. I continue to share it with my male friends, occasionally, (though I admit the newness has worn off), and it has been quite some time since Marie’s sensitive soul has heard (or seen) our little black box of joy.

So it came as a bit of a surprise, last night, at about 3 a.m., while slumbering way down deep in REMland, that I was awakened by the strangest sound, one which, in my stupor, I did not initially recognize, coming from the direction of my dresser top. But it was a loud and obnoxious sound, and I immediately sat up on the edge of the bed, right before stubbing my toe on the bed post, as I basically dove headlong toward the dresser. When I reached the dresser, I took one glance at my toe to see if I was bleeding, and then moved on to the more important issue of locating the source of the sound. I’m sure you have figured out that the sound in question was emanating from The Remote Controlled Fart Machine No. 2, (aka The Boom Box Blaster), and as I stood before my dresser, I finally realized, all tired and toe throbbing, that the little black box was stuck on fart. Or I should say, given to the amazing skill employed by those who created the machine's audio track, stuck on juicy fart. Then, even in a near dream state, it occurred to me that the little plastic remote control switch must be lying somewhere nearby, with a shoe on it, or maybe had fallen between the springs and the mattress on the bed, something, that would keep this thing farting continually and without fail. I picked the fart machine up, to discover that I was absolutely correct in my "annoying sound" sleuthing, since it became much louder as I drew it toward my face for a closer listen. All this time, of course, I am working like a beaver to hopefully remedy the situation before Marie wakes fully and sits up in bed and says, oh maybe something like, “what the fuck is going on?”

Being a baker for so many years, I know how to wake up fast, and so, in a second or two, I had removed the thing to my office/studio, where I keep a small phillips head screwdriver in my top desk drawer, just the right size for removing those little screws like one might find on a fart machine battery compartment. Shortly after, I had removed the battery and the sound stopped. I returned to bed, and laid there for, oh, maybe two hours, all wide awake, and tense, and injured, and dwelling, with my zenless monkey mind, on what I might write about such an experience.

Some minutes ago I located the remote contol, which was unencumbered, and apparently had nothing to do with the glitch. But after replacing the 9 volt battery in the fart machine itself, all is well, and The Remote Controlled Fart Machine No. 2 works great once again, which I am certain Marie will be delighted to hear.

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The Airstream Chronicles...Champoeg State Park, Oregon, 2006

2006-03-19T20:46:00.000-08:00

Marie took a friday off, this week, so that we could shoot out of town a bit early with The Toaster in tow. Champoeg State Park, a large, beautiful and well serviced Oregon State Park, which is only about 35 minutes from our home, is a great place for us to land with our 1964 Airstream Tradewind Land Yacht. We take some videos along, and our laptops, and if the weather is inclement, as in cold and rainy, which it has been for most of our time here, we just hole up and catch up on a few documentaries or other dvds we have been wanting to watch. This weekend, we saw three of them, and once again, my Documentary Filmaker Wife Marie came up with some great stuff. At amazon.com, they just call her by her first name.

As you can see from the photo above, our Bichon “Pippi” is well at home in the trailer, as long as she is glued to her Mom or Dad. Poppi, pictured here, is our more mellow Bichon, and she tends to find a place to lie like a lump more often than her sister. It’s great fun to have Bichons, whether at home, or on the road. We brought our bikes this time, and if it gets nice later today, we may try to bike the paved bike path they have here, along the Willamette River, with our dogs secured in strap and velcro doggy pouches attached to our breasts as we ride. I hope to get a photo of that, just to make my kids wonder, yet again, if Dad and Marie have completely lost it.

This little weekend jaunt is our first foray of the trailering season, so last week I de-winterized The Toaster, where it sits in storage on its pad in my commercial building’s parking lot. I checked out the parking lights, etc., got it ready to roll. Unfortunately, I did not discover the serious water line leak in the galley area, so when I turned the water on here in this full hook-up park, we endured a bit of minor flooding under the kitchen sink, and decided we were going to have to rough it this weekend without cold or hot water in the trailer. Marie and I tend not to dwell on mishaps, and once we realized that we were stuck, we just adapted. We do have heat, and the fridge works fine, no worries. Next week I will get my friend Dean Pottle The Plumber to fix the busted water line.
As I sit here writing, my dog by my side, and Marie reading in her berth, the sun streaming in on my hands and keyboard, the only sounds I hear are the second hand movement of our retro chrome-look wall clock, an occasional small plane engine, and the voices of other campers, kids mostly, their reverb tinged conversations cutting through the stillness and quiet of the park. Marie said this morning, over our fresh hot coffee, that she had heard owls and possibly coyotes last night in bed. And yesterday, when I drove out of the park on an errand, I had to stop to allow four young deer to cross the road directly in front of me.

This park is greatly accessible, and we intend on bringing our son Blaine here, who uses a wheelchair, another time, and renting one of the accessible cabins for him, or possibly a yurt. As you can see, they both have accessible entries. But the restroom facilities located near the cabins are much more accessible, and even include a roll in shower with a hand held shower head! I look forward to sitting next to the fire with Blaine and Marie, the pups, maybe Granny, and any other family members I can talk into meeting us here, and crankin’ out some gooey marshmallow and fine dark chocolate gourmet s’mores.

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Radicchio

2006-03-16T09:49:00.000-08:00

First off, let me begin by saying that, in my humble and completely objective opinion, the whole Sonny and Cher thing was kinda cute. I mean, the way they would rib each other, on their old TV show, The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour, Cher calling Sonny names, like Pizza Man, something, and then after the commercial, there she was, in some teeny tiny peacock feathered outfit, with headress, and the music would swell, and then, unfortunately, she would sing. And in my humble objective opinion, though she is a great gal, Cher cannot sing that well. As in, put her in front of American Idol truth teller Simon Cowell, for the purpose of actually judging her vocal talent....she’s toast. “Honestly Cher”, he might say, “If I’m being completely frank, you were off key, it was a total mess, the way your notes trail down like some sort of pa-thet-ic sliding drone, and I think you’ve just bought a one way ticket back to Duluth. I mean if I’m being toe-tah-lee honest.”

Other things I am having difficulty understanding the popularity of are:

1. Willie Nelson
2. Trying to smell your own breath
3. Johnny Cash
4. Sprouts (May I have something that tastes like dirt added to my sandwich please?)
5. That song “Never Been to Me”
6. The TV show “Fear Factor”
7. Listerine
8. Radicchio
9. Double Salted Licorice

Okay so radicchio, which has become a favoured green, or, red, if you will, for salads, is completely bitter, awful stuff. It’s pretty, sure, but it does not taste good. End of topic, end of conversation. Alright so maybe some people like bitter. But I have this fantasy that at some point, a consortium of highfalutin chefs and farmers got together and said, “Ya’know, this here radicchio, it grows like a frickin’ weed, I bet we could get the masses of gourmet diners to eat this shit, if we pretend it’s like a delicacy, those idiots’ll eat anything if ya package it right!” So after we enjoy our persimmon infused vodka martini, we move right on to our “Radicchio Caesar Salade with Garlic Polenta Croutons”, and the waiter in his crisp white apron says, all snooty like, “and how is everything?”, and if it’s me, I am all polite and say “fine”, and then I go home and write how radicchio, truth be known, is a conspiracy.

But "double salted licorice" takes the cake, and if you have never tried any, you must. Apparently, they like it in Europe, and much of it is made there. What happened, I think, is that many years ago, the person who made the first batch had like six young kids, and when he made this stuff, he was standing near the ever ripening diaper pail, its fumes rising and entering his candy pot, and so that’s why double salted licorice tastes like ammonia. And then it got popular. Go get a bag, will ya’, and explain this to me. Most candy stores carry it.

Okay so your turn. Be honest, what strains your brain on the appeal continuum?

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Hamlet and The Dudes

2006-03-12T10:25:00.000-08:00

We were 17, in 1965, and we were folk singin’ crazed. We had begun a little guitar stummin’ foursome we had named “The Firebrand Singers”, because, uh, I think it was because I had looked through the dictionary to find a word that suited our iconoclastic and raging hot repertoire, which included “If I Had A Hammer”, Tom Paxton’s “Cant Help But Wonder Where I’m Bound”, a few Chad Mitchell Trio gems, and of course, Dylan’s “The Times They Are A’Changin’, which I sang with great passion, and illumination, just in case any mothers and fathers throughout the land who shouldn’t be criticizin’ what they couldn’t understand were listening. I am happy to report, however, that we never stooped so low as to cover “Little Boxes”, (all made out of ticky-tacky and they’re all just the same). But I admit that when I drove through Daly City, in the 70’s, I finally understood what the song was about.

My friend Dan Haapala and I comprised the nucleus of “The Firebrand Singers” whose members included, over the six months or so we called ourselves a group, Dick Beswick, Jim Knutson, and Ken Holstrom. We didn’t practice much, and we never had a gig, but we were definitely bubbling under in the folk scene, in our minds anyway.

But my buddy Bruce Hofer, who was an electronics nut, and had made his own amplifier, could play the bass, and it wasn’t long before I was drawn into thinking it might be nice for this group to have a little backbeat, and then Dylan went electric, and then “The Firebrand Singers” went electric. I looked at the local music store’s musician bulletin board, and called a few drummers. We found a young guy on the other side of town whose chops on the drums far exceeded our own musicianship, but he was gung ho for a gig, and he was hired. I mean he said he would join the band.

Dan was a piano player, and he had been writing some of his own songs, which I thought were great, so we learned a few, most notably, a piece titled “Have You Been Listening”. After we had learned the song, and played it around, my pal Ted Sorenson, (who had an actual job at Portland’s original cut rate box store, Gov-Mart Ba’zar), offered to pay for us to go into a recording studio to cut the song, along with another I had written titled ”Second Love”.

So we found our way to “Kenneth Clair Recording Studio” in downtown Portland, there in 1965, and laid down our tracks. It was so much fun. Kenneth Clair had a 2-track reel to reel tape recorder, which meant we could play the music, and then sing the song over the music on a separate track, very high tech! Putting on the headphones, and listening back to the music while we sang, with a little reverb effect added, man, I thought we were on our way to stardom. After making the record, we needed a name for the group. Having always had a way with words, I suggested “Hamlet and The Dudes”, with me, of course, bein’ Hamlet.I have kept a copy of the 1965 version of “Have You Been Listening” and “Second Love” all these years, and my brother in law Curt Deatherage was kind enough to make me a cd from the original 45 rpm acetate, which had nearly disintegrated, lying in the bottom of some keepsake box. Below, you can hear Dan croon his fine song, behind several decades of record scratches and pops.

In 2004, just for the fun of it, I made some changes to the original melody of the song, and cranked out what I call “Have You Been Listening 2004", which I did here at home in my own little studio, where I can call on 32 tracks if I need to, like just about every other cat who records at home these days. Tim Ellis plays the awesome guitar parts. It was a blast rerecording the song, a song remembered by only a handful of former Franklin High teenagers, and giving it new life.

"Have You Been Listening 1965"
Hi-Fi Download by "Hamlet and The Dudes"

Have You Been Listening 2004
Hi-Fi Download by Ric Seaberg

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Frajeely

2006-03-08T22:13:00.000-08:00

I honestly don’t care if I ever see “It’s A Wonderful Life” again, with that wacky Jimmy Stewart spittin’ all over himself as he runs through his beloved hometown, hollering Christmas greetings to his friends and anyone, after having figured out he isn’t actually dead. I suck. Poor Marie and Blaine had a tradition of watching it every year at holiday time before I came ‘round, just the two of them, all warm and fuzzy, a log on the hearth, and their rosy Christmas cheeks glistening from the steam of some piping hot chocolate. “Alright!”, Blaine might say, as his cheery and loving Mother removed the film from the box, “time for our movie again, time for George and Mary Bailey, and Clarence the Bumbling Angel, even Evil Mr. Potter!" “Bah humbug”, I may have been heard to say, later, after three or four consecutive watchings. “Can’t we do something more fun, like pull our fingernails out?”

But one Christmas movie I truly love, and can even watch, oh, say every other year, is the 1983 Peter Billingsley classic, “A Christmas Story”. The movie, which is narrated by the story’s writer, Jean Sheppard, and inspired the great TV series “The Wonder Years”, follows the little boy Ralphie over Christmas, and his fond wish that he might find a BB Gun under the tree. He gets the gun, and it's very cute (and funny) to watch his tale unfold, but all the characters are written beautifully, and with great humor. One scene in particular, where whiny little brother Randy begins eating, sitting in his high chair in his jump suit jammies, “like a little piggy”, by instruction of his nutty Mom, gets me every time. Just that scene alone calls me in for another viewing.

The role of the cantankerous yet well meaning Father is played in the movie by Darren McGavin, who passed away this week at the age of 83. He did a wonderful job in that role, his energy and general obliviousness enveloping the screen. I will forevermore remember Darren McGavin mostly as The Dad in “A Christmas Story”. May he rest in peace.

At one point in the story, “The Old Man” as Darren McGavin’s character is repeatedly decribed by the narrator of the movie, wins a contest, and a side plot of the movie relates his excited wait for the marvelous prize to arrive. Not knowing what the prize is, he speculates that it is surely something wonderful, and when it arrives, in its wooden crate, his expectations have peaked. When he sees the word “FRAGILE” written on the side of the box, he is certain, in his blind enthusiasm, that it must be a foreign word, describing, in some way, the precious contents of the crate. He reads the word slowly and with great drama.......”Fra.....Jee....Lee”. Alas, the coveted and life changing prize turns out to be the ugly lamp pictured left. Probably due to the popularity of the movie, you can actually buy one of these lamps here. And you already know how much I love ugly lamps.

The pronunciation of that word “Frajeely”, for “fragile”, stuck with me like glue, from the first time I heard it. I kept it in the little file in my brain where I keep potential song titles, and one day, not so long ago, it took on a little more life. My song “Frajeely”, appears on my 2005 CD, “Who Come Down”. The part where Marie calls me to plug her phone in for her, ( I think maybe she had the wrong battery charger), when I’m in The Can, did actually happen.

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Mr. What the Balls

2006-03-05T08:37:00.000-08:00

Managing my website, where I present lots of music and photos, and other stuff, for the last couple of years, has been a lot of fun. First of all, I tend to be an organized person, probably to a fault, which I learned as a result of being in the bakery business, since, if you are not organized in the bakery, you are screwed. So being able to have a lot of songs, links, press, all organized and neat, it’s right up my alley. I use a template offered by HostBaby, an affiliate of web guru Derek Siver’s CDBaby.

When I go ‘round back, to my website statistics administration pages, I can find out all kinds of stuff. Like how many hits my website got yesterday. Or how many times one of my songs was played. Like how many hits I got from Seychelles, or Guam. Or what site a viewer was on, just before they came to my website. As in, who is linked to me. I am not surprised when I see, right up at the top of the list, Google, which is where a person might come from who either typed my name into the search engine, or perhaps stumbled onto a photo from my website on the images section of Google, for some reason or another. And when I see that someone has come from my friend and famous web guy Loup Dargent’s site, I am not surprised, since Loup has reprinted many of my tomes and song links, God bless’m. My HostBaby admin lists maybe 40 “entry” sites like this.

But I was shocked, nay, confused and squish-faced, a couple of weeks ago, when I saw, way up at the top, many hits coming from a “MySpace” site, which I had never seen or heard of before. The site is hyperlinked in my admin, so I clicked on it to see what the heck was going on, and wow. Apparently, this dude, whose fortunate self-made site moniker is “What The Balls”, had given me an entire blog entry on his site! Which I, of course, immediately read.

Mr. What The Balls blog entry, (easily navigate to 2-7-2006 in the archives menu left of the page: you will have to sign on to MySpace) as you will see, if you go there, is, shall we say, somewhat critical of ‘Ol Ricky, and shows photos lifted from my website, along with Mr. What the Ball’s scathing critique. But somehow, when I read it, I couldn’t quit laughing. I sent the link to Marie, and she absolutely loved it.

Mr. What The Balls is a bit stingy with information about himself. There is a photo there, and it is easy to tell that Mr. What The Balls is a young man. But the truth is, he is a young man with a terrific wit, and writing talent to boot. Marie has posted to his site (easily navigate to 2-26-2006 in the archives menu left on the page) several times, much to Mr. What the Balls surprise, I think, but we know talent when we see it. So here’s to Mr. What the Balls, you handsome big hair sucka, thanks for the link, now go fuck yourself.

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The Fa

2006-02-26T08:32:00.000-08:00

I am contemplating today’s job of painting our upstairs hallway, sitting here in the same clothes I first put on, oh, 4 days ago. I don’t think I reek, yet, (one never knows), but here’s the deal.

I tend to be a blue collar sorta guy, a guy who loves to work with his hands, and as such, I have spent most of my life doing just that. I put my first workshop together, complete with all the latest gadgets and power tools, when I was 24 years old, and it has only gotten worse. These days, I actually have two workshops, one at home, and one at the commercial building I own, and it is a seldom thing that I have to transport one or another power tool to either location, ‘cause I have whatever I need in both workshops. I am not embarrassed about this. To have it any other way, for a hands workin’ guy, and a motion economy nut, would just be wrong.

So I tend to wear out my jeans, rather quickly, and other clothes, crawling around on some bedroom floor, installing or painting moldings, or repairing a floor, placing an acer platenoides into the hole I just dug in the yard, or getting a big splotch of “Leaftree Green” semi-gloss right on my crotch. I just finished remodeling Marie’s office, which is adjacent to the hallway of which I speak, and I told her, as part of the expense, she would have to buy me a pair of pants.

It’s a lifestyle choice. Yes, I own a suit. Yes, I can meet my attorney for dinner in slacks and a sweater. But basically, GQ I am not. Today, I am gonna really trash out these jeans. But tomorrow, I am going to wake up, and decide to go fishin’, and I am not gonna put on a new pair of jeans to do that. My name is Ric Seaberg, and I tend to be anti-fashion. If you, sir, want to spend your money on fancy clothes, like it’s your hobby or something, cool. But me, I get up, throw on something simple, and get on with it.

I must say I get a kick out of the concept of the TV show, “Queer Eye For The Straight Guy”. I think I might be a candidate. Last year, as I was writing the songs for my 2005 CD “Who Come Down?”, I thought what it might be like if I suddenly turned fashion conscious. The result was my song. “The Fa”. But in truth, I mean the part about me gettin’ all fussy about my clothes, prob'ly not gonna happen.

To hear Ric's fashion song, "The Fa", click below
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Starr Routt

2006-02-22T11:45:00.000-08:00

I guess it was somewhere in the Summer of 2003, when Marie and I started talking about Jimmie Rodgers. Sometimes called “The Father of Country Music” (or "The Man who Started It All" as Marie prefers), Marie has a fondness for his music, having grown up listening to him, his 45 rpm yodelin’ singles stuck to the turntable of her family’s brand new Magnavox Stereophonic Record Player. One afternoon, as we dropped Blaine off at work, she just started singing “T For Texas”, every word, to which I inquired “what is that?”.

Jimmie Rodgers (1897-1933) contracted tuberculosis as a young man, but during his 40 years in this world, he cranked out some of the most loved country music ever written, and to my mind, laid some of the groundwork for what would become rock and roll. Almost all of his uptemo tunes can be set to a rockin’ back beat. His songs are accessible for country, country rock, folk rock, even rhythm and blues interpretations. And I am certain there is a Jimmie Rodgers song out there by some reggae band.

My wife Marie comes from humble beginnings, having been raised in very rural Southern Oregon. The mailing address was Star Route, Milo, Oregon, to be exact, until she was 12 years old, when the family moved to Cottage Grove, Oregon, outside Eugene. There was limited radio and no TV reception in Milo, and when Marie got home from The Tiller School, just down the road in Tiller, Oregon, she would busy herself with the kinds of things that rural kids do, read, play with her siblings, maybe make a map of the entire county on butcher paper. Oh, and on her way to the outhouse, there on the banks of the South Umpqua River, she was ALWAYS careful to watch out for Rattlesnakes and Cougars.

But when that Magnavox Stereophonic Record Player arrived home, having been purchased in the big city, Medford, Oregon, it was life changing for Marie. Now she and the family could listen to music whenever they wished. And it wasn’t long before Marie, for her 10th birthday, bought her own 45 rpm record, which happened to be by Jimmie Rodgers.

As we talked about Jimmie Rodgers, and Marie told me how she had played her copy of “T for Texas” to approximate death, there in Milo, I suggested, “You know, we should do our own version of ‘T for Texas’”, since it means so much to you, and you and your family know the song so well. We could give a copy to your Mom, your brothers, and your sister, as a remembrance of those days in Milo”. Marie looked at me like perhaps I had finally gone ALL the way over the edge. “No really”, I said, “I’ll do the music, then you can come in and do the vocal, and then I’ll have Timmy come over and lay down the guitar tracks, it’ll be great, let’s do it!”

"But I can't sing," she reminded me. She grew quiet, and a pensive look passed over her face. "Hmmmm," she continued, "but maybe Starr Routt can..."

After those humble beginnings in Milo, Marie went on to graduate from The University of Chicago, and has become a consumate and respected professional. But bottom line, she’s One Rockin’ Mama.

Here’s the scene. The gravel and pot hole ridden parking lot at Portland’s “D-Street Corral” is packed with cars, and an equal number of workin’ pickup trucks. The refreshments stands inside are jammed, folks lined up for chili dogs and curly fries topped with melted cheese. The beer is cold. The warm-up band “ Great Balls of Fire” was adequate, but the crowd is growing impatient.

Miss Starr Routt primps in her dressing room, tuckin’ her hair up under a turquoise cowgirl hat, while her manager goes over the song list with the band. And then, the lights go down, and the mayhem begins. “Starr Routt”, Starr Routt”, Starr Routt”, the rowdy throngs chant. Starr straightens her sequinned vest near the stage door, as the band takes their places. “Damn, them folks is plain crazy!”, Starr yells above the din, and as the announcer calls her name, she joins the band, smilin’ and wavin’. Starr offers the greeting “HELLO PORTLAND!” over the mic. The crowd roars.

To hear Starr Routt perform Jimmie Rodger’s “T For Texas”, click to download here.
Hi-Fi Stream is here
Lyrics here
Caricature of Starr Routt by Rhoda Grossman

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Didn't Say I Love You Right

2006-02-16T09:23:00.000-08:00

It was nothing short of a miracle when my wife Marie walked into my life, as I sat contemplating, and probably feeling sorry for myself, under the rose arbor on my corner lot at Southeast 37th and Main, in Portland’s Hawthorne district. After exchanging our hellos, and small talk about my garden, we launched into a feverish email campaign, which resulted in a fabulous and close friendship, then escalating not long after into a full blown courtship. Man, I love my wife, and I am so lucky and grateful to have found her, er, well, I guess she found me, technically.

All that summer of 1997, I would walk down to her house, about 13 blocks from my old crib, and we would sit on her front porch, talk ourselves out, watch the sun go down, maybe have some Middle Eastern dish, or a frozen strawberry daiquiri. It was a blast.

A couple of years later, after Cupid had received a major gold star on his calendar, I found myself, one Sunday morning, reading the paper on that same front porch, as Marie lounged in her porch swing. “Honey” she said in a lazy drawl, like those who work hard all week and sleep late on Sunday are wont to do, did you hear any of “Car Talk” yesterday?” “No”, I replied, “why do you ask?”. “They read a letter from a guy”, Marie then added ,”that you would have loved.”

It’s a “women are from Venus and men are from Mars” story, told first in a letter written by Dan Edwards, and it goes like this: One fine morning, some years back, Dan was walking his girlfriend to her car, when all of a sudden, she says “I love you” for the first time. Dan, taken aback, probably flustered for words, and from Mars, searches his brain (and heart) for the best thing to say, and does, in my opinion, by looking past his sweetheart, to her needy car, for just a moment, and coming up with the most romantic, ”I am gonna have to fix those rust spots on your car.” Now, as any guy knows, making an offer like this is tantamount, nay, beyond a pedestrian reply such as, oh, saying “I love you too” back to his girlfriend. It’s a committment to do some important work for her, fer God’s sake. An effort that would take time and some serious sweat. As in a whole ball-busting day of hard work. But alas, his girlfriend was not impressed by his comment, and sped off to work, revealing later in the day that she thought his reply was “callous and insufficient “.

Marie knew I would love the story, and we chuckled greatly over this couple’s misunderstanding, and in sum, the trouble men and women can get themselves into, mainly cuz, well, they come from different worlds. They must. I thank God that my wife and I can mostly see little issues like these for what they truly are, that is, rooted in the different ways men and women see the world, and generally, not to be taken too seriously. Our horse laughs, rising above the morning mist on Madison street, then inspired my comment, “Poor Dan, I guess he didn’t say “I love you” right.

Several hours later, after those words had burned into a song, I found Marie again on the porch, and strummed and sang to her my version of the vision. “That’s so good”, she offered kindly,”You should send that to the guys on Car Talk”.

So after making a proper recording of the song, I did just that. And some months later, we were pleased that those wacky car talkin’ brothers, Tom and Ray, played it on their show. It was the beginning of a beautiful relationship, and to date, the boys have aired four of my songs, which always results in a spike to my CD sales, and hits to my websites. Click and Clack, you rule.

“Didn’t Say I Love You Right”, which appears on my 2002 CD, “Useful Information”, is likely my second or third most well known song, after “We Talk About Cars”, and “You Are My Folks”, thanks in part to NPR’s Car Talk. The song also made it’s way onto a Car Talk compilation, “Car Talk Car Tunes”. Please accept a free Mp3 download of “Didn’t Say I Love You Right”, here. And don’t forget, gentlemen, to tell the woman you love, how much you DO love her, and give her a sweet kiss, as you look deeply into her eyes, and buy her flowers, and chocolates, and THEN go fix the rust spots. Gimme a call, I’ll help ya. I’ve got this brand new killer Makita belt sander, you gotta see it.

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Gadget Guru

2006-02-10T09:25:00.000-08:00

I have spent an unacceptable amount of time in my life, thinking about how I might not be like my Father, Bob Seaberg, who was an odd man, narcissistic, sort of a handful. I did love him, and I miss the “nutbrain” (one of his favored terms of condemnation), but I must say, I don’t miss the embarrassment I would feel when I would see him or hear him treat someone, my mother, my sisters, (or me) with complete and utter insensitivity. “Not gonna be that way when I grow up”, has been on my mind far too often.

Okay well my Dad passed away in 1993, and when a person dies, you never get to see them again, which fairly sucks, and starts a person’s tendency to remember the better things about a person, and forget the bad. These days, I remember my Dad’s once annoying behaviors with humour, and perhaps, a bit more wisdom. But when he was alive, dude could piss me off. Once, at his second wedding, (Mom passed away in 1990), he raised his voice to me at the wedding reception, in front of many guests, such that my fine brother- in-law Tom felt compelled to take me aside and express his concern and support. There I was, brow sweating, after having catered the whole affair myself, and as he greeted his guests in the church activity room, he goes on a rant about how I had not “saved” enough of the nicer food offerings for him to eat. “But Dad”, I might have said, “I left the sandwich board sign I was gonna wear, stating “Hey everyone in the food line, leave the shrimp and the stuffed mushrooms alone ‘til the groom has eaten”, at home by mistake, I am SOOOOOOOO Sorrrrrrry!” But of course I said nothing, as usual, not wanting to escalate the tension, or be just like him.

My Dad was a great gadget aficionado, a tendency of his which I recall with great fondness. He worked as an electrical parts salesman, and running in that world, he was always onto some new gadget, or product, to make our lives easier. The “Speedy Weenie” six prong- three dog-hot dog heater upper, pictured above, arrived home about 1956. Talk about convenience. No longer would my mother have to go to the trouble of heating 3 hot dogs in water. I’ll tell ya, what a great time to be alive. Check this thing out. You thread the hot dogs onto the prongs, and they sit there in a sort of a half moon shape, and then you plug it in. Basically, 110 volts of electricity would shoot through each dog, heating it in the process. A wonder of modernity. Just don’t forget to unplug it. Cuz if your child happens by, and grabs those prongs while it’s still plugged in, they might die. Lemme guess. The Speedy Weenie was eventually pulled from shelves because of the potential danger to the user. Dah! And I will never forget the little red “Thirstee” plastic outdoor drinking fountain, pictured here, that came in the mail one day back then, much to my Father’s glee, and I remember him hooking it up to the hose bib on the side of the house, which unfortunately, was about a foot from the ground, but I did take a few slurps outa the thing, on my knees. “Ahhhh”, I’m sure I said as I wiped the refreshing drink from my lips, “And I didn’t even have to use that unclean and bacteria ridden hose end for a drink!” But alas, at our house, the Thirstee Fountain wouldn’t stay perpendicular to the bib, it was way loose, for some reason, so everytime you might want to use it, you had to hold it in place, and then, I recall that the stream of water was so tiny, that a nine year old boy might be tempted to just go back to the ol’ hose for a drink.

My dear Mom, who was a whiz in the kitchen, had a succession of Feemster Slicers, supplied by Dad, to help her with her kitchen duties. I believe you can still buy these things, a sort of early day chef’s “mandolin” slicer, where one strikes the carrot against the oh so sharp blade, and if you are lucky, keep your thumb tips attached to your body. I once cut myself horribly on one of these things, running some veggie through.

My Dad didn’t live long enough for me to present him with a convenient and money saving “Soap Slivers Compression Apparatus”, which I once spotted in a Miles Kimball catalog, in the stack he kept by his recliner. Talk about a gadget whose time has come! You keep all those little soap pieces, you know, the ones that have gone “face to butt” aproximately 400 times, and when you get enough of them, you put them in this manual compressor thing, sort of a soap vice, and voila, you have created another big and fresh bar of soap! And if you’re lucky, you might end up with a fragrance unknown to nature, such as the newly invented and unusual scent of Irish Spring, added to a sliver of organic Rosemary soap, combined with, among others, the pungent aroma of that “Chocolate Moose” soap bar you found in your Christmas stocking!

So I come by my love of gadgets honestly, a trait I inherited from my Dad, (the only trait!) like my love of power tools, for example, especially the new 18 volt battery ones, they’re awesome. And it is true that, two summers ago, faced with needing a new air conditioner for my office/studio, I did select the one that comes with a remote, such that, as I sit recording, I can flip it on and off from across the room, “On” when not recording, and “Off” when the mics are hot.

And I do have my entire yard irrigation system tweaked, which requires 4-option diverters on each of our four hose bibs, which is initiated by many timers. And the big waterfall which graces our pond, well, it has a remote control too.

My wife Marie is everything to me, beautiful, sexy, smart, kind, generous, funny, a great writer, my best friend, like I said, everything. And she is kind to look the other way, most times, as I bring home, since it’s in my genes, various and sundry gadgets. But when she put down her foot, and said that she would not abide my desire to buy remote contolled venetian blinds, so that we would no longer have to climb on the couch to shut them, honey, that’s just wrong.

Stream a clip of Ric's "Dad" Song "King Omega LTD"
King Omega LTD Lyrics
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The Junior Rose Festival 1958

2006-02-05T09:36:00.000-08:00

It’s raining like the devil right now, “liquid sunshine” as we call it here in Portland, Oregon, but as I walked the Bichons this morning, I saw that the Andromeda is beginning to bloom, a sure sign that Spring has almost sprung. Two large, blossom heavy Andromeda, pungently fragrant, in our next door neighbor’s yard, trumpet the arrival of Spring in our neighborhood every year. As soon as we get some sun, sometime next week, I am certain that, as I leave my house, and my nose catches that fragrance, it will slap me into Spring.

In Portland, when the Spring arrives, and June is on the way, that’s when the powers that be swing into action for the presentation of Portland’s annual “Rose Festival”. The Rose Festival, which takes place in June, is nearly 100 years old, and is described on the Rose Festival website as “an annual Northwest celebration, hosting over two million people each year. This month-long civic celebration creates unforgettable memories for local citizens and visitors, and generates millions of dollars to positively impact the region's economy.”

Roses grow amazingly well in Oregon, with our temperate climate. We do get our share of rain, but our summers are mild and beautiful, and roses basically grow like weeds. There are several beautiful civic rose gardens in Portland, and the Rose Festival, obviously, takes advantage of our great rose weather.

Rose Festival events include actual Rose Covered Float parades, a big amusement park built just for the month on the Willamette River waterfront, scores of fun events, and a Princess Court, as selected from each Portland high school. There is also a “Junior Rose Festival “ court, as chosen from the grade schools.

In 1958 , when I was 10 years old, I was in Mrs. McIntyre’s 3rd and 4th grade mixed class, at my grade school alma mater, Atkinson, in southeast Portland, at the foot of Mt. Tabor. To make a long story short, I was selected to vie for “Jr. Rose Festival” prince, (I was an outgoing child) because in 1958, boys were still asked to participate in the Jr. Rose Festival Court, as princes, basically escorts for the girls who were chosen as princesses. I do recall that the process, for a little boy, was a bit rigorous, interviews and such, but I hung in there, and was selected to represent my school.

Some weeks later, a competition was held at Portland’s Bagdad Theatre, where kids from the other 12 grade schools in the area, and me, gave a speech in hopes of being selected to represent school district #6, as a Junior Rose Festival prince or princess. My speech, a short little ditty mostly penned by my stage mother Mom, around the theme of “being proud”, which I delivered like a total ham, and still remember, went:

“You know that I’m proud to be here tonight.
You know that i’m proud of my school.
I want you, and my school, to be proud of me......
So I thank you for the chance to make my plea.
I’ll do my best, as a cub scout should......
If you choose me tonight, I’ll try to make good.

And now it is my proud pleasure to present to you,
my princess.......Miss Patricia Israel!

I was shocked and “proud” to be chosen as prince. The little girl who won as princess, Charlotte Larson, and I were whisked away to both of Portland’s newspapers for photos and interviews. Seeing my mug in the paper the next morning was a treat, and made me feel as though I had accomplished something. Our next door neighbor, Roland, who was like a big brother to me, and who was also our early morning newspaper boy, fashioned camelia petals to form the word “YEA!, which was waiting for me to see on our front porch when I awoke, on that beautiful and sunny May morning.

The next several weeks were a whirlwind of being wined and dined and well, treated like royalty. For starters, I got the last two weeks of school off! Each morning, my princess Charlotte and I would be picked up by the little convertible VW shown here, with our names emblazoned on the side, and delivered to some extravagant event, like lunch at the zoo, visits to hospitals and fancy restaurants, complete with favors and gifts for each of us. We were treated to plays and performances, ship and factory tours, TV appearances, and were positioned on our own float in several parades, and on and on. I am reminded of what a wonderful moment in time that was for me, as I gaze upon all the photos in the complete scrapbook my mother kept. It was an amazing, confidence building experience for a kid.So I was saddened to learn some years later, that due to financial constraints, and perhaps since being a prince was deemed a less than manly and acceptable thing for a young boy to do (there were those on my little league team who insisted on calling me “princey” for the rest of the summer) the Rose Festival Association had decided to eliminate boys from The Junior Rose Festival. I think it’s kind of a shame. I guess I was just in the right place at the right time.

I still live in southeast Portland, and go by the Bagdad theatre almost every day, and basically, love it here. The Rose Festival is coming up soon, with it’s many events and regalia, and economic opportunity for businesses and citizens. I keep my eye on the schedule in the paper, and as I drive across the Hawthorne bridge, I can see the giant Ferris Wheel on the waterfront, and sometimes smell the corn dogs and frying onions as I pass by. I don’t go to many of the events. But I still remember with great fondness The Rose Festival 1958, and how it had a huge impact on me, when I was a child. My memory of it reminds me how important it is to tell the 10 year-olds in my life how special they are.

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Super Bowl Bound!

2006-02-03T08:04:00.000-08:00

Not to be outdone by their Super Bowl bound brother, Joseph, (our grandson), Colin (right) and Owen (left) sport matching head shaves, depicting the Seahawks fans' coat of arms, the numeral "12", which symbolizes fans' standing as the 11-man football teams' "12th man". Joseph and his Dad, Tim, will be leaving for The Motor City on Saturday morning. My daughter Stacey has strict instructions to TIVO the game, because Joseph doesn't want to miss the commercials!Colin and Owen decide to get serious!

Stream Ric's song "Superbowl Andy" here
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Seahawks Rule!

2006-01-30T20:21:00.000-08:00

Super Bowl 40 arrives next weekend, when millions of women and mostly men will sit before their newly purchased 60” plasma screens and go hoarse rooting for either the Pittsburgh Steelers, led by the coyote ugly, major sourpuss coach Bill Cowher, or The Fantastic Seattle Seahawks, led by the fatherly and fashionable coach Mike Holmgren. Guess who we like at our house?

We love the Super Bowl. Every year we host a party, which is attended by several of our closest friends, who could basically not care less about football, but love to come see what kinda crazy shit we dream up for The Big Day. In 2005 we were into Tacky Foods, as I related in my Super Bowl Blog Entry last year, including, among other things, Cool Whip Trifle, which I must admit is one killer dessert. Blaine and I always request that Marie come up with the party theme, ‘cause we want her to be invested too, for if it were just about football, well, I am afraid we might lose her to some fabric sale, where zillions of women go to spend Super Bowl Sunday, away from the maddening crowds of stinky, rowdy, drunk husbands and brothers and sons, with their Nacho Cheese and Chili breath, lounging in the confines of formerly pristine and foofy living rooms and dens of America, scratchin’, belchin’, and sayin’ fuck real loud.

This year, Marie has asked us to each come up with a food of some kind that starts with either a S or an B, get it?, the first letter of the words Super and Bowl. So I am going to order a Beef Tenderloin Roast, bake it, slice it, and pour a healthy amount of Burgundy Reduction over the whole thing, as in Beef Burgundy, which truly fills the need for a letter B food. I could use some ideas for some other S or B foods though. Any suggestions?

We are extra pumped this year too, since my grandson Joseph and his Dad are actually gonna be there, in Detroit, somewhere in the nosebleed section, hollering for all of us. My daughter Stacey holds a couple of Seahawks season tickets, and when they held the lottery to see which ticket holders would be offered Super Bowl tickets, she won! So Joe and his Dad will fly to Detroit and likely come home with a pile of souvenirs and great memories.

As you can see from the photo above, Blaine and I are ready to roll. We made those Packers Cheese Heads into Blue Cheese Heads several years ago, because, oh I dunno, I guess ‘cause we are big Hawks fans, whose main team color is blue, and we have been a’wishin’ and a’hopin’ for the Hawks to go to the Super Bowl for years. I myself was living in Seattle, all those years ago when the franchise was established, and the Kingdome, which has already been demolished, was built. I once owned a framed and very large pen and ink drawing of the Seattle skyline, titled “My Silver City”, by Seattle artist Christopher Bollen, which depicted the Kingdome half finished. So I go way back with the Hawks, and we are gonna be there, watchin’ the game, screamin’ our asses off for Matt and Shaun and Bobby and Coach Mike, and Jim Zorn, and running back Curt Warner, and all the other guys who played on lesser Seahawks teams over the years, all the while suckin’ down our Buds and Millers and Beef Burgundy. Feel free to stop by. I’ll be the one with beef blood stains on my white tank top, and if we win, tears in my eyes.

Stream Ric's song "Superbowl Andy" here
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The Birdhouse

2006-01-29T09:33:00.000-08:00

I guess it was a couple of years ago, when Marie and I were watching, yet again, a gardening show on HGTV, called “Curb Appeal”. At the end of the show, as the host was revealing the final appointments on the improved home’s “streetside”, we couldn’t help but be impressed with a large birdhouse she had installed, which had been built to match the main house, almost exactly. We oohed and ahhed a bit, but basically just sat there with our mint juleps, and didn’t budge.

About a year later, we found ourselves watching the same show again, same episode. Old people, like us, sometimes forget when they have seen a show before, and just go ahead and watch it again, as if it were new to them. Well, or so it seems.

Ric: We’ve seen this before.
Marie: We have? I don’t remember it.
Ric: I think it might be the one with the birdhouse.
Marie: What birdhouse?
Ric: You know, the birdhouse at the end of the show,
the one that looks just like the house.
Marie: I dunno, maybe I fell asleep.
Ric: Nooooo, you saw it honey, we talked about it, you remember.......
Marie: What’s in that cup? Are you drinking too much coffee?

So we watched the show, and Marie did remember it finally, at the very end, when they showed the birdhouse. This time, when the credits rolled, we looked for the name of the designer. Later, I found the designer’s email address on the internet, and emailed her, requesting any information she could give me about the birdhouse, as in basically, where she got it. A couple of days later I received a reply, and a phone number.

After several calls and emails, and even snail mail, which included some actual pieces of our home’s roof, and color swatches of our actual house color, and front door color, sent to the artist, we received our Giant Bitchen Birdhouse in the mail. It was made by collectible birdhouses.com. My nephew Max and I installed it in our front yard, and I later put a light fixture on the post, which is timed to go on at dusk and off at dawn. It’s fun to see folks stop and take a look, and then realize it looks just like the big house behind it. Here are a couple more photos. If you ever wondered what our house looks like, this is it. One could imagine me, somewhere in the front room, just past the porch’s picture window, slumped down in my chair, suckin’ down some cold strong coffee, probably my wife’s leftovers from 8 a.m.
Here is our actual house, with concrete wheelchair ramp

A rear view of the birdhouse, including our deck and kitchen bay window. Note the round "clean out" on the left.

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BRANGELINA!....THE SONG

2006-01-20T11:35:00.000-08:00

As I noted only two entries ago, standing in the grocery line, and reading the headlines of the gossip magazines, causes me great pleasure, whether it’s about poor Whitney Houston’s alleged drug use, or whether Oprah is currently fit or fat, or if that woman Jennifer from Friends is still mad at her ex Brad Pitt, all that stuff. Last week, as I stood giggling, I became fascinated with the way gossip reporters have taken to combining the names of celebrities who are coupled, like when they used “Bennifer” for Jennifer Lopez and Ben Afleck, and most recently, “Brangelina”, to conveniently, I guess, shorten the names Brad and Angelina. Thank God, as I sit at dinner with my family, railing on about their relationship, that I don’t have to be constantly referring to them by using their whole first names.

Perhaps it’s a trend whose time has come. It’s perfectly alright with me, dear reader, if you choose, as you discuss my blog with your family over fish sticks and corn, to refer to my wife and me as “Rarie”, that is, the combination of the names Ric and Marie, pronounced Ruh-Ree.

So I had to write a song about it. My buddy Tim Ellis came over yesterday and laid down the guitar tracks, and I mixed it this morning. I have decided to make this one a freeby, since it is quite possibly the nichiest song I have ever produced, and therefore likely to be interesting to perhaps 5 people. However, I must say, I think it came out well, Tim’s parts are stellar as usual, and I really like the melody. So here it is, for your approval, for free download, or stream. The lyrics appear below. Please feel free to send the link on to anyone you wish.

BRANGELINA!........THE SONG
Free Download click here
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BRANGELINA! was featured January 23, 2006 on "The Great American Music Hour"

BRANGELINA!
Copyright 2006 Ric Seaberg

Everybody knows she's a beauty,
Everybody knows you’re a stud
She’s got the lips of a goddess,
You’ve got the perfect butt
Well I’m not even gay but you looked so great,
In Thelma and Louise
And even if you take a lot of blame
You chose a woman with a pretty name

Oh Brad! You coulda met a girl named Tina
But Bina doesn’t sound as nice as Brangelina

Goodwill Ambassador actress
Goodwill Ambassador stud
You got the nation’s attention
Without spillin’ yer blood
I like to see your fans by the magazine stands
Investing in your fame
They see your names combined in the grocery line
Next to a picture of your Valentine

Chorus
Solo

Bridge
The coffee shops of America
The gossip rags at the store
Maury Povich and Connie Chung
Gotta tell us more!

Last two choruses

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Glory Days

2006-01-16T14:33:00.000-08:00

I never liked Bruce Springsteen’s song “Glory Days” that much, even though I totally agree with the message, ‘cause it kinda creeps me out how some people tend to live in the past. When I hear the song, it just reminds me of all the crazy shit I did when was a kid, even though there were good times, like the time I ran for president of the junior class, and since I was sick with some sort of infection and in the hospital, my buddy Jim Knutson actually got up in front of those 500 students and read my speech. What a pal. And I can’t help but giggle when I think of the time I pulled my 1959 blue and white Ford Galaxie off the road on Mt. Tabor, into the bushes of the park, and commenced hot and heavy petting with a girl I had met at a party, only to be accosted some hours later by the sound of metal tapping briskly against the car window, a giant four D-Cell battery size flashlight, handled by one of Portland’s finest, who made me put my shirt on. A couple years later, when I heard that line in the Loggins and Messina song “Your Mama Don’t Dance”, which went ....“Out of the car, longhair!”, I could identify.

So you won’t catch me going on and on at dinner, or over a beer, about the good old days, but I do have to admit I like to write about it. In my daily life, I believe I am a “be here now” kinda guy, which of course follows since we live right next to the Dharma Rain Zen Center. Sometimes, when I am walking my two little white dogs past the open windows of the center, on a gorgeous Portland summer day, I think I should get involved with that church, start meditatin’, but going to that extent, I dunno, it seems kinda self indulgent. I have too many people and dogs and things to take care of to spend time meditatin’. But I do try to live in the moment, and I think it is important to try to remember to do that, to not always be playing “what if” in my mind. As I pass the center, and hear the chanting of the folks inside, it reminds me to breathe, to notice my breathing, and the wind in the trees, and the sun on my shoulders, and to remember the love of my wonderful wife, waiting for me with a cup of coffee and her warm laughter, when I get back home.

So forgive me for digressing to the time, playing touch football at the Atkinson Grade School park, when my friend Danny Roisom, one of the fiercest competitors I have ever met, was carrying the ball around his team’s left end, and as he reached me, and I went to touch him down, he rared back, and in a motion meant to look, I guess, like a straight arm, basically cold-cocked me with a right cross to the left side of my head. Of course I did not touch him down, and as he raced for the touchdown, I stood up, dazed and confused, and fully pissed, and called him out, which resulted in a very boring half hour, during which the much bigger Danny basically sat on my chest and slapped me around, until the rest of the guys were sick of it and wanted to get on with the game. And forgive me if I bring up the time, in Johnny Clement’s attic, in the seventh grade, while snuggling with Patti Eaton, I asked her if we might attempt the World’s Longest Kiss, to which she replied, “no thanks”. Maybe it was the pepperoni and onion pizza that Johnny’s swell Mom Alice had provided us earlier, with those killer homemade chocolate shakes she sometimes offered.

And forgive me for telling the story of my old band, The Morning Reign, and our appearance on the popular Paul Revere and the Raiders hosted TV show “Happening “68”, when, dressed in our groovy brown and tan blazers, we lip-synched and instrument-synched on national TV to our own rockin’ version of an obscure Standell’s song, “Can’t Help But Love You, Baby”. Having won a Northwest “Battle of the Bands”, we arrived in L.A. in the summer of 1968, did some sightseeing and recording, played a gig with “The BoxTops”, and appeared on the show. As you can see from the photo above, (that’s me sitting in the middle, bottom) we looked hokey enough, but we were runner’s up to the grand prize, which was a recording contract, and that was okay, cuz what we did each win (there were 6 of us) was samsonite luggage, a portable black and white TV, 3 power tools including a drill, a circular saw, and a jigsaw....which basically gave me my start learning how to build....a tomato soup colored portable record player, which, though dwarfed by an LP, also had an AM/FM radio, and some other prizes I can’t remember. The judges were Bobby Sherman, Brenton Wood (The Oogam Boogam Song, Gimme Little Sign), and this guy Sajid Kahn, an up and coming young actor, who apparently faded to “where are they now” status, but he was a nice guy, and they all entertained us with stories of their Hollywood lives as we each scarfed a hot dog, during a filming break, at the hot dog stand on the lot.

Being on “Happening 68” didn’t exactly make us famous, though we did get our picture in some fan mags, and TV guide. But playing with “The Box Tops”, that week, even though our "Beatles medley" sucked, was the best. Standing there, all young and naive and foolishly proud, in our groovy brown and tan blazers, signing autographs for a throng of teenyboppers in the parking lot after the gig, that’s glory days.

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Brangelina!

2006-01-10T14:13:00.001-08:00

Occcasionally, over the years, like most people, I have bumped into a celebrity, running about on my errands, dining out, gigging with my old rock band, maybe at a sporting event. Such was the case, in about 1993, while I sat in a Portland restaurant, the old “Vat and Tonsure”, sipping my Gamay Beaujolais, perusing my menu, when suddenly, I looked up to see, several feet away, after he had shut the restaurant door behind him, movie star Timothy Hutton, who was in town filming “The Temp”. Our eyes met, he managed a friendly “How ya doin’?”, and moved on. I didn’t lay eyes on him again, but we could hear him above the restaurant noise, later, laughing heartily, no doubt trying to keep up with my own unrestrained wine drinking. The restaurant was abuzz with the news of his attendance. I could see waiters and waitresses fawning about his table, and even our own waitress reported his presence to us as we began to dismantle our rosemary stuffed game hens.

Other celebrities I claim to have had brief encounters with are Gore Vidal, Desi Arnaz, Dick Cavett, Willie Nelson, Trini Lopez, Jim Morrison, Pia Zadora, David Ogden Stiers, and Joanne Worley, who, when I met her, bestowed upon me her signature wail, which was used unsparingly on the old “Laugh-In” TV show.

For some reason, I have never been given to hero worship, and though these sightings and encounters have stuck with me, I guess I am not that impressed with celebrities, or rock stars, the famous. Maybe if I knew them personally, had some idea of what kind of person they truly were, you know, what kind of parents they are, if they are kind to others, if they pay their bills on time, if they have any truly respectable talents, like carpentry, or computer skills, I mean, besides landing a part on a TV show, or headlining on the gossip rags of America.

Once, strolling my Old Portland Neighborhood with a former spouse, who shall remain nameless, we stumbled upon a local female news anchor, who was having a glass of wine with a neighbor on his front steps. We were introduced, and I could see that my former spouse was beside herself with glee and tension, as she stood red faced, tripping over her every word, and exclaiming amazing and embarrasing hero worship like statements, as in, “Ohmigod, it IS you!” I don’t get it.

So you can imagine my astonishment, as I digress into a mouth breathin’ gawker, standing in the grocery checkout line, reading the front covers of magazines and periodicals, touting the latest news about famous couples, like Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. This most fascinating union has been conveniently shortened by The Gossip and Paparazzi Industry to “Brangelina”, such that we can all use the abbreviation, to save our breath, when we are gabbing for hours on the phone and in the coffee shops of America about their relationship. Apparently, their impending marriage has been cancelled, since the cover photo of Angelina and her full lips is accompanied by the headline, “Wedding Is Off”. Godammit! I thought they were so right for each other.

Earlier couple couplings included “Bennifer”, a fitting and advantageous shortening of Ben Afleck and Jennifer Lopez, but, sadly, she dumped him for Mark Anthony.

Standing in my checkout line, I also saw that Whitney Houston is back on dope, and, judging by the photo they got of her, this time, it’s pretty bad. Ever since she got together with that damn Bobby Brown, she’s just been goin’ downhill. This time, her ”Shocking New Cocaine Binge” could finally spell disaster. Oh Whitney! As soon as I finish reading the Laci Peterson pregnancy diary, I am gonna figure out how you can get rid of that asshole.

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