The Elvis Story

By 1976, the days of sex, drugs, and rock and roll were well behind me. Well, almost. Can’t seem to shake that rock and roll part, even now. I had been preparing to go into bakery business, move my family from Seattle to Portland, to start up a full-line retail bakery inside a grocery store. I had made a deal with a Thriftway Grocery Store owner, and had begun purchasing used bakery equipment wherever I could find it, mostly at auctions in Oregon and Washington.

One evening, I found my buddy Craig Chastain, who was and is one of the funniest AND coolest dudes on the planet, and who had been working for Concerts West as an advance man, on the other end of the phone. Craig was rhythm guitarist and official leader of our old band, “The Morning Reign”. “Ric, yo, wha’s shakin’ man”? “Cac!” (his nickname) I replied, “oh man, all kinds a’shit, what’s up with you?” Cac went on to explain that his latest assignment had been as an advance man on the Elvis tour, and that he was back in Seattle after many months on the road, to prepare for the upcoming Elvis concert at the Seatlle Coliseum. “Ya wanna work it?” he said, and I responded, “what, you need someone to sing “Please Stop” to warm up the crowd?” Craig replied, “I need a few more bouncers, this is a huge gig, and the guys we use just don’t have quite enough manpower for this one”. “Definitely”, I said, “When is it?”

We discussed the rest of the details, and made a plan to meet the night of the gig. I was pumped. And I was even going to get paid!

Elvis concerts, in those days, the last year before he died, were somewhat subdued. Even though he was still packing the house, many people were not so sure about Elvis anymore. There had been the rumors of his drug usage, and he had gained an enormous amount of weight. Paparazzi were having a field day, snappin’ his girth, the black circles under his eyes, and double chin. And though I myself was interested in seeing his show, and getting paid for it no less, I was more interested in the spectacle. Who comes to these shows? What songs is he performing these days? Will that drug addict actually sing “My Way?”

The night of the concert, I met Cac at the back door, and breezed through into the backstage area. Cac gave me a pass, to hang around my neck, and took me into the main arena, to show me what my duties would be.

For the Elvis show, the main floor was divided into 4 seating sections, which created three aisles. Each aisle led directly to the stage. My job was to sit in a small chair, at the head of the right aisle, facing the audience. My instructions were....to maintain order, to keep people from approaching the stage, blocking the view of others, etc. “Cool, no sweat”, I assured Cac. We retired to the backstage area, to hang for awhile, while the audience began to enter. Cac introduced me to some of the folks he had been working with.

Right before the show, I took my seat. I was fascinated by the audience mix, mostly women, but of all ages. I figured, most of these older girls are true Elvis fans, and the younger ones are daughters, perhaps also fans, but more likely the lucky recipients of one free Elvis ticket. I see a 40ish male face here and there.

Showtime. Elvis and crew snapped into action with that “hotta hotta burnin’ love” number. Without delay, several women rushed to the front, right in front of me, and began snapping photos. I am calm, but I tell them they must go back to their seats, that they are blocking the view of others, that they are required to sit in their assigned seat. They retreat. And that is how it went for the next hour. Someone would sit down, someone would approach. I would tell them to go back to their seat, they would go, and no sooner had I sent someone back to their seat, when someone else would approach. Some were perfectly willing to leave, after getting their photo, and some would growl at me. One woman hollered, above the music, with a pained expression, “I’m not gonna rape him, honey”. Craig had taken his seat under the stage, with some of the other promoters, and I had a good view of them. We would occasionally exchange knowing glances.

In the first half of the show, if memory serves, The King cranked out a bunch of hits, “Now or Never”, “Goodluck Charm”, “Viva Las Vegas”, “In the Ghetto”, and finished with a medley of earlier hits, including “Jailhouse Rock”. Being up so close, I could see he was sweatin’ like a hog. And that gold lame thing he was wearing, all sequinned and with that stiff high collar, that thing was hideous.

I rested through the intermission, and Cac brought me a Coke. I was workin’ hard, but enjoying it thoroughly. And even though I could feel a sort of negative vibe from the audience toward me, the “enforcer”, I was sure I could finish the job I had started.

The beginning of the second half of the show brought much of the same action my way, and I continued my efforts to keep order. But all of a sudden, my fortunes changed. As I sat or stood at my post, I could see coming toward me, to the rear of the Coliseum, a little girl, followed by a woman. It looked vaguely like the little girl was holding, in front of her, a pillow of some kind. And as they came closer, all sparkly and smiles, I could see that they were catching the attention of the audience, on my aisle. I turned to Cac and the Concerts West staff, still hunkered down about 10 feet away. Cac had already picked up on what was happening, and had brought the situation to the attention of his boss.

When the little girl, and her Mom, I assumed, reached me, it was intense. There she was, this sweet angel, maybe 6 years old, holding a beautifully appointed plum colored velvet pillow, which must’ve taken days to fashion, all busy with gold buttons and frills, and atop the pillow, one amazing hand-made gold crown, full of faux jewels, shining like the sun, blinding in it’s intricacy and flash.

Imagine me, now, in slow-mo, amid the enthusiasm and glow of that darling little girl and her constituents, as I turned to find someone behind me for a sign. My eyes caught the face of Cac’s boss, the owner of the company, and my eyes locked in on his mouth, and to the din of a rockin’ Elvis tune, I saw him slowly mouth the word.......”NO”, as in, NO, do not let them approach any further, and send them away! I gave him my most wounded look, and he shouted again, this time so I could actually hear it, “NO!”.

So I did it. They were wildly disappointed. And of course, so were those in my aisle who had been keeping an eye on the little girl and her crown. “Ah let her go”, one man cried out. The little girl, and her saddened Mom, marched back down the aisle.

About five minutes later, here they come again. This time, they had two ushers in tow, the actual Seattle Coliseum uniformed ushers, all suited and official like. They arrived at my post, and insisted that I allow the little girl past, to approach The King. I turned to see if there had been any change in the plan from Concerts West. It is, after all, their gig. They are running the gig. They booked Elvis. They pay the bills. They make the decisions. Craig’s boss looks me directly in the eye and says....once again, loudly enough for me to hear......”ABSOLUTELY NOT!” Of course he knows what he is doing. He knows what his contract with Elvis says..... no brown M and Ms...... no manzanilla olives will lack pimento...... no approaching the stage.

I sucked it up, and refused admission. I must say, it was amusing to see the usher’s reaction, who somehow had figured out, in their importance, that they were going to report for work, after a big day in the “drills” department at Boeing, and overrule Concerts West.

This time, the audience on my side was less than polite. They were downright pissed. One lady from the second row or so came up and chest-bumped me. I kept explaining, yelling, that I was just doing my job, that I have no say in the matter, etc, etc. Finally, they were gone, and the confrontation was over.

I felt like hell, then, sitting there in my little chair, but I was just keeping my part of the bargain.....doing what I said I would do.....following my employer’s instructions.

So maybe you can imagine my shock, moments later, when I saw to my left, this time, coming down the larger and grander middle aisle, the “Little Girl and Crown Entourage”, the girl, the Mom, more ushers, and a cop. They got to the stage, and the cop picked up the little girl, and held her, her pillow, and the crown, up to Elvis. Elvis accepted the pillow and crown, set it down on the stage, picked up the little girl, and gave her a big kiss. The audience went wild. The people on my aisle were looking down their noses at me, and cheering as though the Supersonics had just won the NBA championship. Gig over.

I collected my check, and drove home, exausted. Everyone was asleep. I didn’t want to wake anyone, or hear the question...”how was it?” This one is gonna take some time to process.

In the morning, I woke and got my coffee, reached for the Sunday paper on the front porch. And there, before me, and I promise you this is the truth, was the front page picture, in the Seattle Post- Intelligencer, of Elvis kissing the little girl.

I have often imagined, over the years, another concert attendee, or more, picking up that Sunday paper, as I had, and seeing that front page picture. “Hey honey”, he says. “Check this out. It’s a picture of that little girl at the concert last night, getting her kiss from Elvis. That was so cute. Remember that guy on our aisle, that bouncer dude, who wouldn't let her go by? That guy, what a prick”.

Next Time Mary

Our dear next-door neighbor called this morning, to let us know that she and her niece will be gone for the weekend, will we keep an eye on the house etc. Marie and I are so very lucky to have such a delightful lady for a neighbor, friendly and cooperative, just the nicest person. We are happy to keep our eye on your crib, Mary.

I guess it must have been 3 years ago now, when I decided to sell my smallish Chevy Astro Van, in order to upgrade to a van which would accomodate a lift for my step-son Blaine, who uses a wheelchair. However, after I found out that the van’s trade-in value was not even close to what I thought it was worth, I decided to see if I could sell it myself, get a bit more out of it. I bought one of those big For Sale signs at Home Depot, or some such do it yourself store, and popped one in the Astro’s window.

So that rig sat in front of our house for a couple of weeks, and we had a few inquiries, but no cigar. I was getting ready to put an ad in the paper when Mary called. She had seen the sign, and she had a friend who was interested, and wanted to know our asking price. I am going to be brief with this part, cuz, well, it was a rather brief sale. Her friend wanted it, and Mary was going to do the deal and then work it out with her friend, who lived in another city. We made an appointment for me to come over to her house with the paperwork.

I once knew a guy who wouldn’t carry a wallet ‘cause he thought it made his jeans look funny. It ruined the look. I got a chuckle outa that. I am so the opposite of that. In fact, since I was in my early thirties, I have been carrying a purse of some kind. At first, for about 10 years, I stuck with a fanny pack, but as I got older, and needed room for more and more stuff, more keys for my business and other things, phone, meds, tools, etc, I went to a full blown purse, or as we homophobes say, a “Man” purse. So I grabbed it, along with the necessary paperwork, and headed over to Mary’s house. We did the deal, it was painless, I got a check, and split. I hope the person who ended up with that van is well pleased. It was in good shape when I sold it. I just needed a bigger rig.

Later that day, at home, I went to grab my purse again to, oh I dunno, go get a few groceries, run up to the pet store, something. But when I went for my purse, in our foyer, it wasn’t on it’s hook. Whenever that happens, I get nervous, since I am a guy who can lose things, even though I am much better than I was when I was young, overly energetic and exceedingly attention deficient. So I just stood there, as usual, dumbfounded, thinking about where my purse might be. I looked in the rest of the house. I went out and looked in the van, even though I had just sold it. The door to the van was open, and I thought, oh-oh, maybe I had left the van door open, and my purse had been stolen. Shit. And then I remembered that I had taken my purse over to Mary’s, or at least I had a vague recollection of taking it over there, so I gave Mary a call.

Ric: Hi Mary, hey, I think I may have left my purse over there, did I?
Mary: Well, let me look a sec Ric. (She is gone from the phone for a bit)
Mary: No I don’t see it over here Ric, sorry, I’ll let’cha know if I find it.
Ric: Damn, okay, Mary. Thanks, bye.
Mary: Bye Ric, good luck.

Shit! Shit! Shit! Maybe my purse WAS stolen! Shit! Man, now that is one depressing moment, when you lose, oh, your wallet, with all your credit cards in it. Two checkbooks. A cell phone, which is programmed with all the numbers you use a lot. Your prescription medicines. A few small tools. Sunglasses. Regular glasses. Your keys!!!!!! The extra set of keys, which were kindly and lovingly bestowed upon you....... to your wife’s Volvo!!!!! Shit!

But you must go forward. You keep looking. You look everywhere. You call all the stores where you can remember being in the last 48 hours. You rip your house apart. You walk around the neighborhood, on and on, until, at last, you resign yourself to the fact that, alas, your purse is gone.

And then, the marathon begins. Cancel the credit cards. Cancel the checking accounts, open new ones. Buy a new cell phone. Grieve.

But the keys to my wife’s car.....that was the biggest disaster. Not assuming anything, but realizing that, if my purse was stolen out of my van, which was now Mary’s van, right in front of our house, then the thief might come back, and steal Marie’s new Volvo!!!

It took maybe three weeks to get everything straightened out, that is, to get everything cancelled, get new checks in the mail (on one account , my last name was spelled wrong on the checks, reorder!) But the Volvo key debacle, now that was a hassle.

Of course it was going to be major to change the locks on the new Volvo. The Volvo is an amazing car, all computerized, just a fine machine. But to fix the locks, the car needed to be taken in, and some complex procedure would have to take place, to the tune of several hundred dollars. I was livid. And depressed. Borderline wretched. Losing my purse was stupid, all right, but losing my wife’s keys, now there was one pathetic, bonehead move.

So obviously, since it was going to cost so much to get the Volvo fixed, we realized we had better wait a few weeks, to see if the purse showed up. And every night, to be sure that the Volvo would not be stolen out of the driveway, I would park my new van in the driveway, behind the Volvo, to block it in. And since we had made plans to go out of town for the weekend, we even asked another neighbor to park his car in our driveway for a couple of nights, while we were gone.

No purse showed up. And finally, it was time to make an appointment for the Volvo repair.

I called the Volvo dealer, and asked for the serviceman I had originally called. He was very understanding, and remembered my first call. “Well, I am so sorry to hear your keys have not shown up”, he said,”but we will get it all fixed up for you”. I set a date for the repair for a few days hence. I emailed Marie that I had made the appointment.

So I am sure you will surprised, as I was, that only minutes after my conversation with the Volvo dealer, and I promise you this is the truth, I got a call from Mary.

Mary: Hi Ric, this is Mary.
Ric: (expecting nothing) Hi Mary.
Mary: Guess what Ric?
Ric: What?
Mary: I found your purse Ric.

Words cannot describe my astonishment and elation. Mary and I talked for a sec, and I ran right over. I held my purse like it was a long lost lover. I dove my hand in to find the Volvo keys, still there.

Mary: Gee Ric, I thought it was Jim’s thing, it was right here by where he pays his bills, gee.
Ric: No problem Mary, thank you so much.

And if I may just put in a word for Mary here.........we really love Mary. It was just one of those things, shit happens. And I am oh so grateful she finally found it. But I will admit.....there was a piece of me that wished she might have looked a bit further, the first time I called.

My wife Marie, of course, was also flabbergasted, knowing full well what I had been through to replace all the items in my purse, how much it had cost me, and how I had suffered for losing her keys. Bottom line, we were just so damn relieved. I cancelled the Volvo appointment.

So Mary, if you ever read this, remember, we think you are absolutely the greatest neighbor on the face of the planet......but......I did have to write a song about this experience.....and you’re in it. In fact........it’s titled, “Next Time Mary”.....and if you click on this link, you can hear the song.

Click here to listen to Next Time Mary and read the lyrics

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Car Boxing Shithead

I have lived in the “Famous Hawthorne District”, in Portland, Oregon, as described by Sunset Magazine or some other yuppie publication, for the past 14 years. The population in this area is diverse, a sort of political, ethnic and sexual preference melting pot. It’s popular, the food is fabulous, the shops are edgy. I love it. But I do tend to shop early, before the pot boils over with pedestrians.

Before Marie and I met, I had purchased an old, small Victorian farmhouse, probably one of the first homes in the Hawthorne area, built when it was still mostly farm land. I could barely imagine, but sometimes, as I sat on my porch in white wicker, Starbucks in hand, (Starbucks, one block from home, yikes!), I would imagine the acreage before me as corn, or zucchini.

The parking pressure in the Hawthorne area is tremendous, particularly if you reside only a block or so away from the commercial district, which was the case for me in that house. I had no off-street parking , no driveway, or garage. Many times, when I would get home from work, or a night of hard drinkin’, (just kiddin’), I would be forced to park a block or two from home.

Since I drive a van, and have for many years , it was sometimes challenging to find a good parallel parking space. So I would attempt to find a spot that would accomodate my van, and still allow for others to move in and out of the spaces in front and back of me.

However.......truth be told.......since I did own the house........ I would sometimes squeeze into a space in front of my house, on the theory that, “hey, I live here!” is a good enough reason to take a space that may be a bit too small for a van.

One Starbuck’s Sunday morning, after parking the previous evening directly in front of my house, I went out to take the van on errands. As I approached, I could see that there was a piece of paper, possibly a note, wipered to my windshield.

It was a note.....and man, it was some flamer. Apparently, my parking job had, for all intents and purposes, pinned this guy’s (or gal’s) car in his spot, and he was one unhappy parker. I may have saved that thing somewhere, and I hope I run into it someday. Suffice it to say, the note was fully graced with a plethora of steamin’ four letter words, accusations and death penalties. If I am not mistaken, it referred to several methods of torture, and included the words....”hanging by the balls”. And in closing, the author directed one last shaming my way, by calling me........”a car-boxing shithead”.

All in all, I got the point. And ever since being presented with that glorious note, I have been diligent in making every effort to give fellow parkers plenty of breathin’ room.

Thoughtful, introspective driver of one enormous Chevy van.....Yep. “Car-boxing shithead”?........no way.

Website: http://www.ricseaberg.com

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Phantom Square Feet

I occasionally have a recurring dream, which I had last night, where the real estate I own becomes much larger. For example, my residence suddenly has an immense unfinished workshop, with extremely high ceilings. I spend the most of the dream going over my plans to to remodel and finish the space, excitedly, with my Dad, Ernest Borgnine. The plans are precise and complex. It’s the kind of a remodel that, if you were to attempt to explain it to your wife..... for example, the way you will use support beams to hold up the storage balcony, etc., you would receive one blank stare.

I have no idea where this comes from, or why such a dream would recur. Perhaps it is just a dreaming extension of my creative side, an outlet for the creative that did not get a chance to come out during the day.

But I have to admit, it is terribly disappointing when I finally give in to consciousness, to realize that the amazingly huge workshop is not real, nor are the french doors I installed at the rear of it, with Dad, opening to a path, which passes the English garden on the way to the double car garage. Nor, in the case of my commercial building, is there an immense wooden spiral staircase which leads from the small warehouse I keep to three glorious and huge French Provincial architecture apartments, above the warehouse. And unfortunately, that Armory sized building, attached to my commercial building, also waiting to be remodeled into some sort of fabulous mall, is but a figment of my dreaming imagination too.

No wonder I have Restless Legs. Some nights, I work my ass off.

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Stacey's Song

My wife Marie, who is a wonderful writer, and who makes her living writing, among other things, has a splendid Henry David Thoreau quote on the bulletin board in her office, which reads: “How vain it is to sit down to write, when you have not stood up to live.” The first time I read that quote, I almost felt ashamed for all the writing I have done over the years, especially songwriting, which, whether I want to admit it or not, was, at it’s best, naive and immature. Don’t get me started. I have, however, kept a copy of almost everything I have ever written, so I can take it out from time to time if I am in a good masochistic mood. Hey you, yeah you with the artist’s heart, I’m talkin’ t’you, and bless you.

Can’t help it. These thoughts, and melodies, come down, into my brain, and fall out my fingertips. Truth is, though, along the way, before I knew dick, the motor was already runnin’. Yep, I did write songs titled “Doom Teka Tek”, “You’re My Best Friend, Girl”, and “Eggplant Ratatouille Pie”, which even came with a recipe! Cringe. They all seemed like a good idea at the time. Those songs were bad, but at least, they provide me with the memory of where I was at during a certain time in my life. I thank those of you who know these songs, for not shooting me when you had the chance.

But now and then, something with a bit of lasting value would come along, as is the case, I think, with a little tune I call “Stacey’s Song”, written when I was 20 or 21.

I was so in love with my daughter Stacey. When she was a baby, when she was one, and then two, three, four, man. Though Stacey was born in Salem, Oregon, we moved to Seattle shortly thereafter, for about seven years. Since I was in a band, and didn’ t work days, I was home with Stacey a lot. I would put her on my back and cart her around the Seattle Public Market, in the early 70’s, or take her to band practice, or walk her up to the K-Mart for bread and milk. She was a wonderful child, and has grown up to be a wonderful adult, who still amazes and astounds her loyal and melancholy Dad at every turn. Of course, I can say these same things about my daughter Amy, who was born a few years after Stace.

When Stacey was one or two, I think, “Stacey’s Song” came through, from an especially deep place. Just to give you a little taste, the first verse goes:

“She’s a girl and a definite eyeful
She’s the one I love to touch
She may cry and give me trouble
But I’m alive cuz I love her so much!
She’s mine!”

I am certain you can see, at least, that these are the words of a devoted and adoring father.

Then, Stace grew up. Just like that. Whoosh. Grade School, High School, College, Marriage, 4 Children of her own. Lord.

But at Stacey’s wedding reception, I am happy to report that, when dad and daughter stepped out to dance, it was to the music of Stacey’s Song, which had been requested by the bride. Stace would have preferred the original version, but I insisted on a new recording, which she kindly granted me. That was one groovy fox trot.

Some years later, I was called to hear the news that Stacey had left for the hospital to give birth to her second child. When I had spoken to Stacey earlier in the week, she had said, “Dad, Joe (child #1) loves “Stacey’s Song”....would you bring your guitar up to the hospital when I’m there, and sing it to him?” I agreed, of course, with much pleasure.

I went guitarless to Seattle, but after Colin was born, my buddy Larry Sieber, an old friend who was also in love with Stacey when she was a baby, went with me to buy a new guitar. After finding and buying a new Martin in Seattle, we headed back to the hospital the next afternoon.

When the time came to sing the song, I was seated at the head of Stacey’s bed, with my grandson by my side, who was ready to be entertained. Stacey, who had just given birth to my second grandchild, was holding her new son, as I began to strum. Others were in attendance, Stacey’s mother, my daughter Amy, my friend Larry, husbands. I still can’t believe I made it through the whole thing without cryin’. Well, let’s just say I made it through without breaking down. The tears were there. I got the words out, but in the bridge, which goes.......

“And when I’m weary....so tired....
She takes away my pain
C’mon daddy, get on up....
You gotta play my brand new game....

I almost lost it. But It was a supreme moment, singing the song that I had written for Stacey as a baby, 30 years earlier, to Joe, and to Stacey, once again, as she cuddled her own new baby, and one beautiful reason why I am grateful that I have let the creative juices flow in my life. Many of the songs in the archives are pictures of me wrestling with love and some of the more sour moments of life. But Stacey’s Song, that’s one sweet number.

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Cutter and Cutter

My wife Marie is a gal with many talents. She can sew, write, dance, garden, keep birds, cook, put up a web site, give a great haircut, on and on. Marie graduated from the University of Chicago, and over the years, in her different jobs, and other interests, has become a person who can hold her own on just about any subject. And me, well, I have learned a thing or two over the years myself, though I certainly cannot claim the level of achievement that Marie has attained. Let’s just say, between the two of us, given our age and experience, we know a lotta shit.

So maybe it isn’t so terribly surprising that, many times, we find ourselves doing something, some creative work perhaps, like turning a dumpy Airstream Trailer into a showpiece, when we get that gleam in our eye like, “we could do this.” “We could go into business making these shower curtains for Airstream Trailers”, or “We need to start up a garden design firm”. Of course, with all of our interests, and jobs, and dogs, etc. etc, it’s all in fun. We look at each other like, “Are you out of your mind”, and get a big giggle out of it. Just the idea of going into business, which I know all too well is to give one’s life over to one’s job, is a nightmare just waiting to flower, and something we would never actually consider, given our age and circumstance. But we still act like we are game, in that moment of wackiness.....and I will admit, since I especially know, after 20 years of being in business, how ridiculous it is for us to consider, I love to bring it up, often as I can.

I have a warehouse in my commercial building, which I am considering leasing, although to lease it out would mean that we would have to liquidate many of the items we store there. These days, however, we agree that we could let go of most of the things we store there. Like the roto-tiller, which was great to have when I had a need for it, but those days are gone. Even if we lease this space out, for a retail store, it will leave me with a storage and office area of about 500 sq. feet, which is necessary for me to manage the building, keep tools, etc.

But yesterday, when Marie was cutting my hair, so capably, I said to her, “Honey, I’ve got an idea”. I could hear in her silence that she was very afraid. I said, “Okay so the office space, up at the warehouse, here’s what we do. We set up a shop where you give haircuts, and I help people cut a song, call it something like “Two Cuts”. Here’s the business plan: It’s a one-stop “makeover” type business, where a person comes in, you cut their hair, maybe sell them some product for their skin or something. Then they come into the other side of the shop, and I have all my recording equipment set up there, and I help them make a little CD with some song on it, and basically, they walk outa there, with their makeover, and their CD, feelin’ like a rock star! Whad’ya think babe? They get a hairCUT, And then they CUT a song, we make a million dollars!

You coulda heard a scissors drop. Marie’s reaction, when i say such things, is a sort of a chuckle, but sprinkled with a modicum of fear and loathing. However, she will sometimes feign enthusiasm, just to make my day, maybe make her own silly comment, which fills me with glee. This time, she says...”Let’s call it “Cutter & Cutter”. Now that is one very accomplished....... and....... funny chick.

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Baseball Lessons

It was a beautiful Little League summer in Portland, Oregon, 1960, when I would ride my Schwinn to practice at immaculate Atkinson Field, down bumpy side streets, to the fragrance of a fresh light rain. I was 12, and in my last year of Little League eligibility. The team was Lyseng’s Mobil. I started at first base.

I couldn’t pitch, and don’t make me throw a strike to home, even from first, but I could hit. Not those long looping shots over the army green canvas centerfield fence, like Erik Utterstrom could hit, but lots of singles, and doubles. My average was well over .300. And I was fast. Lots of those doubles were really singles, but I could stretch a right field single into a double almost every time. And get me on base, you might as well count the run. As I recall, we were not the best team, but we did win our share.

But when we won, it was usually because our best pitcher, Ron Sunseri, who these days labors as an Oregon State Representative, was on the mound. Ron was smallish, but he could hurl. Dude was fast. A bit wild, maybe, but that was probably a good thing. As the season progressed, one could easily see that Ron was “all-star” material.

The “all-star” team, a team picked at the end of the season by coaches, included all the best players from every team. With specially made all-star uniforms, and awesome hats that just screamed "achievement", this team would then go on to represent our league at the local Little League championships. The winning local team would then have a chance to go on to the national contest, held each year in Williamsburg, Virginia. Even back then, it was a big deal. These days, one can watch the International Little League Tournament on ESPN.

Since it was my last year in Little League, and I loved it so, man, I was really hoping to make the all-stars. I thought I had a good chance, after all those hits, and those “sliding into home for the winning run” moments.

Sports can teach a kid just about everything he or she needs to know about life. How to get along with others, how to be a team player, how cooperation and hard work begets success, practice makes perfect, never give up, keep the dream alive, and how to cope with disappointment.

Well, maybe not so much that last one, because it took me years to recover from that broken heart , after word came down that I did not make the all-stars. Ron Sunseri did, and he deserved it. But it took me awhile to understand that there were only so many slots, and it wasn’t my time. I knew I could’ve contributed, and I was a good enough player. When I think of that experience, I guess the best I can say about it is, I learned how deeply kids are affected by their successes and failures. I kept that in mind when I raised my own kids.

But I sucked it up, and showed support for the other guys in the league who did make it, some of them my friends at Atkinson Grade School. When the season ended, and the all-star games began, I was in the first row, at Scavone Field, in my Lyseng’s Mobil hat, root beer sno-cone in hand. All in all, it was a great summer.

And to top it off, our team coaches held a season ending, “hot dog feed” at the home of one of the coaches. As I was sitting there, with the other boys, snarfing my third dog, one of the coaches announced that there was something we all needed to do, which was, to vote for “most valuable player”. There would be a prize. I became immediately nervous, ‘cause I knew I had a shot. And this was a voting of peers, so, if I won, that would be cool.

After the votes were tallied, I was most pleased that my other teammates had voted me “most valuable player”. The validation I had missed by not making the all-stars was almost remedied. But I was truly shocked when, another coach announced, as he handed it to me, that the prize I had won for this honor was, are you ready for this.....a baseball signed by the 1960 New York Yankees. Apparently, the Yankees had cranked a bunch of these things out, and our Little League had gotten one.

I was in shock. There, before my eyes, in my hands, was an autographed baseball, on which was written a short sentence, obviously written by the Yankees manager, which read....”Greetings Portland Little League 1960”, and was signed below that by Casey Stengel. On the rest of the ball were the names Roger Maris, Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Elston Howard, Tony Kubek, Bobby Richardson, Ryne Duren, Whitey Ford, Eli Grba, Clete Boyer, Gil McDougald, Bill Skowron, and others. We are talking actual signatures people.

Twenty-five years later, I picked up the ball, which had been in it’s box, hiding in my sock drawer, almost since the day I got it. Looking at it, I realized that it might be worth some money, and began contemplating selling it.

Those were rough financial years. It was just after my first divorce, my business was just getting by, and I had a new girlfriend. I put an ad in the paper.

And I sold that ball for, I can’t remember, like a couple hundred bucks, to the first guy who came over, a baseball nut, a collector. I can remember that he got it for less than I was asking.

I regret selling that ball so much, and it’s not about the fact that it is worth way more today. I sold it in a weak moment, I did something stupid. I would love to have that ball to show off to my grandsons. I would love to have it, just to have it, since it represented such a big moment in a certain little boy’s life. Can you imagine?.....The 1960 New York Yankees! And it was an award that meant so much to me.

Ya win some, ya lose some. Sports offer up all kinds of lessons. Disappointment can rear it’s ugly head all through life, and when you get thrown out, ya just gotta get up, dust off, and move on. Try to forgive yourself, and others, for misteps, and foolish behavior. I am still pissed I sold the ball. But the twinge of regret I feel is going to keep me from letting any of my other treasures go.

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Tomorrow, I'll Quit

I have a place in my heart for those poor souls who get mixed up with drugs. I am a person who has wrestled with smoking along the way, and though I finally won the battle, I can relate. I know that smoking will kill me. It almost did kill me. So I am gonna choose to live, love my kids, watch my grandkids grow up, have a lovely marriage, be loved and support my sweetheart as long as I possibly can. I am lucky to have many wonderful things to live for.

But some people get into those bad habits, snortin’ coke, smokin’ crack, shooting heroin, drinkin’ heavy, and they just plain can’t quit, for one reason or another. As hard as it was to quit smoking, I feel sorry for them. I wish they could have wonderful things in their lives to live for too, something, to help them escape addiction.

I have had one person in my life, a musician friend, who has struggled with drugs almost all of his adult life. Never mind that he is one of the most gifted guitarists I have ever met. He can’t quit doing drugs, or at least, hasn't yet. I love this person, but I have had to let him go.

I was there when he was cuttin’ up the coke. I was there when barely a thing he said made sense. I was there when he called and was so high I felt I had to go to him, in case he needed help.

I was there when he started drinking yet again, after succeeding at a “12 step” style program for quite a long time. We were at a gig. Standing in the bar, he tossed his “30 days sober” key chain onto the top of the cigarette machine. He had been sober much longer than that, but still carried the key chain which celebrated his first month sober. I grabbed it, and still have it.

It was around 1985 when I experienced that moment, and soon after that, I wrote a song titled “Tomorrow, I’ll Quit”. I recorded it and let it lie for years. Another friend of mine, who, coincidentally, has had his own substance abuse problems, mentioned that he thought it was a strong song. I decided to record it again.

A clip of “Tomorrow, I’ll Quit”, from my CD "Who Come Down?" can be heard by clicking here. And thank you to the folks at 12stepradio.com, who have placed the song in rotation on their 24/7 radio station.

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Zero Population Growth

Zero Population Growth, or “ZPG”, it’s acronym, was all the rage in 1971, in my head anyway. I had seen Paul Erlich, who wrote a book titled “ The Population Bomb”, on TV, or heard him on the radio, and began to follow his message. Even though Seattle was still kind of a small town, by New York, Mexico City, and Los Angeles standards, it was becoming large enough to feel the traffic crush, the lines at the theatre crush, the lines at the checkout counter crush, etc. It was buggin’ me. Overcrowded conditions bug me still. There is something not right, something unhealthy about too many people in one place at the same time. I am sure I could come up with some scientific stats about how being in an overcrowded place is not good for a person. But isn’t one intuitive enough to reach that conclusion on one’s own, without supporting science? Overpopulation breeds all kinds of problems, stress, noise, disease, poor quality of life. So in 1971, dude, I was on the bandwagon. Forget the religious dogma about birth control. Let’s fix this shit.

I had a little “Penncrest” (a JC Penney’s brand) reel to reel tape recorder at the time, to record song ideas, my daughter horsing around, maybe the guys in the band going off about something in the truck as we traveled to the Lebanon, Oregon Armory or some other God forsaken place to play. If my memory serves me correctly, I recorded a slew of dorky songs on that thing, which of course sounded horrible, cuz, besides being horrible songs, my little “Penncrest” just wasn’t up to the task. Songs with titles like, “Time to Kill”, “National Avenue”, and “Dustin’ Up”. I have been at this songwritin’ thing for a long time folks.

But I figured my dinky reel to reel would be up to the task to record a little jingle, about Zero Population Growth, which had popped into my brain, as they always do. I thought it might make a big impact on those folks at ZPG headquarters. So I got out the guitar, the mic, which was about the size of a thimble, and recorded. You are going to have to imagine the lovely melody yourself on this one, altho if you ever want me to sing it to you, I certainly will, since it is indelibly saved into the “Songs” file in my brain. It was a very short piece of music, or as we say in the biz, a “ditty”. The lyric was.......”That’s all you can have, no more than two children......to replace you when you’re gone”. End of song.

You have to remember that those little reel to reel tapes were a hassle. So going to these lengths I think, shows my resolve on the issue of ZPG. After recording it, and putting the tape in it’s little tape box, I wrapped it all up, and sent it, with a letter, to ZPG headquarters, which I think was somewhere in California. Of course I never heard a thing, if they had gotten it, if they liked it, or if they wanted to do a huge international campaign and use my ditty as their anthem.

Sometime later, as a continuing supporter of ZPG, I wrote a letter to George McGovern, who had not yet announced for the presidency, regarding my concerns. Mr. McGovern, or some nice person on his staff, was kind enough to send a letter back, in which George addresses the issue of Zero Population Growth, and actually signed with a pen. I still have that letter today, sitting in my studio. It helps provide my fond memory of that time, and the ZPG ditty which, sadly, was never to grace the airwaves. It was a splendid moment in time, and for the record, I still think we gotta pare down the planet. But those reel to reel tape recorders, they sucked.

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The Age Of Tang

We recently had the annual Super Bowl function at our house, once again, on Super Bowl Sunday. This year, as an added attraction, we featured a showing of “The Ice Bowl”, a DVD of the famous game between the Green Bay Packers and the Dallas Cowboys in December 1967. They don’t even allow human beings to play in 18 degrees below freezing weather anymore. It’s considered inhumane. Ah, the good’ ol days, when men were men......and really stupid! It was so cold, the ref’s lip’s froze to their whistles!.......and in removing the whistles, their lips were badly cut and bleeding, resulting in a sort of a “blood pop” hanging from their lips!

But speaking of “the good ‘ol days”, we also had a retro food theme this year. All participants who brought food were to bring something tacky from their childhood, like, say, some casserole your Mom made using Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup. But the theme twist was.......you have to be able to admit that you actually like it!!!!

So I made Cool Whip Trifle, which I will readily admit I LOVE and the rest of the menu ended up looking like this:

*A bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, original recipe
*Green Bean Casserole (canned green beans, cream of mushroom soup, topped with a can of “french fried onions”)
*California Onion Dip (made with Lipton’s) and Ruffles Chips
*Celery stalks stuffed with Kraft Old English cheese in a jar and cream cheese
*Li’l Smokies (this year served in the football shaped crock pot)
*Sloppy Joes made with Campbell’s Tomato Soup as an ingredient
*Twinkies and Hostess Cupcakes
*Cucumber Lime Jello Salad (shredded cukes, lime jello, mayo)

And last, but not least, one of our guests, whose family ate rice, homemade soup and a whole fish everyday as he was growing up, brought a “fast version” of the rice, soup and fish fare, which he, not so secretly, is still fond of. Apparently, when too busy to cook a whole fish, then rice, Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup, and a can of sardines will do the trick. Remember, you have to be able to say you like it!!!! Well, I tried it, and since I love sardines, I admit I thought it was good. But a couple of our younger guests, as Marie noticed, “cut a wide berth around that side of the table by the sardines and soup”.

All this got us talking about the years, when those of us over 50 were kids, and our Moms (not our Dads!) were the most modern of women, preparing dinners from cans and boxes, in record time. Marie eloquently referred to that era as “The Age of Tang”, and as usual, I have stolen her words. And after whipping up her delicious 3 ingredient special Jello salad, which calls for lime Jello, cucumbers and mayonnaise, Marie speculated that, when we think of the housewife role back then, we usually think of the stay home housewife as overworked. And certainly it’s true that being in charge of all the things it takes to run a household can be taxing, in every era. But the food fare that was being offered up to consumers for the first time in those days, can-o-soup entrees, various “helper” foods like boxed mac’n cheese, TV dinners and the like, created a sea change for the housewife, to the easier side of things. Unfortunately, and some may beg to differ with me on this, the fast food items being dreamed up in the test kitchens of America were, for the most part, sorely lacking. But when I was diggin’ into that Sloppy Joe, made with tomato soup and hamburger, on a nice soft white Wonderbread bun, at our Super Bowl party, I was in heaven. That dish scores big time with me.

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Rocky Bob

My dear, beautiful, perfect daughter Stacey, soccer mom of 4, called a bit ago, and reports that her family has the flu. Damn. But it was so great to talk to her as always. Stace and I have that "being in business" connection, and we like to talk business, profit, advertising, yada yada. Stacey's homegrown business, Annabelle Handbags, is quite a little success story. I am totally proud of all my children.

So we passed about a half an hour gabbing, catching up. During our conversation, I mentioned that Marie and I have recently acquired five new birds, and that we have a total of six. I could hear Stacey turn and tell someone, which turned out to be my grandson Joseph, that "Grampa and Marie have six birds now", that "they are gonna be those crazy animal people", cat collectors I think they call them on TV, and we all three laughed.
I replied, "yeah, and newspapers are gonna start building up in every corner of our house too".

It was then that Stacey mentioned that her neighbor, a cat lover, but the owner of a spraying cat, had confided in Stacey that she is conflicted about what to do with their naughty cat. I can relate. Stacey said to me, "I just told her, do what my parents did, just get rid of it, tell the kids it ran away", and laughed, teasingly. There is more to this story.

It was about 1980, my daughters were 12 and 8. We had purchased a feline at a pet store, a beautiful gray long-haired kitten, and we named him Rocky Bob. You know, like in the old "Walton's" TV show, when everyone in the household retired for the night, each person would shout goodnight to others in the house, like, "goodnight Jim Bob", and "goodnight Billy Bob". At my house, this style of goodnighting would digress to..... "goodnight Stacey Bob", and "sweet dreams Daddy Bob", and then, properly, "goodnight Rocky Bob". So you had to be there.

The kids loved that cat. As he grew, he became a huge fluffy lie on your bed kinda cat, just a major lovable oaf. But there was one problem.....Rocky Bob peed the house. It was horrible. He would find a spot, and go for it, and man, that was one focused peeing cat. So of course, Dad pulled out all the stops to try and fix it.

There were all the pet shop remedies, and sprays. There was the cleaner stuff that makes one's home smell like a badly kept grooming salon. There was the new miracle spray that "actually binds to the urine and turns it into a completely different chemical", which also makes one's home smell like a badly kept grooming salon. I was beside myself with the tension this created in the house. It reeked, but the kids loved that cat.

I took to ripping up the carpet where The Rock had sprayed, tossing the carpet piece and the pad underneath, removing the finish from the hardwood floor underneath, sanding, refinishing, and then adding new pad and new carpet to match the old. In one spot, in the dining room, I did this three times. All the while, I was wracked with guilt, and considering the idea of getting rid of the cat.

Then, one day, all of a sudden, I had had enough. I got home from work, exausted, walked into the house, which smelled like, well, a piss factory. I found Rocky, (we had always had a "cat door", so the cats could come and go as they pleased) put him in the car, and drove him to the humane society. I would decide what else later.

Okay, I suck. I pretended I didn't know what happened to the cat. I was young. I was not able to tell the kids what I had done. I thought, I will tell them one day when they have families of their own, so they will understand.

It was completely painful then, nay, cowardly, to act dumb, and to walk about the neighborhood looking for Rocky Bob, calling his name, with the girls, as they sought their beloved pet. Alas, no Rocky Bob was found.

Many years, and, I think, a couple of grandchildren later, I came clean. The reaction was mixed. But as I saw today, with Stacey's lighthearted jab about it, this too has passed. I do regret doing it, not being honest about it back then. But being a parent and knowing the right thing to do is not always right there for one to grasp. Stacey and Amy, I'm sorry. But gimme a call if you find you have a urine machine in your midst.

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The Dry Cleaning Song

I just ordered a beautiful lavender cashmere sweater for my perfect wife Marie, a gift for Valentine's Day. Man, online shopping is for me. Have them wrap it for you too, it's paradise for a guy who wants to get something nice for his sweetheart, but hates to wrap gifts. Basically, most guys. Making this order for cashmere reminded me of a true, embarrassing story, but I am gonna tell it anyway.

Since Marie works full-time, and I am the semi-retired househusband, I volunteer to do some extras around the household, for Marie, and Blaine too. It's the least I can do. So I find myself running lots of errands, picking up medicine at Walgreens, or doing some other chore that neither of them have time to do. They both know they can request my assistance. I tell them I live to serve, and it's the truth.

Just this past year, Marie gathered me into the foyer of our home one day, to explain the variety of bags on the floor there. She had done one of those closet "clean sweeps", and had prepared several bags of clothes for delivery to different destinations. "This one", she told me, "goes to "Dress For Success", a non profit organization Marie favors, which provides interview suits and other clothes for those who are applying for work but can't afford the necessary clothing. "This one", she continued, "goes to Goodwill". "And lastly", she spoke, "This one is mine, and it goes to the dry cleaners, okay?" I concurred. Just to make sure we were on the same page, she repeated her request, several times, and went to work. Later that day, I sped off on errands and included, among them, the clothes project.

So I go to Dress for Success, and they pick through the bags and give me some back. I put the clothes back in the car, and continue to the Goodwill, which is in the neighborhood. I park by the donation station, and a guy helps me pull the bags out of the van, and this is sick part which I will expand on........I gave him everything.........including..........are you tearing up yet?.........remember this is a true story..........my wife's dry cleaning.............many hundreds of dollars of cashmere dresses and sweaters.

The next day, once again in the foyer of our house, I tell Marie, just in conversing, that they did not take everything she had prepared for Dress For Success, that I had to take more things to the Goodwill. And then she says...."What about my dry cleaning, when can we pick that up?"

I'm not sure, I can't remember it all, but I think at that moment, I almost passed out. Yet, being the manly man, I sucked it up and confessed right away, 'cause I knew there was gonna be stuff to do, like, for example, race to the Goodwill, which we immediately did. This is not to say, however, that I was not in shock and punishing myself inside like one of those twisted self flagellating religious zealots in a made for TV movie. All kidding aside, I realize that my "spaciness", in this case, is completely unacceptable. But as Joel Hodgson, the comedian, once said..."Sometimes, I go into my own little world....but, that's okay.....they know me there."

Of course, there was nothing to be found at the Goodwill. If any of that cashmere even made it to the racks, it would have been vacuumed up by some lucky soul in minus time. I told Marie I would make it right for her, of course, and considered which credit card I was going to use. The only problem was, it was Spring, and cashmere is not a big Spring item.

When Marie tells this story, with a bit of a twinkle in her eye, since time has passed, she loves to tell the part about how it wasn't enough that she felt utterly and completely awful about what had happened, but since I felt so bad, and had gone into brooding man mode, she had to kick into taking care of me and my feelings too. Sorry honey.

But the next day, we went to a nice department store Marie likes, and I think she felt a bit better when we were done there, even if it wasn't cashmere we bought, because for one thing I had made an effort to restore her closet. The other thing was, and Marie relishes this part too when she tells the story, the salespersons in the women's department were fawning all over her with pity, not in a phony way either. The news of what had happened transferred from one woman to another with lightning speed. I had found myself a chair by the escalators, to brood, and to be ready for the credit card transaction.

There was another guy sitting by the escalators, also waiting for his wife, and eventually, just because I'm a quirky fella, I told him the story. His reaction was sort of a combination of pity and fear, but before I was done telling it, he was laughing his ass off. I told him, as I left for the credit card call, "now don't you go and tell your wife this story", and he gave me this look like, "oh no of course I won't", but the look in his eye said he couldn't wait to tell her. I knew perfectly well he would.

And of course to top it all off, and much to my sweet and most understanding wife's dismay, I wrote a song about it, you know, just so, in future years, she can remember it all and relive it any time she wants. I know I am going to be buying cashmere clothing for Marie for the rest of my natural life, but maybe that's a good thing.

I have posted the song, which is sung by my alter-ego Lester Stone, and once again energetically played by friend and guitarist Tim Ellis, who, as a husband, has never done one thing wrong in his life. To hear it, click this link.

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The Presidential Litmus Test

I 'ave become an Anglophile. It all started with the cable channel BBC America, and the gardening show "Ground Force", particularly during the time that Alan Titchmarsh served as host. After I watched it for a few months, I became so charmed by the English, the hosts on the show, and the guests, who seemed like such civilized, polite, humble, unassuming, intelligent, swell people. Sure, the accent and the English style guffaw could occasionally make me check to be sure I wasn't watching a Monty Python skit. But basically, I fell in love with those damn nice English people.

And BBC America has other great programming too, which I still keep my eye on. "The Office" was a hilarious, smart, well done show. And of course, one can watch just about as many actual sessions of Parliament as one can handle.

Watching Parliament in action is fascinating. It is so completely different than our Congress. Talk about feeling like you are watching Monty Python, with all the grumbling and tittering. But the way the English play politics seems so up front. Parliament is generally characterized by a very brisk debate, polite, ( I strongly disagree with the kind gentleman from Worchestershire!) and yet, replete with angry and witty remarks, even personal digs.

Watching Parliament yesteday, I realized that one cannot be a dope to run with those dogs. When Prime Minister Tony Blair rises from his chair like a shot out of a cannon to answer some accusation by a member of Parliament, his words are well chosen, concise, and powerful. After watching for a time, my wife Marie stated...."can you see Bush in that role?". Sadly, I would have to say.....not really. The banter and the rate of questions in the belly of Parliament would be, I think, a bit much for Mr. Bush. I am not particularly fond of Mr. Bush's politics, but I do not hate him. I think he is a man with a good heart. Just not particularly bright. Doesn't have the stuff one needs to stand up in Parliament. It's all too quick and in your face. I am afraid, if he were to be put to the test, say, made Prime Minister for a day, it would be a disaster. If a member accused him of pandering to the right on some issue, he would rise from his chair, give that giggly smirk, and look like he was trying to think of something to say.....and then, very slowly, and saying plenty of "long sound" participles in order to sound more eloquent, like "ay" for "a", and "thee" for "the", try to refute his detractor. But alas, the glaze in his eyes would reveal that he had actually forgotten the question. Oh man. I want a president who could stand the heat in the kitchen of Parliament!

George Bush Sr? No. Bill Clinton? Yes. Hillary......argh,......Hillary would speak so slowly and shout her speech as she does, in her usual obsequious monotone. Al Gore? Maybe. He is smart enough, but is he quick witted enough? John Edwards? Probably.

Name your politician. Watch a bit of Parliament. If you think you could plug your man or woman into the role of Prime Minister, if he or she is smart enough and quick enough to be able to handle the debate in Parliament, then that person would likely be a good candidate for President of the United States.

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Pyramid Schemes

Shame on those who would disguise a pyramid scheme as an opportunity to achieve success. Whether it's cleaning products or knives, the pyramid scheme, a system of selling goods where commissions are paid to recruit new sellers, almost always turns to disaster for the individual investor. But lots of people will bite when the greed factor kicks in, and only realize when it's too late that they have wasted their time and money, for the benefit of a select few at the top. Since commissions are based on the number of sellers recruited, the right to sell the goods is sold to an increasing number of sellers at lower and lower levels. Eventually, one discovers that there are a limited number of people willing to participate, gives up, and loses their investment.

And that recruitment, lordy. Talk about pressure. I suppose one could chalk it up to a learning experience, mostly for the young, who don't have the wisdom to realize that they are being suckered. But it can be an expensive lesson.

I can barely remember the "Amway" party I attended, but I do remember the pressure of the sales person, who was my friend, capital was, attempting beyond all reason to get me to throw down my money for this rare chance to become a big success. After the chart presentation, and the stellar product line, all that was between me and The Donald was my unwillingness to take part in this "sure" thing. But my mind was made up. There is no way in hell I was ever going to attempt to drag someone screaming into a pyramid scheme, knowing full well the pitfalls of such a plan. And of course, my friend eventually discovered that his investment was wasted. I am not saying that there are not a few who actually stick to something like this and make a success of it. But it is very, very difficult, and the zipcodes of America are lined with those whose experience with a pyramid scheme is remembered with disdain.

But'cha gotta see the humor in it. Even if you have been a victim, and lost money, it's over. Look back and see yourself going red in the face as you espoused the virtues of floor wax, kitchen and toilet cleaners, as if no other tsp based soapy product could possibly compare. Think of your lame sale's pitch. Think of the fact that you were blinded by greed and learned a lesson that might have cost you, but didn't kill you. Think of the time you told someone that, if you could just sign them up today, within the next hour, you would still win that trip to Disneyworld, all expenses paid for you and your family. "Just a second, I am going to call my supervisor to see if I can still win it, Rich".............and then...."ALRIGHT! He said there's still time! Sign up right now, Rich, and my dear beloved kids WILL get to Disneyworld after all." Pretty twisted, but in retrospect, to me anyway, pretty funny.

I don't really have anything against Amway. Amway is only one of thousands of companies whose sales tactics have drifted toward the pyramid over the years. I admit that I have no idea how they pitch their products these days. But they do, in my mind anyway, hold the position as Pyramid Scheme King.

In 1997, we were planning a vacation to Detroit, to see certain "must" sights, like the original Motown recording studio. While perusing the travel books we had purchased to help us decide what else to do during our trip, we discovered that we would be within striking distance of "Amway World Headquarters", located in Ada, Michigan. I didn't stump for a yes answer right away from my traveling companions, Marie and Blaine, but I kept it in the back of my mind, and took a suit and tie along, you know, just in case I might get a photo op in front of the Amway World Headquarters sign.

And one morning in Detroit, as we planned our day, I made my case. Those two nuts went for it. We made other stops along the way, and had a blast, but we did actually travel the 150 miles from Detroit to Ada, to the destination point of Amway World Headquarters, just to kneel before the Amway sign, maybe do the tour.

Just about closing time, we pulled into Ada, and unfortunately were not able to catch the tour of the Amway factory. I would have loved to have heard the likely over the top superlatives about the Amway products. But still, I did suit up, at the back of our rented van, and the three of us walked a block or two to the sign, and got some pictures.

If you wanna see a couple, click here.

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My Flatulent Grammy

My grandmother's name was Hildur. Grammy passed away in 1993 at the age of 93. I think of her often. I remember her to be kind, generous, loving. The year I turned 13, she finally quit addressing my birthday cards to "Master Ricky Seaberg". When my grandfather, her husband Ed, passed away while they were here in Oregon on a visit many years ago, Grammy moved out here. She and my Dad lived in the same apartment complex in Lake Grove, Oregon. My sister and brother-in-law helped her move many of her belongings out here from Chicago, and from Florida where they had a second home. I inherited a lovely couch of Gram's, now in storage, which Marie and I are going to have recovered soon. It is one of those gorgeous lion-footed stylish old couches. But Grammy left us more than things. She left us memories.

As my folks and Gram grew older, my sisters and I took turns caring for them, (fixing Dad's lawnmover was one of my yearly tasks). My mother had gone to a nursing home, in Portland, so we went to see her regularly. Gram's health held out over both my Mom and Dad, who predeceased her. So for years, we would take Grammy places, to dinner, to a Portland Trailblazers basketball game, a concert, go over to play cards, take her shopping. My contribution was usually in the form of taking Grammy to dinner. I tried to mix it up, taking her to new and different places, but not too different. She was sort of a meat and potatoes gal. Mostly, we would just enjoy each other's company, chat about everything, business, family, but I will say she preferred to keep the conversation light. Once, when I attempted to discuss a divorce I was going through, her eyes sort of glazed over as if to say, " no more please. Don' wanna go there". Of course, as the years wore on, Gram would tell me stories of people that she had heard from in Chicago or Florida, e.g., "Did you know that Bert and Terry Lundquist are spending their winters in Havasu City these days?", as if I knew her friends as well as she, though I really had no idea who she was talking about. But I would engage, and for the most part, those times, just the two of us, as she passed 80, and then 85, and then 90, were precious.

One little teeny thing though, for your reading pleasure, was a bit tedious and trying when it came to dining with Grammy. First of all, may I mention that Gram was quite hard of hearing. She claimed that it was from when a gun went off right by her ear in some wild west show she had attended while vacationing. It was more likely a medical problem, but as a devout Christian Scientist, all her life, well, let's just say she wouldn't for a minute consider such a thing.

So I always thought that her hearing might have been at least a bit at fault for Gram's, well, non-chalant farting. I mean, sitting there with her at the white tablecloth, enjoying my Beaujolais, rolling the wine in the glass a bit, savoring it's elegant fragrance and then.....RRRRRRRRRRippppppppppp! She would look at you, with the sweetest little smile, as if nothing had happened. I have this horrible fear that if I ever lose my hearing, from say, cranking up the headphones when I am recording, a similar fate will befall my dear children. But I guess one could see how it could happen. Even if you could feel it coming, and going, if you can't hear it, you might think no one noticed.

Once, as we ordered our Sole and Chateaubriand, from a sweet and helpful waitress at a fine restaurant, the fireworks began. I am not talking a putt. I am talking tear-ass creeper. I am talking a very, very long, loud, outstanding crackle of passing gas, halted, and then repeated. The kind you might find on a website featuring fart sounds for download. The waitress gets a look on her face like she is shocked but refrains from any other action or statement. She remains calm. I, on the other hand, am between "my most embarrassing moment", and bursting out laughing. Thankfully, we made it through the rest of our order without further mishap.

And it wasn't always a problem. Just occasionally. But that can be a bit of a drawback, the inconsistency, I mean, 'cause when it happens, you are never ready for it.

But after Gram turned 90, I could count on her every time. Before, during, after. I became less and less affected, more and more just plain happy to be with her and sharing time with her, hearing her stories.

But one last issue, if I may. The leaving the restaurant part, after the meal, now that was a doozy. I would help my dear and more frail Gram to her feet, and we would wind and wend throught the restaurant, past tables of diners, toward the front door. Grammy had become quite slow, and unsteady, and occasionally, she would even reach over to a table of diners to steady herself, while holding my arm with her other hand. And all the while, and this is the absolute truth, offering up monster loud wind breakage, just about eyeball high if you are a diner in a booth, and still smiling cutely at the patrons as she passed by.

I miss my Gram, and all my elders. When you love someone as much as I loved my Gram, and she has, oh, a wee bit of a flatulence problem, you learn to not give a damn what other people think. Life is just too short to be anal.

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Sunset Strip

I barely remember the black and white TV show, "77 Sunset Strip", which starred Ephrem Zimbalist, Jr., and Ed Byrnes, who played "Kookie", pronounced "Koo-key", and whose role and vast popularity spawned the hit, "Kookie, Kookie, Lend Me Your Comb". The actor and less talented singer actually sang lead on that monster hit. One line from that song went..."I've got smog in my noggin, ever since you made the scene". Yikes. Sunset Strip was larger than life in my brain, a place that actually existed somewhere in Los Angeles, where they made famous TV shows, but a place a kid can only imagine, if you are growing up in Portland, Oregon.

But in 1969, touring with my band, "The Morning Reign", I got there. We had been in L.A. for various reasons, to record, to be on a TV show, and to meet with some management people, who had shown interest in our group. We stayed at one of the band member's folk's house in South Pasadena. We only had a few days in the area, but we made it count, doing what we had come for, but seeing the sights too. On two consecutive nights, we all traipsed down to Sunset Blvd., to go to "The Whiskey a' Go-Go", and another popular club on the strip, "Gazzarri's".

"The Whiskey", as it was known in the day, was the most well known of the two, and we had gone there to see a group known as "The People," who were managed by one of the companies that was interested in our band. They had suggested to us that we go see the band play. Before the show, standing outside at the crosswalk, I just about shit when I realized I was standing next to the non-chalant L.A. pedestrian, Eric Burden. A couple of years earlier, I had played a 45 of the Animals "The House of the Risin' Sun", which of course he sang lead on, to approximate death at the house where Sandy Stone used to babysit.

Inside, we were all impressed with The People's set, including their smash hit, "I Love You" (yes I do but the words won't come) a Chris White penned number which had been lifted from a Zombies LP. Their final number, an instrumental , their version of "The William Tell Overture", and featuring their two drummers, was over the top, blew me away. I was certain that "The Morning Reign" could never be that good.

The next night, amid huge billboards advertising TV shows, movies and musical acts, we showed up at Gazzarri's, a lesser known but hip club, just down the street from the Whiskey. We were all barely 21, but the beer was flowin'. The house band, known as "Eddie James and The Pacific Ocean", a four member finger poppin' soul music group, was onstage. I recall that their version of "I Wanna Testify", featuring the vocal acrobatics of the rough voiced, pock-marked, skin tight bell-bottom wearin' Eddie James, was unbelievable. And these guys didn't even have a record deal! I was not that surprised, however, to find out years later that the popular actor, Edward James Olmos, and the rocker Eddie James from Eddie James and The Pacific Ocean, are the same guy. Record deal or not, dude made it in show biz.

But the thing that sticks in my mind most from that evening is a moment I have always had a hard time describing, cuz it was so surreal, but I will give it a try. Sitting there, nursing my beer, groovin' to the tunes, and missing my baby daughter Stacey, who was back in Oregon, I heard what I thought to be, out of the corner of my ear, an English accent coming from a table or two behind me. After I listened a wee bit more, I turned carefully to see who it was, you know, maybe someone from The Who. But I was shocked to see that it was one of the members of my own band, not mentioning any names, who was talking to a female patron, well, trying to pick up a female patron, and using a fake british accent. I mean we are talking a guy from Eastern Oregon. I listened more. I couldn't believe it. I had never heard him do this before. It was not a horrible fake, but to me, it was obvious. Part of me was stunned, part of me was thinking how ridiculous it was. Several of us gathered at my table to eaves drop for maybe an hour. For the rest of us rather clean cut and straightforward college types from Oregon, it seemed crazy. At that moment, hearing his phony accent and made up stories of rock stardom, I realized that some guys will do anything to impress a chick.

The Urinal Once Used By JFK

My step-son Blaine, who graduated from High School in 1997, includes among his many talents encyclopedic recall of everything Motown. For someone his age, one might think this odd, since he wasn't even alive during the Motown era. All I can say is, both he and his mother have the Motown gene. Get them anywhere within earshot of Smokey Robinson, they're shakin' their moneymaker. Play Marvin Gaye's version of Yesterday, or greater still, The National Anthem, as performed by Marvin at the 1983 NBA All-Star game, it's church. And don't even try to knock either one of them back with some lame Stax-Volt question.

Marie and I met in 1997, right about the time Blaine was getting ready to graduate. Marie fell to tears one evening, talking to me about how proud she was of Blaine for finishing high school and getting his diploma, given his disabilities. Don't get me started. In more ways than one, Blaine is my hero too.

Marie had planned a special graduation present for Blaine. She had been plotting for months to take Blaine, to honor his achievement, to the birthplace of Soul Music, Detroit, Michigan, for a tour of the Motown recording studio, "Hitsville USA", where all of them, The Temptations, the Supremes, Marvin, Smokey, The Funk Brothers, Berry Gordy Jr., on and on, played and sang their hearts into some of the greatest music ever made.

Marie invited me to go. I was so thrilled to be asked. And I knew I could be of some help to them too, going on the plane, helping with Blaine, and making all the stops she had planned, including a stop in Cleveland, to tour The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.


Marie had told Blaine the big surprise, and he was, to put it mildly, pumped. One Saturday, still in Portland, we bought some travel books, some generic travel guides, and a few more exotic titles, to help us find some interesting and unusual things to do on our trip. Blaine and I got such a kick out of a couple of these books, because some of the sights and roadside attractions were just nuts. Giggling loudly, as we read them, we would call out to Marie our expectation to visit, for example, "The World's Largest Tire", which makes it's home in Dearborn, Michigan. Marie's reaction, of feigned severe regret for even having the dumb idea to go on this trip, got us going even more. The vacation of a lifetime had begun.

I'm sure I will be able to come up with some other tales of our adventures on this trip, but the following has to rate highest among them. One morning we awoke to a sunny day in Cleveland, the day after we had visited The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, which we found to be definitely worth the trip. As Blaine sat in his chair, Marie and I lounged on the bed, considering our options for the day. We had our travel books spread among the blankets, and at some point, someone, I can't remember who it was, probably Blaine, made the suggestion that we drive to Salem, Ohio, to view the much revered "urinal once used by JFK", which all three of us found to be one of the most amusing and inane roadside attractions to ever find it's way into a travel book. We decided, we've made it this far........we gotta go!

The book where we had discovered this rare find is titled, "The New Roadside America", ( first fireside edition 1992). The text states precisely...."Our favorite presidential tribute would have to be the urinal used by JFK, in the men's room at Reilly Stadium in Salem, OH. The urinal is marked by a small plaque, and when the stadium's restrooms were renovated in the late '80's, it was reverently left untouched." So it's probably coming together for you now why we were so fired up about seeing this important Americana.

Research. We can't just drive blindly the 200 miles or so to find this most desirable attraction, without first making a call or two. We are long on rental car miles already.Who to call?...............

We decide to call the Salem, Ohio, city hall. I prop the phone up on the bed. Inside, I am beside myself with glee. I know this is gonna be good.

A lady answers at city hall, and I explain myself, as Marie and Blaine pay close attention. "Yes", I say, "my name is Ric Seaberg. My family and I are vacationing, and we thought we would drive down from Cleveland to Salem to view the urinal once used by JFK at Reilly Stadium, but we thought we would call first just to be sure we will be able to see it." As these words roll off my tongue, all three of us are just about ready to split a gut, and we have just begun.

There is dead silence on the phone. Finally, the lady says, "well, uh, I wouldn't know about that," dismissively. I explain that I am not kidding, that I have a travel book before me, and read her the text. "Well, I've never heard of that before, why don't you call over to the high school, that's where the stadium is." She reluctantly finds the phone number for me. I scribble it down on the hotel phone book.

I receive a similar greeting from the Salem, Ohio High School receptionist. "That's not something I would know about. Why don't I let you talk to our principal?" I say thank you very much, and my call is transferred. I am certain this is the end of my query. And I am shocked when a male's voice picks up. "May I help you?", an authoritative voice asks. "Why yes, thank you", I say, and begin my schpeil to the principal of the high school, about the urinal once used by JFK, and our desire to see it, as Marie and Blaine squirm and put their hands over their mouths. I am starting to get into it. He tells me he has heard of this before, but so far as he knows, there is no urinal used by JFK at Reilly Stadium, or a plaque, commemorating it's moment of usage. "But perhaps", he continues, "The Superintendent of Schools could help you with this." As he transfers my call, I tell Marie and Blaine that my call is being transferred to the Superintendant of Salem Schools, and the look on Marie's face is just about all I can take. I am having a rough time keeping it together.

"May I help you", another male voice asks. "Thank you sir," I reply. "My name is Ric Seaberg. My family and I are vacationing in your beautiful state, and we are, oh, you might say, eclectic tourists. We have a travel book here, which features unusual sights, and we are bound and determined, since we have travelled all the way from Portland, Oregon, to view one very special Ohio attraction, as featured in this book, and referred to as the urinal used by JFK. It is said to be at Reilly Stadium, and even has a plaque." The Super laughs, and suggests to me that he has heard of this, but suspects it is a figment of someone's imagination. "But it says so right here in this book", I offer, and he decides to lend a hand. "Let me give you the football coach's number", he says, "he's over at the stadium all the time. Maybe he could help you". I am thinking..... paydirt. This coach guy has gotta know something. I say thank you and goodbye.

So we take five and I towel off. We are in the zone. I don't believe I have ever had more fun in my life on a vacation, and all we are doing is sitting on a bed. Marie and Blaine have laughed so hard they are in tears.

I call the coach. He too, says he has heard of this, but "I'm afraid we just don't have that urinal used by JFK over at the stadium". He is clearly disapointed that he cannot answer in the affirmative."When we remodelled the stadium, a couple of years ago, I dunno, maybe they took it out and put it someplace", he allows. "Why don't you try the historical society."

We are prepared to make an appointment with the historical society and drive there to wander through the bowels of some warehouse to find the urinal, but alas, all I get at the historical society is a recording. I hang up only partially defeated. I know we have already had an experience that we will never, ever forget, not in a thousand lifetimes.

We catch our breath, have some breakfast, and head out to see "The Cleveland Style Polka Hall of Fame", which turns out to be a good story all in itself. The nearly rabid polka mania that grips Cleveland is a sight to see. Trophy cases, lifesize autographed photos, a wall of LPs and CDs, even cookbooks and polka slogan potholders. Still, we would have much, much rather feasted our eyes on the urinal used by JFK, at Reilly Stadium, in Salem, OH.

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