Tree Nuts

In 1983, dining in a Chinese restaurant, while awaiting the results of a major surgery that one of my daughters was having, I experienced my first severe allergic reaction. As dinner progressed, I had a major rush of illness, like a huge head cold, complete with sore throat, runny eyes, achey all over. It happened so incredibly fast, and as I was paying the bill, I told my ex-wife, “man, something is wrong with me”. Before the night was over, my face became numb and swelled to the point that I was barely recognizable. It was sort of an “Incredible Hulk” look. I went to the hospital, and they gave me a big shot of antihistamine, and steroids, which aside from their nasty side effects, is absolutely the best medicine to reduce inflamation. They sent me home, I missed a day of work, and got well. My daughter’s surgery was a success.

22 years pass. No more reactions of the kind I have just described. Then in September, of 2004, not long ago, my feet began to itch, at night, in bed, really bad, like you want to take a hair brush to them. But I would fall asleep, only to have them begin itching the next night. On September 29th, which was the day of the “Santa Monica” release party, I woke early with a start, and a badly swollen tongue. I told Marie that I had no idea what was going on, slurring and stammering as someone with a huge ill-fitting tongue is wont to do, and that I was probably having an allergic reaction of some kind. I told her that since we had a big party to conduct that day, I would just “gut it out”. She teases me now, months later, that I sounded ridiculous. She recommended, suggested, then insisted that I go to the ER at the hospital. Once again, intravenous antihistamine and steroids did the trick. By party time, I was a barbecuin’ fool.

In forthcoming weeks, I returned to the ER three more times, for similar events, a swollen tongue or face. It sucked. And almost all the time, my feet were itching or swollen, to the point that it was painful to walk.

Anaphylactic shock, which is when your throat closes up on you, due to an allergic reaction, and can kill you, is only a motion away from these reactions.

I talked to my primary care physician, and made an appointment with an allergist. Since then, we have been trying out an array of different measures. He gave me an “Epipen”, to use in an emergency situation. It’s a shot of Epinephrine, to jab in your leg, if an emergency arises, like anaphylactic shock. Many people who are allergic to bee stings carry one. He gave me several oral “histamine blockers”, or antihistamines, to control the reactions.

We have all been diligent about trying to figure out this mess. The allergist advised me to stop taking certain other meds (which I have taken since 2000 due to a heart attack), doing “challenges” with each med, to see if eliminating one or another might make a difference. Marie has been offering up suggestions, and I have been having a new theory everyday, much to her chagrin. But suffice it to say, we have taken the situation very seriously. We have scoured the websites regarding allergies. We have discussed the different foods I favor. We have downloaded lists of common allergens, like eggs, shellfish, and “tree nuts”. All the while, one or the other of my feet have been sore, even with the oral antihistamines, and I have had a few small swellings on my face and tongue, which have not required a trip to the hospital.

All the while, in trying to figure this out, attempting to uncover the “trigger”, I have been using the strategy of asking the question, “what is consistent about these recent attacks and the attack in 1983?” Aspirin? Yes. Lipitor? No. Eggs? Yes. Caffeine? Yes. That sort of thing. But no challenge has provided relief......until........

I am almost positive, at this point, that the culprit is.......are you ready for this.......diet soda! Particularly diet colas, which I favor. I am not certain which ingredient is the problem, but it is probably aspartame. Internet accounts of aspartame allergy include many of the same symptoms that I have experienced for years. It may be a combination of things, say, aspartame and stress. Or aspartame, caffiene and stress. All I know for certain is, I quit the pop, and I don’t have any events.

I feel like I have a new lease on life. Today, I had fried eggs for breakfast. Later, I am gonna have me some tree nuts. But I think I will wash them down with a nice, pure, safe glass of water.

In the Fall of 2005, I will release two new CDs. One of the songs included is a ballad titled “Allergy Sufferer”, which is my way of expressing empathy for those of you with Zyrtec and Singular in your pocket.

Farm Girl

Marie, Blaine and I feel so blessed to have a lovely home, a turn of the century Craftsman style, in the Hawthorne district of Portland, Oregon. Marie bought this house in 1977, and when I came into the picture in 1997, she acquired the everyday handyman skills a house needs. It’s not a huge house, but it is plenty big for the three of us. Over the past seven or eight years, together, we have made vast improvements, and the house has truly become our castle. My step-son Blaine, who uses a wheelchair, has his own accessible room on the first floor, with a full accessible bath, including a roll-in shower. In the front yard, leading to the porch, is a fully landscaped concrete ramp. And Marie’s proclivity for gardening has turned both front and back yards into a virtual jungle, lush with unusual and fragrant flora, and including a massive banana plant. In mid-summer, giant bright green banana leaves unfurl in the sunlight, as we sit with our Chardonnay beneath the towering bamboo, and enjoy the view, while the fragrance of fresh line-caught barbecuing Salmon fills the air.

One thing that makes this house a home, or, rather, two things, are those precious fluffy white canines, our Bichon Frises, Pippi and Poppi. When Marie gets home from work each day, she has to sit on the couch with them immediately, so they can plant her with many kisses, all jumpy and excited, and it fills us with glee. Marie, because she is the object of their affection, and me, just watching. Every moment of the day, just having them at our feet, or watching their antics, brings more warmth and love into our home. I say, send those angry terrorists a truckload of Bichon puppies. Call it “Operation Puppy Love”.

Bichons are good little watch dogs, and we can tell everytime someone is walking by the house, with a dog, or even alone. They let us know by jumping to the top of the couch, growling, and barking. We realized in retrospect that they were trying to tell us something was wrong, the night my van was broken into. Of course one can dwell on the positive aspects of their nosey and excitable nature, but I admit, sometimes they are, shall we say, a bit yappy.

Occasionally, when they are extra barky, or making a mess of things, maybe destroying one of Blaine’s Sports Illustrated magazines, before it hits the floor after coming through the mail slot, I tell them...”Quit actin’ like dogs”! But we all realize, if we are gonna have dogs, there will be a thing or three we’ll need to tolerate. Like walking them several times a day, and retrieving their poop. Like having them in your face when you are trying to savor your barbecued lamb. Or trying to fall asleep in your bed, while petting them, but every time you quit petting them, on the brink of slumber, they reawaken you with a paw to the ribs, saying, “Hey Dad, don’t stop petting me, I want more! Please!!!!”

All of those things pale in comparison to the joy I feel as they follow me from room to room, or when Pippi, especially, just stops in her tracks and stares up at me so adoringly, oily eyed and loyal, or when I see one of the dogs sitting comfortably on Blaine’s lap, while he cruises the internet from his wheelchair.

But yesterday, the doggies exibited some completely unacceptable behavior, once again, just bein’ dogs, but behavior that they will have to curb.

For several days, I had noticed that Poppi, the more assertive of the two, was coming into the house after being in the backyard, with a very dirty face. I thought she was just enjoying the Spring, that she was just digging around a bit. I would tease her, tell her what a mess she was, but didn’t think much about it. I had also noticed that she’d been especially fond of cats and anything that moves, for the last few days, as we walked the neighborhood. Then, yesterday, I found some small balls of dirt, on my studio floor, and on our bedroom floor, and thought, this is weird, what the heck is this? I vacuumed them up, as Pippi growled and attacked my dustbuster.

But all was revealed last night, as I typed away in my office, and Marie slid into our bed to read and retire. Suddenly, I heard Marie scream out, not a blood curdling scream, but more a scream of surprise than fear. I rushed to the bedroom. As I entered the room, Marie, lying under the covers, spoke, as she glared at the foot of the bed, “there’s a dead rat on the bed.”’ My eyes quickly followed her glare, and there, standing out among the bright pink folds of the comforter, was one dead, long-tailed rat, resembling a grey and furry dog toy, not yet putrid, and sleeping peacefully, it’s soul departed. A poet might say “chilly, crisp, unarmed.” I’m sayin’, one huge fucking rat.

I removed the rat with a dustpan and a trowel, and disposed of it in the garbage can outside, as the English say, “straight away”. Seeing that Marie wasn’t really freaking out, I said to her, upon my return, “man, I’m glad you’re a farm girl”. She replied, “yeah, I was just thinking about that. It takes a lot more than a dead rat to rattle me.” I suppose that when you grow up in Milo, Oregon, and have to watch out for cougars when you are just playing in your own yard, at seven years old, seeing a dead rat is not a big deal. And when a forest fire is threatening your house, and just about to jump the river to destoy it, a dead rat is not much of a menace. And when your Dad says, “go chop off a chicken’s head and bring me the chicken”, a dead rat does not intimidate.

When we woke this morning, I could see that my sweet wife, who slept with her feet directly under the spot where that dead rat landed, courtesy of some dog, had slept quite restfully, and, well, like a farm girl.

See a few photos of the naughty canines here:

And here's a clip of "The Bichon Song" from my CD "Santa Monica"

Or this clip of my song "One On The Dogs", inspired by our two pups.

Website: http://www.ricseaberg.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ric.seaberg.5

CDBaby: http://www.cdbaby.com/m/artist/RicSeaberg

iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/ric-seaberg/id7749841

Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/ric-seaberg

Dishwasher Salmon

Poor Marie. My dear wife has to sit by and watch my step-son Blaine and I create all kinds of mischief. But I am certain, that in her heart of hearts, she would have to admit that she was extremely excited, the day we finally got around to making our Dishwasher Salmon recipe, since she was so impressed with the Twinkies Flambe.

My brother-in-law David turned me on to Dishwasher Salmon, a few years ago, but I never did make it, until this week. Perhaps the fact that he actually gave me a book of fish recipes which contains the Dishwasher Salmon recipe, last time I saw him, gave me the gumption to finally make it happen. If I don't say so myself, it was some succulent piece-o-Chinook.

It’s really easy, guys, and I know your wives will appreciate it so much when you open that dishwasher to reveal dinner. Here’s what you do:

Get a nice salmon fillet, and put it on a large piece of aluminum foil. Butter the foil beneath the fish. Salt and pepper the fish lightly, granulated garlic too if you have it. Then add some other nice ingredients, like, oh, some lemon wedges, garlic cloves, orange slices, onion slices, make it pretty. Then wrap the whole thing up really tight, so no air can escape, no holes! Make sure you start with a really big piece of foil, to be sure you can get it really tight. One thickness of foil, all around, is all you want. Don’t double it.

Okay so unload the dishwasher, you are gonna basically bake the fish in there, all by itself. Put the foiled package on the top drawer of the dishwasher. Now, every dishwasher varies, so, let’s talk about that. You want to run the fish through one complete cycle. But not the super hot one, and not the quickie one. You want the one that is right in the middle. At our house, it would be the “normal” setting, very simple. Also, put it on “hot drying”, or “extra hot drying”, whatever your dishwasher offers for extra heat, to help bake the fish.

The most important part, of course, is to time this, so when your wife or girlfriend comes around, you can give her a wonderful surprise! Imagine her delight as you walk her to the kitchen, her cherished hand in yours, and tell her.......”I have a very special surprise for you honeybunny”. And then, like the gourmet chef that you are, you open the dishwasher to reveal first, the foil, but then, with your glasses totally steamed, you bend over and split open the foil, to reveal a perfectly cooked and garnished salmon filet. “I’m going to get out that expensive bottle of Pinot Gris we bought at the vineyard last year, sweetheart”, she says with a wink, and gives you a peck on the cheek before she scampers off to the wine cellar, only pausing to poke her head ‘round the kitchen door and speak, all sexy, as she points directly at you, “I love that man”.

Having friends over for this event only amplifies the glory. Have fun and let me know how it went!

"Santa Monica" Debuts On iTunes!

After many weeks of watching and waiting, my CD "Santa Monica" is up on iTunes! Those of you who take your music in digits will now be able to buy one or more songs from any of my full length CDs for $.99 each, or a full CD (15 -16 tracks), for $9.99. Thanks in advance for supporting my habit of making music!

Jesus Didn't Have A Car Payment Either

Where some of my song ideas come from, I have no frickin’ idea. I will just be sitting there, and boom, some little phrase, sometimes accompanied by a melody, just pops into my head. I like to think of it as the positive side of being attention deficient. With all those cells firing up there, in my brain, in all directions at all times and without mercy, it makes it difficult to keep one’s train of thought. But those same naughty little cells, those bastards, sometimes give me a little chunk of a tune, so I guess I’ll put off the lobotomy for a few more weeks.

"Jesus Didn’t Have A Car", from my CD, “Santa Monica”, is a song whose title “popped” into my brain, just like that, much to my surprise. I scribbled it down on a scrap of paper, and returned to it when I had a bit of time to sit with the guitar. In such a case, I ask myself, “well, what else about Jesus not having a car could be said”, and off we go.

Sometimes, when I have a title first, I will google it, just to see if there are any other songs by the same title, particularly if the title seems as though it could have been used before. For example, a title like “Why You Picked Me”, or “Forever Marie” might illicit such research. If I find that there are other songs with that title, it may not stop me from using it, but I still like to know.

With “Jesus Didn’t Have A Car”, however......I didn’t even fire up the computer. Surely, I thought, there are no songs with this title.

But after publishing the song, on my CD “Santa Monica”, one day I became curious, as songwriters sometimes are, and typed it into the search engine, with quotes, to see if there were any exact matches.

Ah, the Internet. There were thirteen exact matches for “Jesus didn’t have a car”, to my complete surprise. None, however, was a song title. Thirteen matches! All, of course, were used somewhere in text, on someone’s website about Jesus, on a discussion list, or in a sermon, etc. I clicked on a few, and realized that the term was popular enough.

But the fourteenth hit fascinated me. It was not an exact hit, but read...”Jesus didn’t have a car payment either”. I thought, now wouldn’t it be a gas to write a song with that title?

In the fall of 2005, I will release “Jesus Didn’t Have A Car Payment Either” on a new CD. Meanwhile, you can hear  “Jesus Didn’t Have A Car” by clicking on this link.

Long Hair

Click on this link to hear the audio version of this entry:

It seems ridulous now, but there was a time, in these here United States, when having long hair, if you were a guy, was dangerous. It all started with the Beatles, and some of those San Francisco bands, those pot smokin’ hippies, gettin’ stoned, growin’ their hair long, and singin’ songs about peace and love, what a bunch.

In Salem, Oregon, where several members of my old band, “The Morning Reign” had attended Willamette University, guys with long hair were few and far between. But in the band, not to be outdone by those Frisco outfits, our hair was going south. Toward the nape of our necks, and then further, God forbid, to shoulder length, seldom seen on the streets of the Capitol.

When we were all together, performing, or doing things bands do, like eating at Denny’s, or picking up guitar strings at the music store, it wasn’t a problem. But go to Denny’s by yourself, in Salem, or say, a smaller city nearby, like Silverton, or Gervais, and you were taking your life in your hands. Older men, especially, didn’t dig the long hair look, and derogatory comments were usual. And not always little digs like, “Hey girly, you need a haircut”, but a few times, “Hey Bob, II see you got your knife there on your belt, whad’ya say we take this little girly man out back and cut his hair for him”, that kind of thing, sorta scary. And during a meal at a Chinese restaurant with my former spouse, and my baby daughter Stacey, who was in a high chair, a man came right up to the table, and told me “you look fuckin’ ridiculous. Get that hair cut, before somebody does it for ya.’’


Once, during a recording session in Seattle at Jerden Records, the six of us left the studio for lunch, sporting our Beatle cuts. Walking under the monorail, looking for a lunch counter, we passed a middle aged woman, walking with a friend. She was well dressed, a shopper. Suddenly, her eyes grew wide, and she did a little back-step, and said disgustedly, seriously, loudly, to make her point, while spying us all......” Whellllllll! How close is this to the cannibals?” Now, something like that, you just don’t forget. It was funny, sure, but who likes to be put down like that, really?

It pissed me off. But what are ya gonna do? We were sort of into the tie dye, head band, pot smokin’ peace and love groove ourselves, so I guess we should have expected some flak. But truly, we were all very nice boys in our early twenties, educated, kind-hearted. I, myself, was already a concerned parent, and completely smitten by my baby daughter.

Many times, travelling around Oregon, Washington, California, or Idaho, we would arrive in some small town, to play a gig, early. Once, in Roseburg, Oregon, about 1969, we arrived early, and found a park, mid-town, to consume the Herfy’s Burgers we had just bought, relax, and toss the frisbee. A few other kids were in the park, just hanging out. Some were watching us play frisbee. Suddenly, two uniformed Roseburg Police officers approached. We first watched them tell a young couple who had been smooching nearby, “Okay, if you kids wanna trade spit, you’re gonna have to do it somewhere besides this public park”, and then, made the boy fork over his cigarettes. I believe one of our band members was just dumb enough to say something to one of the cops, about their treatment of those kids. It was, I think, what they were hoping for. And so suddenly we were engulfed in a very heated conversation with these two cops, both young, and as I recall, the most vocal of the two of them was a very small man. At some point, he barked, “Well, could your van there stand the vacuum cleaner test?”, meaning, he could vacuum out our van, looking for pot, and bust us. “Hello Mom, Dad, we just signed a recording contract with Capitol, and, uh, we’re in jail”. So we stood there, trying to make some ground with these cops, saying that we were just people like them, it’s not right to pick on us just because we have long hair, and telling them that they were wrong to harrass us, why would they? “Because you put on the uniform, so you have to wear it”, the small cop shouted, all lathered up, red-faced and angry “ and I have seen your kind lyin’ in a gutter and shittin’ on themselves and pissin’ on themselves”. It was unsettling.

But not quite so unsettling, to me anyway, as when a similar early arrival in North Bend, Oregon, could have resulted in injury. One of the guys in the group had driven to the gig in his convertible GTO, and so, after our requisite meal at some greasy spoon, we six decided to check out the town in his car, top down. No sooner had we left the parking lot, than we had a doorless jeep on our tail, loaded with youngish and drunkish North Bendians. “Hey, pull over hippies!” the driver yelled. We drove on. “Hey ya motherfuckin’ hippie faggots, pull the fuck over”, again and again. And when that didn’t work, “C’mon you guys, we just want to talk to you”. We kept driving. They would try to cut us off. They would jump out of the jeep when we would come to an intersection, or red light. But at every stop, we were able to drive on. Finally, when they’d had enough, they started to hurl the contents of the jeep at us, which included, among other things, several huge steel wrenches, which hit and damaged the car. It was a sight to see that shiny railroad adjustable wrench sitting on the GTO’s black trunk, inches from my head. We ended up driving to the Police Station, which one of the guys had spotted during our sightseeing, and we basically stayed there until we could get into the venue to set up our equipment.

That there was a time when long hair could get you in trouble seems so silly now, since one can’t go to the mall without seeing at least one person with full body tattoos, or someone drippin’ with body piercings. In my neighborhood, the Hawthorne area in Portland, anything goes. To tell you the truth though, if I had piercings and tattoos and maybe pink spiked hair, like you can see around here any day, I’d still drive right past Roseburg.

Twinkies Flambe

Women ARE from Venus and men ARE from Mars, that’s all there is to it. That is not to say, however, that men should not tone down their belching at the table of a fine dining establishment, after a lovely Valentine’s dinner, in deference to their partner’s feminine sensibility. And certainly, my wife will occasionally allow me, a man from Mars, to construct a new piece of unfinished furniture we have just purchased, on the living room floor, without looking at the instructions.

Marie is kind to my step-son Blaine and I, when our male energy is soaring, and the TVs are blaring two different NFL games, on Sundays, during football season. Of course Blaine and I are watching different games, in different rooms, and we have to keep each other apprised of the scoring, and great plays, by hollering to each other, as in:

Ric: Blaine, did you see that catch?
Blaine:What catch?
Ric: Are you watching the Indy game?
Blaine: No
Ric: Well turn it over right now, you gotta see this catch on the replay!
Whooowhooo!

Marie sits with her book in hand, reading, I dunno, some national best seller by Jose Saramago, or Gabriel Garcia Marquez, which she has plucked from the twelve or so she is currently reading, and gives me “the glare” over her glasses. I know I had better keep it down a bit. Sometimes, Blaine and I watch games together in his room, when I can find a place to land. We have snacks, and break down every little part of the game, like Martians are wont to do, argue, belch. “Marie”, we call out, “You gotta see this!”

Blaine is an educated and consistent Internet user. Currently, he is acting as a selected “moderator” of a Portland Trailblazers forum, helping to keep participants of the forum from overstepping the forum rules. We are proud of him for becoming such a proficient computer user, and he has even learned how to break’em down, and build them. Sometimes, in the evening, I hear, from my easy chair in the living room, where Marie and I are huddled up with HGTV, the little whooshing sound that his computer makes, each time he receives a new iChat message, oh, every 20 seconds or so, even less, as he communicates with his many, many iChat friends.

Being on the Web so much affords Blaine all kinds of information. For example, if the Blazers make a trade, we know about it minutes after it happens. And of course, with all of that iChatting going on, he will come to us with all sorts of unusual information. Stuff he hears from his friends online, jokes and stories, and websites to blow the mind.

Such was the case when, a couple of years ago, he found a recipe, online, for “Twinkies Flambe”, noodlin’ ’round in cyberspace. I am sure you can imagine Marie’s glee when we announced our intention to make a batch.

Twinkies Flambe rule. They are one of those tacky foods, like lime cucumber jello salad, that you have to admit you like. Well, some may think I am going a bit overboard here, but, what’s not to like? It’s basically spongecake, Twinkie filling, cherry filling, and brandy!

It’s a warm summer evening, and you and your guests have just dined on sumptuous barbecued leg of lamb, medium rare, and greek salad, loaded with fresh heirloom tomatoes from the garden and lots of feta, pocket bread, and a delicious Pinot Noir. The sun is receding, the sounds of Mozart bleed into the garden from the iPod you have connected to your Bose. More wine, laughter. It’s time for dessert.

You reach into your fridge for the special dessert you have prepared ahead, for your guests to enjoy. Imagine their delight as you bring the flameproof container to the table, and set it before them, and announce, “tonight, ladies and gentlemen, is a night for Twinkies Flambe!”

You pour on an ample amount of brandy, and ignite the dish. Your guests are enchanted, thrilled as the heat from the fire in the fading sunlight glows amid the white tablecloth and refreshed, sparkling glasses of Pinot.

Your guests are served, and you top each serving with, oh, perhaps some sweetened whipped cream, or vanilla Haggen Daz. They dig in. The look of extreme pleasure on their faces tells you that you have scored big with Twinkies Flambe, the perfect conclusion to a perfect evening.

Am I still going overboard? Maybe. But Blaine and I think they’re great, and fun to make. Marie, ummmm, I don’t think she said too much. To be honest, I think she was too busy shaking her head in disbelief.

But I am SO SURE that you and yours will love this dish, that I am going to reprint it here, and when you make it, let me know how it went! As you can see from the photo above, Twinkies Flambe are marvelous!


You make’m like this:

Twinkies Flambe
1 box of 10 Twinkies
1 12 oz. can of fruit pie filling (cherry in my case)
1 Bottle of brandy (must be better than 90 proof)
Powdered sugar

Put the Twinkies into a 9"x13" flameproof baking pan. Spread the fruit pie filling on top of the Twinkies. Splash a good amount of the brandy over the whole glop. Ignite carefully and allow to burn for several seconds. Extinguish the flames while they are still bluish. Dust with powdered sugar. Serve and enjoy.

Ric Seaberg's Website click here

Roombar

I love coffee. Can’t drink it though, like there’s no tomorrow, and no consequences to those 5 Americano, 3 Diet Coke days, like I did when I was getting up everyday at 2 a.m. to run a bakery. These days, I take it a bit easier, one shot in that Americano, please, no acid stomach, no racing heart, and no regrets.

But I love to go to the coffee shop, order up a reasonable drink, a weak Americano, room, maybe use my computer while I am there, collect my email, bang out a tract or two. “Meet me at the roombar”, I tell Marie, “to dress our coffees up”. I take half and half for my Americano, she likes vanilla powder in her latte.

Marie: Did you say ...”Roombar”...as in the place where we go to add condiments to our drinks, to replace the “room” we ordered with our drinks?
Ric: Well, yes, I did say “roombar”, thank you.
Marie: What a perfect way to describe that bar, I’ve never heard that before!

Actually, when I made that word up, Marie was not all that impressed. I thought I had come up with a word that would certainly take off, the perfect description of the “condiment bar at the coffee shop”. The “Roombar”!

Okay, I realize now that it’s not gonna take the coffee world by storm. But it is a great word, and I’m standin’ on that.

So I worked it into a song, “Meet Me At The Roombar”, which appears on my CD titled, not surprisingly, “Regards From The Roombar”, which was released in 2003. And after that, well, hey, it’s a published word, right?....it’s in a song fer God’s sake, a CD title!!

I admit to being sometimes tempted to order my coffee, at say, Starbucks, and then, while knowing perfectly well where the condiment bar is, ask the barista, non-chalantly, side-mouthed, while looking quizically around the shop, “And could you tell me where the “roombar” is located?”, wink, wink. I am sure that the few times I have teased Marie with the word, around Coffee Shop Counters of The World, a few have heard me mumble the term.

But I couldn’t, wouldn’t stop with that. One afternoon, with a bee up my butt, I went online to the Merriam-Webster website, to report this new fabulous word, and to see what it might take to get that thing fired up in the lexicon. I found a hyperlink to “Report a New Word”, something like that, and clicked on it. It took me to a form. I was immediately a bit crestfallen, since a form suggests that many others must also be “reporting” words. But I filled out the form, typed in “roombar”, a meaning for roombar, and my reasons why I felt that this word should be considered for inclusion in the dictionary. As part of my explanation, I expressed something like.... “In the Northwest, where we are coffee crazy, a word like “roombar” is a natural outgrowth of the permeating coffee culture.” And lastly, I hit the “submit” button.

I forgot about it for a couple of weeks, but was pleased, even excited to see, in my mailbox one day, an email from “Merriam-Webster”. I opened it.

It began, "Dear Mr. Seaberg, thank you for your suggestion of the word “roombar” for consideration to be included in a future edition of The Merriam-Webster Dictionary.” The letter went on to explain that, in order for a word to actually, at some point, be included, it has to meet certain criteria. And folks, the bar is high. I don’t remember just how many publications it must be used in first, but it’s a bunch. As in.... used in Time Magazine, and major news publications, again and again, til it is obvious that this is a word which is being used by the general population.

What I want to say is.....Merriam-Webster, ya little skeptics, “roombar” is a great word, you know it, I know it, just put the fucking thing in your book and shut up. But truly, I have been caught. Merriam-Webster is on to wordsmiths like myself, way ahead of me.

But their letter had a pleasant and scholarly tone to it, and it concluded, I think, respectfully, and kindly. It said, “Mr. Seaberg, good luck in popularizing your word”.

Why, Merriam-Webster, thank you. I have a feeling I am gonna need it.

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

Website: http://www.ricseaberg.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ric.seaberg.5

CDBaby: http://www.cdbaby.com/m/artist/RicSeaberg

iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/ric-seaberg/id7749841

Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/ric-seaberg

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

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ric.seaberg.5

CDBaby: http://www.cdbaby.com/m/artist/RicSeaberg

iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/ric-seaberg/id7749841

Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/ric-seaberg

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.

Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Photos
Music

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.

Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Photos
Music

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.

Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Photos
Music

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.

Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Photos
Music

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.

Visit Ric Seaberg's Website

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.

Website: http://www.ricseaberg.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ric.seaberg.5
Blog: http://www.ricseaberg.blogspot.com
CDBaby: http://www.cdbaby.com/m/artist/RicSeaberg
iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/ric-seaberg/id7749841
Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/ric-seaberg

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.

Visit Ric Seaberg's Website

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.

Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Photos
Music