When I was a junior in high school, at Franklin High in Portland, Oregon, I hadn’t really thought much about going to college. I assumed I would, but I hadn’t really begun to have druthers about where I might go.
But one of my mentors, Gary Webb, a great guy who was a couple of years older, and who I respected, had become a freshman at Willamette University in Salem, Oregon, that year. At some point during the year, when he was visiting his folks, I talked to him, and he suggested that I come down to Willamette on Spring Break, to check the school out. He was obviously very happy to be a student there.
So I went. It was a weekend designed for prospective students and parents of current Willamette students, so the campus was packed. There were lots of activites planned, social events, tours, and exibits. One event that appealed to me was a play, student written, which was to take place on Saturday night, in the brand new Willamette University Auditorium. I sat down in a full house of students and parents.
The play was performed entirely in mime, which was odd, but it kept my attention. I don’t recall the name of the play, or much of the plot, but if you can imagine a park bench, a big smily face paper sun backdrop, and a mime, dressed as a clown, walking around, interacting with others, and basically doing mime schtick, you get the picture.
That poor mime. Every frickin’ time he would interact with a passerby, he would be rejected. Time and time again, as a person would enter the scene, a man, a woman, a dog, the mime would be encouraged and cheerful, and then, just when you thought he might win the affection or approval of the other cast member, he would be cast off, put down, rejected, and end up, sitting, weeping, dejected, on the park bench. That poor pathetic mime.
And finally, in the last scene, when you feel like the mime just couldn’t take any more rejection, that certainly he must be ready to drown in self pity and cynicism, he looks up at the sun in the back drop. A big, gloroius, smiling sun, and he can’t help but be optimistic. His enthusiam is obvious as he runs the stage, bounding and smiling, looking to the sun as his saviour, his friend.
And then, suddenly, just when you feel that the mime has found approval and acceptance at last, one huge paper mache hand, poised in the shape of the universal middle fingered fuck you sign, comes blasting through the paper sun. I was all ready for a happy ending, and here comes this huge fuck you, right in the face of this poor mime. Take this you dumb fucking optimistic little dumbshit mime. FUCK YOU! It blew my mind.
Thirty-five years later, I met my wife Marie, as she walked past my house in Southeast Portland. Some days after we met, we began to find uncanny coincidences in our lives, like owning the exact same umbrella, and nightlight. When we had only known each other for a few days, and were already finishing each others sentences, Marie was compelled to remark, ‘Oh my God, Ric, we are sharing a brain.”
Later that year, on a trip east, with Marie, and my step-son Blaine, we parked our rented van to spend a couple of nights at Niagara Falls in New York. One evening, we were talking about an old Saturday Night Live skit, which I love, where Larraine Newman announces to her bewildered parents, “Mom, Dad, I want to be a mime!” Just talking about a mime reminded me about the play I had seen so many years before at Willamette, and I launched into the story. When I got to the part where the huge paper mache finger bursts through the sun, Marie’s eyes grew wide, and she shouted....”unfuckingbelieveable!....I was there!!!” Chills ran down my spine. I had carried that unusual moment in my brain, privately, for so long. It was just an over the top coincidence. Apparently, though she is a year younger, Marie had travelled to Salem on the same weekend to visit Willamette, in 1965. I was dumbfounded. We embraced. Sharing a brain? Maybe not. Meant to be together? Totally.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Hog Line
Every Spring, like just about now, I get all jonesy about fishin’. I dunno, maybe it’s that Scandinavian blood. Maybe it’s ‘cause I learned how to fish when I was very young with a bunch of men I looked up to, there in the beautiful calm of Timothy Lake in The Tulies, Oregon. Rising early to the smell of bacon and coffee, prepared by Moms for Dads and Sons, we would then walk to the boathouse, and push off onto the lake, fog rising, tackle boxes clinking, and break the clear, still water with our 16 ft. motorboat. “Keep your hands in the boat, son”, my Dad’s friend Bob Hoffman would say. The fish were plentiful, the scenery exquisite. That evening, dining on fresh Rainbow Trout, with our entire party, my Mom would be sure to acknowledge my efforts, saying to the others, “and Ricky caught two!”
Years later, after I had acquired more skills and entirely too much fishing tackle, two huge tackle boxes full, and many fishing rods, I walked the banks of many beautiful and remote Oregon rivers and streams, gunning for salmon. The Deshutes, The Miami, The Clackamas (or “The Clacky” if you are in the club), Eagle Creek. I was on a first name basis with the owner of the short stop market in Estacada, Oregon, my bait connection. Rising early as a baker for many years made the early rising for fishing a snap. Most times, I would be the first guy there.
These days, I prefer the tranquility and easy access of a trout lake or pond. I toss in a bobber with a worm, sit in my fold up fishin’ chair, pour a cuppa coffee, drink in the beauty, and stare at my bobber. Dream up some stuff to write about.
But the pressure for Chinook Salmon and other large fish, like the Steelhead, and other Salmon varieties, remains intense. When the Salmon are running, through the bar and into the bays, then into the rivers, boats pepper the rivers in huge numbers. Some anglers go for the scenery and camradery, a fish perhaps, but many, mostly men, are in it for the fishin’ quest, to get a Salmon.
Such is the case on the Willamette River, which runs through the center of downtown in our lovely Portland, Oregon. Few fish the currently murky waters downtown (a huge water clean-up project is now in the works), but a few miles south, near Oregon City, Oregon, where the Willamette flows into the mouth of the Clackamas, blood thirsty fisherman congregate. When the Salmon run upriver to spawn, they stack up in the holes just prior to the mouth of the Clackamas, and slightly beyond, as they return to spawn.
So fisherman have devised a way to accomodate all the boats in the river, in just the spot where most fish will be caught. They line up, spanning the Willamette, many, many boats wide, almost touching each other, as though you could walk across the river stepping from boat to boat. Since some of these Salmon are huge, upwards of 30 pounds, the line was dubbed, years ago, “The Hog Line.” Sometimes, as many as 40 boats will be there, fishin’ hard, shootin’ the shit, passing sandwiches, flasks, stories.
Had to write a song about it. “Hog Line” appears on my first solo CD, “Useful Information”. Listen to a clip, by clicking here:
Years later, after I had acquired more skills and entirely too much fishing tackle, two huge tackle boxes full, and many fishing rods, I walked the banks of many beautiful and remote Oregon rivers and streams, gunning for salmon. The Deshutes, The Miami, The Clackamas (or “The Clacky” if you are in the club), Eagle Creek. I was on a first name basis with the owner of the short stop market in Estacada, Oregon, my bait connection. Rising early as a baker for many years made the early rising for fishing a snap. Most times, I would be the first guy there.
These days, I prefer the tranquility and easy access of a trout lake or pond. I toss in a bobber with a worm, sit in my fold up fishin’ chair, pour a cuppa coffee, drink in the beauty, and stare at my bobber. Dream up some stuff to write about.
But the pressure for Chinook Salmon and other large fish, like the Steelhead, and other Salmon varieties, remains intense. When the Salmon are running, through the bar and into the bays, then into the rivers, boats pepper the rivers in huge numbers. Some anglers go for the scenery and camradery, a fish perhaps, but many, mostly men, are in it for the fishin’ quest, to get a Salmon.
Such is the case on the Willamette River, which runs through the center of downtown in our lovely Portland, Oregon. Few fish the currently murky waters downtown (a huge water clean-up project is now in the works), but a few miles south, near Oregon City, Oregon, where the Willamette flows into the mouth of the Clackamas, blood thirsty fisherman congregate. When the Salmon run upriver to spawn, they stack up in the holes just prior to the mouth of the Clackamas, and slightly beyond, as they return to spawn.
So fisherman have devised a way to accomodate all the boats in the river, in just the spot where most fish will be caught. They line up, spanning the Willamette, many, many boats wide, almost touching each other, as though you could walk across the river stepping from boat to boat. Since some of these Salmon are huge, upwards of 30 pounds, the line was dubbed, years ago, “The Hog Line.” Sometimes, as many as 40 boats will be there, fishin’ hard, shootin’ the shit, passing sandwiches, flasks, stories.
Had to write a song about it. “Hog Line” appears on my first solo CD, “Useful Information”. Listen to a clip, by clicking here:
Monday, April 11, 2005
Worst Case Scenario News
Now and then, a really big news story comes along. 9-11 was such a story. The war in Iraq is a big story. The presidential election is something even I want to know everything about. When a ship starts breaking up in the Pacific, full of oil, that’s news.
But watching TV news, even though my wife and I sit together every night to watch, can somethimes be painful, given the lack of real news, and the fact that the news teams have to come up with a news program that lasts for 30 minutes or more. For example, when one of our local news anchors goes on about Brittney Spear’s new boyfriend, or that she and her boyfriend are splitting up, I just have to bury my face in my hands. Or when the weather guy or gal gets all pumped and effervescent about the notion that there ”may” be snow locally, and waxes on about it, just to titillate, even though it is most likely that no snow will appear, that sucks. Face it folks. There are ways in which news teams play with your mind, just to get you to watch. I have heard a local newsperson actually say...”A child rapist escapes and rapes again...will your child be next?’”.....even though the escaped rapist is somewhere in New England, and we are in the Northwest. GAWD don’t get me started.
My sweet wife Marie is a total news junkie, and I sometimes fear she might be put off with my “no news” rants. But even though she is stoic and calm about it, she will sometimes give me a look like, oh brother, and exclaim...”THAT is not news.”
My full length musical tome about this issue is a song titled “Worst Case Scenario News”. Now, people, I am not suggesting that there is not bad news out there, and news we need to know about, like actual diseases and terrorism. But the truth is, many news stories are just a bunch of non-stories, fashioned into “news” by TV news writers and anchors. It may drive me insane.
And does anyone besides me get the creeps from those twisting and turning graphics, played with dramatic music behind them, graphics like “Saddam’s Last Stand”, or “Operation Desert Storm”, or some other such enthrallingly named event?
Click here for a listen to “Worst Case Scenario News”.
But watching TV news, even though my wife and I sit together every night to watch, can somethimes be painful, given the lack of real news, and the fact that the news teams have to come up with a news program that lasts for 30 minutes or more. For example, when one of our local news anchors goes on about Brittney Spear’s new boyfriend, or that she and her boyfriend are splitting up, I just have to bury my face in my hands. Or when the weather guy or gal gets all pumped and effervescent about the notion that there ”may” be snow locally, and waxes on about it, just to titillate, even though it is most likely that no snow will appear, that sucks. Face it folks. There are ways in which news teams play with your mind, just to get you to watch. I have heard a local newsperson actually say...”A child rapist escapes and rapes again...will your child be next?’”.....even though the escaped rapist is somewhere in New England, and we are in the Northwest. GAWD don’t get me started.
My sweet wife Marie is a total news junkie, and I sometimes fear she might be put off with my “no news” rants. But even though she is stoic and calm about it, she will sometimes give me a look like, oh brother, and exclaim...”THAT is not news.”
My full length musical tome about this issue is a song titled “Worst Case Scenario News”. Now, people, I am not suggesting that there is not bad news out there, and news we need to know about, like actual diseases and terrorism. But the truth is, many news stories are just a bunch of non-stories, fashioned into “news” by TV news writers and anchors. It may drive me insane.
And does anyone besides me get the creeps from those twisting and turning graphics, played with dramatic music behind them, graphics like “Saddam’s Last Stand”, or “Operation Desert Storm”, or some other such enthrallingly named event?
Click here for a listen to “Worst Case Scenario News”.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Bible Scholar By Default
Every once in awhile, my perfect wife Marie and I will be having a discussion, and something will come up regarding God or Jesus or some biblical stuff. When I dazzle her with my biblical knowledge, she goes on about it, like I am some sort of Good Book Whiz. Having never been much of a church-goer, I find this fascinating. I really have no good answer for how I picked this stuff up, save one.
When I was growing up, my dear friend and next door neighbor Roland, whom I looked up to like a brother, was a very religious guy. Today, in fact, he is pastoring, as he has done for many years. Roland, though older, and very popular, took me under his wing like a little bro, for which I will be forever grateful. Surely much of what I learned about the Bible came from Rol, just hanging with him, attending “Youth For Christ” rallies, and in general conversation with a future minister. At some point, after one of Marie’s Biblical knowledge outbursts, I told her, “honey, I dunno, I guess I am just a “Bible scholar by default.”
Bible Scholar By Default
Ric Seaberg
My mother used to tell me that religion is a joke
“Religion is the opiate of ignorants” she’d poke
But you were one great neighbor!, whose ignorance was bliss
And just by being friends with you I picked up that and this:
Oh, Mary was a virgin..... Joseph was her man
Jesus was a carpenter but he had larger plans
You said “There’s a higher power
We should worship and exalt!”
And that’s how I became
A Bible Scholar By Default
We’d go pickin’ berries in the summer for some bread
Workin’ down the rows you’d tell me “Jesus raised the dead!
Cleansed the sinners! There’s a record of it on a scroll!”
And maybe I should take Lord Jesus into my own soul
Oh, Mary was a virgin..... Jesus without sin
Judas was the knucklehead who turned The Saviour in
When you take his name in vain, you risk a thunderbolt
No “Jesus Christ!!!!” when you’re
A Bible Scholar By Default
Solo
Bridge
So thank you for your kindness, and teaching me the words
Mother was a sweetheart but her vision slightly blurred
Cuz I became a Christian, underneath the Monkeypod
As you recited passages about the Lamb of God
Oh, Mary was a virgin, when Jesus came to Earth
(I still have reservations when it comes to virgin birth)
But you were there to guide me as we sipped a shake or malt
And helped me to become
A Bible Scholar By Default
When I was growing up, my dear friend and next door neighbor Roland, whom I looked up to like a brother, was a very religious guy. Today, in fact, he is pastoring, as he has done for many years. Roland, though older, and very popular, took me under his wing like a little bro, for which I will be forever grateful. Surely much of what I learned about the Bible came from Rol, just hanging with him, attending “Youth For Christ” rallies, and in general conversation with a future minister. At some point, after one of Marie’s Biblical knowledge outbursts, I told her, “honey, I dunno, I guess I am just a “Bible scholar by default.”
Bible Scholar By Default
Ric Seaberg
My mother used to tell me that religion is a joke
“Religion is the opiate of ignorants” she’d poke
But you were one great neighbor!, whose ignorance was bliss
And just by being friends with you I picked up that and this:
Oh, Mary was a virgin..... Joseph was her man
Jesus was a carpenter but he had larger plans
You said “There’s a higher power
We should worship and exalt!”
And that’s how I became
A Bible Scholar By Default
We’d go pickin’ berries in the summer for some bread
Workin’ down the rows you’d tell me “Jesus raised the dead!
Cleansed the sinners! There’s a record of it on a scroll!”
And maybe I should take Lord Jesus into my own soul
Oh, Mary was a virgin..... Jesus without sin
Judas was the knucklehead who turned The Saviour in
When you take his name in vain, you risk a thunderbolt
No “Jesus Christ!!!!” when you’re
A Bible Scholar By Default
Solo
Bridge
So thank you for your kindness, and teaching me the words
Mother was a sweetheart but her vision slightly blurred
Cuz I became a Christian, underneath the Monkeypod
As you recited passages about the Lamb of God
Oh, Mary was a virgin, when Jesus came to Earth
(I still have reservations when it comes to virgin birth)
But you were there to guide me as we sipped a shake or malt
And helped me to become
A Bible Scholar By Default
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Wordwise
It doesn’t piss me off, really, when the weatherman says, “It’s gonna be a very nasty weekend, weatherwise”, but it does seem kinda lazy. At our house, we sometimes put “wise” on the end of all kinds of words, for example, “it’s gonna be a really great meal, dinnerwise”, or “ we will have to make some other plans now, travelwise”, just for chucks. I have explained this to my 19 year old nephew, Max, and since he also has words in his genes, he has embraced the concept wholeheartedly. “Uncle, where are you and Aunt Marie gonna go in the trailer next, Airstreamwise?,” has been among his many attempts. It cracks me up.
Another of the many directions folks tend to stray, wordwise, is to put “ness” on the end of words, to help them in their descriptions. Once, when traipsing through Seattle with a former partner, we spent some time on the waterfront at The Seattle Aquarium. Moving through the displays, we came upon a large freestanding aquarium, beautifully lit, and full of Pufferfish. For those of you who don’t recall, Pufferfish are unusually broad, cartoonish, wide, not sleek like most fish. Standing there, I noticed a Dad and son beside me, son hoisted upon his Dad’s shoulders. Suddenly, without reservation, and excitedly, the Dad exclaimed to his son, “Well looky there, Jeremy! That fish ain’t got no aerodynamicness.” I regret not having hit the floor at that moment, to bow in thanks to Dad and son, for all the pleasure that sentence has given me over the years.
Another of the many directions folks tend to stray, wordwise, is to put “ness” on the end of words, to help them in their descriptions. Once, when traipsing through Seattle with a former partner, we spent some time on the waterfront at The Seattle Aquarium. Moving through the displays, we came upon a large freestanding aquarium, beautifully lit, and full of Pufferfish. For those of you who don’t recall, Pufferfish are unusually broad, cartoonish, wide, not sleek like most fish. Standing there, I noticed a Dad and son beside me, son hoisted upon his Dad’s shoulders. Suddenly, without reservation, and excitedly, the Dad exclaimed to his son, “Well looky there, Jeremy! That fish ain’t got no aerodynamicness.” I regret not having hit the floor at that moment, to bow in thanks to Dad and son, for all the pleasure that sentence has given me over the years.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Make Her Your Own
It was Spring 1965, and after a nice hot breakfast of malt-o-meal and toast, I would walk with my neighbor and buddy Ken Holstrom to Franklin High School, where we were both juniors, first along Southeast 60th Avenue, past the many bright pink flowering Japanese Plum trees planted by The City of Portland. The fragrances of Spring enhanced our cheerfulness, as we continued down Lincoln, discussing our homework assignments and the latest developments on our varsity basketball team, where Ken was starting center, and I was a reserve guard. For other amusement, I can remember taking turns whistling different songs, silly little arrangements, tongue trilling, dramatic renditions of songs like “The Happy Trumpet”, to make the other person laugh. My favourite was Ken’s very special version of “Alley Cat”, which always cracked us both up, and he seldom made it past the first line of the first verse, before we would be in stitches, tears of laughter streaming down our faces, at 8 a.m.
When at home, I had been a busy little songwriter, accompanying myself on a tiny blond ukelele my grandfather had bought for me, that is, when I wasn’t on the phone with a girl, and man, I was just crankin’ out one hit after another. Songs like, “Time Heals Many Wounds”, “Second Love”, “What Can You Say”, and the topical “Surfin’ Song”, for which I would strum a bed of Am/C, Am/C, then on to the more haunting Am/Em, and sing the ever so poignant.....
“One day....if I can get away...
I’m gonna take my board.....
And make it to the surf.....
Wax my wood and
Rope it to the hood”
That last line always gets me, in it’s cleverness and precise imagery, and of course the song’s melody was brilliant, and catchy, in a monotonal kind of way. I would sing it for my friends, and girlfriends, whether they wanted to hear it or not, when we were just hanging out, or on one of the many beach trips we took in those days, with our 3 or 4 month old official Oregon Driver’s Licenses, and our parent’s car. Serious stuff, bein’ a surfin’ man, and waxing poetic about your life.
I admit, I do get a kick out of recalling these songs, and lyrics, and even making light of how ridiculous they sound now.
When I was a junior in high school, I was, of course, first in line for the talent show, held in the auditorium and featuring everyone with any semblance of talent, from the class comedian to the class singer-songwriter-surfin’ man. So I got up there, with my pal Ed Nylander on bongos, and crooned out a couple tunes, “Today (while the blossom still clings to the vine etc.)” and an original titled ”Make Her Your Own”, which, unfortunately, I could still sing and play, and began....
“If you love a girl
And you want her so
Just call her up, take her out
And make her your own”
When we finished, for reasons I have never been able to comprehend, the entire auditorium exploded into standing applause. I wonder if my sister Elaine remembers that moment. It’s embarassing, these days, to reveal that I have actually sung “Make Her Your Own” to a large group, and even stood with a serious look on my face and acted as though I knew what the fuck I was doing. But I must still admit that it was a defining moment. I knew right then and there that rock stardom was right up my alley.
When at home, I had been a busy little songwriter, accompanying myself on a tiny blond ukelele my grandfather had bought for me, that is, when I wasn’t on the phone with a girl, and man, I was just crankin’ out one hit after another. Songs like, “Time Heals Many Wounds”, “Second Love”, “What Can You Say”, and the topical “Surfin’ Song”, for which I would strum a bed of Am/C, Am/C, then on to the more haunting Am/Em, and sing the ever so poignant.....
“One day....if I can get away...
I’m gonna take my board.....
And make it to the surf.....
Wax my wood and
Rope it to the hood”
That last line always gets me, in it’s cleverness and precise imagery, and of course the song’s melody was brilliant, and catchy, in a monotonal kind of way. I would sing it for my friends, and girlfriends, whether they wanted to hear it or not, when we were just hanging out, or on one of the many beach trips we took in those days, with our 3 or 4 month old official Oregon Driver’s Licenses, and our parent’s car. Serious stuff, bein’ a surfin’ man, and waxing poetic about your life.
I admit, I do get a kick out of recalling these songs, and lyrics, and even making light of how ridiculous they sound now.
When I was a junior in high school, I was, of course, first in line for the talent show, held in the auditorium and featuring everyone with any semblance of talent, from the class comedian to the class singer-songwriter-surfin’ man. So I got up there, with my pal Ed Nylander on bongos, and crooned out a couple tunes, “Today (while the blossom still clings to the vine etc.)” and an original titled ”Make Her Your Own”, which, unfortunately, I could still sing and play, and began....
“If you love a girl
And you want her so
Just call her up, take her out
And make her your own”
When we finished, for reasons I have never been able to comprehend, the entire auditorium exploded into standing applause. I wonder if my sister Elaine remembers that moment. It’s embarassing, these days, to reveal that I have actually sung “Make Her Your Own” to a large group, and even stood with a serious look on my face and acted as though I knew what the fuck I was doing. But I must still admit that it was a defining moment. I knew right then and there that rock stardom was right up my alley.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Terry Schaivo
Marie, if I ever get as sick as Terri Schiavo, if I fall into a coma for some reason, and trusted physicians pronounce that there is no hope for my recovery, I want you to pull the plug. I want you to do this because I love you, my children, and grandchildren, with all my heart, and I would not want my vegetative state hanging over your heads, creating undue mental and physical stress, or a financial burden on any of you. If the time ever came, I know you would make the right decision.
Being married to me, and since we share our innermost thoughts with each other, you know a lot about me. You know that I am a economic conservative but a bleeding heart liberal in other matters. You know I love my children so much it hurts. You know I can’t sit still. You know I take way too long to tell a story. You know where my itchy spot is. You know I pee sitting down. And I know more about you than anyone else too. I know your aspirations, what brings you pleasure, that you are deeply committed to your job, that you value integrity above all, and that you are entirely too ticklish.When you agreed to marry me, it was a magnificent moment. I think you are a brilliant and special human being, and the fact that you agreed to be my wife makes me feel special too. And without question, neither of us took the decision to become husband and wife lightly.
When people marry, in our society, and are serious about it, they carefully weigh the pros and cons of marrying a person. Will this person be a good partner for me? Will they honor me and care for me in times of sickness and in health? Will they share in the decisions of running a household with me? Will they be a good father or mother? Will they work to make our house a home? Is he or she mentally stable and not mentally or physically abusive? Will they fold up the map right? All kinds of things are considered, when marriage is in the offing, or at least they should be. Some serious, some quirky, but all important.
And marriage not only requires that each couple become satisfied and firm with their decision to marry. Each person’s family must also grant that the marriage will be respected as a new and important bond, one that trumps all other familial bonds. The independence that comes with this grant is very important. It frees a couple to feel as though they are making their own way in the world, that they will rightfully make their own decisions regarding their own family matters. It makes it incumbent upon them to be productive and dignified members of society, and good parents. It sends the message to future generations that marriage is serious business, to look forward to marriage with a serious attitude. It tells young men and women, as they enter marriage, that they are expected to act with dignity and respect toward their partner. So by gum, ya better be careful when you select your mate. It’s the big time. And that is the valuable lesson Terri Schiavo reminds us of. Because when you announce your intention to marry, as an adult of legal age, that you are gonna take this man or woman for your lawful, cherished and trusted husband or wife, it’s the end of the line for Mom and Dad. You, and your husband, or wife, though there are two of you, are flyin’ solo, and that is how it should be. Choose well.
Being married to me, and since we share our innermost thoughts with each other, you know a lot about me. You know that I am a economic conservative but a bleeding heart liberal in other matters. You know I love my children so much it hurts. You know I can’t sit still. You know I take way too long to tell a story. You know where my itchy spot is. You know I pee sitting down. And I know more about you than anyone else too. I know your aspirations, what brings you pleasure, that you are deeply committed to your job, that you value integrity above all, and that you are entirely too ticklish.When you agreed to marry me, it was a magnificent moment. I think you are a brilliant and special human being, and the fact that you agreed to be my wife makes me feel special too. And without question, neither of us took the decision to become husband and wife lightly.
When people marry, in our society, and are serious about it, they carefully weigh the pros and cons of marrying a person. Will this person be a good partner for me? Will they honor me and care for me in times of sickness and in health? Will they share in the decisions of running a household with me? Will they be a good father or mother? Will they work to make our house a home? Is he or she mentally stable and not mentally or physically abusive? Will they fold up the map right? All kinds of things are considered, when marriage is in the offing, or at least they should be. Some serious, some quirky, but all important.
And marriage not only requires that each couple become satisfied and firm with their decision to marry. Each person’s family must also grant that the marriage will be respected as a new and important bond, one that trumps all other familial bonds. The independence that comes with this grant is very important. It frees a couple to feel as though they are making their own way in the world, that they will rightfully make their own decisions regarding their own family matters. It makes it incumbent upon them to be productive and dignified members of society, and good parents. It sends the message to future generations that marriage is serious business, to look forward to marriage with a serious attitude. It tells young men and women, as they enter marriage, that they are expected to act with dignity and respect toward their partner. So by gum, ya better be careful when you select your mate. It’s the big time. And that is the valuable lesson Terri Schiavo reminds us of. Because when you announce your intention to marry, as an adult of legal age, that you are gonna take this man or woman for your lawful, cherished and trusted husband or wife, it’s the end of the line for Mom and Dad. You, and your husband, or wife, though there are two of you, are flyin’ solo, and that is how it should be. Choose well.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
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.
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.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
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
Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/ric-seaberg
Thursday, March 24, 2005
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!
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!
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
"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!
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
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.
"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.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
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.
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.
Monday, March 14, 2005
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
Friday, March 11, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
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”.
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”.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
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
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
Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/ric-seaberg
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
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
Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/ric-seaberg
Monday, February 28, 2005
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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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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Saturday, February 26, 2005
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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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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Thursday, February 24, 2005
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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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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Tuesday, February 22, 2005
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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