Ric And Blaine Go To The Seahawks Game

There are three people in my world who know a ton about sports, my two daughters, Stacey and Amy, and my step-son, whom I just mostly call my son, Blaine. Blaine Deatherage-Newsom. My daughters come by their knowledge of sports honestly, since they played a lot of sports as kids, as did I. Additionally, they have always had the advantage of being able to draw a great deal of sports knowledge from people in their mother’s family, their uncles, their mom, even their grandmother. But Blainey, he’s a different kinda cat.

Blaine’s mom, my perfect wife Marie, likes some sports, especially the less than violent and time honoured sport of baseball, and she will sometimes watch sports with Blaine and I, especially if it involves a home team, like our Trailblazers, or a team from a school she attended, like The University of Oregon Ducks. We love her company at these times, and don't get me wrong, she gets most of it, the strategy, and the skill required to put the ball through the hoop, with someone's hand in your face. Just dont ask her to give you the definition of the ice hockey term, “icing”. Or watch boxing. So Blaine has come by most all of his vast sports knowledge pretty much on his own.

First, Blaine is a brilliant guy, a numbers guy, and he can follow game stats and players stats like nobody’s business. Secondly, Blaine has a strong natural bent toward competition, having been a chess champion at an early age, and if you know him well, as I do, you just know you are in for a battle if you challenge him on something.

So since I like sports too, that’s one place where Blaine and I find some serious common ground. On Sundays in the Fall and Winter, at about 10 a.m., when the NFL football games come on TV, Blaine always lets me know, as he sits on the edge of his bed getting ready for the day, that it’s time for me to come around his room, by hollering, at the top of his lungs, the simple and Sunday Activity Defining word........”FOOOOTBALLLLLL!”

Since Blaine is disabled, and lives with his mother and me, in an environment designed for his needs, he doesn’t have a lot of room to spread out. He has his room, and a great accessible bathroom, but Blaine’s possessions, his chess trophies, his sports memorabilia, one thousand chess and sports magazines, sports and chess books, on and on, well, let’s just say, it’s everywhere. It is difficult to get him to let anything go, so we mostly don’t. And when it’s time to think of a gift for Blaine, for his birthday, or Christmas, man, dude already has everything. People love this guy. He’s lovable. People give him stuff. So we often try, as we consider a gift, to maybe go for something less tangible than say, another knick-knack. Maybe we get him something like, oh, software, an iTunes gift certificate, or a TV upgrade, or....... tickets to a Seahawks game!!!!!!

Last summer, when Blaine turned 26, his mother (and I) gave Blaine a certificate for two tickets to a forthcoming Seahawks game, for Fall 2005, and Amtrak tickets, along with the promise that I would accompany him. We went yesterday, and watched the Hawks basically crush the St. Louis Rams, 31-16. We had a blast. The seats were great, (inside The Wells Fargo Club) the train was fun, my traveling companion was his typical swell self, and we won!

I have posted photos on two differerent pages, and you can see them all by clicking here:
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Exausted By Trash TV

Is it just me, or did many of you who watched “Trading Spouses” last night, which was the most blatant display of rabid fundamentalism I have ever witnessed, come close to pulling the hair directly out of your head as you watched? Ya gotta love Trash TV, the way those dang producers put people who could be categorized as “the most likely to not get along”, in the closest proximity to each other as possible. It’s a dirty trick, and I must say, it tends to bring the worst out in folks. Just the way us millions of viewers like it.

Some time ago, I squirmed as I watched , on the same show, “Trading Spouses”, a vegetarian family and a family who cooks up alligator at their restaurant in the bayou butt heads. That was bad enough. But last night, watching that over the top nutty Christian Lady try to impose her beliefs on a New Age and Tarro Card Clan, just about eliminated any remaining faith I have in mankind.

Does anyone else think it is a bit odd that, given the basic fundamentals of all religions, like, “Love Thy Neighbor”, and “Thou Shalt Not Be An Intolerant Jerk”, that a person would wretch and weep, like that lady did last night, just because she finds herself within earshot of someone whose spiritual life does not match hers? What gives with that? Don’t the religions teach us that even if others do not believe the same thing we do, that we must always uphold another person’s right to believe whatever the fuck they want to believe, spirtually, and they honour us similarly, and that’s what makes a peaceful world?

At the end of the show last night, after the so called Christian lady had a breakdown, screaming at her own family, saying those old movie phrases like “I rebuke it in the name of the Lord!”, and “I’m a warrior for God”, I made eye contact with my perfect wife Marie, who looked so sad and tired as she proffered, “I feel completely exausted”. No dah. Me too. I don’t know why we put ourselves through watching that trash. But when they went to commercial break right before the show was over, I saw the trailer for the next one, and it’s gonna be good.

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The Crystal Set

I come from a long line of Chicagoans, (Go Cubs!) and was born there myself in 1948, at Grant Park Hospital, in downtown Chicago. My folks, and many of my relatives, made their homes in the Park Ridge area, a suburb of The Windy City. Today, I live in Portland, Oregon, where I have lived most of my life. I love Portland, and I am not surprised that my parents elected to spare themselves the miserable winters and occasional tropical heat of Chicago summers, when they moved here around 1950. I am certain that there were other factors compelling them to move Out West, not the least of which was a young couple’s yearning to strike out on their own.

My Father graduated from The Chicago Technical Institute, which, in retrospect, kind of blows my mind, since he was barely capable of hanging a paper towel holder correctly, and most times, after I turned, oh....., 8, he called on me for most technical chores, like fixing things.

But freshly out of engineering school, diploma in hand, about 1946, and after the war, where he served admirably in the Army, my Dad was employed as a technician at several different businesses, including the family business, “Chicago Tool And Die”, which my grandfather Emil had started years before. I don’t know what happened there, but suffice it to say, my Dad’s future did not lie in Chicago.

My Great Uncle Clair, bless his soul, my grandmother’s youngest brother, was also a Chicagoan for most of his life, and had also been longing to move on, with his wife, my Great Aunt Ruth, possibly to Portland. So my Mom and Dad, and my Dad’s aunt and uncle, moved to Portland, with little Ricky in tow.

My “Uncle Clair”, as I always called him, was one smart sucka, and I always thought he got a lot more out of his engineering education than my Dad. Uncle Clair was a radio and early TV geek, and was always tinkering around at the workbench in our basement, when he and my aunt were at the house.

One Thanksgiving Day, after a sumptuous meal of one of my Mother’s Golden Brown And Super Dry Not One Ounce Of Moisture Left In It Turkeys, Uncle Clair suggested that I follow him to the basement, to help him complete a project he was working on.

When we reached the basement, he proudly showed me a number of small parts, which were lying on the workbench, all organized and ready to use. “We”, he announced, “are gonna make A Crystal Set”, and with that, he took from his pocket a crystal, about 3/4 inch square, and held it up for me to inspect. All these years later, I don’t really know what it was, what kind of crystal, etc., but it looked like a piece of Iron Pyrite, or Fool’s Gold, and had a shiny gold and grey tint to it.

In the hours that followed, he instructed me as we painstakingly utilized each of the parts he had scrounged from the bowels of my Dad’s work bench, and around the house, a toilet paper roll core, copper wire, some old moth eaten headphones that looked like they had come straight from a World War II cockpit, a rather large safety pin. He had also discovered other parts which I am certain had nothing to do with a radio, a metal piece he had fashioned to hold the crystal, and other metal parts that were surely not radio related, but would be useful.

I will spare you an exact and long memorized description of the finished Crystal Set, but it was completely bitchen, and worked great. The tip of the safety pin was positioned such that it touched the crystal. After a time, lying in my bed at night, listening to the Portland Beaver’s Baseball Game, as announced by Sportscaster Bob Blackburn on Portland radio station KPOJ, circa 1956, I became adept at moving the tip of the pin, to receive other radio staions in the area, including good ol’ KEX, before school, when Barney Keep would amuse and offer less than complimentary quips about his wife, “The Ol’ Biscuit Burner”.

I delight in the memory of the building of The Crytsal Set with my Uncle Clair, and I sure wish I still had the thing. I am certain it languished in a shoebox in my childhood closet for a few years, after I had received a brand new and very modern transistor radio for Christmas. Eventually, my Mother tossed it. Lying in bed back then, eyes closed, listening to my Crystal Set, with my shoddy headphones attached, Mom would call up the stairs to my room, “Honey, can I bring you a nice turkey sandwich?” “Nah, thanks anyway Mom” I’d yell back. “I’m not really hungry right now”.

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Whew!

The Official Release Of Ric Seaberg’s TWO 2005 CDs Is Today!

Today we are announcing the official release of my two new CDs, “Who Come Down?”, and “Dubs On Trial”, which have been in production for over a year, since a few of the songs were recorded before 2005. It brings me so much pleasure to record the songs I write, so to be able to finally share it with my friends and others is truly the icing on the cake.

Those of us who have been blessed (or cursed) with a knack for sitting straight up in the middle of the night (sometimes to our partner’s chagrin) with melodies and rhymes, dearly appreciate the support of our friends and families. Because although the songwriting part comes naturally, the road to actually getting one’s music published is hard work, and expensive. When I am in the “mixing” stage for example, attempting to balance all the tracks, trying to get the guitars to swell in just the right place, that sorta thing, I sometimes run through dozens of CD blanks, on just one song! In the recording world, it’s called, “making coasters”, since finalized and moot CD blanks have no use really, (except maybe as coasters!) Or perhaps, when you visit us at Christmas sometime, I will have talked Marie into allowing me to adorn our tree with a thousand shiny and wasted CD blanks!

Did I hear you ask....Why 2 CDs at once? Okay, here’s the story: “Who Come Down?” is the primary CD for 2005. It’s title is taken from a song of the same name. It refers to that “less than still small voice” which drives some artists to greatness, or to ruin, or both. When Marie and I sat down to select the songs for this CD, we had 60 fully recorded songs “in the can” to choose from. First, we did that. When we finished, we were struck by the fact that many of the songs that we truly like were left lying on the cutting room floor, for one reason or another, like say, we already had enough fast ones. In the days to come, it was only natural that I began to explore the idea of publishing a second CD.

These days, with music being sold online, as mp3s, digitally, on iTunes, and elsewhere, it behooves the recording artist to have as many mastered songs out there as possible. One click means a 99 cent sale, which brings the artist anywhere from 60 to 80 cents. So we decided that now was the time to gather up those songs from the cutting room floor, and from the 43 songs left there, we scooped up 16 more for “Dubs On Trial”.

I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your interest and for purchasing these CDs. It will take a few months for the songs to be transferred to iTunes, for those who prefer to download their music, but for now, there are several ways to buy the CDs HERE. Clips of the songs can be heard at CDBaby. Thanks again for your support.

Ric Seaberg
“Who Come Down?” Clips
“Dubs On Trial” Clips


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Ethics

I sometimes wonder whatever happened to George, a disabled guy I knew in high school, who was missing an eye (he had a glass eye), and other problems, flat feet, which required him to walk with an unusual gait, and maybe some other stuff I never knew about. George would sometimes plant himself in the hallway, at Franklin High, here in Portland, and there he would remove his glass eye for girls and others who might be interested, and they would stand around him squealing and exclaiming the first known usage of the word “gross”, in 1964. George would sometimes bear the brunt of disability jokes, because kids can be so completely unconscious and cruel, and I must say that he did tend to bring it on himself too, with his loud and needy personality. I can still hear his ghoulish laughter, reverberating in the halls, as he removed that eye. Kicking a guy when he is down, though, has never been something I can relate to.

I had a few classes with George, and he was mostly quiet, in class, and a decent student. Few paid him much attention, and I felt sorry for him. Occasionally, we would converse about something, and I found him to be a nice person.

My desk was right next to George’s in Creative Writing, senior year, which was taught by one of my favourite teachers of all time, Mrs. Avshalomov, who was the wife of famous composer and conductor, Jacob Avshalomov. Mrs. Avshalomov was kind to me, yet honest, and critical, as she was the time I brought in my guitar and sang and played for her, at her desk, a gruesome and trite ditty I had titled “Time Heals Many Wounds”, which droned on about a failed relationship, a theme I have tended to embrace throughout my life.
“I don’t understand it” I remember her saying.

On one occasion, Mrs. Avshalomov gave us an assignment, which included a very Modern Peer Grading Procedure, whereby each student, at the end of the week, would turn his or her writing over to another student for review and critique. When the day arrived, I ended up with George’s sheaf of papers, and set about reading them, such that I could analyze and make some comments.

But when George turned his poetry over to me, in his own handwriting, I could immediately see that it was all plagarized material. Believe it or not, and I swear this actually happened, as I read the poems, I realized that George had copied, verbatim, an entire side of an LP that I myself owned, titled “The Two Sides Of The Smothers Brothers”, where they had done schtick on one side, and all nice songs on the other. Unfortuately for George, he had handed over his work to a guy who already knew all the words he had claimed to write, by heart!

The first song, for example, was a number titled “Stella’s Got A Brand New Dress” (go ahead, check on it!) and the lyric went....

“Stella got a brand new dress today,
Everywhere she goes the people say
“Who’s that walking down the street,
Pretty little shoes all dainty and petite?
With a brand new way to wear her hair and a
Brand new bright new dress to wear”
Who could imagine a sight so fair as
Stella in a brand new dress?”

I was shocked. George had copied every song on that LP, and had turned it in as his own writing. After class, I waited until the other students left, and shared the news with Mrs. Avshalomov. She took my words seriously, with a frown, and thanked me.

In a couple of days, Mrs. Avshalomov had decided what to do, and basically, she called George on his plagarism in front of the class. George just sat there with his head down, next to me, saying nothing. When it was over, and she had made all of her comments about plagarism, ethics, and life, I waited for the right moment, and said, “Sorry George”.

George and I didn’t have much to say to each other after that, but on the last day of school, he handed me his yearbook to sign, and I happily handed mine over to him. I can remember being pleased at what George had written, given my role in the ethics bust, but all these years later, I regard George’s inscription with deep and heartfelt gratitude. He wrote........

Ric

We’ve known each other for four years and I have enjoyed them very much. You never knocked me for my deformities. You only looked for the good. That is why I like and admire you so well. Good luck and best wishes in the future.

George 1966


George....That’s one of the finest pieces of writing I have ever read. Having your inscription, all these years, sitting there on my bookshelf, for me to read anytime I wish, has helped remind me how important it is to be kind, that I am capable of having an impact on someone by being kind, and it has meant more to me than you will ever know.


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My 9-11 Song

Nothin’ like a little terrorism in your own country to make you appreciate the freedoms we sometimes take for granted. Nothin’ like a little terrorism in your own country to make you appreciate everything from a moonlit night on your front porch as neighbors pass to an ice cream cone after your child’s Little League game. Nothin' like a little terrorism in your own country to spawn all sorts of new art, from breathtaking photos of the aftermath at ground zero, to paintings, poetry, and music.

To be honest, I didn’t expect to write a song about 9-11. I knew many would, and though I was deeply affected by the attack, I couldn’t think of an angle that would not somehow be inappropriate. It was just too huge. What business does one little man who lives in Oregon have, writing a song about such an horrific event, thousands of miles away from those who lived the tragedy?

But one day, with no ”angle” in mind, a song came through, which pays attention to that feeling of taking our freedom for granted, which all of us Americans, I think, can relate to. It appears on my 2002 CD, “Useful Information”, and it is titled, “Don’ Know What You Got”.

Listen to : "Don' Know What You Got"
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Lemon Filling

When I had my first bakery, Richard’s Bakery of Tualatin, Oregon, from 1975-1985, that’s where I learned how to deal with customer complaints. It didn’t take me long to figure out that the best course of action in a retail situation is to just give over to the customer’s complaint, and give them their money back. If a customer comes in and says they got a lug nut in their maple bar, even if they didn’t, the last thing you need is for someone to be standing in front of your bakery case, loudly complaining about biting into a lug nut, in one of your products. On occasion, I would drag my feet while considering compensation, as was the case when a woman said she broke her tooth on a screw that she had bit into in a sponge cake. Luckily, she just went away, and I never heard from her again. Since she was trying to get her dental bills paid, and it was a lot of money, I thought I’d better think it over. She must’ve thought it over too, and decided not to try to scam that nice young man with the bakery.

But most of the time, if a person said their bread was stale, or a turnover wasn’t done, whatever, ya just give’m their money, and that’s that. I can even recall a wedding cake blooper, where the cake was reported to be dry, and we responded by giving the customer a full refund. It’s not likely the cake was really dry. But I had basically assumed the policy of “the customer is always right”, and we lived by it. My second wife, who survived several years of bakery ownership, and I quarreled regularly about my strict adherence to The Nordstrom Return Policy. “Face it, Ric”, she would exclaim, “The customer is sometimes confused”.

One day, early in the morning, I was standing by my 20-pan Reed revolving oven, icing Danish, when a man walked into the production area, carrying a pink quarter sheet box, the kind that holds a quarter sheet cake. As he approached, he had a bit of a twinkle in his eye. “You Richard?”, he asked. “That’s me”, I spoke, “What can I do for you?”. “Well”, the man spoke with kind of a giggle”, “My wife sent me down here, for a refund”. “What seems to be the problem?”, I asked.

Apparently, this man’s wife had been to the bakery the day before, and had purchased the cake from our decorated cake case. It had “Happy Birthday” written on it, and one of the sales staff had added the word “Dad”. She had purchased it especially because it was for her father-in-law, this guy’s Dad, and they were going out for a special dinner in his honor, and taking his favourite dessert, a lemon-filled white cake, from our bakery.

So they went to the restaurant, had their meal, and then, as the “Happy Birthday Dad” cake was revealed, and placed before the honoree, this guy’s wife announced..........”Dad, I made you your favourite cake........white cake with lemon filling”!!!

As the man told the story, I could tell he was working up to something, since he was chuckling more and more. What happened next, at the restaurant, could possibly the best story I have ever heard, illustrating how lying doesn’t pay. Because just as the woman announced that she had made her father-in law’s favourite lemon filled cake, (which, it turned out, had been mismarked in the cake case by my staff) the cake was cut........to reveal a RASPBERRY FILLED CAKE!!!, At that moment, and I swear this actually happened, the man burst into uncontrollable laughter. Can’t stand still laughter. Tears laughter. Of course, myself, being a person who will laugh just because someone else is laughing, he got me going too. So there we stood, utterly engulfed in laughter, about how his wife had been so busted for telling a bold faced lie, for trying to take credit for making a cake she had not made. Then, still barely able to speak, the man says...”So I really need to get the refund, man”, and we both burst out laughing again.

Some minutes later, I gave him the refund, we shook hands, and he took off. As the years have past, I have relived this moment many times, thinking about how that woman must have been squirming, shocked, and embarrased, as they cut the cake. How does one cover up such a lie? How about.....”Oops, I forgot raspberry is not lemon?” In my own life, if I am ever tempted to lie, I just remember the “lemon filling” story, and any further desire to fib quickly recedes.


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Disclosure

Being the caring and sharing kinda male that I am, it has never, of course, been my fault when one of my relationships, or my two previous marriages, have soured. Still, my involvement in these relationships has driven me to a myriad of counselors, thousands of hours of worrying and wallowing in a mire of self pity, dozens of break-up songs, even valium. And in each and every case, I have been TOTALLY INNOCENT!

About 1992, I was involved in a particularly heinous relationship, one that included much yelling, late night squabbling, and a million letters of complaint and hatred lying in wait for me on my side of the bed, and one night, during an especially angry outburst........broken glass. I knew I had to do something.

I kid, above, when I say nothing is ever my fault, and to be honest, I have tended, over the years, to blame myself for everything. And during that relationship, I felt as though I had better do something to change my evil ways, improve, make things all better by being a better partner, more generous, nicer, all that. I felt terrible that my partner was so unhappy, I decided I better go, yet again, to counseling.

And in addition to the counseling, I thought, maybe I should look in the local alternative newspaper and see if I might be able to join, for the first time in my life, at 40 something years old........A MEN’S GROUP! I had read with interest an article about men’s groups, how popular they had become in some parts of the country, men becoming “sudden brothers” as the article said, at about my age, to explore issues like relationships, family, work, health, aging, money, even sexual identity. I thought, “I’m fucked up, maybe this might help”.

I picked up the classifieds for our Willamette Week newspaper, and began to look for a listing for a men’s group. Lo and behold, there was one entry, and only one, listed for a men’s group start-up. I scribbled down the number, and called later.

The guy who answered the phone was very nice. We chatted a bit, and he invited me to the first meeting at his house, in the near future, and said that others had also called. And so, at the appointed time, I showed up.

For the next five years, I attended men’s group once a week with a core group of 7 Portland Men, including me, all in our forties. A few others came and went, but 7 of us were extremely consistent. I guess we all must have been fucked up. I kid. The truth is, it was one of the most interesting and rewarding experiences of my life, meeting with those guys every week, to talk, laugh, sometimes cry.

There are many different ways in which men’s groups operate, and some are founded on a more ancient approach, the “wild man within” movement, the beating of drums, meeting in the forest and having huge bonfires and jumping naked into rivers and lakes, etc. I admit that I find that style of group a bit contrived and silly. But many in that movement have sighted the lack of ritual in our society as the basis for their activities, and who am I to suggest it does not hold value for others, just because it does not for me.

But more than anything, in my men’s group, I relished the opportunity to get together with some guys and talk about shit. We would start each session, which lasted about four hours, with a “check-in”, where each guy would speak for about 5 minutes, tell what’s going on in his life, what his thoughts and concerns were at that moment. Usually, by the end of “check-in”, we knew who needed to talk.

Several months into our group sessions, after we had gotten to know each other pretty well, we decided to embark on a several week course of telling our life stories. Each guy would get a chance to tell his story start to finish. I owned a beach house at the time, and we even went there for a weekend, and did several there. For me, it was a watershed moment.

There is something comforting, something liberating, listening to another man, who has experienced much in life, who has been through a lot, speak openly and honestly about his life, and tell his true life story without reservation. First of all, I felt honored to be in a room listening to another man honestly tell the story of his life, to let me in on that. Secondly, hearing someone openly disclose the true stories of his struggles in life had a huge impact on me, and we are talking deep truth, every last bit of joyous or shameful truth that made you feel like a star, or an idiot, or stupid, or worthless, or invisible, or special, or inadequate, or about the time you had cancer, or drove the getaway car, on and on. It made me, as a listener, midst laughter, and tears, feel so compassionate and close to the person, and grateful for his act of honesty and disclosure. Listening to these guys, every one of them, admit the truth, to hear them tell not only the stories of their childhoods, and later, but also the stories of their acts of questionable purpose or value, of foolishness, or danger, made me realize, when it was my turn, I was gonna have to tell the truth, show these guys, for the first time in my life, the real Ric Seaberg. At the end of each life story, we would all sort of fall into a lump of caring and love and encouragement for each other, which made the prospect of honestly telling my life story much less scary.

So I did it, and I told the truth, and it was a huge moment in my life, to share that way, with other guys, and to be listened to and accepted, and loved, for just being me, and for having the guts to tell my true story. It changed my life, made me feel much better about myself, more confident, worthwhile, strong. I owe you boys a lot, and I thank you all from the bottom of my heart for your ears and input during those years. You know who you are.


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Miss Rice

Hardly a day goes by that I don’t thank my lucky stars that I have a good command of language, and possess a modicum of writing skill. Not long ago, I received an email from an old friend, whom I hadn’t heard from in years. As I read the letter, I realized that it must have been a struggle for this person to write the letter, since it was basically written by someone who is borderline illiterate. I had no idea that this person has an issue with writing and spelling. And it was lovely (and brave) that he wrote anyway. Still, regarding reading and writing skill, I feel for those who, for one reason or another, didn’t get it, when they were in school, or later, in real life.

When I was in grade school, phonics were big. You know, where you sit before a chalk board, or an easel with a big piece of paper on it, and your teacher drills you to death about the sounds certain letters make, and combinations of letters, like “Ph”, for (say it slowly now), “Phone, Physical, Phat Pharm", oh no that’s not right, Fat Farm is spelled with an “F”, which has the same sound a “Ph”, like that, on and on for hours. That’s where I got my reading and writing chops. In the 2nd and 3rd grades.

Her name was Miss Rice, and she was a babe, by 1950s standards, petite, cute, bubbly, warm, smart, well dressed. I thought she was the greatest, and she was a terrific teacher. I can remember my folks being so grateful that I would have her for my teacher yet again in the third grade, after having her in the second. Miss Rice was popular........especially with males. I am certain that in the chain smoke filled teacher’s lunchroom at Atkinson Grade School in 1955 and 1956, there was idle talk, among the men teachers, about what a King Hottie Miss Rice was. Yep, that little Bangs and Bubble Do, and that black tight-weave sweater, mercy.

I could always tell that my Dad thought Miss Rice was foxy, even though I was just a little kid, cuz he would be all starry eyed and different when he was around her, like at a parent’s night or some other school thing. I can remember a group of Dads standing around her, at one school night, trying to keep their tongues from wagging, surely keeping the conversation on school issues, all the while undressing the sexy Miss Rice with their eyes, and right in front of their wives. Ah, the 50s, what a great era.

But I don’t think my brazen Dad was ready for it, one summer in about 1958, when we traveled, as a family, to Mt. Hood for a little day trip, and stopped at Zig Zag for dinner. As we stood in the foyer of the restaurant, waiting to be seated, a completely inebriated and still foxy Miss Rice came stumbling out of the cocktail lounge, much to our surprise. She recognized us all immediately, said her bubbly hellos, gave me the head pat, and then, with no regard for my mother’s presence, gave my Dad this huge hug, and then stood there, with her arm around his waste, his arm around her shoulders, and began speaking and giggling, way over the top drunk. Standing there, the two of them, with Miss Rice slumping into my Dad’s side, all cozy like, they looked like a couple. At one point, she ran her free hand up my dad’s stomach and to his shoulder, and in a sexy little whine, said something like, “I’m a little intoxicated”. But Dad was groovin’ on it, and he wasn’t exactly pushing her away. I was 10. It was weird.

I think my Mom was mostly just speechless, cuz she already knew my Dad was a dope, but I do remember that she made some disparaging comments about Miss Rice, on the ride home in the car. Like “what’s an attractive young woman like that doing getting all drunk, in public, she’s a teacher for God’s sake, not a harlot!” Let’s just say there was a bit of tension, for awhile, after the Miss Rice Caper at Zig Zag, between my folks. It definitely hurt my Mom’s feelings, and it obviously made an impression on me. People make mistakes, and I suppose Miss Rice blundered that day, but........Miss Rice is still a star with me, even in a distant memory, since she taught me how to read and write.

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Coffee Blunder

Just wanted to report that I splattered a guy big time with coffee yesterday at Fremont Coffee, which is the coffee shop in my commercial building, while surfin' the web. It was one of those one trick pony herky jerky like your legs do in bed sometimes moves. I was just sitting there, and I go for my coffee, and I guess I was ducking from an alien attack or something, cuz I just freaked and propelled my cup offa my little table, with my hand, at an incredible rate of speed, straight at this guy. Luckily he was sitting with his back to me, so what hit him was just the coffee stream that came out of the little hole in the cup lid, but it got all over his coat and some in his hair, it was ridiculous. He was nice about it, in a snickery sort of way, but I felt like a complete idiot.

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Singing Telegrams

My Mom used to crack me up, many years ago, when I was quite young, telling one of her favourite stories, something she had heard on Arthur Godfrey or somewhere, about singing telegrams. The joke was that a man opened his front door to find a Telegram Delivery Boy on the stoop. The boy announced, “Telegram for Mr. Jones”. Then, Mr. Jones, having never received a “singing” telegram, began to badger the boy, saying things like “Is it a singing telegram? I’ve never had a singing telegram before!!!, please let it be a singing telegram!!!, etc.”, to which the boy replied, “Oh no sir, it isn’t a singing telegram, sir, just a regular telegram, sign here please”. But the man, having never received a singing telegram, goes on and on, trying to illicit a singing telegram from the boy, who, chagrined, finally relents. “All right sir”, he mutters, defeated. And then, in his best Vaudevillian Voice, the boy sings, with intro, “Dah- Dah Dah-Dah-Dah-Dah! Your sister Rose is dead, a car accident crushed her head!” My Mom, when she got laughing, was a fun gal, though a bit twisted.

In 1980, when I had been in bakery business for 5 years, cranking out those doughnuts and pastries, and all the other stuff, I had a feeling that my employees, some of whom had been with me from the start, were going to give me an award, or a gift, or something, I could just tell. They were way more excited about the anniversary than I was, and, I am sure you won’t be surprised that they were all women, and were saying things like, “Wow, five years, Ric, what are you gonna do for your anniversary, your special day?”, to which I would reply, “Uh, Craig, toss on 5 gallons of cracked wheat bread will ya?”

But I could feel it coming, and I was calm about it, and when the day arrived, I did my normal "get up at 3a.m., time to make the doughnuts". Then at about 10a.m., which is more than half the workin’ day gone already for a baker, one of my sales people hollers back to us in production, “Oh Ric, there’s someone up here who wants to see you”, all singsongy, so I know something is up.

Now, folks, I am not a sourpuss, I like a party, gimme a beer. But being at the center of attention, whether it is my birthday, or because I did something good (like succeeded in business for 5 years) is just not my cup of tea. To me, standing there, getting all congratulated, and back patted, and gifted, and honored, I dunno, I just wanna be a fly on the wall. But I’m fine with it, as long as it isn’t gonna last too long, and then I can get back to the cracked wheat.

So I walk up to the sales counter, and then I see this person, all dressed like a clown, with like a million balloons in her hands, and she rushes over to me, gives me a big kiss on the cheek, and squeals, “Congratulations on 5 years Ric, I have a surprise for you!”, and she hands me the balloons, half of which I lost in the exchange, steps back, and starts performing, loudly and showbiz-like, my special singing telegram.

To be honest, I kinda blacked out. Some of you might remember that my first bakery was in a grocery store, so there was no shortage of people there to see me squirm as the song began. I mean, maybe fifty people, all up and down the checkstand aisle, coming closer and closer as the singing went on, and on, and on. The song was all gushy and congratulatory and specific. Me standin’ there, all embarrassed, holding a bunch of balloons. I was polite. I thanked everyone profusely, and returned to the workbench, exausted.

About an hour later, and I swear this actually happened, my sales person, in the exact same tone as the first time, hollers back to me in the production department, “Oh Ric, there’s someone up here who would like to see you!” I am thinking, this is weird. Whut!!!??? More accolades?!

So I return to the sales area, and then, I see my daughter Stacey, who was 13 at the time, and it’s a school day, so I am confused. She stands aside, and then I see.....yet another singing telegram person, all dressed up like a Disney character, and the show begins again. It turns out, that my perfect daughter, with her own money, had arranged for a singing telegram for me also!!! The scene, the second time around, was nearly identical to the first. The singing telegram was a bit different, and since my daughter was involved, I admit I was way more attentive, maybe even shed a tear or two. But now, after all these years, and the fact that Stacey is now older than I was at the time, I can admit that singing telegrams suck, and getting two in one day, that double sucks.

But just so you can see me in my apron while others giggle and I cringe, here are a couple of photos.

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Prom Dress Girls

I once wrote a song titled “Prom Dress Girls”. To me, it’s very cute, at Prom Time, to see so many young people, in restaurants, and around town, all dressed to the nines, noisy and confident, as they participate in the prom ritual. For boys, I think, generally, it’s just a way to get with girls. For girls, it’s a much bigger issue, like a wedding, and takes planning, and a lot of thought.

And those dresses, man, they’re expensive. The boys, they rent. But the girls mostly buy dresses, and some plan their evening for months. I get a kick out of it. I have two daughters, and they both went to their prom, when they were in high school. And they were sure to stop by and see their Dad, allow him a few photos, and that was really nice of them.

I try not to tell other people’s stories, but there is one, related to prom dress girls, I just have to tell. I have an acquaintance, who, when she attended her first senior prom, was only a sophomore. So, she would have been maybe 14. The restaurant of choice was a very spendy Portland restaurant, back in the day, maybe 1964, a restaurant in a fancy hotel, known as “The Benson”. The fare was mostly French at the time, and understanding the menu, for a naive 14 year-old picky eater, was a bit challenging. There was only one thing on the menu that struck a chord, and looked as though it was something she would eat, and that she could order with confidence. When the waiter came to take orders (there were 3 couples at the table) she assertively ordered her meal, a meal whose title she understood.....
”Cherries Jubilee”. Of course, Cherries Jubilee is a grande and flaming “prepared tableside” dessert, not an entree, so the waiter begged to assist in the selection of a suitable entree. However, trying her best to appear mature and collected, she insisted that she was certain in her selection. The waiter relented.

About half an hour later, as the “Steak Au Poive”, “Salade Nicoise”, and “Columbia River Chinook Bernaise” began to arrive, several waiters pulled the black leather dessert prep table into view. Then, as my friend’s prom date, and the other couples began to eat , the waiters got busy creating, “tableside”, a huge and fancy flaming Cherries Jubilee dessert, complete with mounds of ice cream and brandy from the sky, which my friend then devoured as her entree. Just right for that Prom Dress Girl. Perhaps you've noticed that I haven't used any names, above, to well, uh, protect the innocent.

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The Collectors

Last week, I noticed that a speaker bracket in my van had broken, at the rear of the truck, and it was noisy as hell, that speaker swinging side to side against the metal wall studs. Upon further inspection, I realized I would have to remove the bracket and have it welded.

Today, I removed the bracket, and took it to a welding shop. Now, I don’t need a welder very often, but I recalled that I have used the services of an older man near my home, and I drove there to see if he was still in business. When I arrived, the shop was still there, but the exterior yard was a mess. Suddenly, the “old man” of whom I speak came out of the building, and I popped my head out of the van window. “You open?”, I hollered. “What’cha got?” he shot back, so I exited the van.

I handed him the bracket, and then followed him through the doors of the shop. We passed two small tan dogs in the yard, and I noticed that the one who was wretching was missing an eye. The second we got into the shop, which is just a huge mess, the smell hit me. Urine. As in pet urine, totally overwhelming. He walked to the workbench, and began to work on the bracket. Well, I thought, if he is gonna do it right now, that’s good, I can just gut it out if I am gonna get this thing fixed right away. “Can it be fixed?”, I asked. “Not sure”, he replied, and began filing the broken part.

This was the same man I had done business with years ago, and I thought he was old then! I reminded him, as he worked, that he had made a large 50 gallon drum style barbecue for me some years ago, about 1988, which I still have, and which I have used at street fairs and other events. “I quit makin’ them fuckin’ things”, he spoke as he worked. “Used to make over a hundred a’them things every year,” he elaborated. “The year the paper did a story, we made 300. I’ve sent’em t’ New Jersey, Texas, France, you name it.” He continued to work, and I watched with interest as a man in his 80s cranked up the welder, put on the protective hat and fixed my speaker bracket, sparks flying amid the yellow glow of a welder’s torch.

At one point, he walked to a filing machine to fine tune his welding point, and I noticed him stepping carefully. That’s when I noticed the dog feces. ”Got one dog won’t shit outside”, he complained, and continued with his work. I stepped outside a few times. The odor was crushing. “Well, we got lucky”, he announced a few minutes later. “It took”. He asked for 10 dollars but I gave him a 20.

As I gave the man his money, I asked, “Well, lessee, you’ve been down here for a number of years right?” “Over 30 years” he replied. “And are you retired or what?” I asked. “Hell yeah, I don’ do a fuckin’ thing.” Then I said, “So I just happened to come here at the right time huh?” “That’s right”, he spoke, looking down. He then turned slowly, and as he gave me the history of his business, he began to light some huge stick incense that he had taken from a brown paper bag on his workbench. We are not talking Nagchampa folks, this stuff was huge, like big sparklers really. He lit four, and placed the stick ends in what looked like a large railroad nut that had four holes in it. A homemade welding shop incense burner. He had done this before.

“Man, you have a ton of stuff in here”, I chatted. The place was a mess, like a “collectors” house, like those collector people one sees on TV, with piles of stuff everywhere, or collectors of cats. There were piles of old clothes, some still in plastic clothes protectors, and boxes of shoes, toys, many slot machines, all among the welding machines and other workshop stuff. “Well, I live here”, he told me, and then, invited me into his private residence. As the incense started to take hold, we entered his “private” door, at one end of the shop.

It was then, as we entered, that I realized, this guy really is a true “collector”. And then he spoke. “Y’see, I’m a collector.”

But not a collector as in just piles of stuff everywhere, like there was in the shop. This guy has collections! Yes, they are dusty, and dirty, and his residence is a disaster, but he has made an effort, sometime back then, to collect things in a proper way. In the residence, there were collections of Glass Bells, Glass Shoes and Slippers, Kitchen Utensils, Model Motorcycles and Cars, Hundreds of Buttons With Sayings On Them, Checkers Sets, Disney Stuff, Ten Million Goofys And Plutos, Shelves and Shelves of All Of This Stuff, Games Made Out Of Wood, Slot Machines, Masks, Asian Art And Buddhas, and the largest collection of all is a collection of Thousands Of Lapel Pins, like the kind you get in fraternal organizations or at special events and attractions, all neatly attached to many, many framed cork boards attached high to the walls of his apartment. And there are boxes and boxes of stuff, everywhere, including on top of the brown padded hot tub cover, which is on top of the hot tub, which is sitting another room, hopefully drained.

I expressed my amazement at all of this, to his pleasure, I think. As we exited back into the shop, the incense had done it’s job. “Wow”, I spoke, “those 4 big incense really made it better out here”. “It’s changed” he corrected.

To be honest, this experience was overwhelming in more ways than one. When you see collectors on TV, it’s nothing compared to seeing one in person. I felt exausted.

As we walked out the shop door and into the parking lot, I noticed a staircase going down, like to a basement, and asked, “Wow, do you have a basement?”. Looking straight ahead, as he opened the locked gate to let me out, he replied, “Yep. That’s where I keep The Trolls”.


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Rixie Berg

I have been talking to my mother-in-law, Ethel, who is a delightful and spry septugenarian, about geneaology, which is one of her many interests. She is becoming better and better at using her computer to track down family members for posterity. She enjoys it a great deal, and it is fun to hear her explanations and findings. Today she said, “Oh, if only there was a law that people go by their first name only, not their middle name, then geneaology would be so much easier”, and then commented, “and some of those census takers, the way they have sometimes messed up people’s last names on censuses, that can make geneaology more difficult too.” She then gave me a specific example of a census taker misspelling someone’s last name in her own family. Kind of a hassle. But I can see how, in just the blink of an eye, someone could misunderstand a name, and maybe nothing is said, and there it is, ‘til infinity, written on some document in a vault.

Once, as a young man, I needed a small car loan, and approached a banker in beautiful downtown Burien, Washington, after making an appointment by phone. Sporting my requisite almost famous rock star haircut, I approached a young loan officer and introduced myself. “How do you do sir”, I spoke politely, “I’m Ric Seaberg”. Reaching out to shake my hand, he immediately replied “How do you do, Rixie”, as in Trixie or Pixie, as in Rixie Berg. I dunno, maybe he was nervous. Maybe it was the long hair. I was kinda shocked and nervous myself, and I didn't correct him. I sat down, listened to his proposal, and eventually decided to get the loan elsewhere. But to this guy, whose brain decided to separate the syllables in the wrong place, I was Rixie then, and Rixie, forever.



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Obsess Over You

Copyright Ric Seaberg
From The CD "Regards From the Roombar"
Hi Fi mp3
Lo Fi mp3

I've been worried 'bout shellfish and the meaning of my dreams
There is too much pollution in the rivers and streams
If I don't wash my hands then I might catch the flu
But tonight I believe I'll obsess over you

All the snake shows on cable scare the hell outa me
I'm convinced that Steve Irwin's gonna die on TV
My portfolio's wasted, well, what can ya do?
But tonight I believe I'll obsess over you

So lie back, and let me hold you close to me
Relax, I wanna see the world as it's supposed to be

Solo
Bridge
So lie back, let me hold you close to me
Relax, I wanna see the world as it was meant to be

What if I spaced and forgot to pay rent
What if plaque builds up inside of my stent
If the pipes freeze this winter, that wouldn't be good
Built my dream house with concrete, but I shoulda used wood

If I'm sipping espresso when two worlds collide
Or get that vertigo thing like when you lie on your side
There are too many carbs in a Snickers its true
But tonight I believe I'll obsess over you
Yes, tonight I believe I'll obsess over you

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The Thriftway Ass Bandit

When stories come to me, as I sit fishin’, or running about in my daily life, I sometimes say to myself, nah, can’t tell that one. The story I am about to tell is on the edge. But I can see, by my list of “blog ideas”, which I keep stickied on my desktop, I must’ve thought, though it is bluish, my readers can handle it.

It was about 1979, and I had been in business at my first bakery, “Richard’s Bakery”, of Tualatin, Oregon, for about 4 years. Richard’s Bakery was in a Thriftway grocery store, and I had built it there on the invitation of the grocery store owner, from the ground up, within the warehousing area of the store. Our sale’s department, however, was featured in the retail area, and we were a hot little business, slappin’ out pastries, doughnuts, cookies, cakes, bread, all of it. If you arrived at my store at 7a.m., you would find 5 oak Columbus showcases, chock full of good things to eat, still warm cake and raised doughnuts, danish pastries, fresh hot french bread, decorated cakes, on and on.

The production department was located to the rear of the grocery store, which was a bit of a hassle, but we dealt with it. Business was good, so we gladly accepted the fact that we had to wheel our goods 100 feet to our display cases. It also gave me time, if I was the one to wheel the products out, to hang out with my customers a bit, maybe shoot the shit with the produce guys, see what was happening in the rest of the store.

On one occasion, I had just finished wheeling out the products, and as I looked down the row of the Thriftway’s checkstands, I could see that there was some commotion and hollering going on at the other end of the store. There was a man and woman, attempting to leave the store, and another man, a scruffy guy, trying to prevent them from leaving, getting in their face, yelling and carrying on, spewing four letter words and accusations.

I could see that the Store Manager and his assistant were on the case, attempting to calm this guy down, get him outa there, but he was a whirlwind of anger, and they were having no effect whatsoever.

Apparently, the yeller guy, who looked to be in his thirties, and was, may I say, a bit unkempt, had been walking down the meat aisle, where a couple was shopping, and all of a sudden, and I swear this actually happened, this guy drops to his knees, right there in the meat aisle, and attempts to look up this woman's dress. You know, like, hmmmm, what if I just hit the ground, right here by the top sirloin, see if I can get a peek at this gal’s butt, yeah, that’s the ticket. One can imagine the shock and fear this woman must have felt, and her partner, as this guy squirmed around on the floor, obviously up to no good. At that point, the woman’s partner started to yell at the guy, as in what the hell do you think you are doing, etc., and then called for help, at the top of his lungs, and that’s when store personnel arrived. By then, the guy had gotten to his feet, and was yelling back at this woman’s partner, and at everyone, jus’ spittin’ with anger. So the couple, whose cart was full, began to leave the store, but the guy was following them and being completely loud and obnoxious, probably dangerous.

By this point, the cops were on their way, called by other store personnel. I had joined the ranks of onlookers, there by the meat cases and the automatic doors.The store manager and his assistants tried to escort the couple to their car, while the perpetrator stood right with them all, yelling profanities, saying they were a bunch of liars, that sorta thing. F’n this and F’n that.

But the thing that makes me remember this story, the thing that makes it so surreal, is that, as the couple drove away, this guy, this guy who had dropped to the ground to look up this woman’s dress, began following the car out of the parking lot, running alongside the car, kicking the car, hitting the windows, calling names, threatening them. Is that not too odd? Wouldn’t a more sane scenario be, if one could be more sane, I mean in the case of a guy falling to the floor to look up a woman’s dress on the meat aisle of a Thriftway, for the bad guy to run away? I mean, hey you, quit looking up my wife’s dress, get lost! And then, the bad guy dashes? The whole time, this guy was acting as if it was the dress lady and her partner who were in the wrong!

The Police arrived, and I am certain that the Store Manager and others told the story similarly to my version. I envisioned then, and now, the two young cops, after being polite and taking down the details, getting in their car, drivng off, and finally, looking at each other, and bursting out laughing. The Thriftway Ass Bandit was never apprehended.


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The Muffins Monks Make

In about 1980, a few years after I had opened “Richard’s Bakery" in Tualatin, Oregon, someone opened a new bakery, a little muffin shop, in a town nearby, which was easy driving distance from my store. Of course, I wasn’t fond of any new competition, but also, I have always felt that we retail bakers need to support each other, so I planned on stopping by, to introduce myself, and to let them know that, if they ever needed a pound of yeast at 3 a.m., or some chocolate chips, whatever, to come on over.

A few days after they opened, there was quite a spread in the local paper, all about the new little muffin shop, and as I read the article, I began to fume. The article was all nice and informative, and I read with great interest. Then, in the part where the baker/owner tells his story, outlines his experience, that’s where I freaked.

Now, I am all in favor of marketing, and I understand the power of the media, and the value of say, having something interesting to relate about one’s past, some engaging factoid, to help your business, get a few tongues wagging. Like say, if a person has achieved a bit of local success as say, a professional athlete, and then goes into the restaurant business, you play off that, you use every opportunity you can to remind the media and your clientele that you once sank the winning free throw when you won the championship, that kinda thing. It’s perfectly fair and smart.

But this muffin guy, he made shit up, and it pissed me off. It sounded like it could be true, and I was certain that 99.9% of readers would believe his story, as he told it. It was the story of how he had lived with monks for a period of time, and finally, after many years of hard work and toil, and pleading, he was given the monks' secret recipe for muffins, muffins that were so good, well, that monks made them. The muffins monks make, that’s what he was going to bake at his shop. Using the secret recipe.

What a bunch of BS. But I shined it on, and though I never did go over to meet this joker, I thought, well, that’s business for ya’, nothing I can do about it, except, I am jus’ gonna have to work harder than this guy, be sure my bakery is better.

I drove by the muffin shop quite frequently in my travels, there in Lake Grove, Oregon, on my way to pick up ingredients, making a delivery, something. Whenever I drove by, it seemed busy, and I admit, at times, it ate my heart out to see those cars there, and I wondered if the customers inside were sitting at their tables, and relishing every last angelic morsel of the muffins monks make, since they had eaten up that crap about the secret recipe.

I kept my mouth shut, but continued to work my ass off, you know, to be sure my cases were loaded with good things to eat, every morning, at 7a.m., rain or shine, at Richard’s Bakery, muffins included, nice big fresh blueberry muffins, double chocloate fudge chip, gorgeous bran muffins, maybe something really interesting, like a Canadian Bacon and Extra Sharp Tillamook muffin.

About a year later, I decided to finally stop at the muffin shop, check it out. It was afternoon, about 1p.m., and as I got out of my car, it looked a bit deserted in the muffin shop. I approached the cases. There was a plate in the case, with a couple of chocolate muffins, and another plate, with a dozen or so muffins on it, which were white, but I could see they had some kind of other ingredient, like raisins or something. “Excuse me,” I piped up to the clerk, “what kind of muffins are those?”

It turned out, and I swear this is the truth, that those muffins were vanilla batter muffins, and they had, are you ready for this?..... “red hots” folded into them. We are talking, in this guy’s shop, there were two chocolate muffins, and a tray full of vanilla muffins, with little red cinnamon “red hot” candies in them. OH YUM. I couldn’t help but wonder if the addition of red hots somehow especially complemented the monk's secret recipe. I envisioned myself attempting to eat one of them, biting down, and then having to begin crunching, with great gusto, through those little hot and hard candies. Or maybe what one would do is, collect the red hots in a corner of your mouth, as you eat the cakey part with the rest of your mouth. Or you could store'm between yer cheek and gum, like Skoal, and then suck'em after you finish the cake!

I admit, I wasn’t all that shocked or bummed when the muffin shop, though they had an exclusive on the monk’s “secret recipe”, went out of business shortly thereafter.

Last week, I saw an Oprah show, and it was about Krispy Kreme. At the beginning of the show, they had given Oprah a fresh glazed doughnut, and she was fondling it and swooning over it, pressing it to her face, etc., and even looked sexually aroused, slightly moaning and such. It was funny, but then, when they interviewed the Krispy Kreme people, they made a huge deal out of their secret recipe. Once again, folks, it’s bullshit. If you make a nice raised doughnut dough, by using, perhaps, the “World’s Fair Raised Doughnut” recipe, available to any baker, and if you treat the dough right, and fry it right, and glaze it right, it is gonna be great. It might even be better than Krispee Kreme, and it almost certainly will be better than the muffins monks make. Thanks for listenin’. I’ve been wantin’ t’blow the lid off this scam for years.

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Sports Bars

As old as I am, if I had a nickel for every time I stood before a simply disgusting and filthy urinal, in a bar, or any public restroom, I’d be rich. I don’t get it. Sure, restrooms, at say, a rest area on I-5, as much use as they get, and as remote as some of them are, might get a little gamey, and that’s to be expected. But at a gas station, or a restaurant, sorry, there’s just no excuse for a pathetic potty. Clean the son of a bitch. Get a service to do it, or get a person on staff to keep it nice, and smelling nice, well stocked, and shut up. It reflects on your business to have a good clean restroom, or not. If the restroom stinks, I can’t help but wonder, what’s going on regarding cleanliness in the kitchen? “Uh, I think I’ll just have a beer please, skip the burger tonight. I just lost my appetite using the can.”

When football season was approaching this year, 2005, I began to think of places that Blaine and I might go to enjoy a game and a beer, say, on a Monday night, make a bet or two, and go watch the game with some other fans. We have a few Sport’s Bars near our home, but, the more I thought, the more I remembered how nasty they are, not just the restrooms, but other facilities too, the old, worn and ripped booths and chairs, the food, the unkempt help, most of it. Sure, when the beer is a’flowin’, and your team just scored, who gives a shit. But all of this got me thinking more, and before I knew it, I was moaning to Blaine about the lack of a really nice Sport’s Bar in our area.

Now, my son Blaine is a guy’s guy, and besides the fact that he appreciates a decent restroom, (and accessible, since he uses a wheelchair) , I think, at first, as I began my griping, he was having a bit of trouble relating to my wish for a “nice” Sport’s Bar. “You know”, I would say, “a Sports Bar with class, a gentleman’s Sport’s Bar. A Sport’s Bar where a guy in a suit could go after work, and maybe there would even be some women there, and not just those girls with bad teeth and red tube tops. A place where you could get a lovely steak dinner, done to perfection, and maybe even a lemon drop (my son’s cocktail of choice), well prepared”. But the more I ranted, the more he could see my point, and so we began a mission to find a decent Sport’s Bar in this burg.

I thought I might be livin’ in a small town, cuz, well, If I can’t think of a nice Sport’s Bar, um, maybe there isn’t one. So Blaine, who has a ton of sports nut buddies online, posed a question in a thread he created, asking for suggestions for the best Sport’s Bars in Portland. He got a lot of suggestions, and, as we expected, even some of the dumps I despise were highly regarded.

Last night, we ventured out to try a new place, “On Deck”, (‘cuz it has a huge deck, get it?) in Portland’s Pearl District, and I am just so damn happy. Now we’re talkin’. I won’t bore you with the details, but it is just the place I was lookin’ for. If you are in town, give it a try. You might see Blainey and I there, Marie too, cheerin’ on the Blazers. I’ll be the one wolfin’ down the red meat and vodka, wearin’ the cheesehead.

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Captain Beef Heart

I guess you could say that this blog entry is a confession of sorts, a bit like when I finally admitted to the fact that I had removed from my house, in 1980, and taken to The Humane Society, a male cat, who had severely sprayed the house for months. Though ridden with guilt, I kept that little Bondian caper a secret from my children for years. (see “Rocky Bob” below) This confession isn’t quite as bad, and once again, I believe I had the health and welfare of my family in mind.

In the early to mid 70s, when my daughters were quite young, we were poor. I had been in my band, “The Morning Reign”, until 1971, where I pocketed, for several years, the huge sum of $75 per week. Later, after the band, I had a succession of jobs, and though I was pleased to have a little more money coming in, well, let’s just say, the food budget was a bit slim.

But I was getting more and more interested in food, and as some of you may recall, I did end up owning a bakery/restaurant for over 20 years. But in the days before I took the plunge and started a business, I was experimenting in the kitchens of our little rental houses, and guess who was the beneficiary of my self education??? Why, my young daughters, of course!

Now, I don’t know who of you have “picky eaters”, in your midst, but I bet most of you have had one in your world. My daughters, God love’m, in their early years, were not terrible eaters, but they definitely had their druthers. So even though I wished to prepare succulent and healthy meals, and also enjoy my time in the kitchen, I had to be careful not to, oh, for example, have a tomato within 50 yards of the dining table.

But if I got’em good’n hungry, used a little "timing" to my advantage, they'd eat.
Then, If I put a nice homemade beef stew on the table, laced with carrots and potatoes, for example, and maybe some bread, they ate hungrily. Nachos and homemade pizza, bingo. But on such a tight budget, I had to resort to a few tricks.

My ex-wife’s family, especially the older guys, were a bunch of hunters and fishermen. Many times, on our trips to Portland, from Seattle, to see family, I would be the recipient of some recent "catch of the day" ...... elk, venison, even game birds, pulled from an aunt's freezer stock, which I was grateful for.

It was, however, a bit of a challenge to prepare game meats to the liking of my family. Over time, I figured out the best way to do it was in a stew type of meal, where the meat would cook for a long time, and be infused with other flavors, heavy on the oregano, which kept that gamey flavor at bay. I got pretty good at it, and, after a time, I would just tell everyone it was beef, and got no complaints. Elk was especially easy to disguise. With game birds, though, I admit, it was a bit difficult, after suggesting to my tribe that it REALLY WAS “chicken” in the soup, to explain away those little round pieces of buckshot lying in the broth.

Later, after opening my bakery, and experiencing some success, we were able to buy more and better groceries. But I have always had a thing for experimenting in the kitchen, and saving money on lesser cuts of meat, which continues to this day. At some point, I discovered beef heart, wheeling my cart past pricey sirloin at the Shop'n'Save.

Maybe you have done it before, I dunno, but it’s a bitch cleaning up a beef heart, and getting it ready to cook. Alll those little veins'n shit, yuck. But I taught myself how to do it, a lotta years ago, and folks, if you do it right, and slow cook it, like in a crock pot, with spices and veggies, like a beef stew, it’s fantastic. Slice it thin, make a gravy from the broth, it’s tender and delicious. My daughters love it. They may not realize it, but they have eaten it many, many times.

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Spouse Is Not A Song Word

In 1990, right around there, I was writing some grim songs. My second marriage was going down, slowly but surely, and what was coming out of my pen was, well, looking back, kinda depressing. One song, “Knocks the Heart”, was a favourite of mine, however sad....

“All our friends in the neighborhood,
They see us walkin’ by, smilin’, lookin’ good
Peekin’ out from their window couch,
They see a beautiful lady and her perfect spouse
But they don’t see the tears when you close your heart on me
And they don’t know that conflict is our only history
And lover, when you’re on my arm and flash contented eyes,
They believe our masquerade, they see our disguise and...........

It knocks the heart out of me, it knocks the soul out of me
We always manage to sabotage romance
It knocks the heart out of me, now honey don’t you agree
Sometimes you wanna be free”

I recorded the song in Seattle with my friend Larry at his studio. Larry plays keys and the track was very pretty, albeit morose.

In those days, still ultra busy with my bakery business, I was sending songs away for publishing, hoping for someone else to publish, and record them. I sent “Knocks the Heart” to several publishers, and though none of them published the song, I did receive a lot of feedback. Most publishers who passed had something good to say, and some were kind enough to send a critique.

One publisher, who wrote a particularly lengthy and instructive critique, suggested that I strike the word “spouse”. His criticism included the sentence, “spouse is not a song word.” It struck me funny, because, although I did get his point, “spouse is not a song word”, to a word guy, is a great phrase. I never forgot it.

Anyway, suffice it to say, I haven’t been very good about keeping words like “spouse”, and other “non-song words”, out of my songs. In fact, over my songwriting career, I think I may have broken the song word mold. What really got me going on this topic is that I wrote a new song this week, titled “A Thousand Songs”, which includes the word “modicum”. I love that. If you pick up my next CD, “Who Come Down?”(there will be two new CDs out soon), you will hear me crooning the words "winnowing", "pontificating", "diatribe", "quiescently", and "Tillamook", among others. But I promise, there isn’t even one song as weepy as “Knocks the Heart”.

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The Ugly Lamp Museum

The highways and backroads of this country are lined with a plethora of oddball roadside attractions. When we travel, we love to keep our eye out for weird shit along the way, and even seek some out, by taking along a stack of books which highlight many of these nutty attractions, like The Cleveland Style Polka Hall of Fame, which we actually visited, and totally loved. Our tour guide, an older fellow with a faraway look in his eyes, had so much trouble staying on topic, I don’t think any of us in the group had any idea what he was talking about. Priceless. One never knows what fun experience one might find at an attraction like that.

Or take, for another example, “JFK’s Twine Ball”, in Lake Nebagamon, Wisconsin, where a man named James Frank Kotera began saving string in 1979, and today hosts a roadside attraction where his twine ball sits proudly outside, under a nice gazebo, you know, to protect his precious ball from the elements. Imagine one’s glee upon arriving at such a venue, and the awe one would feel upon gazing at such a thing! JFK’s twine ball, and other shall we say, quirky attractions, are yours for the viewing at a cool website named roadsideamerica.com.

So it probably would come as no surprise that I count myself among the persons who would create such an attraction, and stand proudly by it’s entrance, handing out leaflets and half price coupons to encourage repeat visitors. Find me a dusty little small town on the highway, lemme toss up a quonset hut, fill it with, oh, I dunno, ugly lamps maybe, since I love them so, and set up an espresso machine, build a huge stucco ugly lamp outside, get me a business licence, and wait for the inevitable flood of customers. I’m onto something, right?

In 1998, maybe a year and a few months after Marie and I had met, and fallen madly in love, we were driving the neighborhood one day, and near our house, in the window of a store called, “Fairly Honest Bill’s”, I spied, what I have now come to believe, were the ugliest lamps in the history of man. Right up my alley. Two huge table lamps, shining in the sun, with huge ugly lampshades. I insisted that we go in to look, and Marie agreed. There, on the window shelf, in all their glory, stood the most scary and hideous lamps I had ever laid my eyes on. The body of the each lamp was also huge, maybe 12 inches in diameter, and in the shape of a conquistador, Cortez perhaps, or Ponce de Leon, sporting one a‘those conquistador hats. Later, I found them to be made of plaster, and painted with a faux finish to resemble bronze, very fakey, but totally cool. As my friend Stan would say, “Inside, I was screamin’”. These lamps, folks, were so ugly, that in the days that followed, I couldn’t keep my mind off them. But Marie and I left the store, and drove away, me, with my heart pounding.

A few days later, my Roadside Attraction Mentality got the best of me. When Marie was at work, I drove to Fairly Honest Bill’s, and bought the lamps. I took them home, and much to the pleasure of my step-son Blaine, who was 18 at the time, and just figuring out what a nut his future stepfather was, I removed the table lamps from our living room and installed the Cortez Monsters in their place, and turned them on. We sat back, Blaine and I, and made comments like, “Oh, they are so beautiful”, and “Oh, wait ‘til Marie sees them, she is gonna LOVE them”, and, “are those the most extroadinarily beautiful lamps on the planet, or what? Marie will be so pleased”. The decor, at that moment, in our home, became kind of a cross between “Old Portland Craftsman”, and Hideous Mediterranean”, or as my mother might call it, “Early Halloween”.

When Marie arrived home, her two 13 year old male roommates waited patiently for her to notice. Of course, when she saw them, she just gave us the look and put her head in her hands, which pleased us immensely. It was perfect. Blaine and I giggled over that for months. And every time we would mention it, remarking on the lamps beauty, and how we loved them so, Marie would come through by moaning and saying things like, “Thank God you moved those ridiculous lamps to the basement, Ric, I thought I might have to move,” which of course would make Blaine and I laugh all the harder.

There needs to be an ugly lamp museum in this world. As soon as I clear my schedule a bit, I am sure Marie will quit her job and help me do it. This is exciting. I’m gonna go tell her right now.

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DOPAMINE!

My friend, Warren St. John, was in town yesterday, to do a reading of his national best seller, “Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer, described as “a road trip into the heart of fan-mania”, at Powell’s Books. In a crowded room Warren spoke in some detail of his urgings to write the book, and then read a bit, much to the delight of the audience. It is a great and funny book, along the lines of Tony Horowitz’ “Confederates In The Attic”, or perhaps one of Bill Bryson’s engaging travelogues. It was a delight to see him. “Rammer Jammer” takes the reader through a season of Alabama Football, (Warren’s home state), and provides relentlessly hilarious descriptions as he follows rabid Alabama fans from game to game in his own used RV, christened “The Hawg” for it’s overly thirsty gas tank. If you are a sport’s fan, and you like to laugh, get this book. At our house, Marie read the book to us in the evening, to save us from yet another repeat of “House Hunters”, much to our pleasure, over a couple of weeks. It is such a joy to see one’s wife, or one’s son, with tears of laughter in their eyes, as the book provided for us. After hearing Marie read the book, one little factoid kept coming back to me, as I pondered Warren's writing. Apparently, as explained in the book, neuroscientists, in an effort to more fully understand fan behavior, have performed some experiments with monkeys, whereby, they set up a sort of “game”. The monkeys were able to “win” apple juice, and other treats, and then, the testers would measure the reaction in the monkey’s brains, using some monkey brain measuring device, and discovered that, as the monkey’s “won” their treats, their levels of dopamine would rise markedly. This would lead one to believe that there is far more involved with a human’s love of sports than just a passing rah-rah for one’s home team or school team. It’s drugs!, er, one's own dopamine rush! Picture, if you will, for a moment, a pig pile of grown men, after winning the World Series, or a high school championship, or fans in the stands, celebrating with similar embraces, their war paint covered faces dripping with tears of victory. And I am not even going into those raging shirtless spiked up skull and cross drippin’ biker lookin’ maniacs in Oakland. But hey, I love sports, I have played the most of them, and I love a victory just as much as the next guy, and if it’s about dopamine, bring it on. When I win, or my team wins, it feels good. Anyway, fascinated by this whole issue, I wrote a song about it, and recorded it with my ace guitarist Tim Ellis, which will appear in it’s entirety on one of my two CDs, “Dubs On Trial”, to be released later this fall, 2005. Warren calls it the “anthem” to his book, which makes me feel like a winner. https://youtu.be/NMXWdOax3-g. And here is Warren St. John's site . Visit Ric Seaberg's Website

David

It was spring of 1973, and I was a first time homeowner, there in Renton, Washington, a stone’s throw from Seattle, where I had landed after my band days, with my wife and two young daughters. The same Renton where Jimi Hendrix lies buried.

Long before the days of DIY, and Home Depot, I had a need to do all my own home improvements. I screwed up a lot, like the time I tried to cut the long sides of bi-fold doors with a small jigsaw, which of course was a disaster, since a person cutting with a jigsaw will never meet the needs of a door, which needs to be perfectly square and straight. Over the years, I have learned lots of DIY lessons this way. That time, my next door neighbor, who was a bit older, took pity, and helped me start over, using his table saw, but not before I had ruined four doors and had to buy more. Let’s just say, it wasn’t long after that, that I had my own table saw.

We lived on a pleasant little rural street, and had a sizeable piece of property, where our postage stamp size house stood. Being a creative sort, I set out to improve the property, and learned all sorts of gardening skills, like how to rent a rototiller, how to use one, and began my library of gardening books. Before long, I had a yard full of nastursiums and sturdy daisies, and even shrubs, including a long planting of arborvitae pyramidalis, which stood barely protruding from the soil, lining the property by the street. Years later, as I passed the house on a visit to Seattle, those little half-gallon trees had spread to form a solid wall 50 feet long by at least 10 feet high, and I breathed a sigh of completion.

The neighborhood was full of children, and was close to a grade-school, where my daughter Stacey went to kindergarten, when she turned 5. Since it was rural enough, back then, to be referred to as “out in the country”, it was extremely quiet, as I would dig new shrub holes, except for the shrieks and laughter of the many kids, on our street, and on streets nearby.

One of the older children, a tall, fair, muscular 14 year-old named David, who also owned a huge loud voice, took a liking to me, after being introduced to me by a neighbor, and stopped by frequently, as I gardened, to talk, and I would give him this and that to do, which he enjoyed. David’s father had died when he was 12, of a massive heart attack, and he once told me that he could recall running down the street after the ambulance, after they had picked up his father’s lifeless body. I never met his mother, but I spent a lot of time with David, and I thought he was a very innocent, good kid who definitely needed a buddy. He would stop by at some odd times, but I never did turn him away. We would invite him in, he would eat, watch tv, just sit there in his army jacket, size XXL.

I had acquired a small utility trailer, which would trail behind my soft green 1961 Volvo, when I went to pick up plants, barkdust, soil ammendments. One day, after David arrived to kill some time, I invited him to go along with me to the garden center, and we hooked up the trailer. We left the house, and traveled through the neighborhood, on a lovely Sunday morning, my only day off from my bakery job, along the tree lined streets, past the kids and dogs and basketball hoops, and eventually, past the grade school, where David had been a student before his graduation to Junior High. As we approached the school, David began to roll down his window. “I know those two girls”, he said, pointing to a hilltop by the school, where two young ladies moved away from us, on an expansive lawn. All of a sudden, and I swear this is the truth, David, with his huge man voice, wound up and hollered, at the top of his lungs, right there, right out the window of PTA member Ric Seaberg’s soft green Volvo, at these young ladies, and from the depths of his being,............
”HEYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY SNATCH !!!!!!!!!

At times like these, what IS person to do? I drove on, and I scolded David, oh, I dunno, maybe something like, “YOU IDIOT! WHAT ARE YOU THINKING”, but, in all honesty, I don’t really remember what I said. Suffice it to say, that I do remember, as I continued on in the car, being completely mortified. Eventually, squirming in my own private Idaho, I did envision myself, perhaps at a PTA meeting, or a Parent’s night at my daughter’s school, being pointed out by one of those young ladies, to her parents, as I entered my soft green Volvo, “That’s the guy in the car who yelled snatch at us, mom, that guy right there.”

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My CDs Project

I must apologize for my slowing posts, but with the tragedy in the south, honestly, I just haven’t felt like writing about my little life. That, and the fact that I am working my ass off, everyday, trying to get my CDs project completed. Two, yep, two CDs, to be released in the near future, as in maybe November 1, but I get a couple of weeks grace if that’s what it takes, okay? One is titled “Who Come Down?”, from a song of the same name, and the other is titled “Dubs On Trial”. Both will be slick, complete CD packages, and I am looking forward to coming home from errands one of these days, to find a bunch of boxes on my front porch, filled with the results of an enormous amount of time and energy. Of course, when that day comes, I am going to attempt to sell a few, and I would love to email you, if you are interested, to let you know when they are for sale, on CDBaby, or Amazon.com, or even directly from me, here at Ric Seaberg CD Central. If you have a sec, please add your name to my email list, on the home page of this site. Thanks!

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Homeless

In the last few days, watching the news almost constantly, Marie and I have been overwhelmed by the tragic situation in New Orleans and beyond. My dear wife, whom I have sometimes called a News Junkie Empathy Sponge, may need therapy soon. There isn’t much I can say or do to help her as she frets over the tragedy of Katrina. I hold her hand, rub her head, take her to lunch. Our hearts are broken, and we fear for our fellow man. We can only hope that as the days go by, there will be better news, as thousands of people arrive to help. We send our love and prayers to all of the homeless, and others, helping with the disaster relief.

Myself, I hear words and phrases, coming to me from who knows where, words that someone who is experiencing the disaster first hand might say. Today, my friend Tim and I recorded a song I wrote yesterday, with those words and phrases. Click here to listen to “Home Again” in Hi-Fi (broadband)

Lo-Fi (dial-up) here

Or, if you promise to send $1.00 to the relief organization of your choice, download "Home Again" here

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Bandon

A few years ago, Marie and I decided to vacation on the Southern Oregon Coast, somehwere near the town of Bandon, an area that Marie knows well, and loves, that little gal with her master’s degree in geography. I had been through the area many times, years ago, when I was traveling the coast with my old band, but had never come to appreciate it, blowing through the town of Bandon, I suppose, packin’ zzz’s in the bunk of our band vehicle. I was anxious to experience the area more properly, my geographer wife in tow.

When we travel, we have a few extras to consider, our Bichon Frises, for one thing. We love to have them with us, and as long as we are not flying to China, count on us to bring them along. But accomodations where pups are allowed are few, and then, one must never leave dogs, who may bark, for example, at the sightest provocation, in a motel room, and take the chance of disturbing other travelers. So we thought we’d try to find a beach house for rent, one which allows dogs.

In additon to our dogs’ needs, when we take Blaine, which is always, we need to find an accessible situation, since he uses a wheelchair. So I hit the internet to look for a nice accessible beach house which would also allow a couple of dogs.

Today I sit comfortably in the living room of the beach house we found to rent back then, where we are vacationing for our third year in a row. We love these accomodations, and Bandon. We are staying at The Historic Bandon River House, right on the Coquille River, just a few blocks from “old” downtown Bandon. It is an old store, actually, converted into a rental. Years ago, it was a cobbler’s store. I can almost fish the river from the house’s back porch. It is large, with lots of space for a person in a wheelchair. And the dogs, currently both snuggling to my thigh as I write, well, if they could speak English, I am certain they would share their approval. I take them out back, and tie them to the porch railing while I fish. They sit so quietly and calmly, rare for them, so I am convinced they are very content.

Damn, no fish yet. I’m workin’ on it. Maybe this evening. The guys from The Port of Bandon told me to sneak out onto their “no trespassing” dock, next door, after they go home, so I am going to go out later, and get my line into deeper water, try to land a few stripers, maybe a salmon, or snapper.

In the morning, Blaine and I roll up to the free wi-fi coffee shop, check our email, whatever. One of my daughters delivered our sixth grandchild this week, so I was able to receive several large photos of our new baby wirelessly, sipping my single shot Americano. She is soooooo beautiful.

My mother-in-law is here with us, so she and Marie have been getting lots of quilting done. All in all, we are just relaxing and taking it easy, recharging. Here are some pictures of us in Bandon

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Drawn to Dives

I have an eye for the antique, the old fashioned. Furnishings, cars from yesteryear, just about any ol’ time honored thing. Fortunately, I have a small warehouse, so, over the years, I have had a place to store a lot of stuff. But as one of Marie’s old friends once said, "we are no longer in acquisition mode".

One thing that really gets me fired up, among all the great old things, are old restaurants, and the buildings that hold them. We might be driving along, down Main Street in some small town, and I will see the front of some restaurant, housed in an “art deco” styled building, and with it's great bold lines and slanted windows, it just calls me in. I might see an old lunch counter through the glass, maybe some cigarette smokin’ fedora wearin’ farm hand named Bernie at the counter, getting ready to slam his toasted cheese, and I gotta go in.

Unfortunately, many of these old restaurants and lunch counters have seen better days, as far as facilities are concerned. Very few have accessible bathrooms, for example, and almost all have some other sort of cleanliness issues, like old rotting carpet or linoleum tile, ripped and torn naugahyde booths, something. Still, I love'm. I get that same feeling that other antique and old things buffs describe, the feeling of “a simpler time”. Maybe that’s one reason we love our Airstream.

My perfect wife Marie allows me my need for occasional visits to these kinds of restaurants, and even enjoys the architecture, and sometimes over the top tacky decor. I can always tell, however, that she is a bit nervous about the generally sullied facilites, as she downs her patty melt with trepidation.

Marie teases me, occasionally, about how I took her, on our first date, to a Portland bar and grill named “Spot 69”, on 69th and Foster in Portland. To me, I was sharing one of my great loves with her, an older, kinda crummy but completely interesting old dining establishment, complete with gum chewing waitresses who call everyone honey, huge martinis for a couple of bucks, and a sort of psuedo Howard Johnsons decor, circa 1960, complete with turquoise and orange booths, and 50’s style swag lamps slung low over each table. Makes me wanna start smokin’ again just talkin’ about it. Marie loves to remind me, how, at the salad bar that night, there was a sign, printed by hand in crayon, that said, “ PLEASE USE TONGS”. Is that great or what?!!!!

Driving to the coast this week, we passed a few of these establishments, most notably in North Bend, Oregon, just before you get to Coos Bay. My heart fluttered as I stared, dangerously, since I was behind the wheel, into the windows of several very groovy establishments. “Keep your eyes on the road please”, Marie spoke as we passed. “We gotta go to those restaurants, Marie”, I replied, half serious. She chuckled. “I am in charge of the restaurants we are going to this week, Ric, because you, my sweet husband, are drawn to dives”.

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