I 'ave become an Anglophile. It all started with the cable channel BBC America, and the gardening show "Ground Force", particularly during the time that Alan Titchmarsh served as host. After I watched it for a few months, I became so charmed by the English, the hosts on the show, and the guests, who seemed like such civilized, polite, humble, unassuming, intelligent, swell people. Sure, the accent and the English style guffaw could occasionally make me check to be sure I wasn't watching a Monty Python skit. But basically, I fell in love with those damn nice English people.
And BBC America has other great programming too, which I still keep my eye on. "The Office" was a hilarious, smart, well done show. And of course, one can watch just about as many actual sessions of Parliament as one can handle.
Watching Parliament in action is fascinating. It is so completely different than our Congress. Talk about feeling like you are watching Monty Python, with all the grumbling and tittering. But the way the English play politics seems so up front. Parliament is generally characterized by a very brisk debate, polite, ( I strongly disagree with the kind gentleman from Worchestershire!) and yet, replete with angry and witty remarks, even personal digs.
Watching Parliament yesteday, I realized that one cannot be a dope to run with those dogs. When Prime Minister Tony Blair rises from his chair like a shot out of a cannon to answer some accusation by a member of Parliament, his words are well chosen, concise, and powerful. After watching for a time, my wife Marie stated...."can you see Bush in that role?". Sadly, I would have to say.....not really. The banter and the rate of questions in the belly of Parliament would be, I think, a bit much for Mr. Bush. I am not particularly fond of Mr. Bush's politics, but I do not hate him. I think he is a man with a good heart. Just not particularly bright. Doesn't have the stuff one needs to stand up in Parliament. It's all too quick and in your face. I am afraid, if he were to be put to the test, say, made Prime Minister for a day, it would be a disaster. If a member accused him of pandering to the right on some issue, he would rise from his chair, give that giggly smirk, and look like he was trying to think of something to say.....and then, very slowly, and saying plenty of "long sound" participles in order to sound more eloquent, like "ay" for "a", and "thee" for "the", try to refute his detractor. But alas, the glaze in his eyes would reveal that he had actually forgotten the question. Oh man. I want a president who could stand the heat in the kitchen of Parliament!
George Bush Sr? No. Bill Clinton? Yes. Hillary......argh,......Hillary would speak so slowly and shout her speech as she does, in her usual obsequious monotone. Al Gore? Maybe. He is smart enough, but is he quick witted enough? John Edwards? Probably.
Name your politician. Watch a bit of Parliament. If you think you could plug your man or woman into the role of Prime Minister, if he or she is smart enough and quick enough to be able to handle the debate in Parliament, then that person would likely be a good candidate for President of the United States.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Pyramid Schemes
Shame on those who would disguise a pyramid scheme as an opportunity to achieve success. Whether it's cleaning products or knives, the pyramid scheme, a system of selling goods where commissions are paid to recruit new sellers, almost always turns to disaster for the individual investor. But lots of people will bite when the greed factor kicks in, and only realize when it's too late that they have wasted their time and money, for the benefit of a select few at the top. Since commissions are based on the number of sellers recruited, the right to sell the goods is sold to an increasing number of sellers at lower and lower levels. Eventually, one discovers that there are a limited number of people willing to participate, gives up, and loses their investment.
And that recruitment, lordy. Talk about pressure. I suppose one could chalk it up to a learning experience, mostly for the young, who don't have the wisdom to realize that they are being suckered. But it can be an expensive lesson.
I can barely remember the "Amway" party I attended, but I do remember the pressure of the sales person, who was my friend, capital was, attempting beyond all reason to get me to throw down my money for this rare chance to become a big success. After the chart presentation, and the stellar product line, all that was between me and The Donald was my unwillingness to take part in this "sure" thing. But my mind was made up. There is no way in hell I was ever going to attempt to drag someone screaming into a pyramid scheme, knowing full well the pitfalls of such a plan. And of course, my friend eventually discovered that his investment was wasted. I am not saying that there are not a few who actually stick to something like this and make a success of it. But it is very, very difficult, and the zipcodes of America are lined with those whose experience with a pyramid scheme is remembered with disdain.
But'cha gotta see the humor in it. Even if you have been a victim, and lost money, it's over. Look back and see yourself going red in the face as you espoused the virtues of floor wax, kitchen and toilet cleaners, as if no other tsp based soapy product could possibly compare. Think of your lame sale's pitch. Think of the fact that you were blinded by greed and learned a lesson that might have cost you, but didn't kill you. Think of the time you told someone that, if you could just sign them up today, within the next hour, you would still win that trip to Disneyworld, all expenses paid for you and your family. "Just a second, I am going to call my supervisor to see if I can still win it, Rich".............and then...."ALRIGHT! He said there's still time! Sign up right now, Rich, and my dear beloved kids WILL get to Disneyworld after all." Pretty twisted, but in retrospect, to me anyway, pretty funny.
I don't really have anything against Amway. Amway is only one of thousands of companies whose sales tactics have drifted toward the pyramid over the years. I admit that I have no idea how they pitch their products these days. But they do, in my mind anyway, hold the position as Pyramid Scheme King.
In 1997, we were planning a vacation to Detroit, to see certain "must" sights, like the original Motown recording studio. While perusing the travel books we had purchased to help us decide what else to do during our trip, we discovered that we would be within striking distance of "Amway World Headquarters", located in Ada, Michigan. I didn't stump for a yes answer right away from my traveling companions, Marie and Blaine, but I kept it in the back of my mind, and took a suit and tie along, you know, just in case I might get a photo op in front of the Amway World Headquarters sign.
And one morning in Detroit, as we planned our day, I made my case. Those two nuts went for it. We made other stops along the way, and had a blast, but we did actually travel the 150 miles from Detroit to Ada, to the destination point of Amway World Headquarters, just to kneel before the Amway sign, maybe do the tour.
Just about closing time, we pulled into Ada, and unfortunately were not able to catch the tour of the Amway factory. I would have loved to have heard the likely over the top superlatives about the Amway products. But still, I did suit up, at the back of our rented van, and the three of us walked a block or two to the sign, and got some pictures.
If you wanna see a couple, click here.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Thursday, February 03, 2005
My Flatulent Grammy
My grandmother's name was Hildur. Grammy passed away in 1993 at the age of 93. I think of her often. I remember her to be kind, generous, loving. The year I turned 13, she finally quit addressing my birthday cards to "Master Ricky Seaberg". When my grandfather, her husband Ed, passed away while they were here in Oregon on a visit many years ago, Grammy moved out here. She and my Dad lived in the same apartment complex in Lake Grove, Oregon. My sister and brother-in-law helped her move many of her belongings out here from Chicago, and from Florida where they had a second home. I inherited a lovely couch of Gram's, now in storage, which Marie and I are going to have recovered soon. It is one of those gorgeous lion-footed stylish old couches. But Grammy left us more than things. She left us memories.
As my folks and Gram grew older, my sisters and I took turns caring for them, (fixing Dad's lawnmover was one of my yearly tasks). My mother had gone to a nursing home, in Portland, so we went to see her regularly. Gram's health held out over both my Mom and Dad, who predeceased her. So for years, we would take Grammy places, to dinner, to a Portland Trailblazers basketball game, a concert, go over to play cards, take her shopping. My contribution was usually in the form of taking Grammy to dinner. I tried to mix it up, taking her to new and different places, but not too different. She was sort of a meat and potatoes gal. Mostly, we would just enjoy each other's company, chat about everything, business, family, but I will say she preferred to keep the conversation light. Once, when I attempted to discuss a divorce I was going through, her eyes sort of glazed over as if to say, " no more please. Don' wanna go there". Of course, as the years wore on, Gram would tell me stories of people that she had heard from in Chicago or Florida, e.g., "Did you know that Bert and Terry Lundquist are spending their winters in Havasu City these days?", as if I knew her friends as well as she, though I really had no idea who she was talking about. But I would engage, and for the most part, those times, just the two of us, as she passed 80, and then 85, and then 90, were precious.
One little teeny thing though, for your reading pleasure, was a bit tedious and trying when it came to dining with Grammy. First of all, may I mention that Gram was quite hard of hearing. She claimed that it was from when a gun went off right by her ear in some wild west show she had attended while vacationing. It was more likely a medical problem, but as a devout Christian Scientist, all her life, well, let's just say she wouldn't for a minute consider such a thing.
So I always thought that her hearing might have been at least a bit at fault for Gram's, well, non-chalant farting. I mean, sitting there with her at the white tablecloth, enjoying my Beaujolais, rolling the wine in the glass a bit, savoring it's elegant fragrance and then.....RRRRRRRRRRippppppppppp! She would look at you, with the sweetest little smile, as if nothing had happened. I have this horrible fear that if I ever lose my hearing, from say, cranking up the headphones when I am recording, a similar fate will befall my dear children. But I guess one could see how it could happen. Even if you could feel it coming, and going, if you can't hear it, you might think no one noticed.
Once, as we ordered our Sole and Chateaubriand, from a sweet and helpful waitress at a fine restaurant, the fireworks began. I am not talking a putt. I am talking tear-ass creeper. I am talking a very, very long, loud, outstanding crackle of passing gas, halted, and then repeated. The kind you might find on a website featuring fart sounds for download. The waitress gets a look on her face like she is shocked but refrains from any other action or statement. She remains calm. I, on the other hand, am between "my most embarrassing moment", and bursting out laughing. Thankfully, we made it through the rest of our order without further mishap.
And it wasn't always a problem. Just occasionally. But that can be a bit of a drawback, the inconsistency, I mean, 'cause when it happens, you are never ready for it.
But after Gram turned 90, I could count on her every time. Before, during, after. I became less and less affected, more and more just plain happy to be with her and sharing time with her, hearing her stories.
But one last issue, if I may. The leaving the restaurant part, after the meal, now that was a doozy. I would help my dear and more frail Gram to her feet, and we would wind and wend throught the restaurant, past tables of diners, toward the front door. Grammy had become quite slow, and unsteady, and occasionally, she would even reach over to a table of diners to steady herself, while holding my arm with her other hand. And all the while, and this is the absolute truth, offering up monster loud wind breakage, just about eyeball high if you are a diner in a booth, and still smiling cutely at the patrons as she passed by.
I miss my Gram, and all my elders. When you love someone as much as I loved my Gram, and she has, oh, a wee bit of a flatulence problem, you learn to not give a damn what other people think. Life is just too short to be anal.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
As my folks and Gram grew older, my sisters and I took turns caring for them, (fixing Dad's lawnmover was one of my yearly tasks). My mother had gone to a nursing home, in Portland, so we went to see her regularly. Gram's health held out over both my Mom and Dad, who predeceased her. So for years, we would take Grammy places, to dinner, to a Portland Trailblazers basketball game, a concert, go over to play cards, take her shopping. My contribution was usually in the form of taking Grammy to dinner. I tried to mix it up, taking her to new and different places, but not too different. She was sort of a meat and potatoes gal. Mostly, we would just enjoy each other's company, chat about everything, business, family, but I will say she preferred to keep the conversation light. Once, when I attempted to discuss a divorce I was going through, her eyes sort of glazed over as if to say, " no more please. Don' wanna go there". Of course, as the years wore on, Gram would tell me stories of people that she had heard from in Chicago or Florida, e.g., "Did you know that Bert and Terry Lundquist are spending their winters in Havasu City these days?", as if I knew her friends as well as she, though I really had no idea who she was talking about. But I would engage, and for the most part, those times, just the two of us, as she passed 80, and then 85, and then 90, were precious.
One little teeny thing though, for your reading pleasure, was a bit tedious and trying when it came to dining with Grammy. First of all, may I mention that Gram was quite hard of hearing. She claimed that it was from when a gun went off right by her ear in some wild west show she had attended while vacationing. It was more likely a medical problem, but as a devout Christian Scientist, all her life, well, let's just say she wouldn't for a minute consider such a thing.
So I always thought that her hearing might have been at least a bit at fault for Gram's, well, non-chalant farting. I mean, sitting there with her at the white tablecloth, enjoying my Beaujolais, rolling the wine in the glass a bit, savoring it's elegant fragrance and then.....RRRRRRRRRRippppppppppp! She would look at you, with the sweetest little smile, as if nothing had happened. I have this horrible fear that if I ever lose my hearing, from say, cranking up the headphones when I am recording, a similar fate will befall my dear children. But I guess one could see how it could happen. Even if you could feel it coming, and going, if you can't hear it, you might think no one noticed.
Once, as we ordered our Sole and Chateaubriand, from a sweet and helpful waitress at a fine restaurant, the fireworks began. I am not talking a putt. I am talking tear-ass creeper. I am talking a very, very long, loud, outstanding crackle of passing gas, halted, and then repeated. The kind you might find on a website featuring fart sounds for download. The waitress gets a look on her face like she is shocked but refrains from any other action or statement. She remains calm. I, on the other hand, am between "my most embarrassing moment", and bursting out laughing. Thankfully, we made it through the rest of our order without further mishap.
And it wasn't always a problem. Just occasionally. But that can be a bit of a drawback, the inconsistency, I mean, 'cause when it happens, you are never ready for it.
But after Gram turned 90, I could count on her every time. Before, during, after. I became less and less affected, more and more just plain happy to be with her and sharing time with her, hearing her stories.
But one last issue, if I may. The leaving the restaurant part, after the meal, now that was a doozy. I would help my dear and more frail Gram to her feet, and we would wind and wend throught the restaurant, past tables of diners, toward the front door. Grammy had become quite slow, and unsteady, and occasionally, she would even reach over to a table of diners to steady herself, while holding my arm with her other hand. And all the while, and this is the absolute truth, offering up monster loud wind breakage, just about eyeball high if you are a diner in a booth, and still smiling cutely at the patrons as she passed by.
I miss my Gram, and all my elders. When you love someone as much as I loved my Gram, and she has, oh, a wee bit of a flatulence problem, you learn to not give a damn what other people think. Life is just too short to be anal.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Sunset Strip
I barely remember the black and white TV show, "77 Sunset Strip", which starred Ephrem Zimbalist, Jr., and Ed Byrnes, who played "Kookie", pronounced "Koo-key", and whose role and vast popularity spawned the hit, "Kookie, Kookie, Lend Me Your Comb". The actor and less talented singer actually sang lead on that monster hit. One line from that song went..."I've got smog in my noggin, ever since you made the scene". Yikes. Sunset Strip was larger than life in my brain, a place that actually existed somewhere in Los Angeles, where they made famous TV shows, but a place a kid can only imagine, if you are growing up in Portland, Oregon.
But in 1969, touring with my band, "The Morning Reign", I got there. We had been in L.A. for various reasons, to record, to be on a TV show, and to meet with some management people, who had shown interest in our group. We stayed at one of the band member's folk's house in South Pasadena. We only had a few days in the area, but we made it count, doing what we had come for, but seeing the sights too. On two consecutive nights, we all traipsed down to Sunset Blvd., to go to "The Whiskey a' Go-Go", and another popular club on the strip, "Gazzarri's".
"The Whiskey", as it was known in the day, was the most well known of the two, and we had gone there to see a group known as "The People," who were managed by one of the companies that was interested in our band. They had suggested to us that we go see the band play. Before the show, standing outside at the crosswalk, I just about shit when I realized I was standing next to the non-chalant L.A. pedestrian, Eric Burden. A couple of years earlier, I had played a 45 of the Animals "The House of the Risin' Sun", which of course he sang lead on, to approximate death at the house where Sandy Stone used to babysit.
Inside, we were all impressed with The People's set, including their smash hit, "I Love You" (yes I do but the words won't come) a Chris White penned number which had been lifted from a Zombies LP. Their final number, an instrumental , their version of "The William Tell Overture", and featuring their two drummers, was over the top, blew me away. I was certain that "The Morning Reign" could never be that good.
The next night, amid huge billboards advertising TV shows, movies and musical acts, we showed up at Gazzarri's, a lesser known but hip club, just down the street from the Whiskey. We were all barely 21, but the beer was flowin'. The house band, known as "Eddie James and The Pacific Ocean", a four member finger poppin' soul music group, was onstage. I recall that their version of "I Wanna Testify", featuring the vocal acrobatics of the rough voiced, pock-marked, skin tight bell-bottom wearin' Eddie James, was unbelievable. And these guys didn't even have a record deal! I was not that surprised, however, to find out years later that the popular actor, Edward James Olmos, and the rocker Eddie James from Eddie James and The Pacific Ocean, are the same guy. Record deal or not, dude made it in show biz.
But the thing that sticks in my mind most from that evening is a moment I have always had a hard time describing, cuz it was so surreal, but I will give it a try. Sitting there, nursing my beer, groovin' to the tunes, and missing my baby daughter Stacey, who was back in Oregon, I heard what I thought to be, out of the corner of my ear, an English accent coming from a table or two behind me. After I listened a wee bit more, I turned carefully to see who it was, you know, maybe someone from The Who. But I was shocked to see that it was one of the members of my own band, not mentioning any names, who was talking to a female patron, well, trying to pick up a female patron, and using a fake british accent. I mean we are talking a guy from Eastern Oregon. I listened more. I couldn't believe it. I had never heard him do this before. It was not a horrible fake, but to me, it was obvious. Part of me was stunned, part of me was thinking how ridiculous it was. Several of us gathered at my table to eaves drop for maybe an hour. For the rest of us rather clean cut and straightforward college types from Oregon, it seemed crazy. At that moment, hearing his phony accent and made up stories of rock stardom, I realized that some guys will do anything to impress a chick.
But in 1969, touring with my band, "The Morning Reign", I got there. We had been in L.A. for various reasons, to record, to be on a TV show, and to meet with some management people, who had shown interest in our group. We stayed at one of the band member's folk's house in South Pasadena. We only had a few days in the area, but we made it count, doing what we had come for, but seeing the sights too. On two consecutive nights, we all traipsed down to Sunset Blvd., to go to "The Whiskey a' Go-Go", and another popular club on the strip, "Gazzarri's".
"The Whiskey", as it was known in the day, was the most well known of the two, and we had gone there to see a group known as "The People," who were managed by one of the companies that was interested in our band. They had suggested to us that we go see the band play. Before the show, standing outside at the crosswalk, I just about shit when I realized I was standing next to the non-chalant L.A. pedestrian, Eric Burden. A couple of years earlier, I had played a 45 of the Animals "The House of the Risin' Sun", which of course he sang lead on, to approximate death at the house where Sandy Stone used to babysit.
Inside, we were all impressed with The People's set, including their smash hit, "I Love You" (yes I do but the words won't come) a Chris White penned number which had been lifted from a Zombies LP. Their final number, an instrumental , their version of "The William Tell Overture", and featuring their two drummers, was over the top, blew me away. I was certain that "The Morning Reign" could never be that good.
The next night, amid huge billboards advertising TV shows, movies and musical acts, we showed up at Gazzarri's, a lesser known but hip club, just down the street from the Whiskey. We were all barely 21, but the beer was flowin'. The house band, known as "Eddie James and The Pacific Ocean", a four member finger poppin' soul music group, was onstage. I recall that their version of "I Wanna Testify", featuring the vocal acrobatics of the rough voiced, pock-marked, skin tight bell-bottom wearin' Eddie James, was unbelievable. And these guys didn't even have a record deal! I was not that surprised, however, to find out years later that the popular actor, Edward James Olmos, and the rocker Eddie James from Eddie James and The Pacific Ocean, are the same guy. Record deal or not, dude made it in show biz.
But the thing that sticks in my mind most from that evening is a moment I have always had a hard time describing, cuz it was so surreal, but I will give it a try. Sitting there, nursing my beer, groovin' to the tunes, and missing my baby daughter Stacey, who was back in Oregon, I heard what I thought to be, out of the corner of my ear, an English accent coming from a table or two behind me. After I listened a wee bit more, I turned carefully to see who it was, you know, maybe someone from The Who. But I was shocked to see that it was one of the members of my own band, not mentioning any names, who was talking to a female patron, well, trying to pick up a female patron, and using a fake british accent. I mean we are talking a guy from Eastern Oregon. I listened more. I couldn't believe it. I had never heard him do this before. It was not a horrible fake, but to me, it was obvious. Part of me was stunned, part of me was thinking how ridiculous it was. Several of us gathered at my table to eaves drop for maybe an hour. For the rest of us rather clean cut and straightforward college types from Oregon, it seemed crazy. At that moment, hearing his phony accent and made up stories of rock stardom, I realized that some guys will do anything to impress a chick.
Sunday, January 30, 2005
The Urinal Once Used By JFK
My step-son Blaine, who graduated from High School in 1997, includes among his many talents encyclopedic recall of everything Motown. For someone his age, one might think this odd, since he wasn't even alive during the Motown era. All I can say is, both he and his mother have the Motown gene. Get them anywhere within earshot of Smokey Robinson, they're shakin' their moneymaker. Play Marvin Gaye's version of Yesterday, or greater still, The National Anthem, as performed by Marvin at the 1983 NBA All-Star game, it's church. And don't even try to knock either one of them back with some lame Stax-Volt question.
Marie and I met in 1997, right about the time Blaine was getting ready to graduate. Marie fell to tears one evening, talking to me about how proud she was of Blaine for finishing high school and getting his diploma, given his disabilities. Don't get me started. In more ways than one, Blaine is my hero too.
Marie had planned a special graduation present for Blaine. She had been plotting for months to take Blaine, to honor his achievement, to the birthplace of Soul Music, Detroit, Michigan, for a tour of the Motown recording studio, "Hitsville USA", where all of them, The Temptations, the Supremes, Marvin, Smokey, The Funk Brothers, Berry Gordy Jr., on and on, played and sang their hearts into some of the greatest music ever made.
Marie invited me to go. I was so thrilled to be asked. And I knew I could be of some help to them too, going on the plane, helping with Blaine, and making all the stops she had planned, including a stop in Cleveland, to tour The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Marie had told Blaine the big surprise, and he was, to put it mildly, pumped. One Saturday, still in Portland, we bought some travel books, some generic travel guides, and a few more exotic titles, to help us find some interesting and unusual things to do on our trip. Blaine and I got such a kick out of a couple of these books, because some of the sights and roadside attractions were just nuts. Giggling loudly, as we read them, we would call out to Marie our expectation to visit, for example, "The World's Largest Tire", which makes it's home in Dearborn, Michigan. Marie's reaction, of feigned severe regret for even having the dumb idea to go on this trip, got us going even more. The vacation of a lifetime had begun.
I'm sure I will be able to come up with some other tales of our adventures on this trip, but the following has to rate highest among them. One morning we awoke to a sunny day in Cleveland, the day after we had visited The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, which we found to be definitely worth the trip. As Blaine sat in his chair, Marie and I lounged on the bed, considering our options for the day. We had our travel books spread among the blankets, and at some point, someone, I can't remember who it was, probably Blaine, made the suggestion that we drive to Salem, Ohio, to view the much revered "urinal once used by JFK", which all three of us found to be one of the most amusing and inane roadside attractions to ever find it's way into a travel book. We decided, we've made it this far........we gotta go!
The book where we had discovered this rare find is titled, "The New Roadside America", ( first fireside edition 1992). The text states precisely...."Our favorite presidential tribute would have to be the urinal used by JFK, in the men's room at Reilly Stadium in Salem, OH. The urinal is marked by a small plaque, and when the stadium's restrooms were renovated in the late '80's, it was reverently left untouched." So it's probably coming together for you now why we were so fired up about seeing this important Americana.
Research. We can't just drive blindly the 200 miles or so to find this most desirable attraction, without first making a call or two. We are long on rental car miles already.Who to call?...............
We decide to call the Salem, Ohio, city hall. I prop the phone up on the bed. Inside, I am beside myself with glee. I know this is gonna be good.
A lady answers at city hall, and I explain myself, as Marie and Blaine pay close attention. "Yes", I say, "my name is Ric Seaberg. My family and I are vacationing, and we thought we would drive down from Cleveland to Salem to view the urinal once used by JFK at Reilly Stadium, but we thought we would call first just to be sure we will be able to see it." As these words roll off my tongue, all three of us are just about ready to split a gut, and we have just begun.
There is dead silence on the phone. Finally, the lady says, "well, uh, I wouldn't know about that," dismissively. I explain that I am not kidding, that I have a travel book before me, and read her the text. "Well, I've never heard of that before, why don't you call over to the high school, that's where the stadium is." She reluctantly finds the phone number for me. I scribble it down on the hotel phone book.
I receive a similar greeting from the Salem, Ohio High School receptionist. "That's not something I would know about. Why don't I let you talk to our principal?" I say thank you very much, and my call is transferred. I am certain this is the end of my query. And I am shocked when a male's voice picks up. "May I help you?", an authoritative voice asks. "Why yes, thank you", I say, and begin my schpeil to the principal of the high school, about the urinal once used by JFK, and our desire to see it, as Marie and Blaine squirm and put their hands over their mouths. I am starting to get into it. He tells me he has heard of this before, but so far as he knows, there is no urinal used by JFK at Reilly Stadium, or a plaque, commemorating it's moment of usage. "But perhaps", he continues, "The Superintendent of Schools could help you with this." As he transfers my call, I tell Marie and Blaine that my call is being transferred to the Superintendant of Salem Schools, and the look on Marie's face is just about all I can take. I am having a rough time keeping it together.
"May I help you", another male voice asks. "Thank you sir," I reply. "My name is Ric Seaberg. My family and I are vacationing in your beautiful state, and we are, oh, you might say, eclectic tourists. We have a travel book here, which features unusual sights, and we are bound and determined, since we have travelled all the way from Portland, Oregon, to view one very special Ohio attraction, as featured in this book, and referred to as the urinal used by JFK. It is said to be at Reilly Stadium, and even has a plaque." The Super laughs, and suggests to me that he has heard of this, but suspects it is a figment of someone's imagination. "But it says so right here in this book", I offer, and he decides to lend a hand. "Let me give you the football coach's number", he says, "he's over at the stadium all the time. Maybe he could help you". I am thinking..... paydirt. This coach guy has gotta know something. I say thank you and goodbye.
So we take five and I towel off. We are in the zone. I don't believe I have ever had more fun in my life on a vacation, and all we are doing is sitting on a bed. Marie and Blaine have laughed so hard they are in tears.
I call the coach. He too, says he has heard of this, but "I'm afraid we just don't have that urinal used by JFK over at the stadium". He is clearly disapointed that he cannot answer in the affirmative."When we remodelled the stadium, a couple of years ago, I dunno, maybe they took it out and put it someplace", he allows. "Why don't you try the historical society."
We are prepared to make an appointment with the historical society and drive there to wander through the bowels of some warehouse to find the urinal, but alas, all I get at the historical society is a recording. I hang up only partially defeated. I know we have already had an experience that we will never, ever forget, not in a thousand lifetimes.
We catch our breath, have some breakfast, and head out to see "The Cleveland Style Polka Hall of Fame", which turns out to be a good story all in itself. The nearly rabid polka mania that grips Cleveland is a sight to see. Trophy cases, lifesize autographed photos, a wall of LPs and CDs, even cookbooks and polka slogan potholders. Still, we would have much, much rather feasted our eyes on the urinal used by JFK, at Reilly Stadium, in Salem, OH.
Vist Ric Seaberg's Website
Marie and I met in 1997, right about the time Blaine was getting ready to graduate. Marie fell to tears one evening, talking to me about how proud she was of Blaine for finishing high school and getting his diploma, given his disabilities. Don't get me started. In more ways than one, Blaine is my hero too.
Marie had planned a special graduation present for Blaine. She had been plotting for months to take Blaine, to honor his achievement, to the birthplace of Soul Music, Detroit, Michigan, for a tour of the Motown recording studio, "Hitsville USA", where all of them, The Temptations, the Supremes, Marvin, Smokey, The Funk Brothers, Berry Gordy Jr., on and on, played and sang their hearts into some of the greatest music ever made.
Marie invited me to go. I was so thrilled to be asked. And I knew I could be of some help to them too, going on the plane, helping with Blaine, and making all the stops she had planned, including a stop in Cleveland, to tour The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Marie had told Blaine the big surprise, and he was, to put it mildly, pumped. One Saturday, still in Portland, we bought some travel books, some generic travel guides, and a few more exotic titles, to help us find some interesting and unusual things to do on our trip. Blaine and I got such a kick out of a couple of these books, because some of the sights and roadside attractions were just nuts. Giggling loudly, as we read them, we would call out to Marie our expectation to visit, for example, "The World's Largest Tire", which makes it's home in Dearborn, Michigan. Marie's reaction, of feigned severe regret for even having the dumb idea to go on this trip, got us going even more. The vacation of a lifetime had begun.
I'm sure I will be able to come up with some other tales of our adventures on this trip, but the following has to rate highest among them. One morning we awoke to a sunny day in Cleveland, the day after we had visited The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, which we found to be definitely worth the trip. As Blaine sat in his chair, Marie and I lounged on the bed, considering our options for the day. We had our travel books spread among the blankets, and at some point, someone, I can't remember who it was, probably Blaine, made the suggestion that we drive to Salem, Ohio, to view the much revered "urinal once used by JFK", which all three of us found to be one of the most amusing and inane roadside attractions to ever find it's way into a travel book. We decided, we've made it this far........we gotta go!
The book where we had discovered this rare find is titled, "The New Roadside America", ( first fireside edition 1992). The text states precisely...."Our favorite presidential tribute would have to be the urinal used by JFK, in the men's room at Reilly Stadium in Salem, OH. The urinal is marked by a small plaque, and when the stadium's restrooms were renovated in the late '80's, it was reverently left untouched." So it's probably coming together for you now why we were so fired up about seeing this important Americana.
Research. We can't just drive blindly the 200 miles or so to find this most desirable attraction, without first making a call or two. We are long on rental car miles already.Who to call?...............
We decide to call the Salem, Ohio, city hall. I prop the phone up on the bed. Inside, I am beside myself with glee. I know this is gonna be good.
A lady answers at city hall, and I explain myself, as Marie and Blaine pay close attention. "Yes", I say, "my name is Ric Seaberg. My family and I are vacationing, and we thought we would drive down from Cleveland to Salem to view the urinal once used by JFK at Reilly Stadium, but we thought we would call first just to be sure we will be able to see it." As these words roll off my tongue, all three of us are just about ready to split a gut, and we have just begun.
There is dead silence on the phone. Finally, the lady says, "well, uh, I wouldn't know about that," dismissively. I explain that I am not kidding, that I have a travel book before me, and read her the text. "Well, I've never heard of that before, why don't you call over to the high school, that's where the stadium is." She reluctantly finds the phone number for me. I scribble it down on the hotel phone book.
I receive a similar greeting from the Salem, Ohio High School receptionist. "That's not something I would know about. Why don't I let you talk to our principal?" I say thank you very much, and my call is transferred. I am certain this is the end of my query. And I am shocked when a male's voice picks up. "May I help you?", an authoritative voice asks. "Why yes, thank you", I say, and begin my schpeil to the principal of the high school, about the urinal once used by JFK, and our desire to see it, as Marie and Blaine squirm and put their hands over their mouths. I am starting to get into it. He tells me he has heard of this before, but so far as he knows, there is no urinal used by JFK at Reilly Stadium, or a plaque, commemorating it's moment of usage. "But perhaps", he continues, "The Superintendent of Schools could help you with this." As he transfers my call, I tell Marie and Blaine that my call is being transferred to the Superintendant of Salem Schools, and the look on Marie's face is just about all I can take. I am having a rough time keeping it together.
"May I help you", another male voice asks. "Thank you sir," I reply. "My name is Ric Seaberg. My family and I are vacationing in your beautiful state, and we are, oh, you might say, eclectic tourists. We have a travel book here, which features unusual sights, and we are bound and determined, since we have travelled all the way from Portland, Oregon, to view one very special Ohio attraction, as featured in this book, and referred to as the urinal used by JFK. It is said to be at Reilly Stadium, and even has a plaque." The Super laughs, and suggests to me that he has heard of this, but suspects it is a figment of someone's imagination. "But it says so right here in this book", I offer, and he decides to lend a hand. "Let me give you the football coach's number", he says, "he's over at the stadium all the time. Maybe he could help you". I am thinking..... paydirt. This coach guy has gotta know something. I say thank you and goodbye.
So we take five and I towel off. We are in the zone. I don't believe I have ever had more fun in my life on a vacation, and all we are doing is sitting on a bed. Marie and Blaine have laughed so hard they are in tears.
I call the coach. He too, says he has heard of this, but "I'm afraid we just don't have that urinal used by JFK over at the stadium". He is clearly disapointed that he cannot answer in the affirmative."When we remodelled the stadium, a couple of years ago, I dunno, maybe they took it out and put it someplace", he allows. "Why don't you try the historical society."
We are prepared to make an appointment with the historical society and drive there to wander through the bowels of some warehouse to find the urinal, but alas, all I get at the historical society is a recording. I hang up only partially defeated. I know we have already had an experience that we will never, ever forget, not in a thousand lifetimes.
We catch our breath, have some breakfast, and head out to see "The Cleveland Style Polka Hall of Fame", which turns out to be a good story all in itself. The nearly rabid polka mania that grips Cleveland is a sight to see. Trophy cases, lifesize autographed photos, a wall of LPs and CDs, even cookbooks and polka slogan potholders. Still, we would have much, much rather feasted our eyes on the urinal used by JFK, at Reilly Stadium, in Salem, OH.
Vist Ric Seaberg's Website
Friday, January 28, 2005
The Wedding Cake Disaster
If some clairvoyant or anyone, really, would have told me, when I was a kid, that I would one day grow up to be a cake decorator, I would have deemed them certifiably nuts. As a child, though I always showed musical aptitude, I couldn't draw for shit. It was a bit frustrating, seeing those other kids, one friend in particular, who was just so talented at drawing.
But years later, after serving my baker's apprenticehip, and then opening my own store, Richard's Bakery, of Tualatin, Oregon, that is exactly what happened. I did not intend on learning how to decorate cakes, although I had taken classes in Seattle. I thought I would bake the cake, make the icings, etc, but have someone else do the decorating, some artist person.
And I did start out that way, hired a cake decorator, and that's the way it was for awhile. But twenty years in business is a long time, and over that time, through people quitting, lay-offs, and firings, well, sometimes I just didn't have anyone else to do it, but myself. At some point, I had a professional come in for a week, and give me lessons, sort of a crash course on how to survive as a cake decorator. He taught me how to do a decent job, not piss too many people off. And over time, I could fake it pretty well.
Sure, figure "piping" a complex scene of, oh,"my blond daughter riding the waves on a surfboard holding a diploma in one hand and car keys in the other" was never something I could effectively do. But man, I could crank out roses.
It takes a certain amount of strength and technical skill to be a cake decorator, which most people who have been decent at first or third base can probably pick up. And when you are facing maybe 30 or 40 birthday cakes on June 21st, maybe a wedding cake or two to boot, as time passes, you learn how to do them fast.
Somewhere in the '80's, I had been holding down the cake decorating department in my bakery with an assistant. I had several bakers to make the cakes, icings, rose icings, and fillings. We were in the middle of a busy summer month, and this particular weekend was a big one for wedding cakes. I was in the habit of doing most of the wedding consultations myself, so I would be as certain as possible that the client and I had a meeting of the minds regarding the order, how it was going to look, what flavors, where to deliver it, etc.
It was a hot day when we finished this particular cake, which was one of those huge, rather gaudy versions with a real working fountain and plastic staircases that span top layers to bottom layers. I put it in the walk-in cooler to firm up, for a drive to the suburbs outside Wilsonville, Oregon. I grabbed some extra supplies, we loaded all the parts into the van, and off I went.
I arrived sometime later, to a brand new church, with a brand new blacktop parking lot, in the middle of farm land. There was not a car in the lot. I found a door on the back side of the church, and drove the van into a parking space near the door.
When I opened the door, I was surprised to see a few ladies in there, since I had not seen a car, but it was just one of those things, i dunno, they had been dropped off I guess. They were all busy as heck, putting nuts and mints on the table, working in the kitchen getting food ready, the usual. The reception would take place immediately following the wedding in this new and sparkling clean church social venue.
"The Fountain Cake" as we called it, had lots of parts, everything from the fountain, to extension cords, stabilizing parts, etc. I mean that thing is huge and heavy, and one needs to assemble it properly, or fear the fate of a toppling cake at just the wrong moment, say, when the bride and groom are getting their photo taken by their humongous cake.
So I opened the van and began taking in parts. First trip, the box with all the plastic stuff in it. Second trip, a couple of the smaller cakes that sit beside the larger cake, which holds the fountain. Since there wasn't even a car in the parking lot, I just left the van doors open.
This is the part that hurts. Upon arriving back at the van for the third time, I nonchalantly go to the rear to take more cakes, and find.......disaster. The largest part of the cake sits before me, with one entire side badly damaged, as if someone has taken a 2x4 or a small rake to it. About a fifth of the cake is gone. After the initial shock, I look around. There is not a soul, not a car, not an animal to be seen, anywhere in this entire, huge, new asphalt church parking lot, clear to the tree line, nothing.
I close the van doors. I gotta think. Luckily, I had brought along some icing and a pastry bag full of icing too. And a couple of small spatulas to help with a problem, like, repositioning one rose, to get the fountain to fit, something like that. For a little patching up. But I have a bit more of a problem. And just then, several cars full of young people, the bride and groom's friends, enter the lot.
They park near the van. I smile at them as they enter the church. The second they are in, I swing open the van doors and get to work. I am not sure, but , I think my arms are moving like when spiderman walks really fast. I add all the icing i can to the cake side. I use my spat to make it as smooth as possible. I don't know if this is going to work or not, to me it looks pretty bad. On one hand, I know I am cheating, but, on the other hand, I know I have no choice. It's almost party time. I redo the shell borders, and match the piping on the cake sides. Ugh, time to take it into the building.
I go in the church and wash up first, splash some water on my face. I return to the van. I grab the cake, and take it to the cake table, which has been adorned with a silver cake cutter and server, embossed napkins, the works. I position the cake such that the bad side is to the rear. I get to work setting up the fountain, adding the plastic stairs, the extension cord, putting the water in the fountain, etc. One of the matrons asks me all the usual questions like what flavor the cakes are, what the fillings are, "oh my isn't that a big one", that sorta thing.
But now, the moment of truth has arrived. I turn on the fountain, which has a light in it, pretty flashy. Lots of people come over to the table.
After a couple of minutes, I figure I have pulled it off. Except I know that most likely, on Monday, I am gonna hear from the mother of the bride from hell, who "paid good money for that damn thing".
But I never hear nothin'. I get the plastic parts back in their box, extension cord, but no comments or requests for refund. Whew.
Over the years, I have wondered though, how no one noticed. Surely they did. Like the lady whose piece of cake was, well, all icing. And the lady she was talking to whose piece of cake was well, all icing too.
There are lots of other bakery blunder stories, like the time one of my apprentices used all salt instead of sugar in a huge batch of cookies, yum. Or the time I, myself, left a few hundred dollars worth of pumpkin pies in the oven and went home. But the memory I have from that parking lot, and the mystery of what or who got in the back of that van, takes the cake. After all these years, I still feel a twinge of guilt for leaving that sub-par dessert at the church, and walkin' away smilin'. It was my fault for leaving the van doors open. But then, who knew poltergeist dig buttercream?
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Seven Guys Named Vinnie
I am gonna have to pepper this blog with some "Stories of The Internet", cuz, well, they just keep on a'comin". We use the Internet so much at our house, for research, pleasure, vocations, avocations, shopping. We have high speed broadband, which helps me tremendously with my music, uploading songs, photos, etc, and all three of us do a lot of surfing. So it stands to reason that, beyond receiving an occasional funny forwarded email or two from friends, interesting moments and stories pop up, and we love to share them.
I have been writing songs since I was a child. I can remember telling a lie to my younger sister Elaine, when I was 9 or 10, as we drove down Hawthorne Boulevard in Portland, in the back seat of Mom's big blue Buick. I told her that I had written the song "Running Bear" when it came on the radio, since I was already wishing to be and envisioning being a songwriter. Writing songs, through all of it, grade school, high school, marriage, child rearing, divorce, learning to trust myself to survive, and finding Marie, has been a constant. And these days, with my own little studio and some talented friends, I can let song ideas blossom.
So I listen. When a lyric or line or title comes through, I write it down. When I hear a melody, I record it. Or I pick up the guitar and turn a little snippet of an idea into a complete song.
One way it happens for me is that I will get a line in my sleep. If they are interesting enough, I wake up. I keep a pen and pad by the bed, and scribble them down. Later, I take a look and try to make some sense out of them. Or I might get a line and a melody together, as was the case when I first heard the chorus to "Forever Marie.
One morning in 2003, when I was just rising, the line "seven guys named Vinnie" popped into my head. Of course it would take a complete idiot, or a songwriter, to actually sit up and write that down. So I did. Later, I found it scrawled on my yellow pad, barely legible, on the nightstand.
The next day, maybe a few days later, I saw it lying on the desk by my computer, and decided to go forward, what the hell. So I bring up the browser on my Mac and type in "seven guys named vinnie", just like that. I am stunned to get an exact match, on a website dedicated, by some webmaster car enthusiast, to the Ford Thunderbird, in all it's incarnations. In referring to one model year, he says, "This car looks as if it was designed by seven guys named Vinnie". I tried it today, and that page is still on the web.
Of course, when I googled for "seven guys named vinnie", I was awarded some millions of other sites that included "Vinnie", in the results list. So I started to click on those other Vinnie sites, and found some truly interesting guys named Vinnie. I began to write them down, who they are, what they do. When I felt I had gone far enough, I stopped. I still have those notes.
I sat with my guitar next, and banged out the song that some know and love today as "Eighteen Vinnies". The song appears on my "Regards From The Roombar" CD. Without the Internet, this song would never have been born. I wrote to one of the Vinnies, famous glam band rocker "Vinnie Chas", who sent along a nice note with his approval. A clip of "Eighteen Vinnies" can be heard at CD Baby. Click on the "Buy" link of my website, and you will find links to CD Baby.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
I have been writing songs since I was a child. I can remember telling a lie to my younger sister Elaine, when I was 9 or 10, as we drove down Hawthorne Boulevard in Portland, in the back seat of Mom's big blue Buick. I told her that I had written the song "Running Bear" when it came on the radio, since I was already wishing to be and envisioning being a songwriter. Writing songs, through all of it, grade school, high school, marriage, child rearing, divorce, learning to trust myself to survive, and finding Marie, has been a constant. And these days, with my own little studio and some talented friends, I can let song ideas blossom.
So I listen. When a lyric or line or title comes through, I write it down. When I hear a melody, I record it. Or I pick up the guitar and turn a little snippet of an idea into a complete song.
One way it happens for me is that I will get a line in my sleep. If they are interesting enough, I wake up. I keep a pen and pad by the bed, and scribble them down. Later, I take a look and try to make some sense out of them. Or I might get a line and a melody together, as was the case when I first heard the chorus to "Forever Marie.
One morning in 2003, when I was just rising, the line "seven guys named Vinnie" popped into my head. Of course it would take a complete idiot, or a songwriter, to actually sit up and write that down. So I did. Later, I found it scrawled on my yellow pad, barely legible, on the nightstand.
The next day, maybe a few days later, I saw it lying on the desk by my computer, and decided to go forward, what the hell. So I bring up the browser on my Mac and type in "seven guys named vinnie", just like that. I am stunned to get an exact match, on a website dedicated, by some webmaster car enthusiast, to the Ford Thunderbird, in all it's incarnations. In referring to one model year, he says, "This car looks as if it was designed by seven guys named Vinnie". I tried it today, and that page is still on the web.
Of course, when I googled for "seven guys named vinnie", I was awarded some millions of other sites that included "Vinnie", in the results list. So I started to click on those other Vinnie sites, and found some truly interesting guys named Vinnie. I began to write them down, who they are, what they do. When I felt I had gone far enough, I stopped. I still have those notes.
I sat with my guitar next, and banged out the song that some know and love today as "Eighteen Vinnies". The song appears on my "Regards From The Roombar" CD. Without the Internet, this song would never have been born. I wrote to one of the Vinnies, famous glam band rocker "Vinnie Chas", who sent along a nice note with his approval. A clip of "Eighteen Vinnies" can be heard at CD Baby. Click on the "Buy" link of my website, and you will find links to CD Baby.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Lo-Carb Gunshot
We experienced a little domestic issue at our house yesterday, so I thought I would pass it along. I am sure a few of you can relate.
Marie is kind to support my musical prowess, and when I get a batch of songs done, she will lie on the couch in my studio, put the headphones on, rock out, make her comments. I am lucky to have her advice and approval. She is the quintessential rhythm queen, and that girl can dance!
My buddy and guitarist Tim Ellis was over a few days ago, and we cranked out seven new songs. I usually do a rough mix of all of them first, after Tim leaves, to listen to, and play for Marie. It is so much fun for Marie and I to listen together to what "The Axe-God" has played, over my work. The parts he comes up with are always brilliant. Tim Ellis is a genius.
So yesterday, after Marie had unwound from her typically busy work week, we came together to listen to the songs.
Allow me a bit of a digression. Marie and I recently became the proud owners of five new small birds, which makes a total of six. We love having their song in our house, and one of our pet Bichons, Poppi, has a definite relationship with them. She will sit for hours on the chair by the cages, staring intently. It's way beyond cute.
Bird keeping is not a particularly cheap hobby, but what hobby is?We have all the stuff. Two large cages, special foods bought over the internet, etc. Birds and their behavior, their song and flight, is so interesting to Marie and I, and Blaine too.We are in the process of breeding the canaries.
One food that the canaries favor, especially before breeding, is hard-boiled egg. They love it, and it is good for them, readying their little bird bodies for the feat at hand. When I got home yesterday from errands, I noticed a single chicken egg, which my sweet and canary conscious spouse had put in a small pot on the stove, boiling away. After I had settled in, brought in the groceries, whatever, Marie and I adjourned to the studio.
We listened to a couple of songs, Marie made her comments, and I was pleased that she liked what she heard. During the playing of the intro of the fourth song, a new rock version of my song "In A Toaster Moon", I heard a gunshot, coming from somewhere, in the hood, but it sounded closer, like in our house. For a second, I just thought it must have been Blaine dropping his wheelchair transfer board on the floor, which occasionally happens. But then, a sec later, I rip off my headphones and speak loudly to Marie, "Did you have something on the stove?" Her next words were......"OH SHIT."
We both ran downstairs like the wind. When we got to the kitchen, Blaine already had his wheelchair perched in the doorway, with a, shall we say, quote "shit-eatin' grin" end quote, on his face, and a bit of a giggle mixed in with his...."whut the"?
The egg, of course, so lovingly placed in the pan to cook for the canary parents-to-be, has overheated, and has exploded. There is nothing in the saucepan, save for a bit of black discoloration, carbon residue, at the bottom. Now, we are not talking an explosion, like, oh, that time your oatmeal boiled over in the microwave. We are talkin' Mount St. Helens.
There are egg chunks everywhere. How one little egg can spread out over such a large area, I cannot comprehend. It's on the ceiling. It's in the grooves of the moldings and woodwork. There are little yellow flecks on every pot and pan and wall in the kitchen. It's stuck to the wrought iron spice holder, even behind it, which I thought was firmly attached and flat against the wall, but for the egg chunks forced behind it. There are minute shell pieces in the bottom of the pottery containers we use as utensil holders. Particles completely surround each and every olive oil and balsamic vinegar "as art" container.
Marie is devastated. I try to act calm. I need to bail my poor wife outa this one.
Blaine, meanwhile, starts laughing a bit more zealously than the one, say, who will be cleaning this fucking mess up, that bein' me. I give him the look. He retreats to his room.
One thing I learned, having a bakery, is that when someone drops that full gallon jar of maraschino cherries, or a 30 lb. bucket of fresh cracked eggs, you don't make them clean it up. They feel bad enough already. So I have been at it for the last twenty-four hours or so, off and on, and now, five dishwasher loads later, three rolls of paper towels, a half a box of SOS, and much elbow grease, I am just about there. The football games are gonna start soon, and I feel great!
But I gotta be careful how I reveal these little mistakes my wife makes, like taking a perfectly good egg and utilizing it to create a nuclear blast. Cuz if I'm not, I know that if she ever gets her own BLOG, I'm toast.
P.S. I have just finished reading this tract to Marie, who once again thanked me greatly for cleaning that hairy mess up. Then she said, "Well, I have to admit, when I first saw it, I thought maybe we should move".
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Marie is kind to support my musical prowess, and when I get a batch of songs done, she will lie on the couch in my studio, put the headphones on, rock out, make her comments. I am lucky to have her advice and approval. She is the quintessential rhythm queen, and that girl can dance!
My buddy and guitarist Tim Ellis was over a few days ago, and we cranked out seven new songs. I usually do a rough mix of all of them first, after Tim leaves, to listen to, and play for Marie. It is so much fun for Marie and I to listen together to what "The Axe-God" has played, over my work. The parts he comes up with are always brilliant. Tim Ellis is a genius.
So yesterday, after Marie had unwound from her typically busy work week, we came together to listen to the songs.
Allow me a bit of a digression. Marie and I recently became the proud owners of five new small birds, which makes a total of six. We love having their song in our house, and one of our pet Bichons, Poppi, has a definite relationship with them. She will sit for hours on the chair by the cages, staring intently. It's way beyond cute.
Bird keeping is not a particularly cheap hobby, but what hobby is?We have all the stuff. Two large cages, special foods bought over the internet, etc. Birds and their behavior, their song and flight, is so interesting to Marie and I, and Blaine too.We are in the process of breeding the canaries.
One food that the canaries favor, especially before breeding, is hard-boiled egg. They love it, and it is good for them, readying their little bird bodies for the feat at hand. When I got home yesterday from errands, I noticed a single chicken egg, which my sweet and canary conscious spouse had put in a small pot on the stove, boiling away. After I had settled in, brought in the groceries, whatever, Marie and I adjourned to the studio.
We listened to a couple of songs, Marie made her comments, and I was pleased that she liked what she heard. During the playing of the intro of the fourth song, a new rock version of my song "In A Toaster Moon", I heard a gunshot, coming from somewhere, in the hood, but it sounded closer, like in our house. For a second, I just thought it must have been Blaine dropping his wheelchair transfer board on the floor, which occasionally happens. But then, a sec later, I rip off my headphones and speak loudly to Marie, "Did you have something on the stove?" Her next words were......"OH SHIT."
We both ran downstairs like the wind. When we got to the kitchen, Blaine already had his wheelchair perched in the doorway, with a, shall we say, quote "shit-eatin' grin" end quote, on his face, and a bit of a giggle mixed in with his...."whut the"?
The egg, of course, so lovingly placed in the pan to cook for the canary parents-to-be, has overheated, and has exploded. There is nothing in the saucepan, save for a bit of black discoloration, carbon residue, at the bottom. Now, we are not talking an explosion, like, oh, that time your oatmeal boiled over in the microwave. We are talkin' Mount St. Helens.
There are egg chunks everywhere. How one little egg can spread out over such a large area, I cannot comprehend. It's on the ceiling. It's in the grooves of the moldings and woodwork. There are little yellow flecks on every pot and pan and wall in the kitchen. It's stuck to the wrought iron spice holder, even behind it, which I thought was firmly attached and flat against the wall, but for the egg chunks forced behind it. There are minute shell pieces in the bottom of the pottery containers we use as utensil holders. Particles completely surround each and every olive oil and balsamic vinegar "as art" container.
Marie is devastated. I try to act calm. I need to bail my poor wife outa this one.
Blaine, meanwhile, starts laughing a bit more zealously than the one, say, who will be cleaning this fucking mess up, that bein' me. I give him the look. He retreats to his room.
One thing I learned, having a bakery, is that when someone drops that full gallon jar of maraschino cherries, or a 30 lb. bucket of fresh cracked eggs, you don't make them clean it up. They feel bad enough already. So I have been at it for the last twenty-four hours or so, off and on, and now, five dishwasher loads later, three rolls of paper towels, a half a box of SOS, and much elbow grease, I am just about there. The football games are gonna start soon, and I feel great!
But I gotta be careful how I reveal these little mistakes my wife makes, like taking a perfectly good egg and utilizing it to create a nuclear blast. Cuz if I'm not, I know that if she ever gets her own BLOG, I'm toast.
P.S. I have just finished reading this tract to Marie, who once again thanked me greatly for cleaning that hairy mess up. Then she said, "Well, I have to admit, when I first saw it, I thought maybe we should move".
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Saturday, January 22, 2005
Firing April
In 1975, I started my first of two bakeries, in Tualatin, Oregon. Named "Richard's Bakery", we set our shop inside a grocery store, but we did have to build from the ground up, at the rear of the store, where the grocery store owner was breaking ground for additional warehousing. We were part of the remodel.
I was 27 years old. I had gone to Willamette University in Salem, Oregon for two years, traveled a lot with my band, and served a baker's apprenticeship in Seattle. I sold my house in Seattle, and with $5000 of the proceeds as a nest egg, arranged a bank loan, bought some used equipment, built the bakery, somehow got all the equipment properly installed, 24 pan revolving oven, mixers, workbenches, you name it. It took one hell of a lot of work, cooperation and support from my family, and a modicum of blind ambition. Well, a bunch of blind ambition. I was 27, what can I say?
In a grocery store environment, in those days, the fare was not as exotic, in Oregon, as it is now. These days, in Portland, for example, we have delightful upscale bakeries, like Criollo Bakery, which is in our commercial building. There are so many exceptionally talented bakers and pastry chefs here now, and going to a bakery like Criollo can be a mind blower. Fancy European desserts, sour breads made from one-hundred year-old starters, panini to die for, scones, cookies, and other sweets, all displayed with the flair of a designer.
Suffice it to say, that when I opened the doors to Richard's, we were basically a glorified doughnut shop. Fancier things came later, particularly after I moved, ten years later, into Portland.
I must admit, it was a huge learning curve for me. Having not finished college, I guess one could say, I continued my education on the job, in the belly of the entrepreneurial beast.
Bakers don't sleep much. Well, people who own their own businesses, especially when they first begin, don't sleep much. And of course, bakers rise each day at night, that is, in the middle of the night, to go to work. I still have little trouble getting up early. Anyway, for the twenty years I owned a bakery, I wouldn't change a thing. I learned so much, became a man, but indeed, the schedule was gruelling. Among my keepsakes is a little note from one of my daughters, left on my dresser, which I found one morning after getting up for work that says, "Daddy, you always miss the fun".
The rest of the story takes a lighter turn.
Though I admit to, in some part, not having any idea what I was getting into, regarding the details of owning a business, I got pretty good at it, after awhile, making all that stuff, managing employees, running the operation smoothly so that, everyday, at 7am, you could find some really groovy fresh items for sale in my store. For the most part, I had excellent help, but sometimes, I would get a slacker. And that sucks. Because for all it takes to run a store like that, and you hire someone who promises to put in a good day's work for a good day's pay, and then doesn't, damn.
So, in approximately 1978, a few years into it, I hired April. April's name has been changed, cuz, well, I don't really remember her name. But I can still see her face. The problem was, April was a bit of a cheater, and uh, a liar, and just generally not good for my business. I had put my faith in her, allowing her to be the "closer", that is, the last person to leave the store, close it up, at 7pm. But since my bakery was actually inside a grocery store, there were other personnel, store clerks, assistant mangers, etc, who would know if something was not quite right at Richard's Bakery.
So one day I get a call, from one of these assistant managers, of the Thriftway Store my bakery was in, who tells me, "Ric, I just thought you'd like to know, that girl who closes, she is closing at 6:30. I don't know what she is doing, but your store is closing at 6:30, for like a few weeks, aren't you supposed to be open 'til 7?" I am stunned. I say to myself, hmmmmm, I don't get it. April is on the schedule from 12pm to 7pm, I am paying her for that amount of time. How could this be?
So I talk to her. I ask her what the deal is, she denies everything. She says she is keeping busy, sometimes she has to go in the production area to work, but she is not closing the store.
A few days later I get a call from the assistant manager again. "Uh Ric, thought you'd like to know, that girl is still closing the store at 6:30". Whut?!?
So I decide I have to check this out for myself, and this is the kind of thing that turns business owners into conservatives. I've worked, oh, maybe eleven hours today, I am exausted, and I must drive over to the store, hide out, figure out what is going on.
The "crow's nest", or grocery store office, provides a clear view of my sales area. So at 6pm, I drive over, sneak in the grocery store, and go up to the crow's nest. I watch and wait. I watch as April goes through the final steps of closing the store. Sure enough, 6:30 rolls around, she is gone. I go into the production area, first checking the cash register, which is empty, to find April on the phone. The store is obviously closed. I say over her conversing, "I need to talk to you".
April is young. I tell her that what she is doing is wrong, that in order to keep her job, she cannot close a store, which is open 'til 7pm, a half hour early, ask her what's wrong, is she ok, can we work this out. I tell her she is busted, if I find out she is still doing it in the future, I will have to let her go. She promises to do right.
Next day, I drive over again, after yet another long day, to check on April. And I am sorry to see her close the store at 6:30. I go into the production area, where she is on the phone. I wait for her to hang up. 'Well April, last night I told you that, if you closed the store early again, I would have to let you go". April immediately, to my surprise, leaps into my arms and shouts, "can I have a hug?" So there I am, in this big white bakery, after having fired April, who has boldly lied to me, not kept her promises, basically stolen from me, and I am holding her in my arms, patting her back. Inside I am saying, "there, there, you're canned".
I think of this story as a metaphor for the wacky things store owners endure. The litany is endless. To any entrepreneurs and store owners out there, my prayers are with you.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
I was 27 years old. I had gone to Willamette University in Salem, Oregon for two years, traveled a lot with my band, and served a baker's apprenticeship in Seattle. I sold my house in Seattle, and with $5000 of the proceeds as a nest egg, arranged a bank loan, bought some used equipment, built the bakery, somehow got all the equipment properly installed, 24 pan revolving oven, mixers, workbenches, you name it. It took one hell of a lot of work, cooperation and support from my family, and a modicum of blind ambition. Well, a bunch of blind ambition. I was 27, what can I say?
In a grocery store environment, in those days, the fare was not as exotic, in Oregon, as it is now. These days, in Portland, for example, we have delightful upscale bakeries, like Criollo Bakery, which is in our commercial building. There are so many exceptionally talented bakers and pastry chefs here now, and going to a bakery like Criollo can be a mind blower. Fancy European desserts, sour breads made from one-hundred year-old starters, panini to die for, scones, cookies, and other sweets, all displayed with the flair of a designer.
Suffice it to say, that when I opened the doors to Richard's, we were basically a glorified doughnut shop. Fancier things came later, particularly after I moved, ten years later, into Portland.
I must admit, it was a huge learning curve for me. Having not finished college, I guess one could say, I continued my education on the job, in the belly of the entrepreneurial beast.
Bakers don't sleep much. Well, people who own their own businesses, especially when they first begin, don't sleep much. And of course, bakers rise each day at night, that is, in the middle of the night, to go to work. I still have little trouble getting up early. Anyway, for the twenty years I owned a bakery, I wouldn't change a thing. I learned so much, became a man, but indeed, the schedule was gruelling. Among my keepsakes is a little note from one of my daughters, left on my dresser, which I found one morning after getting up for work that says, "Daddy, you always miss the fun".
The rest of the story takes a lighter turn.
Though I admit to, in some part, not having any idea what I was getting into, regarding the details of owning a business, I got pretty good at it, after awhile, making all that stuff, managing employees, running the operation smoothly so that, everyday, at 7am, you could find some really groovy fresh items for sale in my store. For the most part, I had excellent help, but sometimes, I would get a slacker. And that sucks. Because for all it takes to run a store like that, and you hire someone who promises to put in a good day's work for a good day's pay, and then doesn't, damn.
So, in approximately 1978, a few years into it, I hired April. April's name has been changed, cuz, well, I don't really remember her name. But I can still see her face. The problem was, April was a bit of a cheater, and uh, a liar, and just generally not good for my business. I had put my faith in her, allowing her to be the "closer", that is, the last person to leave the store, close it up, at 7pm. But since my bakery was actually inside a grocery store, there were other personnel, store clerks, assistant mangers, etc, who would know if something was not quite right at Richard's Bakery.
So one day I get a call, from one of these assistant managers, of the Thriftway Store my bakery was in, who tells me, "Ric, I just thought you'd like to know, that girl who closes, she is closing at 6:30. I don't know what she is doing, but your store is closing at 6:30, for like a few weeks, aren't you supposed to be open 'til 7?" I am stunned. I say to myself, hmmmmm, I don't get it. April is on the schedule from 12pm to 7pm, I am paying her for that amount of time. How could this be?
So I talk to her. I ask her what the deal is, she denies everything. She says she is keeping busy, sometimes she has to go in the production area to work, but she is not closing the store.
A few days later I get a call from the assistant manager again. "Uh Ric, thought you'd like to know, that girl is still closing the store at 6:30". Whut?!?
So I decide I have to check this out for myself, and this is the kind of thing that turns business owners into conservatives. I've worked, oh, maybe eleven hours today, I am exausted, and I must drive over to the store, hide out, figure out what is going on.
The "crow's nest", or grocery store office, provides a clear view of my sales area. So at 6pm, I drive over, sneak in the grocery store, and go up to the crow's nest. I watch and wait. I watch as April goes through the final steps of closing the store. Sure enough, 6:30 rolls around, she is gone. I go into the production area, first checking the cash register, which is empty, to find April on the phone. The store is obviously closed. I say over her conversing, "I need to talk to you".
April is young. I tell her that what she is doing is wrong, that in order to keep her job, she cannot close a store, which is open 'til 7pm, a half hour early, ask her what's wrong, is she ok, can we work this out. I tell her she is busted, if I find out she is still doing it in the future, I will have to let her go. She promises to do right.
Next day, I drive over again, after yet another long day, to check on April. And I am sorry to see her close the store at 6:30. I go into the production area, where she is on the phone. I wait for her to hang up. 'Well April, last night I told you that, if you closed the store early again, I would have to let you go". April immediately, to my surprise, leaps into my arms and shouts, "can I have a hug?" So there I am, in this big white bakery, after having fired April, who has boldly lied to me, not kept her promises, basically stolen from me, and I am holding her in my arms, patting her back. Inside I am saying, "there, there, you're canned".
I think of this story as a metaphor for the wacky things store owners endure. The litany is endless. To any entrepreneurs and store owners out there, my prayers are with you.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Friday, January 21, 2005
Getting Married
Oh man, after my last divorce, and subsequent failed relationships, I was certain that I would never again marry. That last divorce, plus a "learning" relationship after that, just about killed me. When I think of my song titles and some of the lyrics from those days, the pain comes back, if only for a moment. Then I remember, like waking from a bad dream, that I am finally safe in the arms of love.
Marie and I met when I was living alone in my old Hawthorne Victorian, a cute little farm house I gardened to death. I was sitting under the rose arbor in the front yard, near the sidewalk. After homeowner and pedestrian shared hellos, we talked gardening, and became friends first. After a long email courtship, some dates, some TV time at her house, and sitting on her front porch, getting to know each other better and better, cupid drew back his bow. It was a wonderful time. We saved all of our emails, and Marie has bound them in a book, which we pull out from time to time. Marie and I are almost the same age. I am a year older. Of course this is correct since I am the boss. Seriously, I know that one reason Marie and I connected so deeply is that we know a lot of the same things, given our comparable age. We also realized over the course of our courtship, that we had so much in common, even small things, beyond politics and our views of life. It was almost scary. We discovered, for example, that we had exactly the same Monet motif umbrella, and the one night light we each owned was exactly the same ceramic night light, with a bizarre little embossed angel scene. Coincidence? I think not. But beyond that cuteness and mystery, and the fact that we make each other laugh a lot, Marie and I realized that we were very much in love, and could provide for each other the love and support we were both seeking.
So in June 2001, we got married, after a couple of years of cohabitating. Blaine was best man, and my daughters Stacey and Amy stood with us at the altar.
It didn't take long to decide to have our ceremony at The Classical Chinese Garden in Portland, where Marie has been a volunteer guide. It is an amazingly beautiful setting, right in the heart of downtown Portland. (Check out the rare Osmanthus tree at the entrance in November, the fragrance is unbelievable) However, there are precious few times when the garden is not open to the public, and available for a gathering like a wedding. But we were able to schedule an 8 a.m., Sunday morning time slot, to be followed by a reception and Dim Sum feast at a restaurant near the garden.
Everyone came! It was one of the most fun experiences of my entire life. Dear friends provided the music, the setting was sunny and beautiful, and Marie's brother-in law, a judge, performed the ceremony. Just before the ceremony began, he explained to us, that is, Amy. Stacey, Blaine, Marie and I, how he would proceed, and said, "And then I will say that part , if anyone wants to say anything speak now". At that moment, and without hesitation, my daughter Stacey lunged forward, there in the Pagoda by the pond, and with her arms stretched up, eyes rolled back in their sockets, exclaimed "Thank you God", her own hallelujah that her wayward Dad had found a bride. It was as cute as cute gets, and I will never forget it. However, I am relieved to say that Stacey did not perform this act during the actual ceremony.
The reception was a blast. The Dim Sum was exquisite, and just kept coming. Marie and I hadn't been able to decide how to pare down the menu, since there were so many delicious Dim Sum items we wanted to have, so we basically just ordered everything. It was completely over the top, right up my alley. It was so much fun to greet all of our friends in that setting.
But the whole day, our wedding, the reception, looking deeply into my bride's eyes as we said our vows, our tears, was a remarkable event, and a wonderful memory, to last a lifetime. And now, after several years of marital bliss, we are happier than ever. Marie is still the funniest, most amusing, kind, generous, talented, loving, intelligent, and beautiful real live angel on this mighty orb, and I am so blessed that she agreed to be my wife.
Here is a song I wrote and recorded about our marriage with the able assistance of my friend and guitar god Tim Ellis, in 2001, titled "Forever Marie".
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Friday, January 14, 2005
Superbowl Sunday Looms!
We are big Superbowl Sunday fans at our house, not so much for the game, (who played last year?) as the killer food we make, the clever ads shown during the game, a chance to win a few bucks on the game through state sanctioned gambling, aka "Oregon Sports Action", and the camraderie of dear friends. Our group remains small, but consistent. It is such a pleasure to see their smilin' Superbowl faces arrive each year. This year, Marie has scheduled, as a special attraction, a pre-game showing of a dvd titled, "The Ice Bowl", which is a true life documentary of the famous game between Green Bay and Dallas, played in sub-human weather conditions at Lambeau Field in Green Bay Wisconsin on December 31, 1967. She is doing it, because, as she says, "I don't like football that much, but I love weather."
My friend Andy, one of our usual guests, is, generally speaking, what one might refer to as a loose cannon. Besides being one of the happiest and uplifting people I have ever met, he has a mental block about Keiko the whale. That is, he has a relationship so solid with the much loved, departed sea mammal, that he writes songs and develops videos about Keiko, (which are truly hilarious) including the theory that Keiko faked his own death, and including recent "sightings". One of Andy's songs, "Summer of Alicia" appears on my CD, "Santa Monica".
A couple of years ago, while we watched the Superbowl, Andy was in a particularly frisky mood, loud, not obnoxious really, just being his typical, happy, big-kid self. At one especially exciting moment in the game, Andy let out an ear-splitting whoop, chin drippin' with buffalo wing sauce. Andy's wife Alicia, sitting next to me, and who is very funny in her own right, turns to us and says, "I'm not sure I like Superbowl Andy". About a year later, a song came through which I titled "Superbowl Andy". I have had the song uploaded to the "Music" section of my website, for your listening pleasure, in the spirit of the impending 2004-2005 Super Bowl. To hear it, click this link
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
My friend Andy, one of our usual guests, is, generally speaking, what one might refer to as a loose cannon. Besides being one of the happiest and uplifting people I have ever met, he has a mental block about Keiko the whale. That is, he has a relationship so solid with the much loved, departed sea mammal, that he writes songs and develops videos about Keiko, (which are truly hilarious) including the theory that Keiko faked his own death, and including recent "sightings". One of Andy's songs, "Summer of Alicia" appears on my CD, "Santa Monica".
A couple of years ago, while we watched the Superbowl, Andy was in a particularly frisky mood, loud, not obnoxious really, just being his typical, happy, big-kid self. At one especially exciting moment in the game, Andy let out an ear-splitting whoop, chin drippin' with buffalo wing sauce. Andy's wife Alicia, sitting next to me, and who is very funny in her own right, turns to us and says, "I'm not sure I like Superbowl Andy". About a year later, a song came through which I titled "Superbowl Andy". I have had the song uploaded to the "Music" section of my website, for your listening pleasure, in the spirit of the impending 2004-2005 Super Bowl. To hear it, click this link
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
The Door's Concert
My friend Doug Stamm, who was kind enough to leave a greeting in the site guestbook today, reminded me of a Door's concert, which my old 70's band, the Morning Reign, also played, and, I've come to find out, he coincidentally attended. I believe it was 1969 or 1970.
Here's the story: We had just finished our set. We played about an hour, right before the Doors were to go on. We hadn't entered our psychedelic era yet, and we still resembled Paul Revere and the Raiders more than the Doors. Anyway, the Door's roadies were busy moving our equipment to the rear, and were setting up their equipment as fast as they could. It was taking awhile. Back in those days, everything had a wire, the equipment mostly sucked, even the good stuff, and it all had to be set up flawlessly for anyone to sound decent. The crowd was getting restless. I am standing backstage, watching it all happen, just pumped, diggin' the scene. All of a sudden, I notice the Doors drummer sitting on a couch, quietly, a few feet from me, smoking a cigarette, with his sticks in hand. He is barely noticeable, given the angle of the couch, which looks completely out of place back there among the velvet curtains and curtain ropes. A few seconds later, while the smell of pot and patchouli wafted up from the rows of Doors fans to my left, I hear the promoter yelling, at the top of his lungs, as he runs past, "where the #@*% are those mutha@#*^&#"s, and bumps this guy in a black leather coat who has parked next to me. I am thinking, well, I just saw the drummer, and then I realize, I am standing next to Jim Morrison. After the bump, kind of all at the same time, he looks over at me, not with a perturbed look, but a look as if to say, "I'm right here".
I admit, before God and everyone, that on a couple of occasions over the years, I have inflated this story a bit, maybe even made reference to having a short conversation with him, you know, chatting him up. Well, not true. But our eyes did meet, and I remember those eyes, still. Perhaps he was thinking, hmmmm, that's that lead singer guy, from the other band, that Ric guy, hmmmm, he was awesome the way he was doing those steps on that Don and the Goodtimes cover, I better be really good tonight.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Ice In Portland Today
I just got back from walking up to Safeway, to get a few things for the day, which we are certain is gonna be a stay at home, make popcorn, pull up the afghan, get a dog on your lap, watch a dvd kinda day. It is definitely too icy to walk anywhere, let alone drive.
But going up there, I was reminded of my ice story, which goes like this: Some years ago, I was shopping at the Fred Meyer supermarket near my house in the Hawthorne district, before Marie and I had met. I was having some people over for dinner, and I believe it was during the week between Christmas and New Year's Day. Since it had been snowing, and was quite icy, I had walked, just the one block from my house to the store. Those were sorta lonely days for me, partnerless, loveless, and I was excited to be having friends over. I only needed a few things.
But as I walked the aisles of the store, I kept tossing things into my cart, things I thought I needed, oh, a few pounds of coffee, extra bottles of wine, a toaster oven. At one point, my eye caught the weather scene outside, and it was snowing heavily. At that moment, I felt so stupid. Did I not remember that I nearly killed myself getting there, on the ice? Am I so dense that I cannot remember something for ten minutes? Here I am, facing the challenge of getting home at all on that ice, and I am loading up my cart with sundries and groceries that will require a van to get home!
But it's too late. I am not going to put all this stuff back, returning things to their proper place, aisle by aisle, and I am not going to just leave my cart sitting there like a jerk, cuz, for one thing, there are things in the cart, at the bottom, that i truly need TODAY.
So I decide to push the cart home. I grumble my way through the rest of the store, pick up a few more items, say shit a few times, and deride myself for being such a knuck.
I pay. I don't smile. I am probably brusque with the checker. I enter the parking lot.
Cars are spinning. It has gotten much worse during my hour in the store. I begin my journey.
Here's the good part. As I begin taking steps toward the parking lot exit, well, I discover it's not hard. Something about the way the cart is loaded, it's shape, whatever, grabs the icy surface, and is totally controllable. Plus, since I am glued to it by my gloved hands, it pulls me along.
I push on further, past the parking lot planters and the sliding customers. I can feel a smile come to my face. I giggle. Whut the heck?!!??
Before I know it, as I continue pushing and being pulled down Main Street, I am gliding on a cloud. My giggle has turned to full-blown laughter. I increase my speed. I have never experienced this, but I think it must be like skiing really fast. I arrive home, out of breath, giddy, slobberingly happy. As I remove the groceries from the cart, I take stock of this most unusual happening.
There I was, in that store, complaining and moaning like an Alabama fan after a loss. Running myself down, looking at life with a completely negative outlook, certain of pain and defeat. Faithless.
But, just like in real life, if one can hold onto faith, something can always change for the better, and sometimes, when you least expect it. Whenever I feel that I must be the saddest, disgusting and desperate soul in the world, when I experience rejection, loss, illness, or pain, I just remember my ice story.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Busted At The Campground!
My wife Marie, who is an excellent story-teller, told one of our Airstream stories at dinner last night at The Lucky Lab, and it just cracked me up. Thought I would have a go at it. First, a bit of Airstream background.
In 1964, (our Airstream is a "64") and earlier, even later, Airstreams and other older travel trailers had only one dirty water holding tank, a "black water" tank, and, well, you know what that is. Kitchen water, however, was allowed to just spill onto the ground. It was only later that camping and campground regulations were upgraded such that kitchen water or "gray water" (from showering and hand washing too) was required to be held in the trailer for proper disposal. Now ya tell me.
So we buy our beater Airstream, spend a summer and a small fortune fixin' it up, and one weekend at the end of last summer, we go to a local campground, Blaine, Marie, the pups and I, to try it out, at Champoeg Campground, about 25 miles from home.
So I hook it all up the best I know how, incoming water, electricity, get the hot water heater fired up on the propane line, etc. But since the trailer is not equipped to hold the gray water, and I am an unaware novice, well, it's gonna just go on the ground, I guess, duh.
So we begin our stay, watched a dvd on my laptop, Marie's mom drops by, we take a hike, the dogs are in sniff heaven, we're all havin' a blast. Marie makes spaghetti and meatballs, a nice salad, in our galley, sporting her pink and lime green outfit she bought to go with the trailer.
Later that night, I go outside to adjust the Airstream shaped Christmas style lights I have strung on our awning. I walk behind the trailer for a sec, and see all these carrot and celery chunks lying on the ground behind our trailer in this nice clean park, and I think, uh, maybe I need to do a bit more research on this, this doesn't seem right. At that very moment, I see a park official, who looks like a Mountie, or that park ranger in Yogi Bear cartoons, walking toward me with his clipboard. "Sir", he says, "we have had a complaint that you are dumping gray water onto the ground at this location." I go, "gulp, er, well, yes, I guess we have", sheepishly, steeped in naivete, standing there by the carrot chunks. He replies,"well, it's against the park rules and there is a big fine for this", eyeballing the chunks. I apologize, and make my learning curve plea. He chastises,"Well, I will let you off with a warning this time, but we are talking a big no-no here, sir, we won't see any more of this from this trailer at this location, sir, is that correct, sir?" Of course I agree, and he gets back in his pick- up and takes off. So I enter the trailer and tell Marie. We are mortified and laughing at the same time.
I have figured out how to handle the disposal of gray water correctly since then, given that our Vintage Airstream is not equipped to handle gray water by today's standards. One must purchase and take along a portable "blue tote" tank for proper gray water collection.
We like to inflate the story, make it sound like we were busted bad by Campground security. I think I'll change the ranger's pick-up to a Hummer next time I tell it.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
In 1964, (our Airstream is a "64") and earlier, even later, Airstreams and other older travel trailers had only one dirty water holding tank, a "black water" tank, and, well, you know what that is. Kitchen water, however, was allowed to just spill onto the ground. It was only later that camping and campground regulations were upgraded such that kitchen water or "gray water" (from showering and hand washing too) was required to be held in the trailer for proper disposal. Now ya tell me.
So we buy our beater Airstream, spend a summer and a small fortune fixin' it up, and one weekend at the end of last summer, we go to a local campground, Blaine, Marie, the pups and I, to try it out, at Champoeg Campground, about 25 miles from home.
So I hook it all up the best I know how, incoming water, electricity, get the hot water heater fired up on the propane line, etc. But since the trailer is not equipped to hold the gray water, and I am an unaware novice, well, it's gonna just go on the ground, I guess, duh.
So we begin our stay, watched a dvd on my laptop, Marie's mom drops by, we take a hike, the dogs are in sniff heaven, we're all havin' a blast. Marie makes spaghetti and meatballs, a nice salad, in our galley, sporting her pink and lime green outfit she bought to go with the trailer.
Later that night, I go outside to adjust the Airstream shaped Christmas style lights I have strung on our awning. I walk behind the trailer for a sec, and see all these carrot and celery chunks lying on the ground behind our trailer in this nice clean park, and I think, uh, maybe I need to do a bit more research on this, this doesn't seem right. At that very moment, I see a park official, who looks like a Mountie, or that park ranger in Yogi Bear cartoons, walking toward me with his clipboard. "Sir", he says, "we have had a complaint that you are dumping gray water onto the ground at this location." I go, "gulp, er, well, yes, I guess we have", sheepishly, steeped in naivete, standing there by the carrot chunks. He replies,"well, it's against the park rules and there is a big fine for this", eyeballing the chunks. I apologize, and make my learning curve plea. He chastises,"Well, I will let you off with a warning this time, but we are talking a big no-no here, sir, we won't see any more of this from this trailer at this location, sir, is that correct, sir?" Of course I agree, and he gets back in his pick- up and takes off. So I enter the trailer and tell Marie. We are mortified and laughing at the same time.
I have figured out how to handle the disposal of gray water correctly since then, given that our Vintage Airstream is not equipped to handle gray water by today's standards. One must purchase and take along a portable "blue tote" tank for proper gray water collection.
We like to inflate the story, make it sound like we were busted bad by Campground security. I think I'll change the ranger's pick-up to a Hummer next time I tell it.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Friday, January 07, 2005
Birdland!
Marie and I reserved one full day to ourselves for Christmas shopping this year. We tried to get out early, drank a couple of stiff lattees from The Java Man and ended up going completely out of our minds and buying a TIVO for Blaine. After we had the TIVO locked in the car, we walked over to the Petsmart which was in the same strip mall, to, oh, get a couple of things for the dogs, which of course ended up to be MANY things for the dogs. Dont get me started on what that nut Marie will do for her dogs. Sure is a good thing, that I, myself, am not extravagant with the dogs.
Anyway, while at Petsmart, Marie and I saw a couple of beautiful birds, Lady Gouldian Finches, and I could tell by the look in her eye that it wouldn't be long before we had a pair ourselves.
So here we are, a couple weeks later, and we have them, in a large cage, along with their pals, a pair of Bengalese Finches, also known as "societies", which are renowned for rearing Gouldian babies (nestlings).
We also picked up a very nice female canary, to go with our male, so it won't be long before we will have some offspring of both kinds of birds in our little homespun aviary. Their beautiful song and flying about really adds to the ambiance on our first floor.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Anyway, while at Petsmart, Marie and I saw a couple of beautiful birds, Lady Gouldian Finches, and I could tell by the look in her eye that it wouldn't be long before we had a pair ourselves.
So here we are, a couple weeks later, and we have them, in a large cage, along with their pals, a pair of Bengalese Finches, also known as "societies", which are renowned for rearing Gouldian babies (nestlings).
We also picked up a very nice female canary, to go with our male, so it won't be long before we will have some offspring of both kinds of birds in our little homespun aviary. Their beautiful song and flying about really adds to the ambiance on our first floor.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Sunday, January 02, 2005
Happy New Year!
Happy New Year to all whose browser brings them here! We had a very nice New Year, highlighted by a dinner party New Year's Eve at our house with friends, featuring an amazing 9 lb. Harris Ranch prime rib, which we slow cooked to medium rare and cut into entirely too large slices. I admit to my fondness for beef. (See my song "Food Chain" at the "music" section of this site). Marie made Chantrelle mashed potatoes, we sipped wine, Marie read aloud the Internet story of the dogs and the elk carcass,
(after dinner), and Blaine showed off his new Tivo and it's unbelievable features.
It was great to have Marie's mom here for a few days after Christmas and into the new year. We love having her here!
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
(after dinner), and Blaine showed off his new Tivo and it's unbelievable features.
It was great to have Marie's mom here for a few days after Christmas and into the new year. We love having her here!
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Cell Phone-O-Rama
So my cell phone hasn't been working all that well lately, cutting out, dropping the signal completely (ya know how that sucks when you are trying to finish up a big record deal by phone). I decide I gotta get a new one. So I go out to the AT&T store, now the Cingular store, since the merger, and toss my 8 month old phone on the counter, tell my story. "Oh yeah", the nice woman behind the counter says, " we aren't even building out that technology anymore". So with a chuckle and a "I knew that" attitude, I ask about a new phone, oh, maybe make a lateral move, I don't need all the bells and whistles. She shows me a small, handsome phone I can get for $18.00!, so I go for it.
Last night, as we watched the news, I toyed with it, stunned by the features. Before I was done, sitting there in my armchair, I had downloaded, from outer space, wirelessly, for $1.99, an additional "seasonal" ring tone, just for the holidays, "Deck the Halls, Salsa Mix". It rang today while I was in FreeGeek taking my son to work. What a great time to be alive.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Last night, as we watched the news, I toyed with it, stunned by the features. Before I was done, sitting there in my armchair, I had downloaded, from outer space, wirelessly, for $1.99, an additional "seasonal" ring tone, just for the holidays, "Deck the Halls, Salsa Mix". It rang today while I was in FreeGeek taking my son to work. What a great time to be alive.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Christmas!
I have a good friend who used to claim that he and his brother would go shopping on Christmas eve. I know there are lots of people who do that......WHY!!!? I would tell him he needed to push the envelope a bit further, you know, go to the 7-11 at say, 2pm on Christmas day, buy his wife a nice bag of pepperoni sticks, a six-pack, some scratch-off tickets.
We are gonna have a party here this weekend to celebrate, and we are going to have some platters of beautiful Christmas foods and sweets from Criollo bakery, which is the bakery in the commercial building we own on 47th and NE
Fremont in Portland. I am certain my kids are going to drive up in that sports car they have been promising me for years!
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
We are gonna have a party here this weekend to celebrate, and we are going to have some platters of beautiful Christmas foods and sweets from Criollo bakery, which is the bakery in the commercial building we own on 47th and NE
Fremont in Portland. I am certain my kids are going to drive up in that sports car they have been promising me for years!
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
The Reign Lives
Had lunch yesterday with two of my old "Morning Reign" buddies, Craig Chastain (still plays a mean rhythm guitar) and Doug Heatherington (bass). It was great to see them both. Craig is working for the Luis Palau organization and Doug remains with Farmer's Insurance. Of course it takes about ten minutes for us to start talking about "the old days", and some of the wacky stuff that we did back when we were kids. The three of us also attended Willamette University, where we were members of Delta Tau Delta, so the stories of our fraternity days as well as the band stories abound. I am certain we revisit the same stories every time we get together, which is about once a year. I love those guys.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Post Thanksgiving
We had a nice quiet Thanksgiving at our house, watched some football, chowed, and just generally had a family day. It's great to have Marie home for a few days from work. Over the Thanksgiving break, we cleaned out our greenhouse and put the winter tarp over it, a job I loathe, so it was great to get that done. Last night we watched "Trading Spouses", the one with the Vegan Mom and the Cajun Mom. Gawd I just have to hide my face watching reality tv sometimes. This episode inspired me to complete a new song I have been working on, titled, "The Fundamentalist Gene".
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
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