Cutter and Cutter

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

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

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

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

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

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Baseball Lessons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Tomorrow, I'll Quit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Zero Population Growth

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

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

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

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

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

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The Age Of Tang

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Rocky Bob

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Dry Cleaning Song

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Presidential Litmus Test

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Pyramid Schemes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you wanna see a couple, click here.

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My Flatulent Grammy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Sunset Strip

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Urinal Once Used By JFK

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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?

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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.

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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".

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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.

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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".

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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

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