It was a simple life, back in 1966, when I was a senior in high school, in the months after I was cut from the varsity basketball team. No more practices, no more working my ass off to play maybe a minute of garbage time. At first, I was stunned and disappointed. I can remember slamming the coach’s office door, in a very unprofessional and immature display of temper, moments after he cut me. I was way pissed.
In the weeks that followed, I flowed like water into a more natural way of being, for me. I began to let my hair grow. I wrote more songs and poetry. I bought some Kahlil Gibran, and The Hobbit. I got serious about my creative writing class, hosted by my all-time favourite teacher, Mrs. Avshalomov. I started smokin’ pot. After all, it was 1966.
Back in the day, pot was cheap. I would drive the blue and white Ford Galaxie my folks had given me over to the house of a long haired guitar player I knew, down by Reed College, listen to him play a bit of Peter, Paul, and Mary, some Dylan, take a couple of swigs of the house wine from a half gallon bottle, and then take home a huge baggie full of Really Great Weed for 5 bucks.
A couple of my buddies were becoming hippies too, and we got stoned often. None of us, however, turned into drug addicts. In fact, I don’t think any of us, college bound, took pot smoking all that seriously. We were good and serious students, (I may have paid more attention to school after leaving the basketball team), and determined to go on from high school to better things. To a life well lived.
But we did giggle a lot, gettin’ stoned. I must admit, I remember that time, the last few months of high school, with great fondness. We would meet at someone’s house, burn some incense, fire up some doobies, laugh our asses off, and then, being high school age boys, eat everything we could get our hands on. One friend of mine would smoke a joint after school, and then eat two frozen pizzas, you know, a little snack before dinner.
There was a period there, of about ten years, from 1966 ‘til 1976, when I smoked a hell of a lot of pot. For me, it was the time for pot. It was a tune in, turn on, drop out world. It was Frank Zappa, Grace Slick, Stephen Stills. Woodstock. And those yellow Zig Zag rollin’ papers.
After a couple of years at Willamette University, and joining a rock band, The Morning Reign, we all moved to Seattle, from Salem, Oregon, to be closer to our booking agent, and play more gigs. I was married, with a baby daughter, and we found a place to live in the basement of a big old house, across the street from Sea-Tac Airport. Rent was $75 per month, and it was a dump. But we were young, and we had our dreams, our patchouli, and we had pot.
There were two floors above us, and both floors were inhabited by other young hippie couples. I was especially fond of one of the guys, who was one of those naturally funny people. He and his wife would come down, bring pot, and copious amounts of potato chips and dip. After a joint or two, he would stretch his arms up, yawn, and then bellow, in a Texas drawl..... “shit man, I got the Blinder Munchies”. I almost fell off my chair the first time I heard that term, with my love of words, and it has been indelibly etched into my brain ever since.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Bum Ticker
On November 1, 2000, at a spry 52 years old, I rose to greet the day with my usual nervous energy, slammed a couple of cups of coffee, put on a Nicorette patch, walked the dogs, and headed out. That day, among my many planned errands, was a stop at our local everything market, Fred Meyer, for, I dunno, some CD bubble envelopes, fishin’ worms, something. As I left the store, I realized I was having chest pain, and it worried me.
I drove up to my commercial building, trying to have a good attiude, attempting to burp the pain away, and thinking about what I needed to do at the building. When I arrived, I went into one of my tenant’s stores, and was greeted by a question regarding the gas furnace there. The pilot light had not been lit for the season, and would I please do it. I went to my shop to get some tools, greeting others as I passed. The pain in my chest was insistent.
It wasn’t a pain like I had ever felt before. That’s probably what worried me the most. It was odd. It was not even so much by the heart area, it more more to the right than to the left. It was not excruciating, but it was consistent, not going away, not letting up at all. That, plus the fact that I was becoming increasingly scared, made me decide to take some action.
I walked into the store where I was working on the gas furnace, and excused myself to my tenant there, and basically told her that I was going to the hospital, see you later. I got into my van and began to drive to Providence Hospital, which is a 3 or 4 mile trip from my building. It was about 9 am.
When I arrived, I drove into the area where the ambulances park, and thought, nah, can’t park there, that’s only for really sick people, car accident victims, like that, and drove on. But in the regular emergency parking lot, which is a bit of a walk from the Emergency Room doors, there were no parking spots. Finally, my fear getting the best of me, I parked in a “Maintenance Only” spot, and got out of the van. When I got to the front desk, I was even more scared, maybe just from the realization that I was sick enough to be there. I think I advocated for myself pretty well, and spoke up about my fears, that I was afraid I might be having a heart attack. They didn’t exactly rush me in, but before too long, I was in a wheelchair, being pushed down the hall, hoping for salvation.
When I reached emergency, I was weak, scared, not very talkative. I remember that the physician, who came almost immediately, spoke loudly and clearly as he asked me questions. Eventually, a nurse put a pill in my mout, and told me to let it disolve under my tongue, so I figured it was Nitro-glycerine, which I knew even then was used to increase blood flow. But suddenly, after taking the pill, I began to have bad arrythmia, my heart beating irregularly, all over the map. And at that point, the questions ceased, and the doctor announced, “Richard, you are having a heart attack right now, we are going to see what we can do for you.” It was little consolation to hear the nurse, who had, seconds earlier, admininstered the Nitro, which seemed to get the attack going, apologize profusely, as if it were her fault.
At that moment, it was like being in a TV show with an ER format. They were removing my clothes, and putting pills in my mouth (which included 3 baby aspirin, I could taste them). They stuck a Heparin Lock in my right arm, and wheeled me quickly on a gurney, through the halls of the hospital. Someone said “stat”.
Lucky for me, there was already a team of heart surgeons, having just completed an angioplasty on someone else, waiting for me. As I was pushed through the halls, the doctor who had attended me in the ER bent over and asked, who shall we contact, and what is their phone number? I weakly said, “my wife Marie”, and gave him her work number.
The surgery was quick, professional, calm. After they inserted the tube through my groin, it was only seconds before I heard the surgeon behind the scope say “there it is”, meaning they had found a blockage. To hear those words gave me hope. The surgeon at my side said, “Okay Rich, we’re going to open up that artery a bit with a balloon, and then put a “stent” in there, wanna watch?”, as he reached up to the TV screen to adjust it for me if I were to answer in the affirmative. That sentence, his nonchalance, gave me more hope. There I was, so focused on just trying to survive, and he was inviting me to watch the procedure. I declined, but I think I almost giggled.
When the procedure was over, Marie met me as they were wheeling me out. It was so wonderful to see her face, though I could see she had been crying. So many things went through my mind. But one thing is for certain. Marie got the phone call that no one ever wants to get. She drove to the hospital not knowing if I was going to live or die. And folks, once a person goes through that, for you, you are truly bonded forever, at a very, very deep level. Words cannot express my gratitude to Marie for her love, care, and chicken soup, in the following weeks, as I recovered. I was in the hospital about a week. Way too fucking long.
Marie took a month off work, to help me, so more thanks to all the folks at her work. Abby, Donna, Joyce and Tom, and others, brought food, low-fat no doubt. Matt fixed our screen door. Andy and Alicia came to visit and check in on me. My daughters kept in touch by phone. Many others offered their sevices. My son Blaine kept me company and was his usual loving self.
I remember going upstairs for the first time, one step at a time, just to do it, take a shower, hang out in my office. The stairs were a challenge. I was just weak, and worried, still. Now 4 years later, almost 5, as I bound, like a kid, up and down those stairs, I remember thinking, I will never take being able to climb stairs for granted again.
Okay so now I take the meds, my heart is strong, I am thin, the numbers are good. The kind and professional people at Providence Hospital, and Marie, saved my life. I needed a tune-up.
I haven't felt comfortable writing about this until today. In fact, as I wrote it, at times, it was not fun...... but way more fun than having a heart attack. To those of you who have been through a similar event, I send my best wishes for your continued good health. Back in 2000, I too had a bum ticker. These days, I consider the future with enthusiasm.
There would be a song, of course, addressing all of this, and it appears on my 2002 CD, “Useful Information.” It’s titled, “The Betterment Of My Heart.” Click here for a clip.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
I drove up to my commercial building, trying to have a good attiude, attempting to burp the pain away, and thinking about what I needed to do at the building. When I arrived, I went into one of my tenant’s stores, and was greeted by a question regarding the gas furnace there. The pilot light had not been lit for the season, and would I please do it. I went to my shop to get some tools, greeting others as I passed. The pain in my chest was insistent.
It wasn’t a pain like I had ever felt before. That’s probably what worried me the most. It was odd. It was not even so much by the heart area, it more more to the right than to the left. It was not excruciating, but it was consistent, not going away, not letting up at all. That, plus the fact that I was becoming increasingly scared, made me decide to take some action.
I walked into the store where I was working on the gas furnace, and excused myself to my tenant there, and basically told her that I was going to the hospital, see you later. I got into my van and began to drive to Providence Hospital, which is a 3 or 4 mile trip from my building. It was about 9 am.
When I arrived, I drove into the area where the ambulances park, and thought, nah, can’t park there, that’s only for really sick people, car accident victims, like that, and drove on. But in the regular emergency parking lot, which is a bit of a walk from the Emergency Room doors, there were no parking spots. Finally, my fear getting the best of me, I parked in a “Maintenance Only” spot, and got out of the van. When I got to the front desk, I was even more scared, maybe just from the realization that I was sick enough to be there. I think I advocated for myself pretty well, and spoke up about my fears, that I was afraid I might be having a heart attack. They didn’t exactly rush me in, but before too long, I was in a wheelchair, being pushed down the hall, hoping for salvation.
When I reached emergency, I was weak, scared, not very talkative. I remember that the physician, who came almost immediately, spoke loudly and clearly as he asked me questions. Eventually, a nurse put a pill in my mout, and told me to let it disolve under my tongue, so I figured it was Nitro-glycerine, which I knew even then was used to increase blood flow. But suddenly, after taking the pill, I began to have bad arrythmia, my heart beating irregularly, all over the map. And at that point, the questions ceased, and the doctor announced, “Richard, you are having a heart attack right now, we are going to see what we can do for you.” It was little consolation to hear the nurse, who had, seconds earlier, admininstered the Nitro, which seemed to get the attack going, apologize profusely, as if it were her fault.
At that moment, it was like being in a TV show with an ER format. They were removing my clothes, and putting pills in my mouth (which included 3 baby aspirin, I could taste them). They stuck a Heparin Lock in my right arm, and wheeled me quickly on a gurney, through the halls of the hospital. Someone said “stat”.
Lucky for me, there was already a team of heart surgeons, having just completed an angioplasty on someone else, waiting for me. As I was pushed through the halls, the doctor who had attended me in the ER bent over and asked, who shall we contact, and what is their phone number? I weakly said, “my wife Marie”, and gave him her work number.
The surgery was quick, professional, calm. After they inserted the tube through my groin, it was only seconds before I heard the surgeon behind the scope say “there it is”, meaning they had found a blockage. To hear those words gave me hope. The surgeon at my side said, “Okay Rich, we’re going to open up that artery a bit with a balloon, and then put a “stent” in there, wanna watch?”, as he reached up to the TV screen to adjust it for me if I were to answer in the affirmative. That sentence, his nonchalance, gave me more hope. There I was, so focused on just trying to survive, and he was inviting me to watch the procedure. I declined, but I think I almost giggled.
When the procedure was over, Marie met me as they were wheeling me out. It was so wonderful to see her face, though I could see she had been crying. So many things went through my mind. But one thing is for certain. Marie got the phone call that no one ever wants to get. She drove to the hospital not knowing if I was going to live or die. And folks, once a person goes through that, for you, you are truly bonded forever, at a very, very deep level. Words cannot express my gratitude to Marie for her love, care, and chicken soup, in the following weeks, as I recovered. I was in the hospital about a week. Way too fucking long.
Marie took a month off work, to help me, so more thanks to all the folks at her work. Abby, Donna, Joyce and Tom, and others, brought food, low-fat no doubt. Matt fixed our screen door. Andy and Alicia came to visit and check in on me. My daughters kept in touch by phone. Many others offered their sevices. My son Blaine kept me company and was his usual loving self.
I remember going upstairs for the first time, one step at a time, just to do it, take a shower, hang out in my office. The stairs were a challenge. I was just weak, and worried, still. Now 4 years later, almost 5, as I bound, like a kid, up and down those stairs, I remember thinking, I will never take being able to climb stairs for granted again.
Okay so now I take the meds, my heart is strong, I am thin, the numbers are good. The kind and professional people at Providence Hospital, and Marie, saved my life. I needed a tune-up.
I haven't felt comfortable writing about this until today. In fact, as I wrote it, at times, it was not fun...... but way more fun than having a heart attack. To those of you who have been through a similar event, I send my best wishes for your continued good health. Back in 2000, I too had a bum ticker. These days, I consider the future with enthusiasm.
There would be a song, of course, addressing all of this, and it appears on my 2002 CD, “Useful Information.” It’s titled, “The Betterment Of My Heart.” Click here for a clip.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Friday, May 06, 2005
The Sickle Controversy
A few entries back thataway, I told the true and harrowing tale of my wife discovering a dead rat at the foot of the bed, titled “Farm Girl”. In short, one of our dear dogs had laid it there, we’re sure, for her approval. To say she yelped in surprise upon realizing that the “dog toy” she had seen on the end of the bed was actually a deceased rodent would be a bit of an understatement. But, as I relate in my story, my former farm girl did take it rather well.
I had a great time writing that entry, and to those of you who wrote to make a comment or express your condolences, thanks. All in a days’ work when you are living with a couple of Bichons, our perfect little puppies (well, mostly).
Since that time, Marie and I have had the occasion to tell the story to friends and others, taking turns as we go. Of course, we get a giggle out of watching our victims squirm when we reveal the rat part, and I especially like to embellish my wife’s bravery.
Maybe, when I wrote the part about the aftermath of finding a rat on the bed, I mean the part where I run into the bedroom and see her there, under the covers, with a dead rat on the bed, I wrote it to be more complimentary of my behavior than I actually deserve. I don’t think I made it sound like I was some hero or something, but apparently, to hear Marie tell it, there was a tinge more anxiety and flustration in my voice, which I may not have fully described, as I surveyed the situation. To hear Marie tell it, as I have now quite a few times, is to hear and watch my perfect partner, expressive and unbridled in her rendering of the moment. To hear Marie tell it, (she has to stand to get it just right), I am scurrying about, something like Carson Cressley at a trunk show, and saying, “Dogs, down dogs, get off the bed dogs”, as she calmly corrals them, holding them by the collar. After making it seem like this is not the guy you would want to find yourself on a deserted island with, in front of our friends, tears streaming down her cheeks, she assures me with the less than convincing, ‘”no, no, honey, it wasn’t that bad, really”, while others wet their pants. Mostly, I love to see her laugh like that.
But the part after that, where I run off to the basement to find something to scoop the dead rat up with, that part is steeped in controversy. What happened was, my version, I immediately go downstairs to get a tool, a trowel, a big putty knife, something like that ,and maybe a dustpan. But when I get there, for some reason, I can’t find diddly. I look on my tool wall, nothin’ adequate there. (We’re talkin’ a big rat) I grab a dustpan, a good steel one with a sharp edge, okay good. But I’m thinkin’, I don’t know what kind of condition this rat is in really, does it have guts stickin’ out, what, so I don’t want to just scoop it up with the dustpan, that might be too imprecise, make a mess. I just want something to run under the rat, pick it up quickly and deposit it in the dustpan. Anyway, it took awhile to find the right thing. Then I returned to the bedroom and did the job, and tossed Ben in the trash.
When Marie tells it, to friends, and others, it took forever for me to return, and when I did, she says, still standing, cheeks glistening, I returned with...............a sickle! “Yesssss”, she assures the rapt, “you know, like on the Russian flag”, (as she makes the big and bold curvy gesture with her hands), “the hammer and SICKLE”.
Well, hon, uh, not exacty a sickle. What kind of a dumbshit would use a sickle to pick up a dead rat on a comforter. They’re way too fucking sharp, and the blade isn’t wide enough. Okay, okay, maybe I was a little twitchy when you first found the rat. And I even crack up myself as I watch you go on, telling the story, and swearing to God I used a sickle, and watch you make that big and bold curvy gesture. But to set the record straight, since I am the guy who brought the tool, and I used it to pick up the rat, you will have to admit, right before the spanking, that it was not a sickle. It was a “Wonderbar”, a flat and useful crowbar, fer God’s sake, which, apparently, looks a great deal like a sickle. To some. To one.
Click here to see a sickle:
I had a great time writing that entry, and to those of you who wrote to make a comment or express your condolences, thanks. All in a days’ work when you are living with a couple of Bichons, our perfect little puppies (well, mostly).
Since that time, Marie and I have had the occasion to tell the story to friends and others, taking turns as we go. Of course, we get a giggle out of watching our victims squirm when we reveal the rat part, and I especially like to embellish my wife’s bravery.
Maybe, when I wrote the part about the aftermath of finding a rat on the bed, I mean the part where I run into the bedroom and see her there, under the covers, with a dead rat on the bed, I wrote it to be more complimentary of my behavior than I actually deserve. I don’t think I made it sound like I was some hero or something, but apparently, to hear Marie tell it, there was a tinge more anxiety and flustration in my voice, which I may not have fully described, as I surveyed the situation. To hear Marie tell it, as I have now quite a few times, is to hear and watch my perfect partner, expressive and unbridled in her rendering of the moment. To hear Marie tell it, (she has to stand to get it just right), I am scurrying about, something like Carson Cressley at a trunk show, and saying, “Dogs, down dogs, get off the bed dogs”, as she calmly corrals them, holding them by the collar. After making it seem like this is not the guy you would want to find yourself on a deserted island with, in front of our friends, tears streaming down her cheeks, she assures me with the less than convincing, ‘”no, no, honey, it wasn’t that bad, really”, while others wet their pants. Mostly, I love to see her laugh like that.
But the part after that, where I run off to the basement to find something to scoop the dead rat up with, that part is steeped in controversy. What happened was, my version, I immediately go downstairs to get a tool, a trowel, a big putty knife, something like that ,and maybe a dustpan. But when I get there, for some reason, I can’t find diddly. I look on my tool wall, nothin’ adequate there. (We’re talkin’ a big rat) I grab a dustpan, a good steel one with a sharp edge, okay good. But I’m thinkin’, I don’t know what kind of condition this rat is in really, does it have guts stickin’ out, what, so I don’t want to just scoop it up with the dustpan, that might be too imprecise, make a mess. I just want something to run under the rat, pick it up quickly and deposit it in the dustpan. Anyway, it took awhile to find the right thing. Then I returned to the bedroom and did the job, and tossed Ben in the trash.
When Marie tells it, to friends, and others, it took forever for me to return, and when I did, she says, still standing, cheeks glistening, I returned with...............a sickle! “Yesssss”, she assures the rapt, “you know, like on the Russian flag”, (as she makes the big and bold curvy gesture with her hands), “the hammer and SICKLE”.
Well, hon, uh, not exacty a sickle. What kind of a dumbshit would use a sickle to pick up a dead rat on a comforter. They’re way too fucking sharp, and the blade isn’t wide enough. Okay, okay, maybe I was a little twitchy when you first found the rat. And I even crack up myself as I watch you go on, telling the story, and swearing to God I used a sickle, and watch you make that big and bold curvy gesture. But to set the record straight, since I am the guy who brought the tool, and I used it to pick up the rat, you will have to admit, right before the spanking, that it was not a sickle. It was a “Wonderbar”, a flat and useful crowbar, fer God’s sake, which, apparently, looks a great deal like a sickle. To some. To one.
Click here to see a sickle:
Website: http://www.ricseaberg.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ric.seaberg.5
Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/ric-seaberg
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
A Book
At my house, when I was a kid, The Lucy Show was a must. All that iffy black and white TV.....“Queen For A Day”, “As The World Turns”, game shows, and pathetic, overly dramatic, even sordid specials, paled in entertainment value to good ol’ Lucy, and that wacky cuban bongo playin’ hubby, Desi Arnaz.
Those of you in your fifties, and possibly your forties, would likely know the word “vitavitavegemin”, penned by some comedy writer for Lucille Ball, to use in one of the zaniest Lucy skits of all time. Lucy, recruited to tape a television commercial for the stuff, some type of liquid vitamin, becomes utterly smashed drunk, after repeated takes of her dosing. It’s classic Lucy. When I envision my Mom, laughing herself to tears, she is watching that skit.
Desi Arnaz, as the straight man, was great, too. Of course, cranking out weekly shows as they did, not every moment was up to the standard of the “vitavitavegemin” bit, but Lucy and Desi (as “Ricky Ricardo”) were one dang funny, and hugely popular, comedy duo.
In 1975-76, I was in the process of starting my first bakery in Tualatin, Oregon. My family was living in Lake, Grove, Oregon, a stone’s throw from Tualatin, and I was busying myself acquiring bakery equipment, hammering out a 10 year lease, and other tasks associated with going into business.
But besides being an energetic twenty something with a dream, and a garage full of dirty sheet pans, I needed to work while the process of going into business was unfolding. So I would grab anything I could, a day here and there at different bakeries in Portland, anything I could get. It was a trip. I learned a ton.
But one job that came up, offered by a family friend, was at a company in Portland called “Bay News”, and had nothing to do with baking. Bay News was in the business of distributing paperback books and magazines. Basically, the job at Bay News was the sorting of paperback books, by publisher, for hours on end. The books were returns from stores, which then needed to be sorted for other uses, for example, shipped in other directions, even back to the publisher. I stood between two huge book shelves, with a pile of boxes in front of me, all filled with books, and sorted, sorted, sorted. The job only lasted for a few weeks, but I was grateful to have it.
One day, zoning out on sorting, there in the lonely Bay News basement warehouse, I heard some chatting behind me, above the din of the warehouse machines and factory sounds. Suddenly, I heard someone say, in a cuban accent....”Allo, Dare!” I turned around, and standing there, about a foot away, wearing a huge pair of dark sunglasses, and sticking out his tanned cuban hand for me to shake, was Desi Arnaz. He was wearing a dark blue double breasted blazer, and, even in pre-bling days, major bling. So I shook his hand, as he spoke, “I’m Desi Arnaz”, and then, in a sentence that made me feel like I myself was in a Lucy show, “Can you tell me where the office is?”
Desi had published a book that year, some might say, appropriately titled, “A Book”. And it had just been released in paperback, so he was on the road to glad hand the powers that be, radio and tv personalites, distributers, and, evidently, book sorters. It was cool to see him up close, shake his hand, smell his cigar breath, see him smile right at me, and have this story to tell. But that book title of his, “A Book”, I dunno, maybe it just hasn’t stood the test of time.
Those of you in your fifties, and possibly your forties, would likely know the word “vitavitavegemin”, penned by some comedy writer for Lucille Ball, to use in one of the zaniest Lucy skits of all time. Lucy, recruited to tape a television commercial for the stuff, some type of liquid vitamin, becomes utterly smashed drunk, after repeated takes of her dosing. It’s classic Lucy. When I envision my Mom, laughing herself to tears, she is watching that skit.
Desi Arnaz, as the straight man, was great, too. Of course, cranking out weekly shows as they did, not every moment was up to the standard of the “vitavitavegemin” bit, but Lucy and Desi (as “Ricky Ricardo”) were one dang funny, and hugely popular, comedy duo.
In 1975-76, I was in the process of starting my first bakery in Tualatin, Oregon. My family was living in Lake, Grove, Oregon, a stone’s throw from Tualatin, and I was busying myself acquiring bakery equipment, hammering out a 10 year lease, and other tasks associated with going into business.
But besides being an energetic twenty something with a dream, and a garage full of dirty sheet pans, I needed to work while the process of going into business was unfolding. So I would grab anything I could, a day here and there at different bakeries in Portland, anything I could get. It was a trip. I learned a ton.
But one job that came up, offered by a family friend, was at a company in Portland called “Bay News”, and had nothing to do with baking. Bay News was in the business of distributing paperback books and magazines. Basically, the job at Bay News was the sorting of paperback books, by publisher, for hours on end. The books were returns from stores, which then needed to be sorted for other uses, for example, shipped in other directions, even back to the publisher. I stood between two huge book shelves, with a pile of boxes in front of me, all filled with books, and sorted, sorted, sorted. The job only lasted for a few weeks, but I was grateful to have it.
One day, zoning out on sorting, there in the lonely Bay News basement warehouse, I heard some chatting behind me, above the din of the warehouse machines and factory sounds. Suddenly, I heard someone say, in a cuban accent....”Allo, Dare!” I turned around, and standing there, about a foot away, wearing a huge pair of dark sunglasses, and sticking out his tanned cuban hand for me to shake, was Desi Arnaz. He was wearing a dark blue double breasted blazer, and, even in pre-bling days, major bling. So I shook his hand, as he spoke, “I’m Desi Arnaz”, and then, in a sentence that made me feel like I myself was in a Lucy show, “Can you tell me where the office is?”
Desi had published a book that year, some might say, appropriately titled, “A Book”. And it had just been released in paperback, so he was on the road to glad hand the powers that be, radio and tv personalites, distributers, and, evidently, book sorters. It was cool to see him up close, shake his hand, smell his cigar breath, see him smile right at me, and have this story to tell. But that book title of his, “A Book”, I dunno, maybe it just hasn’t stood the test of time.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Speculation Binge
I guess it could be said, accurately enough, that I am a storyteller. That I have a penchant for makin’ shit up. Actually, most of my stories are just rants and descriptions, sometimes colorful, sometimes not, of actual events in my life. I am tempted, now and again, to stretch’em out a bit, but I do refrain from lying. Mostly, it’s not necessary, since life is stranger than fiction anyway.
But I do admit to a vivid imagination, one that is even sometimes a bit of a problem, since I tend to go off in my mind to God knows where, just at the wrong time. Like when I am needing to concentrate on making the devilled eggs. Like when I am having a conversation with someone. Like when I am watching the news. “Whut, huh, I didn’t know a 747 crashed in Portland, uh, whut, you say I was sitting here watching the news with you the whole time, and they showed that story just two minutes ago, oh, uh, I guess I was dreaming.”
Sometimes, walking the dogs around the block with my perfect wife Marie, I entertain her with my theories about our neighborhood’s residents, like if I notice someone’s lawn hasn’t been mowed for a decade, I will tell her all about the family member that died in Duluth, and how they had to go there for the funeral, but their daughter Katy didn’t go, she is staying next door, but she’s too young to mow the lawn, that sort of thing. Typically, she humors me, while I take a bit of twisted pleasure, watching her roll her eyes as I vehemently draw unfounded conclusions.
Those of you who visit here often, know that my wife Marie is apt to occasionally come up with some new phrase that knocks my little vocabular socks off. Today, once again while walking our pet puppies, Pippi and Poppi, I spied a house whose “For Sale “ sign had been removed, even though it just went up last week. Did they already sell the house, we wondered, and then with further ado, I began my diatribe on the rather obvious impending divorce that had been called off, and made the conclusion that, of course, they had gotten back together, and had taken down the sign, since they won’t be moving anyway. Marie, God bless her soul, gives me her perturbed look and giggles out, “Now Ric, don’t you start goin’ off again on another “speculation binge”. Is that not ripe?
But I do admit to a vivid imagination, one that is even sometimes a bit of a problem, since I tend to go off in my mind to God knows where, just at the wrong time. Like when I am needing to concentrate on making the devilled eggs. Like when I am having a conversation with someone. Like when I am watching the news. “Whut, huh, I didn’t know a 747 crashed in Portland, uh, whut, you say I was sitting here watching the news with you the whole time, and they showed that story just two minutes ago, oh, uh, I guess I was dreaming.”
Sometimes, walking the dogs around the block with my perfect wife Marie, I entertain her with my theories about our neighborhood’s residents, like if I notice someone’s lawn hasn’t been mowed for a decade, I will tell her all about the family member that died in Duluth, and how they had to go there for the funeral, but their daughter Katy didn’t go, she is staying next door, but she’s too young to mow the lawn, that sort of thing. Typically, she humors me, while I take a bit of twisted pleasure, watching her roll her eyes as I vehemently draw unfounded conclusions.
Those of you who visit here often, know that my wife Marie is apt to occasionally come up with some new phrase that knocks my little vocabular socks off. Today, once again while walking our pet puppies, Pippi and Poppi, I spied a house whose “For Sale “ sign had been removed, even though it just went up last week. Did they already sell the house, we wondered, and then with further ado, I began my diatribe on the rather obvious impending divorce that had been called off, and made the conclusion that, of course, they had gotten back together, and had taken down the sign, since they won’t be moving anyway. Marie, God bless her soul, gives me her perturbed look and giggles out, “Now Ric, don’t you start goin’ off again on another “speculation binge”. Is that not ripe?
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
On The Tundra Tonight
Several years ago, cruisin’ the channels for something interesting to watch on TV, Marie and I stumbled upon a Discovery Channel special about the raising of a Woolly Mammoth carcass in Siberia. The Woolly Mammoth was a great huge mammal, related to the elephant, basically a woolly elephant, which roamed the earth up until approximately 20,000 years ago, when it became extinct. Apparently, it has been known for some time that there are, likely, many more Woolly Mammoths to be found buried in the ice in Siberia, since tusks and other evidence have been found on the surface during some warmer years.
The special basically takes it's audience from the moment of discovery of tusks protruding through the surface, to the digging of the huge hole around the animal for removal. Along the way we see small thawings of bits and pieces around the carcass, ( like 20,000 year old wool! ) using hair dryers and other makeshift equipment, and the eventual flying out of one huge block of frozen earth, with a Woolly Mammoth inside, by helicopter, to another safe and frozen lab site.
This stuff fascinates me no end. All the scientific ramifications, like will they find an entire Woolly Mammoth, inside the ice, frozen for 20,000 years, and still perfect? Yikes! And will they be able to get usable DNA from it, and impregnate a present day elephant, and get “The New Woolly Mammoth”, to roam the plains outside Duluth?And will there be tours offered to the sub zero underground cave “lab site” where they are doing this science, and can I get a ticket?
So when a little melody and chorus came down, I just had to write the song, which I eventually sent off to The Discovery Channel, for their approval, with the hope that they would play it at The Discovery Channel Woolly Mammoth yearly banquet, or something. They were kind enough to acknowledge my efforts, and even sent along a denim Discovery Channel shirt and hat, which I sometimes still proudly don.
I like this song. I recorded it when I was still using a little Tascam 8 track cassette recorder. But I like the song so much I have decided to include it, (after some much needed mastering) on one of the two CDs I will release in the Fall of 2005. To hear a clip of the song, click here
The special basically takes it's audience from the moment of discovery of tusks protruding through the surface, to the digging of the huge hole around the animal for removal. Along the way we see small thawings of bits and pieces around the carcass, ( like 20,000 year old wool! ) using hair dryers and other makeshift equipment, and the eventual flying out of one huge block of frozen earth, with a Woolly Mammoth inside, by helicopter, to another safe and frozen lab site.
This stuff fascinates me no end. All the scientific ramifications, like will they find an entire Woolly Mammoth, inside the ice, frozen for 20,000 years, and still perfect? Yikes! And will they be able to get usable DNA from it, and impregnate a present day elephant, and get “The New Woolly Mammoth”, to roam the plains outside Duluth?And will there be tours offered to the sub zero underground cave “lab site” where they are doing this science, and can I get a ticket?
So when a little melody and chorus came down, I just had to write the song, which I eventually sent off to The Discovery Channel, for their approval, with the hope that they would play it at The Discovery Channel Woolly Mammoth yearly banquet, or something. They were kind enough to acknowledge my efforts, and even sent along a denim Discovery Channel shirt and hat, which I sometimes still proudly don.
I like this song. I recorded it when I was still using a little Tascam 8 track cassette recorder. But I like the song so much I have decided to include it, (after some much needed mastering) on one of the two CDs I will release in the Fall of 2005. To hear a clip of the song, click here
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Ephemera
I have joined the ranks of eBay users. What fun! So long to all that stuff hangin’ round in my world, which I haven’t used for a decade, or which has been stored in my warehouse, making a mess of things. Items I felt I needed to keep, but which I have come to realize I have absolutely no use for. Items, however, that someone out there is pining for.
Take, for example, an approximately 9000 lb. 1950s vintage gas furnace, last used as the heater in one of the retail stores in my commercial building, “Christmas In The City”. Turned out, with all the Christmas lights constantly burning in that store , no heater was needed. The store was actually heated, year ‘round, by Christmas lights! So, at my tenant’s request, I removed it, lugged it to my warehouse, where it shall sit for millenia, unless I find a buyer, which I have, on eBay. What a relief. Plus, the buyer gets a very cute furnace, to spruce up and put in a beach house, or somewhere where it will be appreciated.
Of the things I have for sale, many are hardware, that is, furniture, appliances, commercial equipment. But there is one item, or items, which I have been briskly selling, more closely associated with the term our friend Nancy has used in description, “ephemera”.
My Father, Bob Seaberg, who passed away in 1993, was a collector of movie star’s autographs, as a boy. And would you believe, he kept them all of his life. When he gave them to me, a few years before he passed away, I felt as though I had been given a pretty neat gift. They are mostly photos with autographs, on heavy photo stock, black and white or sepia, all in excellent condition, Lucille Ball, Jimmy Durante, Warner Oland (Charlie Chan), and lesser known actors and actresses, like Robert Montgomery, Ellen Drew, Jean Parker. They all sat in an envelope in the bottom of my file cabinet for about 15 years, until quite by accident, I ran across them a few weeks ago. Thumbing through the photos, I thought, “I bet there are collectors out there who would love to have these”, and my eBay career had begun. That, and the fact that I am not particularly fired up by autographs myself, made me do it. While it is true that for some, these photos and autographs are greatly revered, for others, they are less significant. Perhaps it could even be said that, as "ephemera", they have no significant lasting value. The value of autographs and photos like these is purely the value that a collector will put upon it.
Lucille Ball went first. A very cool photo of Lucy as a startlet, a 5”x 7” sepia, circa 1934, signed, “To Bob Seaberg, Sincelery, Lucille Ball ”. Sincelery. (Oh Lucy!) Those wacky eBay autograph seekers bid her up to $125. I did the deal with the buyer, and sent her off to San Francisco, insured.
A couple of days later, I received a lovely email from the buyer, a big Lucy fan, who stated that he had placed her on his wall of framed Lucy photos. I am so pleased that this one, at least, has found a great home, much better digs than the bottom of my file cabinet. I am certain that my Dad would be pleased to know that the photos will be greatly appreciated, and the fact that I am going to use the money to further my business.
As I read the buyer’s email, I could see that he was nearly ecstatic about his new photo, waxing on about his collection and Lucy. He closed with, Sincelery, John.
Take, for example, an approximately 9000 lb. 1950s vintage gas furnace, last used as the heater in one of the retail stores in my commercial building, “Christmas In The City”. Turned out, with all the Christmas lights constantly burning in that store , no heater was needed. The store was actually heated, year ‘round, by Christmas lights! So, at my tenant’s request, I removed it, lugged it to my warehouse, where it shall sit for millenia, unless I find a buyer, which I have, on eBay. What a relief. Plus, the buyer gets a very cute furnace, to spruce up and put in a beach house, or somewhere where it will be appreciated.
Of the things I have for sale, many are hardware, that is, furniture, appliances, commercial equipment. But there is one item, or items, which I have been briskly selling, more closely associated with the term our friend Nancy has used in description, “ephemera”.
My Father, Bob Seaberg, who passed away in 1993, was a collector of movie star’s autographs, as a boy. And would you believe, he kept them all of his life. When he gave them to me, a few years before he passed away, I felt as though I had been given a pretty neat gift. They are mostly photos with autographs, on heavy photo stock, black and white or sepia, all in excellent condition, Lucille Ball, Jimmy Durante, Warner Oland (Charlie Chan), and lesser known actors and actresses, like Robert Montgomery, Ellen Drew, Jean Parker. They all sat in an envelope in the bottom of my file cabinet for about 15 years, until quite by accident, I ran across them a few weeks ago. Thumbing through the photos, I thought, “I bet there are collectors out there who would love to have these”, and my eBay career had begun. That, and the fact that I am not particularly fired up by autographs myself, made me do it. While it is true that for some, these photos and autographs are greatly revered, for others, they are less significant. Perhaps it could even be said that, as "ephemera", they have no significant lasting value. The value of autographs and photos like these is purely the value that a collector will put upon it.
Lucille Ball went first. A very cool photo of Lucy as a startlet, a 5”x 7” sepia, circa 1934, signed, “To Bob Seaberg, Sincelery, Lucille Ball ”. Sincelery. (Oh Lucy!) Those wacky eBay autograph seekers bid her up to $125. I did the deal with the buyer, and sent her off to San Francisco, insured.
A couple of days later, I received a lovely email from the buyer, a big Lucy fan, who stated that he had placed her on his wall of framed Lucy photos. I am so pleased that this one, at least, has found a great home, much better digs than the bottom of my file cabinet. I am certain that my Dad would be pleased to know that the photos will be greatly appreciated, and the fact that I am going to use the money to further my business.
As I read the buyer’s email, I could see that he was nearly ecstatic about his new photo, waxing on about his collection and Lucy. He closed with, Sincelery, John.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
The Jewish Story
Well, at least that’s what it has always been called in my family, though I think, more correctly, it should be called the Hebrew Story.
My parents hailed from Chicago, where I was born, in 1948. My Dad was an only child, but my Mom had 5 older brothers, Roland, Russell, Wesley, Todd, and Gordon, my Mom’s youngest brother, also known as “Uncle Chick”. I never met her two oldest brothers, or her mother, Lily, who had all passed away by the time I was born. My Mom and Dad moved us to Portland, Oregon, before I was three, so I really never got to relate with much of the Chicago family. My grandparents, on my Dad’s side, visited us in Portland frequently. But the Patriarch of my Mom’s family, her Dad Louis, or “Louie” as he was always called, never visited.
Louie had come to the USA on a boat from Germany with his folks when he was 10 or 11. They settled in San Diego, then moved on to Chicago. His father began a chicken processing business, in downtown Chicago, which Louis eventually took over, and which remained in the family as “Louis C. Snyder and Sons...Chicken In A Halo” for many years, even beyond my folk’s move to Oregon. When Louis died, my Mom received a cash settlement of some kind, since her remaining brothers were well involved in the family business, and had received their inheritance in the form of ownership of the business.
In the seventh grade, 1960, I visited Chicago on my own, arriving by propeller aircraft. During my two week stay, I once had an audience with Louie, who was retired and living with my Uncle Chick and his wife. He called me down to his bedroom, where he holed up with a tv, books, and cigars. We basically sat there, without much conversation, until he pulled out a cigar box full of change, probably $50.00 worth, which he laid on me. It was nice, and a rather extravagant gift, but my memory of sitting there with him, though the memory fades with each year, was a finer gift. My sisters and I feel a bit like we were cheated out of having relationships with our Chicago family, which is quite large, never having really known any of our cousins, or aunts and uncles, so I cherish this memory.
Louie, according to my Mom, others in the family, and by my own observations, was a bit of a mean cuss, a German accented hard nose. One story has him taking the bus to work for a week before he would finally admit that his leg was actually broken. My mother would occasionally speak of such things, and even my Uncle Chick, with his great sense of humor and split front teeth, once eluded to Louie’s grumpiness. Apparently, his words could cut like a knife. My Mom would sometimes mention how, when she was growing up, she would console her mother, as she wept, behind the furnace in the basement of their home.
I try not to be too critical of the man, since I did not really know him, and I cannot walk a mile in his shoes, having not lived his life, or even during his time. I really have no idea what he was up against, running his chicken processing business, there in Chicago in the 30s and 40s, But it is hard to not criticize Louie for his role in “The Jewish Story”.
Louie was a German-Jew. His father was German, his mother a Jew. That made him half Jewish. Louie, however, would never, for reasons we cannot comprehend, acknowledge his Jewish heritage. In my Mom’s family, they were “German”, end of topic. He had two brothers and a sister, Rose. Other members of the family tell me that Rose was a gifted singer who came to the U.S. to study music, on Louie’s dime, and had entertained at some of Chicago’s finest venues while here. When Rose returned to Germany, she fell in love and married a Jewish man. Louie was disgusted by this, and “disowned” his sister, as he had his brothers, for other reasons. Don’t ask me why Louie had such a chip on his shoulder. I dunno. Sounds like a tyrant to me.
When the war came along, and things were heating up in Germany, Rose wrote to Louie to ask that he sponsor her 3 children, to help get them out of Germany. They were, after all, Jews. Louie refused, and in fact, did not even respond to her request. My mother recalled, as a teenager, receiving a phone call from one of Rose’s Chicago friends, whose rant at Louie for his callousness was audible. Likely, those three cousins, perhaps Rose’s whole family, perished in gas chambers.
All of this was sort of buried in the hearts of my mother and her brothers, and never really surfaced ‘til about 1984. On a visit to Portland with his second wife, my Uncle Chick spoke from the back seat of my car, as we returned from dinner out, something along the lines of, “Ric, I am going to have to tell you “The Jewish Story””. That evening, I got an earful.
Days later, I went to see my Mother in the convalescent center where she resided. I said to her....”Mom, why didn’t you ever tell me “The Jewish Story?” Her first words, there lying on her hospital bed, fighting off the effects of her Parkinson’s Disease, were...... “Who you been talkin’ to?”. She was calm as she filled in the holes for me, and admitted later, a bit relieved.
As I mentioned earlier, my sisters and I wish we could have known more about our Chicago relatives, had cousins to play with growing up, that sort of thing. But my longing for that pales in comparison to the sadness I feel when I think that members of my own family were probably gassed in the war, just because of their heritage. It makes me feel like heralding my Hebrew blood.
My parents hailed from Chicago, where I was born, in 1948. My Dad was an only child, but my Mom had 5 older brothers, Roland, Russell, Wesley, Todd, and Gordon, my Mom’s youngest brother, also known as “Uncle Chick”. I never met her two oldest brothers, or her mother, Lily, who had all passed away by the time I was born. My Mom and Dad moved us to Portland, Oregon, before I was three, so I really never got to relate with much of the Chicago family. My grandparents, on my Dad’s side, visited us in Portland frequently. But the Patriarch of my Mom’s family, her Dad Louis, or “Louie” as he was always called, never visited.
Louie had come to the USA on a boat from Germany with his folks when he was 10 or 11. They settled in San Diego, then moved on to Chicago. His father began a chicken processing business, in downtown Chicago, which Louis eventually took over, and which remained in the family as “Louis C. Snyder and Sons...Chicken In A Halo” for many years, even beyond my folk’s move to Oregon. When Louis died, my Mom received a cash settlement of some kind, since her remaining brothers were well involved in the family business, and had received their inheritance in the form of ownership of the business.
In the seventh grade, 1960, I visited Chicago on my own, arriving by propeller aircraft. During my two week stay, I once had an audience with Louie, who was retired and living with my Uncle Chick and his wife. He called me down to his bedroom, where he holed up with a tv, books, and cigars. We basically sat there, without much conversation, until he pulled out a cigar box full of change, probably $50.00 worth, which he laid on me. It was nice, and a rather extravagant gift, but my memory of sitting there with him, though the memory fades with each year, was a finer gift. My sisters and I feel a bit like we were cheated out of having relationships with our Chicago family, which is quite large, never having really known any of our cousins, or aunts and uncles, so I cherish this memory.
Louie, according to my Mom, others in the family, and by my own observations, was a bit of a mean cuss, a German accented hard nose. One story has him taking the bus to work for a week before he would finally admit that his leg was actually broken. My mother would occasionally speak of such things, and even my Uncle Chick, with his great sense of humor and split front teeth, once eluded to Louie’s grumpiness. Apparently, his words could cut like a knife. My Mom would sometimes mention how, when she was growing up, she would console her mother, as she wept, behind the furnace in the basement of their home.
I try not to be too critical of the man, since I did not really know him, and I cannot walk a mile in his shoes, having not lived his life, or even during his time. I really have no idea what he was up against, running his chicken processing business, there in Chicago in the 30s and 40s, But it is hard to not criticize Louie for his role in “The Jewish Story”.
Louie was a German-Jew. His father was German, his mother a Jew. That made him half Jewish. Louie, however, would never, for reasons we cannot comprehend, acknowledge his Jewish heritage. In my Mom’s family, they were “German”, end of topic. He had two brothers and a sister, Rose. Other members of the family tell me that Rose was a gifted singer who came to the U.S. to study music, on Louie’s dime, and had entertained at some of Chicago’s finest venues while here. When Rose returned to Germany, she fell in love and married a Jewish man. Louie was disgusted by this, and “disowned” his sister, as he had his brothers, for other reasons. Don’t ask me why Louie had such a chip on his shoulder. I dunno. Sounds like a tyrant to me.
When the war came along, and things were heating up in Germany, Rose wrote to Louie to ask that he sponsor her 3 children, to help get them out of Germany. They were, after all, Jews. Louie refused, and in fact, did not even respond to her request. My mother recalled, as a teenager, receiving a phone call from one of Rose’s Chicago friends, whose rant at Louie for his callousness was audible. Likely, those three cousins, perhaps Rose’s whole family, perished in gas chambers.
All of this was sort of buried in the hearts of my mother and her brothers, and never really surfaced ‘til about 1984. On a visit to Portland with his second wife, my Uncle Chick spoke from the back seat of my car, as we returned from dinner out, something along the lines of, “Ric, I am going to have to tell you “The Jewish Story””. That evening, I got an earful.
Days later, I went to see my Mother in the convalescent center where she resided. I said to her....”Mom, why didn’t you ever tell me “The Jewish Story?” Her first words, there lying on her hospital bed, fighting off the effects of her Parkinson’s Disease, were...... “Who you been talkin’ to?”. She was calm as she filled in the holes for me, and admitted later, a bit relieved.
As I mentioned earlier, my sisters and I wish we could have known more about our Chicago relatives, had cousins to play with growing up, that sort of thing. But my longing for that pales in comparison to the sadness I feel when I think that members of my own family were probably gassed in the war, just because of their heritage. It makes me feel like heralding my Hebrew blood.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Unfuckingbelieveable
When I was a junior in high school, at Franklin High in Portland, Oregon, I hadn’t really thought much about going to college. I assumed I would, but I hadn’t really begun to have druthers about where I might go.
But one of my mentors, Gary Webb, a great guy who was a couple of years older, and who I respected, had become a freshman at Willamette University in Salem, Oregon, that year. At some point during the year, when he was visiting his folks, I talked to him, and he suggested that I come down to Willamette on Spring Break, to check the school out. He was obviously very happy to be a student there.
So I went. It was a weekend designed for prospective students and parents of current Willamette students, so the campus was packed. There were lots of activites planned, social events, tours, and exibits. One event that appealed to me was a play, student written, which was to take place on Saturday night, in the brand new Willamette University Auditorium. I sat down in a full house of students and parents.
The play was performed entirely in mime, which was odd, but it kept my attention. I don’t recall the name of the play, or much of the plot, but if you can imagine a park bench, a big smily face paper sun backdrop, and a mime, dressed as a clown, walking around, interacting with others, and basically doing mime schtick, you get the picture.
That poor mime. Every frickin’ time he would interact with a passerby, he would be rejected. Time and time again, as a person would enter the scene, a man, a woman, a dog, the mime would be encouraged and cheerful, and then, just when you thought he might win the affection or approval of the other cast member, he would be cast off, put down, rejected, and end up, sitting, weeping, dejected, on the park bench. That poor pathetic mime.
And finally, in the last scene, when you feel like the mime just couldn’t take any more rejection, that certainly he must be ready to drown in self pity and cynicism, he looks up at the sun in the back drop. A big, gloroius, smiling sun, and he can’t help but be optimistic. His enthusiam is obvious as he runs the stage, bounding and smiling, looking to the sun as his saviour, his friend.
And then, suddenly, just when you feel that the mime has found approval and acceptance at last, one huge paper mache hand, poised in the shape of the universal middle fingered fuck you sign, comes blasting through the paper sun. I was all ready for a happy ending, and here comes this huge fuck you, right in the face of this poor mime. Take this you dumb fucking optimistic little dumbshit mime. FUCK YOU! It blew my mind.
Thirty-five years later, I met my wife Marie, as she walked past my house in Southeast Portland. Some days after we met, we began to find uncanny coincidences in our lives, like owning the exact same umbrella, and nightlight. When we had only known each other for a few days, and were already finishing each others sentences, Marie was compelled to remark, ‘Oh my God, Ric, we are sharing a brain.”
Later that year, on a trip east, with Marie, and my step-son Blaine, we parked our rented van to spend a couple of nights at Niagara Falls in New York. One evening, we were talking about an old Saturday Night Live skit, which I love, where Larraine Newman announces to her bewildered parents, “Mom, Dad, I want to be a mime!” Just talking about a mime reminded me about the play I had seen so many years before at Willamette, and I launched into the story. When I got to the part where the huge paper mache finger bursts through the sun, Marie’s eyes grew wide, and she shouted....”unfuckingbelieveable!....I was there!!!” Chills ran down my spine. I had carried that unusual moment in my brain, privately, for so long. It was just an over the top coincidence. Apparently, though she is a year younger, Marie had travelled to Salem on the same weekend to visit Willamette, in 1965. I was dumbfounded. We embraced. Sharing a brain? Maybe not. Meant to be together? Totally.
But one of my mentors, Gary Webb, a great guy who was a couple of years older, and who I respected, had become a freshman at Willamette University in Salem, Oregon, that year. At some point during the year, when he was visiting his folks, I talked to him, and he suggested that I come down to Willamette on Spring Break, to check the school out. He was obviously very happy to be a student there.
So I went. It was a weekend designed for prospective students and parents of current Willamette students, so the campus was packed. There were lots of activites planned, social events, tours, and exibits. One event that appealed to me was a play, student written, which was to take place on Saturday night, in the brand new Willamette University Auditorium. I sat down in a full house of students and parents.
The play was performed entirely in mime, which was odd, but it kept my attention. I don’t recall the name of the play, or much of the plot, but if you can imagine a park bench, a big smily face paper sun backdrop, and a mime, dressed as a clown, walking around, interacting with others, and basically doing mime schtick, you get the picture.
That poor mime. Every frickin’ time he would interact with a passerby, he would be rejected. Time and time again, as a person would enter the scene, a man, a woman, a dog, the mime would be encouraged and cheerful, and then, just when you thought he might win the affection or approval of the other cast member, he would be cast off, put down, rejected, and end up, sitting, weeping, dejected, on the park bench. That poor pathetic mime.
And finally, in the last scene, when you feel like the mime just couldn’t take any more rejection, that certainly he must be ready to drown in self pity and cynicism, he looks up at the sun in the back drop. A big, gloroius, smiling sun, and he can’t help but be optimistic. His enthusiam is obvious as he runs the stage, bounding and smiling, looking to the sun as his saviour, his friend.
And then, suddenly, just when you feel that the mime has found approval and acceptance at last, one huge paper mache hand, poised in the shape of the universal middle fingered fuck you sign, comes blasting through the paper sun. I was all ready for a happy ending, and here comes this huge fuck you, right in the face of this poor mime. Take this you dumb fucking optimistic little dumbshit mime. FUCK YOU! It blew my mind.
Thirty-five years later, I met my wife Marie, as she walked past my house in Southeast Portland. Some days after we met, we began to find uncanny coincidences in our lives, like owning the exact same umbrella, and nightlight. When we had only known each other for a few days, and were already finishing each others sentences, Marie was compelled to remark, ‘Oh my God, Ric, we are sharing a brain.”
Later that year, on a trip east, with Marie, and my step-son Blaine, we parked our rented van to spend a couple of nights at Niagara Falls in New York. One evening, we were talking about an old Saturday Night Live skit, which I love, where Larraine Newman announces to her bewildered parents, “Mom, Dad, I want to be a mime!” Just talking about a mime reminded me about the play I had seen so many years before at Willamette, and I launched into the story. When I got to the part where the huge paper mache finger bursts through the sun, Marie’s eyes grew wide, and she shouted....”unfuckingbelieveable!....I was there!!!” Chills ran down my spine. I had carried that unusual moment in my brain, privately, for so long. It was just an over the top coincidence. Apparently, though she is a year younger, Marie had travelled to Salem on the same weekend to visit Willamette, in 1965. I was dumbfounded. We embraced. Sharing a brain? Maybe not. Meant to be together? Totally.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Hog Line
Every Spring, like just about now, I get all jonesy about fishin’. I dunno, maybe it’s that Scandinavian blood. Maybe it’s ‘cause I learned how to fish when I was very young with a bunch of men I looked up to, there in the beautiful calm of Timothy Lake in The Tulies, Oregon. Rising early to the smell of bacon and coffee, prepared by Moms for Dads and Sons, we would then walk to the boathouse, and push off onto the lake, fog rising, tackle boxes clinking, and break the clear, still water with our 16 ft. motorboat. “Keep your hands in the boat, son”, my Dad’s friend Bob Hoffman would say. The fish were plentiful, the scenery exquisite. That evening, dining on fresh Rainbow Trout, with our entire party, my Mom would be sure to acknowledge my efforts, saying to the others, “and Ricky caught two!”
Years later, after I had acquired more skills and entirely too much fishing tackle, two huge tackle boxes full, and many fishing rods, I walked the banks of many beautiful and remote Oregon rivers and streams, gunning for salmon. The Deshutes, The Miami, The Clackamas (or “The Clacky” if you are in the club), Eagle Creek. I was on a first name basis with the owner of the short stop market in Estacada, Oregon, my bait connection. Rising early as a baker for many years made the early rising for fishing a snap. Most times, I would be the first guy there.
These days, I prefer the tranquility and easy access of a trout lake or pond. I toss in a bobber with a worm, sit in my fold up fishin’ chair, pour a cuppa coffee, drink in the beauty, and stare at my bobber. Dream up some stuff to write about.
But the pressure for Chinook Salmon and other large fish, like the Steelhead, and other Salmon varieties, remains intense. When the Salmon are running, through the bar and into the bays, then into the rivers, boats pepper the rivers in huge numbers. Some anglers go for the scenery and camradery, a fish perhaps, but many, mostly men, are in it for the fishin’ quest, to get a Salmon.
Such is the case on the Willamette River, which runs through the center of downtown in our lovely Portland, Oregon. Few fish the currently murky waters downtown (a huge water clean-up project is now in the works), but a few miles south, near Oregon City, Oregon, where the Willamette flows into the mouth of the Clackamas, blood thirsty fisherman congregate. When the Salmon run upriver to spawn, they stack up in the holes just prior to the mouth of the Clackamas, and slightly beyond, as they return to spawn.
So fisherman have devised a way to accomodate all the boats in the river, in just the spot where most fish will be caught. They line up, spanning the Willamette, many, many boats wide, almost touching each other, as though you could walk across the river stepping from boat to boat. Since some of these Salmon are huge, upwards of 30 pounds, the line was dubbed, years ago, “The Hog Line.” Sometimes, as many as 40 boats will be there, fishin’ hard, shootin’ the shit, passing sandwiches, flasks, stories.
Had to write a song about it. “Hog Line” appears on my first solo CD, “Useful Information”. Listen to a clip, by clicking here:
Years later, after I had acquired more skills and entirely too much fishing tackle, two huge tackle boxes full, and many fishing rods, I walked the banks of many beautiful and remote Oregon rivers and streams, gunning for salmon. The Deshutes, The Miami, The Clackamas (or “The Clacky” if you are in the club), Eagle Creek. I was on a first name basis with the owner of the short stop market in Estacada, Oregon, my bait connection. Rising early as a baker for many years made the early rising for fishing a snap. Most times, I would be the first guy there.
These days, I prefer the tranquility and easy access of a trout lake or pond. I toss in a bobber with a worm, sit in my fold up fishin’ chair, pour a cuppa coffee, drink in the beauty, and stare at my bobber. Dream up some stuff to write about.
But the pressure for Chinook Salmon and other large fish, like the Steelhead, and other Salmon varieties, remains intense. When the Salmon are running, through the bar and into the bays, then into the rivers, boats pepper the rivers in huge numbers. Some anglers go for the scenery and camradery, a fish perhaps, but many, mostly men, are in it for the fishin’ quest, to get a Salmon.
Such is the case on the Willamette River, which runs through the center of downtown in our lovely Portland, Oregon. Few fish the currently murky waters downtown (a huge water clean-up project is now in the works), but a few miles south, near Oregon City, Oregon, where the Willamette flows into the mouth of the Clackamas, blood thirsty fisherman congregate. When the Salmon run upriver to spawn, they stack up in the holes just prior to the mouth of the Clackamas, and slightly beyond, as they return to spawn.
So fisherman have devised a way to accomodate all the boats in the river, in just the spot where most fish will be caught. They line up, spanning the Willamette, many, many boats wide, almost touching each other, as though you could walk across the river stepping from boat to boat. Since some of these Salmon are huge, upwards of 30 pounds, the line was dubbed, years ago, “The Hog Line.” Sometimes, as many as 40 boats will be there, fishin’ hard, shootin’ the shit, passing sandwiches, flasks, stories.
Had to write a song about it. “Hog Line” appears on my first solo CD, “Useful Information”. Listen to a clip, by clicking here:
Monday, April 11, 2005
Worst Case Scenario News
Now and then, a really big news story comes along. 9-11 was such a story. The war in Iraq is a big story. The presidential election is something even I want to know everything about. When a ship starts breaking up in the Pacific, full of oil, that’s news.
But watching TV news, even though my wife and I sit together every night to watch, can somethimes be painful, given the lack of real news, and the fact that the news teams have to come up with a news program that lasts for 30 minutes or more. For example, when one of our local news anchors goes on about Brittney Spear’s new boyfriend, or that she and her boyfriend are splitting up, I just have to bury my face in my hands. Or when the weather guy or gal gets all pumped and effervescent about the notion that there ”may” be snow locally, and waxes on about it, just to titillate, even though it is most likely that no snow will appear, that sucks. Face it folks. There are ways in which news teams play with your mind, just to get you to watch. I have heard a local newsperson actually say...”A child rapist escapes and rapes again...will your child be next?’”.....even though the escaped rapist is somewhere in New England, and we are in the Northwest. GAWD don’t get me started.
My sweet wife Marie is a total news junkie, and I sometimes fear she might be put off with my “no news” rants. But even though she is stoic and calm about it, she will sometimes give me a look like, oh brother, and exclaim...”THAT is not news.”
My full length musical tome about this issue is a song titled “Worst Case Scenario News”. Now, people, I am not suggesting that there is not bad news out there, and news we need to know about, like actual diseases and terrorism. But the truth is, many news stories are just a bunch of non-stories, fashioned into “news” by TV news writers and anchors. It may drive me insane.
And does anyone besides me get the creeps from those twisting and turning graphics, played with dramatic music behind them, graphics like “Saddam’s Last Stand”, or “Operation Desert Storm”, or some other such enthrallingly named event?
Click here for a listen to “Worst Case Scenario News”.
But watching TV news, even though my wife and I sit together every night to watch, can somethimes be painful, given the lack of real news, and the fact that the news teams have to come up with a news program that lasts for 30 minutes or more. For example, when one of our local news anchors goes on about Brittney Spear’s new boyfriend, or that she and her boyfriend are splitting up, I just have to bury my face in my hands. Or when the weather guy or gal gets all pumped and effervescent about the notion that there ”may” be snow locally, and waxes on about it, just to titillate, even though it is most likely that no snow will appear, that sucks. Face it folks. There are ways in which news teams play with your mind, just to get you to watch. I have heard a local newsperson actually say...”A child rapist escapes and rapes again...will your child be next?’”.....even though the escaped rapist is somewhere in New England, and we are in the Northwest. GAWD don’t get me started.
My sweet wife Marie is a total news junkie, and I sometimes fear she might be put off with my “no news” rants. But even though she is stoic and calm about it, she will sometimes give me a look like, oh brother, and exclaim...”THAT is not news.”
My full length musical tome about this issue is a song titled “Worst Case Scenario News”. Now, people, I am not suggesting that there is not bad news out there, and news we need to know about, like actual diseases and terrorism. But the truth is, many news stories are just a bunch of non-stories, fashioned into “news” by TV news writers and anchors. It may drive me insane.
And does anyone besides me get the creeps from those twisting and turning graphics, played with dramatic music behind them, graphics like “Saddam’s Last Stand”, or “Operation Desert Storm”, or some other such enthrallingly named event?
Click here for a listen to “Worst Case Scenario News”.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Bible Scholar By Default
Every once in awhile, my perfect wife Marie and I will be having a discussion, and something will come up regarding God or Jesus or some biblical stuff. When I dazzle her with my biblical knowledge, she goes on about it, like I am some sort of Good Book Whiz. Having never been much of a church-goer, I find this fascinating. I really have no good answer for how I picked this stuff up, save one.
When I was growing up, my dear friend and next door neighbor Roland, whom I looked up to like a brother, was a very religious guy. Today, in fact, he is pastoring, as he has done for many years. Roland, though older, and very popular, took me under his wing like a little bro, for which I will be forever grateful. Surely much of what I learned about the Bible came from Rol, just hanging with him, attending “Youth For Christ” rallies, and in general conversation with a future minister. At some point, after one of Marie’s Biblical knowledge outbursts, I told her, “honey, I dunno, I guess I am just a “Bible scholar by default.”
Bible Scholar By Default
Ric Seaberg
My mother used to tell me that religion is a joke
“Religion is the opiate of ignorants” she’d poke
But you were one great neighbor!, whose ignorance was bliss
And just by being friends with you I picked up that and this:
Oh, Mary was a virgin..... Joseph was her man
Jesus was a carpenter but he had larger plans
You said “There’s a higher power
We should worship and exalt!”
And that’s how I became
A Bible Scholar By Default
We’d go pickin’ berries in the summer for some bread
Workin’ down the rows you’d tell me “Jesus raised the dead!
Cleansed the sinners! There’s a record of it on a scroll!”
And maybe I should take Lord Jesus into my own soul
Oh, Mary was a virgin..... Jesus without sin
Judas was the knucklehead who turned The Saviour in
When you take his name in vain, you risk a thunderbolt
No “Jesus Christ!!!!” when you’re
A Bible Scholar By Default
Solo
Bridge
So thank you for your kindness, and teaching me the words
Mother was a sweetheart but her vision slightly blurred
Cuz I became a Christian, underneath the Monkeypod
As you recited passages about the Lamb of God
Oh, Mary was a virgin, when Jesus came to Earth
(I still have reservations when it comes to virgin birth)
But you were there to guide me as we sipped a shake or malt
And helped me to become
A Bible Scholar By Default
When I was growing up, my dear friend and next door neighbor Roland, whom I looked up to like a brother, was a very religious guy. Today, in fact, he is pastoring, as he has done for many years. Roland, though older, and very popular, took me under his wing like a little bro, for which I will be forever grateful. Surely much of what I learned about the Bible came from Rol, just hanging with him, attending “Youth For Christ” rallies, and in general conversation with a future minister. At some point, after one of Marie’s Biblical knowledge outbursts, I told her, “honey, I dunno, I guess I am just a “Bible scholar by default.”
Bible Scholar By Default
Ric Seaberg
My mother used to tell me that religion is a joke
“Religion is the opiate of ignorants” she’d poke
But you were one great neighbor!, whose ignorance was bliss
And just by being friends with you I picked up that and this:
Oh, Mary was a virgin..... Joseph was her man
Jesus was a carpenter but he had larger plans
You said “There’s a higher power
We should worship and exalt!”
And that’s how I became
A Bible Scholar By Default
We’d go pickin’ berries in the summer for some bread
Workin’ down the rows you’d tell me “Jesus raised the dead!
Cleansed the sinners! There’s a record of it on a scroll!”
And maybe I should take Lord Jesus into my own soul
Oh, Mary was a virgin..... Jesus without sin
Judas was the knucklehead who turned The Saviour in
When you take his name in vain, you risk a thunderbolt
No “Jesus Christ!!!!” when you’re
A Bible Scholar By Default
Solo
Bridge
So thank you for your kindness, and teaching me the words
Mother was a sweetheart but her vision slightly blurred
Cuz I became a Christian, underneath the Monkeypod
As you recited passages about the Lamb of God
Oh, Mary was a virgin, when Jesus came to Earth
(I still have reservations when it comes to virgin birth)
But you were there to guide me as we sipped a shake or malt
And helped me to become
A Bible Scholar By Default
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Wordwise
It doesn’t piss me off, really, when the weatherman says, “It’s gonna be a very nasty weekend, weatherwise”, but it does seem kinda lazy. At our house, we sometimes put “wise” on the end of all kinds of words, for example, “it’s gonna be a really great meal, dinnerwise”, or “ we will have to make some other plans now, travelwise”, just for chucks. I have explained this to my 19 year old nephew, Max, and since he also has words in his genes, he has embraced the concept wholeheartedly. “Uncle, where are you and Aunt Marie gonna go in the trailer next, Airstreamwise?,” has been among his many attempts. It cracks me up.
Another of the many directions folks tend to stray, wordwise, is to put “ness” on the end of words, to help them in their descriptions. Once, when traipsing through Seattle with a former partner, we spent some time on the waterfront at The Seattle Aquarium. Moving through the displays, we came upon a large freestanding aquarium, beautifully lit, and full of Pufferfish. For those of you who don’t recall, Pufferfish are unusually broad, cartoonish, wide, not sleek like most fish. Standing there, I noticed a Dad and son beside me, son hoisted upon his Dad’s shoulders. Suddenly, without reservation, and excitedly, the Dad exclaimed to his son, “Well looky there, Jeremy! That fish ain’t got no aerodynamicness.” I regret not having hit the floor at that moment, to bow in thanks to Dad and son, for all the pleasure that sentence has given me over the years.
Another of the many directions folks tend to stray, wordwise, is to put “ness” on the end of words, to help them in their descriptions. Once, when traipsing through Seattle with a former partner, we spent some time on the waterfront at The Seattle Aquarium. Moving through the displays, we came upon a large freestanding aquarium, beautifully lit, and full of Pufferfish. For those of you who don’t recall, Pufferfish are unusually broad, cartoonish, wide, not sleek like most fish. Standing there, I noticed a Dad and son beside me, son hoisted upon his Dad’s shoulders. Suddenly, without reservation, and excitedly, the Dad exclaimed to his son, “Well looky there, Jeremy! That fish ain’t got no aerodynamicness.” I regret not having hit the floor at that moment, to bow in thanks to Dad and son, for all the pleasure that sentence has given me over the years.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Make Her Your Own
It was Spring 1965, and after a nice hot breakfast of malt-o-meal and toast, I would walk with my neighbor and buddy Ken Holstrom to Franklin High School, where we were both juniors, first along Southeast 60th Avenue, past the many bright pink flowering Japanese Plum trees planted by The City of Portland. The fragrances of Spring enhanced our cheerfulness, as we continued down Lincoln, discussing our homework assignments and the latest developments on our varsity basketball team, where Ken was starting center, and I was a reserve guard. For other amusement, I can remember taking turns whistling different songs, silly little arrangements, tongue trilling, dramatic renditions of songs like “The Happy Trumpet”, to make the other person laugh. My favourite was Ken’s very special version of “Alley Cat”, which always cracked us both up, and he seldom made it past the first line of the first verse, before we would be in stitches, tears of laughter streaming down our faces, at 8 a.m.
When at home, I had been a busy little songwriter, accompanying myself on a tiny blond ukelele my grandfather had bought for me, that is, when I wasn’t on the phone with a girl, and man, I was just crankin’ out one hit after another. Songs like, “Time Heals Many Wounds”, “Second Love”, “What Can You Say”, and the topical “Surfin’ Song”, for which I would strum a bed of Am/C, Am/C, then on to the more haunting Am/Em, and sing the ever so poignant.....
“One day....if I can get away...
I’m gonna take my board.....
And make it to the surf.....
Wax my wood and
Rope it to the hood”
That last line always gets me, in it’s cleverness and precise imagery, and of course the song’s melody was brilliant, and catchy, in a monotonal kind of way. I would sing it for my friends, and girlfriends, whether they wanted to hear it or not, when we were just hanging out, or on one of the many beach trips we took in those days, with our 3 or 4 month old official Oregon Driver’s Licenses, and our parent’s car. Serious stuff, bein’ a surfin’ man, and waxing poetic about your life.
I admit, I do get a kick out of recalling these songs, and lyrics, and even making light of how ridiculous they sound now.
When I was a junior in high school, I was, of course, first in line for the talent show, held in the auditorium and featuring everyone with any semblance of talent, from the class comedian to the class singer-songwriter-surfin’ man. So I got up there, with my pal Ed Nylander on bongos, and crooned out a couple tunes, “Today (while the blossom still clings to the vine etc.)” and an original titled ”Make Her Your Own”, which, unfortunately, I could still sing and play, and began....
“If you love a girl
And you want her so
Just call her up, take her out
And make her your own”
When we finished, for reasons I have never been able to comprehend, the entire auditorium exploded into standing applause. I wonder if my sister Elaine remembers that moment. It’s embarassing, these days, to reveal that I have actually sung “Make Her Your Own” to a large group, and even stood with a serious look on my face and acted as though I knew what the fuck I was doing. But I must still admit that it was a defining moment. I knew right then and there that rock stardom was right up my alley.
When at home, I had been a busy little songwriter, accompanying myself on a tiny blond ukelele my grandfather had bought for me, that is, when I wasn’t on the phone with a girl, and man, I was just crankin’ out one hit after another. Songs like, “Time Heals Many Wounds”, “Second Love”, “What Can You Say”, and the topical “Surfin’ Song”, for which I would strum a bed of Am/C, Am/C, then on to the more haunting Am/Em, and sing the ever so poignant.....
“One day....if I can get away...
I’m gonna take my board.....
And make it to the surf.....
Wax my wood and
Rope it to the hood”
That last line always gets me, in it’s cleverness and precise imagery, and of course the song’s melody was brilliant, and catchy, in a monotonal kind of way. I would sing it for my friends, and girlfriends, whether they wanted to hear it or not, when we were just hanging out, or on one of the many beach trips we took in those days, with our 3 or 4 month old official Oregon Driver’s Licenses, and our parent’s car. Serious stuff, bein’ a surfin’ man, and waxing poetic about your life.
I admit, I do get a kick out of recalling these songs, and lyrics, and even making light of how ridiculous they sound now.
When I was a junior in high school, I was, of course, first in line for the talent show, held in the auditorium and featuring everyone with any semblance of talent, from the class comedian to the class singer-songwriter-surfin’ man. So I got up there, with my pal Ed Nylander on bongos, and crooned out a couple tunes, “Today (while the blossom still clings to the vine etc.)” and an original titled ”Make Her Your Own”, which, unfortunately, I could still sing and play, and began....
“If you love a girl
And you want her so
Just call her up, take her out
And make her your own”
When we finished, for reasons I have never been able to comprehend, the entire auditorium exploded into standing applause. I wonder if my sister Elaine remembers that moment. It’s embarassing, these days, to reveal that I have actually sung “Make Her Your Own” to a large group, and even stood with a serious look on my face and acted as though I knew what the fuck I was doing. But I must still admit that it was a defining moment. I knew right then and there that rock stardom was right up my alley.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Terry Schaivo
Marie, if I ever get as sick as Terri Schiavo, if I fall into a coma for some reason, and trusted physicians pronounce that there is no hope for my recovery, I want you to pull the plug. I want you to do this because I love you, my children, and grandchildren, with all my heart, and I would not want my vegetative state hanging over your heads, creating undue mental and physical stress, or a financial burden on any of you. If the time ever came, I know you would make the right decision.
Being married to me, and since we share our innermost thoughts with each other, you know a lot about me. You know that I am a economic conservative but a bleeding heart liberal in other matters. You know I love my children so much it hurts. You know I can’t sit still. You know I take way too long to tell a story. You know where my itchy spot is. You know I pee sitting down. And I know more about you than anyone else too. I know your aspirations, what brings you pleasure, that you are deeply committed to your job, that you value integrity above all, and that you are entirely too ticklish.When you agreed to marry me, it was a magnificent moment. I think you are a brilliant and special human being, and the fact that you agreed to be my wife makes me feel special too. And without question, neither of us took the decision to become husband and wife lightly.
When people marry, in our society, and are serious about it, they carefully weigh the pros and cons of marrying a person. Will this person be a good partner for me? Will they honor me and care for me in times of sickness and in health? Will they share in the decisions of running a household with me? Will they be a good father or mother? Will they work to make our house a home? Is he or she mentally stable and not mentally or physically abusive? Will they fold up the map right? All kinds of things are considered, when marriage is in the offing, or at least they should be. Some serious, some quirky, but all important.
And marriage not only requires that each couple become satisfied and firm with their decision to marry. Each person’s family must also grant that the marriage will be respected as a new and important bond, one that trumps all other familial bonds. The independence that comes with this grant is very important. It frees a couple to feel as though they are making their own way in the world, that they will rightfully make their own decisions regarding their own family matters. It makes it incumbent upon them to be productive and dignified members of society, and good parents. It sends the message to future generations that marriage is serious business, to look forward to marriage with a serious attitude. It tells young men and women, as they enter marriage, that they are expected to act with dignity and respect toward their partner. So by gum, ya better be careful when you select your mate. It’s the big time. And that is the valuable lesson Terri Schiavo reminds us of. Because when you announce your intention to marry, as an adult of legal age, that you are gonna take this man or woman for your lawful, cherished and trusted husband or wife, it’s the end of the line for Mom and Dad. You, and your husband, or wife, though there are two of you, are flyin’ solo, and that is how it should be. Choose well.
Being married to me, and since we share our innermost thoughts with each other, you know a lot about me. You know that I am a economic conservative but a bleeding heart liberal in other matters. You know I love my children so much it hurts. You know I can’t sit still. You know I take way too long to tell a story. You know where my itchy spot is. You know I pee sitting down. And I know more about you than anyone else too. I know your aspirations, what brings you pleasure, that you are deeply committed to your job, that you value integrity above all, and that you are entirely too ticklish.When you agreed to marry me, it was a magnificent moment. I think you are a brilliant and special human being, and the fact that you agreed to be my wife makes me feel special too. And without question, neither of us took the decision to become husband and wife lightly.
When people marry, in our society, and are serious about it, they carefully weigh the pros and cons of marrying a person. Will this person be a good partner for me? Will they honor me and care for me in times of sickness and in health? Will they share in the decisions of running a household with me? Will they be a good father or mother? Will they work to make our house a home? Is he or she mentally stable and not mentally or physically abusive? Will they fold up the map right? All kinds of things are considered, when marriage is in the offing, or at least they should be. Some serious, some quirky, but all important.
And marriage not only requires that each couple become satisfied and firm with their decision to marry. Each person’s family must also grant that the marriage will be respected as a new and important bond, one that trumps all other familial bonds. The independence that comes with this grant is very important. It frees a couple to feel as though they are making their own way in the world, that they will rightfully make their own decisions regarding their own family matters. It makes it incumbent upon them to be productive and dignified members of society, and good parents. It sends the message to future generations that marriage is serious business, to look forward to marriage with a serious attitude. It tells young men and women, as they enter marriage, that they are expected to act with dignity and respect toward their partner. So by gum, ya better be careful when you select your mate. It’s the big time. And that is the valuable lesson Terri Schiavo reminds us of. Because when you announce your intention to marry, as an adult of legal age, that you are gonna take this man or woman for your lawful, cherished and trusted husband or wife, it’s the end of the line for Mom and Dad. You, and your husband, or wife, though there are two of you, are flyin’ solo, and that is how it should be. Choose well.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Tree Nuts
In 1983, dining in a Chinese restaurant, while awaiting the results of a major surgery that one of my daughters was having, I experienced my first severe allergic reaction. As dinner progressed, I had a major rush of illness, like a huge head cold, complete with sore throat, runny eyes, achey all over. It happened so incredibly fast, and as I was paying the bill, I told my ex-wife, “man, something is wrong with me”. Before the night was over, my face became numb and swelled to the point that I was barely recognizable. It was sort of an “Incredible Hulk” look. I went to the hospital, and they gave me a big shot of antihistamine, and steroids, which aside from their nasty side effects, is absolutely the best medicine to reduce inflamation. They sent me home, I missed a day of work, and got well. My daughter’s surgery was a success.
22 years pass. No more reactions of the kind I have just described. Then in September, of 2004, not long ago, my feet began to itch, at night, in bed, really bad, like you want to take a hair brush to them. But I would fall asleep, only to have them begin itching the next night. On September 29th, which was the day of the “Santa Monica” release party, I woke early with a start, and a badly swollen tongue. I told Marie that I had no idea what was going on, slurring and stammering as someone with a huge ill-fitting tongue is wont to do, and that I was probably having an allergic reaction of some kind. I told her that since we had a big party to conduct that day, I would just “gut it out”. She teases me now, months later, that I sounded ridiculous. She recommended, suggested, then insisted that I go to the ER at the hospital. Once again, intravenous antihistamine and steroids did the trick. By party time, I was a barbecuin’ fool.
In forthcoming weeks, I returned to the ER three more times, for similar events, a swollen tongue or face. It sucked. And almost all the time, my feet were itching or swollen, to the point that it was painful to walk.
Anaphylactic shock, which is when your throat closes up on you, due to an allergic reaction, and can kill you, is only a motion away from these reactions.
I talked to my primary care physician, and made an appointment with an allergist. Since then, we have been trying out an array of different measures. He gave me an “Epipen”, to use in an emergency situation. It’s a shot of Epinephrine, to jab in your leg, if an emergency arises, like anaphylactic shock. Many people who are allergic to bee stings carry one. He gave me several oral “histamine blockers”, or antihistamines, to control the reactions.
We have all been diligent about trying to figure out this mess. The allergist advised me to stop taking certain other meds (which I have taken since 2000 due to a heart attack), doing “challenges” with each med, to see if eliminating one or another might make a difference. Marie has been offering up suggestions, and I have been having a new theory everyday, much to her chagrin. But suffice it to say, we have taken the situation very seriously. We have scoured the websites regarding allergies. We have discussed the different foods I favor. We have downloaded lists of common allergens, like eggs, shellfish, and “tree nuts”. All the while, one or the other of my feet have been sore, even with the oral antihistamines, and I have had a few small swellings on my face and tongue, which have not required a trip to the hospital.
All the while, in trying to figure this out, attempting to uncover the “trigger”, I have been using the strategy of asking the question, “what is consistent about these recent attacks and the attack in 1983?” Aspirin? Yes. Lipitor? No. Eggs? Yes. Caffeine? Yes. That sort of thing. But no challenge has provided relief......until........
I am almost positive, at this point, that the culprit is.......are you ready for this.......diet soda! Particularly diet colas, which I favor. I am not certain which ingredient is the problem, but it is probably aspartame. Internet accounts of aspartame allergy include many of the same symptoms that I have experienced for years. It may be a combination of things, say, aspartame and stress. Or aspartame, caffiene and stress. All I know for certain is, I quit the pop, and I don’t have any events.
I feel like I have a new lease on life. Today, I had fried eggs for breakfast. Later, I am gonna have me some tree nuts. But I think I will wash them down with a nice, pure, safe glass of water.
In the Fall of 2005, I will release two new CDs. One of the songs included is a ballad titled “Allergy Sufferer”, which is my way of expressing empathy for those of you with Zyrtec and Singular in your pocket.
22 years pass. No more reactions of the kind I have just described. Then in September, of 2004, not long ago, my feet began to itch, at night, in bed, really bad, like you want to take a hair brush to them. But I would fall asleep, only to have them begin itching the next night. On September 29th, which was the day of the “Santa Monica” release party, I woke early with a start, and a badly swollen tongue. I told Marie that I had no idea what was going on, slurring and stammering as someone with a huge ill-fitting tongue is wont to do, and that I was probably having an allergic reaction of some kind. I told her that since we had a big party to conduct that day, I would just “gut it out”. She teases me now, months later, that I sounded ridiculous. She recommended, suggested, then insisted that I go to the ER at the hospital. Once again, intravenous antihistamine and steroids did the trick. By party time, I was a barbecuin’ fool.
In forthcoming weeks, I returned to the ER three more times, for similar events, a swollen tongue or face. It sucked. And almost all the time, my feet were itching or swollen, to the point that it was painful to walk.
Anaphylactic shock, which is when your throat closes up on you, due to an allergic reaction, and can kill you, is only a motion away from these reactions.
I talked to my primary care physician, and made an appointment with an allergist. Since then, we have been trying out an array of different measures. He gave me an “Epipen”, to use in an emergency situation. It’s a shot of Epinephrine, to jab in your leg, if an emergency arises, like anaphylactic shock. Many people who are allergic to bee stings carry one. He gave me several oral “histamine blockers”, or antihistamines, to control the reactions.
We have all been diligent about trying to figure out this mess. The allergist advised me to stop taking certain other meds (which I have taken since 2000 due to a heart attack), doing “challenges” with each med, to see if eliminating one or another might make a difference. Marie has been offering up suggestions, and I have been having a new theory everyday, much to her chagrin. But suffice it to say, we have taken the situation very seriously. We have scoured the websites regarding allergies. We have discussed the different foods I favor. We have downloaded lists of common allergens, like eggs, shellfish, and “tree nuts”. All the while, one or the other of my feet have been sore, even with the oral antihistamines, and I have had a few small swellings on my face and tongue, which have not required a trip to the hospital.
All the while, in trying to figure this out, attempting to uncover the “trigger”, I have been using the strategy of asking the question, “what is consistent about these recent attacks and the attack in 1983?” Aspirin? Yes. Lipitor? No. Eggs? Yes. Caffeine? Yes. That sort of thing. But no challenge has provided relief......until........
I am almost positive, at this point, that the culprit is.......are you ready for this.......diet soda! Particularly diet colas, which I favor. I am not certain which ingredient is the problem, but it is probably aspartame. Internet accounts of aspartame allergy include many of the same symptoms that I have experienced for years. It may be a combination of things, say, aspartame and stress. Or aspartame, caffiene and stress. All I know for certain is, I quit the pop, and I don’t have any events.
I feel like I have a new lease on life. Today, I had fried eggs for breakfast. Later, I am gonna have me some tree nuts. But I think I will wash them down with a nice, pure, safe glass of water.
In the Fall of 2005, I will release two new CDs. One of the songs included is a ballad titled “Allergy Sufferer”, which is my way of expressing empathy for those of you with Zyrtec and Singular in your pocket.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Farm Girl
Marie, Blaine and I feel so blessed to have a lovely home, a turn of the century Craftsman style, in the Hawthorne district of Portland, Oregon. Marie bought this house in 1977, and when I came into the picture in 1997, she acquired the everyday handyman skills a house needs. It’s not a huge house, but it is plenty big for the three of us. Over the past seven or eight years, together, we have made vast improvements, and the house has truly become our castle. My step-son Blaine, who uses a wheelchair, has his own accessible room on the first floor, with a full accessible bath, including a roll-in shower. In the front yard, leading to the porch, is a fully landscaped concrete ramp. And Marie’s proclivity for gardening has turned both front and back yards into a virtual jungle, lush with unusual and fragrant flora, and including a massive banana plant. In mid-summer, giant bright green banana leaves unfurl in the sunlight, as we sit with our Chardonnay beneath the towering bamboo, and enjoy the view, while the fragrance of fresh line-caught barbecuing Salmon fills the air.
One thing that makes this house a home, or, rather, two things, are those precious fluffy white canines, our Bichon Frises, Pippi and Poppi. When Marie gets home from work each day, she has to sit on the couch with them immediately, so they can plant her with many kisses, all jumpy and excited, and it fills us with glee. Marie, because she is the object of their affection, and me, just watching. Every moment of the day, just having them at our feet, or watching their antics, brings more warmth and love into our home. I say, send those angry terrorists a truckload of Bichon puppies. Call it “Operation Puppy Love”.
Bichons are good little watch dogs, and we can tell everytime someone is walking by the house, with a dog, or even alone. They let us know by jumping to the top of the couch, growling, and barking. We realized in retrospect that they were trying to tell us something was wrong, the night my van was broken into. Of course one can dwell on the positive aspects of their nosey and excitable nature, but I admit, sometimes they are, shall we say, a bit yappy.
Occasionally, when they are extra barky, or making a mess of things, maybe destroying one of Blaine’s Sports Illustrated magazines, before it hits the floor after coming through the mail slot, I tell them...”Quit actin’ like dogs”! But we all realize, if we are gonna have dogs, there will be a thing or three we’ll need to tolerate. Like walking them several times a day, and retrieving their poop. Like having them in your face when you are trying to savor your barbecued lamb. Or trying to fall asleep in your bed, while petting them, but every time you quit petting them, on the brink of slumber, they reawaken you with a paw to the ribs, saying, “Hey Dad, don’t stop petting me, I want more! Please!!!!”
All of those things pale in comparison to the joy I feel as they follow me from room to room, or when Pippi, especially, just stops in her tracks and stares up at me so adoringly, oily eyed and loyal, or when I see one of the dogs sitting comfortably on Blaine’s lap, while he cruises the internet from his wheelchair.
But yesterday, the doggies exibited some completely unacceptable behavior, once again, just bein’ dogs, but behavior that they will have to curb.
For several days, I had noticed that Poppi, the more assertive of the two, was coming into the house after being in the backyard, with a very dirty face. I thought she was just enjoying the Spring, that she was just digging around a bit. I would tease her, tell her what a mess she was, but didn’t think much about it. I had also noticed that she’d been especially fond of cats and anything that moves, for the last few days, as we walked the neighborhood. Then, yesterday, I found some small balls of dirt, on my studio floor, and on our bedroom floor, and thought, this is weird, what the heck is this? I vacuumed them up, as Pippi growled and attacked my dustbuster.
But all was revealed last night, as I typed away in my office, and Marie slid into our bed to read and retire. Suddenly, I heard Marie scream out, not a blood curdling scream, but more a scream of surprise than fear. I rushed to the bedroom. As I entered the room, Marie, lying under the covers, spoke, as she glared at the foot of the bed, “there’s a dead rat on the bed.”’ My eyes quickly followed her glare, and there, standing out among the bright pink folds of the comforter, was one dead, long-tailed rat, resembling a grey and furry dog toy, not yet putrid, and sleeping peacefully, it’s soul departed. A poet might say “chilly, crisp, unarmed.” I’m sayin’, one huge fucking rat.
I removed the rat with a dustpan and a trowel, and disposed of it in the garbage can outside, as the English say, “straight away”. Seeing that Marie wasn’t really freaking out, I said to her, upon my return, “man, I’m glad you’re a farm girl”. She replied, “yeah, I was just thinking about that. It takes a lot more than a dead rat to rattle me.” I suppose that when you grow up in Milo, Oregon, and have to watch out for cougars when you are just playing in your own yard, at seven years old, seeing a dead rat is not a big deal. And when a forest fire is threatening your house, and just about to jump the river to destoy it, a dead rat is not much of a menace. And when your Dad says, “go chop off a chicken’s head and bring me the chicken”, a dead rat does not intimidate.
When we woke this morning, I could see that my sweet wife, who slept with her feet directly under the spot where that dead rat landed, courtesy of some dog, had slept quite restfully, and, well, like a farm girl.
See a few photos of the naughty canines here:
And here's a clip of "The Bichon Song" from my CD "Santa Monica"
Or this clip of my song "One On The Dogs", inspired by our two pups.
Website: http://www.ricseaberg.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ric.seaberg.5
Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/ric-seaberg
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Dishwasher Salmon
Poor Marie. My dear wife has to sit by and watch my step-son Blaine and I create all kinds of mischief. But I am certain, that in her heart of hearts, she would have to admit that she was extremely excited, the day we finally got around to making our Dishwasher Salmon recipe, since she was so impressed with the Twinkies Flambe.
My brother-in-law David turned me on to Dishwasher Salmon, a few years ago, but I never did make it, until this week. Perhaps the fact that he actually gave me a book of fish recipes which contains the Dishwasher Salmon recipe, last time I saw him, gave me the gumption to finally make it happen. If I don't say so myself, it was some succulent piece-o-Chinook.
It’s really easy, guys, and I know your wives will appreciate it so much when you open that dishwasher to reveal dinner. Here’s what you do:
Get a nice salmon fillet, and put it on a large piece of aluminum foil. Butter the foil beneath the fish. Salt and pepper the fish lightly, granulated garlic too if you have it. Then add some other nice ingredients, like, oh, some lemon wedges, garlic cloves, orange slices, onion slices, make it pretty. Then wrap the whole thing up really tight, so no air can escape, no holes! Make sure you start with a really big piece of foil, to be sure you can get it really tight. One thickness of foil, all around, is all you want. Don’t double it.
Okay so unload the dishwasher, you are gonna basically bake the fish in there, all by itself. Put the foiled package on the top drawer of the dishwasher. Now, every dishwasher varies, so, let’s talk about that. You want to run the fish through one complete cycle. But not the super hot one, and not the quickie one. You want the one that is right in the middle. At our house, it would be the “normal” setting, very simple. Also, put it on “hot drying”, or “extra hot drying”, whatever your dishwasher offers for extra heat, to help bake the fish.
The most important part, of course, is to time this, so when your wife or girlfriend comes around, you can give her a wonderful surprise! Imagine her delight as you walk her to the kitchen, her cherished hand in yours, and tell her.......”I have a very special surprise for you honeybunny”. And then, like the gourmet chef that you are, you open the dishwasher to reveal first, the foil, but then, with your glasses totally steamed, you bend over and split open the foil, to reveal a perfectly cooked and garnished salmon filet. “I’m going to get out that expensive bottle of Pinot Gris we bought at the vineyard last year, sweetheart”, she says with a wink, and gives you a peck on the cheek before she scampers off to the wine cellar, only pausing to poke her head ‘round the kitchen door and speak, all sexy, as she points directly at you, “I love that man”.
Having friends over for this event only amplifies the glory. Have fun and let me know how it went!
It’s really easy, guys, and I know your wives will appreciate it so much when you open that dishwasher to reveal dinner. Here’s what you do:
Get a nice salmon fillet, and put it on a large piece of aluminum foil. Butter the foil beneath the fish. Salt and pepper the fish lightly, granulated garlic too if you have it. Then add some other nice ingredients, like, oh, some lemon wedges, garlic cloves, orange slices, onion slices, make it pretty. Then wrap the whole thing up really tight, so no air can escape, no holes! Make sure you start with a really big piece of foil, to be sure you can get it really tight. One thickness of foil, all around, is all you want. Don’t double it.
Okay so unload the dishwasher, you are gonna basically bake the fish in there, all by itself. Put the foiled package on the top drawer of the dishwasher. Now, every dishwasher varies, so, let’s talk about that. You want to run the fish through one complete cycle. But not the super hot one, and not the quickie one. You want the one that is right in the middle. At our house, it would be the “normal” setting, very simple. Also, put it on “hot drying”, or “extra hot drying”, whatever your dishwasher offers for extra heat, to help bake the fish.
The most important part, of course, is to time this, so when your wife or girlfriend comes around, you can give her a wonderful surprise! Imagine her delight as you walk her to the kitchen, her cherished hand in yours, and tell her.......”I have a very special surprise for you honeybunny”. And then, like the gourmet chef that you are, you open the dishwasher to reveal first, the foil, but then, with your glasses totally steamed, you bend over and split open the foil, to reveal a perfectly cooked and garnished salmon filet. “I’m going to get out that expensive bottle of Pinot Gris we bought at the vineyard last year, sweetheart”, she says with a wink, and gives you a peck on the cheek before she scampers off to the wine cellar, only pausing to poke her head ‘round the kitchen door and speak, all sexy, as she points directly at you, “I love that man”.
Having friends over for this event only amplifies the glory. Have fun and let me know how it went!
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
"Santa Monica" Debuts On iTunes!
After many weeks of watching and waiting, my CD "Santa Monica" is up on iTunes! Those of you who take your music in digits will now be able to buy one or more songs from any of my full length CDs for $.99 each, or a full CD (15 -16 tracks), for $9.99. Thanks in advance for supporting my habit of making music!
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Jesus Didn't Have A Car Payment Either
Where some of my song ideas come from, I have no frickin’ idea. I will just be sitting there, and boom, some little phrase, sometimes accompanied by a melody, just pops into my head. I like to think of it as the positive side of being attention deficient. With all those cells firing up there, in my brain, in all directions at all times and without mercy, it makes it difficult to keep one’s train of thought. But those same naughty little cells, those bastards, sometimes give me a little chunk of a tune, so I guess I’ll put off the lobotomy for a few more weeks.
"Jesus Didn’t Have A Car", from my CD, “Santa Monica”, is a song whose title “popped” into my brain, just like that, much to my surprise. I scribbled it down on a scrap of paper, and returned to it when I had a bit of time to sit with the guitar. In such a case, I ask myself, “well, what else about Jesus not having a car could be said”, and off we go.
Sometimes, when I have a title first, I will google it, just to see if there are any other songs by the same title, particularly if the title seems as though it could have been used before. For example, a title like “Why You Picked Me”, or “Forever Marie” might illicit such research. If I find that there are other songs with that title, it may not stop me from using it, but I still like to know.
With “Jesus Didn’t Have A Car”, however......I didn’t even fire up the computer. Surely, I thought, there are no songs with this title.
But after publishing the song, on my CD “Santa Monica”, one day I became curious, as songwriters sometimes are, and typed it into the search engine, with quotes, to see if there were any exact matches.
Ah, the Internet. There were thirteen exact matches for “Jesus didn’t have a car”, to my complete surprise. None, however, was a song title. Thirteen matches! All, of course, were used somewhere in text, on someone’s website about Jesus, on a discussion list, or in a sermon, etc. I clicked on a few, and realized that the term was popular enough.
But the fourteenth hit fascinated me. It was not an exact hit, but read...”Jesus didn’t have a car payment either”. I thought, now wouldn’t it be a gas to write a song with that title?
In the fall of 2005, I will release “Jesus Didn’t Have A Car Payment Either” on a new CD. Meanwhile, you can hear “Jesus Didn’t Have A Car” by clicking on this link.
"Jesus Didn’t Have A Car", from my CD, “Santa Monica”, is a song whose title “popped” into my brain, just like that, much to my surprise. I scribbled it down on a scrap of paper, and returned to it when I had a bit of time to sit with the guitar. In such a case, I ask myself, “well, what else about Jesus not having a car could be said”, and off we go.
Sometimes, when I have a title first, I will google it, just to see if there are any other songs by the same title, particularly if the title seems as though it could have been used before. For example, a title like “Why You Picked Me”, or “Forever Marie” might illicit such research. If I find that there are other songs with that title, it may not stop me from using it, but I still like to know.
With “Jesus Didn’t Have A Car”, however......I didn’t even fire up the computer. Surely, I thought, there are no songs with this title.
But after publishing the song, on my CD “Santa Monica”, one day I became curious, as songwriters sometimes are, and typed it into the search engine, with quotes, to see if there were any exact matches.
Ah, the Internet. There were thirteen exact matches for “Jesus didn’t have a car”, to my complete surprise. None, however, was a song title. Thirteen matches! All, of course, were used somewhere in text, on someone’s website about Jesus, on a discussion list, or in a sermon, etc. I clicked on a few, and realized that the term was popular enough.
But the fourteenth hit fascinated me. It was not an exact hit, but read...”Jesus didn’t have a car payment either”. I thought, now wouldn’t it be a gas to write a song with that title?
In the fall of 2005, I will release “Jesus Didn’t Have A Car Payment Either” on a new CD. Meanwhile, you can hear “Jesus Didn’t Have A Car” by clicking on this link.
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