My friend Ryan Foster is the mastering engineer at Portland’s own “FREQ mastering”, (say FREAK), and this dude is good. As I sat behind him, in his mastering studio, several days in the past couple of months, I would watch, as my songs played, and he moved his head, side to side, so that his ears could pick up every little nuance, strings, guitars, vocals. As he turned the dials and pushed buttons and scooted his chair, I felt a bit like I was in Oz. It is definitely true that some are just born with much better hearing. Ryan Foster is one of those people.
In late September, or Rocktober, 2005, I will be announcing the release of two new CDs. One is titled “Who Come Down?”, and the other, “Dubs On Trial’. There are 33 new songs total, ranging from love songs to my old stand-by, the quirky novelty song. I can’t help it, folks. Weird shit just pops into my head. Let’s just say, well, there’s a rockin’ little ditty on “Dubs” titled “Sour Cream”. As usual, my main man Tim Ellis performs guitars, and his parts are just brilliant.
Some of you reading this may have not yet signed my guest book, or left your email address on the homepage of this site. I would love to send you an announcement when the CDs are finished, that is, when they arrive from New York, where they are being replicated. If you havent done this yet, I hope you will have a moment to do so. Thanks.
FREQ Mastering website
Friday, August 19, 2005
Monday, August 15, 2005
Junk
My mother and father, God bless their souls, did a pretty good job, I think, teaching my sisters and I to not judge others unfairly, particularly the less fortunate. We might be riding in the car, when one of us would spot a transient or bag lady, maybe someone a bit crazy, hollering obscenities or religious jibber jabber on the street corner. At those times, Mom would pull out her trusty saying, “There but for the grace of God go I”. I am sure I was like 4 years old when I grasped the meaning of those words.
But at times, if someone in our circle, a neighbor, or say, a politician, or entertainment personality, had done something stupid, maybe even made the paper, she could rant on with the best of them, about how stupid it was for this or that person to do such a thing. So, along with my need to be fair, and to keep myself reminded that, someday, I may do something really stupid, (as if I haven't already) or, become one of the less fortunate myself, I come by the trait of blathering on about somebody being a dumb shit honestly.
I spent last weekend in Seattle with my youngest daughter, who is thoroughly pregnant, and due any day, to deliver our sixth grandchild, a girl. On Saturday night, we went to see the annual fireworks display at “The Festival at Mt. Si”, in North Bend, Washington, which is a stone’s throw from the home she shares with her family in Snoqualmie. We arrived early, and my smart and respectable son-in-law and I carried in the chairs and blankets. We found a nice spot right away, within earshot of the toy vendor. Before long, my grandaughter, and many others, were dripping with glowsticks, as we waited for the party to begin.
About 9pm, (the fireworks began at 9:45) a couple of guys, around 40 years old, and a woman, set up right in front of me, which was fine. I never did talk to them. After they got there, they basically looked forward, with their backs to us, for the duration. One of the men stood a lot, especially before the fireworks began. He had super long hair, which he would flick back, Nugent like, and the second they arrived, the chain smoking began. As he stood there, before me, I could tell, as the minutes went by, that he was on something. He was fidgety to the max, and would not shut up. The other two people were much more calm.
But when the fireworks began, the other guy began fidgeting, and talking non-stop, and I could tell that the meth had kicked in. As the first flashes of light filled the sky, and throughout the entire display, I got my own personal, shall we say, enthusiastic play by play of the fireworks.
SPEED FREAK ONE: WHOAAAAAAA!, DUDE, THAT WAS AWESOME! WAS THAT AWESOME? DID YOU FUCKING SEE THAT! IT WAS AWESOME!
SPEED FREAK TWO: MAN, THAT WAS THE AWESOMEST, THOSE LITTLE STRINGS FALLIN’ DOWN, TOTALLY FUCKING AWESOME, (another explosion) OOHHHHHHHHH, THAT WAS AWESOME TOO, FUCK’N’A, DUDE, DID YOU SEE THAT, TOTALLY FUCKING AWESOME!
SPEED FREAK ONE: I COULD WATCH THESE FUCKING FIREWORKS ALL FUCKING NIGHT MAN, NO SHIT, I COULD SIT HERE 24/7, OHHHHHH (LAUGHS) DUDE, DID YOU SEE THAT, OHHHHH, DUDE, DID YOU FEEL THE HEAT FROM THAT FUCKING THING?
SPEED FREEK TWO, DUDE, OHHHH, I FUCKING FELT IT ON MY FACE, IT WAS AWESOME, TOTALLY FUCKING AWESOME, IT WAS LIKE A FUCKING A-BOMB WENT OFF, OHHHHHHH, THERE GOES ANOTHER ONE, OOOWWWWWWWW! WHAT A FUCKING GREAT SHOW, DUDE, IS THIS FUCKIN’ AWESOME? FUCK’N’A MAN I JUST WISH THEY’D FALL RIGHT ON TOP OF US!
You get the drift. It was pitiful, all that ridiculous cussin’ and pontificatin’, from where I sat, midst a large and harmonious audience of Seattle families and their grade school aged offspring, but a bit funny too.
The next day, walking through Costco with my daughter, I made some comment like, “Man, I really like those Costco halibut fish ’n’ chips”, as we passed the freezer case, and then, I got this vision of somehow finding myself, there in Costco, walking behind those same speed freaks, and having to listen to them go on about Costco, ad nauseum, as in, “THOSE FUCKING FISH AND CHIPS, DUDE, HAVE YOU HAD THOSE?, DUDE, THEY ROCK, THEY ARE TOOOOO MUCH, TOTALLY AWESOME, I’M GETTIN’ SOME!”
My name is Ric Seaberg, and when I was much younger, I spent a few years myself, taking amphetamines, the pill kind, recreationally. I am ashamed to admit that I know the speed feeling. I am certain that I made the drive from Seattle to Portland a few times, talking non-stop, and going on over enthusiastically about any number of things, oh, billboards, whatever. So I don’t want to be too hard on those guys, but they were certainly old enough to know better, and they just sounded like complete idiots. What a coupla’ losers, those Meth Usin’ Lynnard Skynnard Lovin’ Dorks.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
But at times, if someone in our circle, a neighbor, or say, a politician, or entertainment personality, had done something stupid, maybe even made the paper, she could rant on with the best of them, about how stupid it was for this or that person to do such a thing. So, along with my need to be fair, and to keep myself reminded that, someday, I may do something really stupid, (as if I haven't already) or, become one of the less fortunate myself, I come by the trait of blathering on about somebody being a dumb shit honestly.
I spent last weekend in Seattle with my youngest daughter, who is thoroughly pregnant, and due any day, to deliver our sixth grandchild, a girl. On Saturday night, we went to see the annual fireworks display at “The Festival at Mt. Si”, in North Bend, Washington, which is a stone’s throw from the home she shares with her family in Snoqualmie. We arrived early, and my smart and respectable son-in-law and I carried in the chairs and blankets. We found a nice spot right away, within earshot of the toy vendor. Before long, my grandaughter, and many others, were dripping with glowsticks, as we waited for the party to begin.
About 9pm, (the fireworks began at 9:45) a couple of guys, around 40 years old, and a woman, set up right in front of me, which was fine. I never did talk to them. After they got there, they basically looked forward, with their backs to us, for the duration. One of the men stood a lot, especially before the fireworks began. He had super long hair, which he would flick back, Nugent like, and the second they arrived, the chain smoking began. As he stood there, before me, I could tell, as the minutes went by, that he was on something. He was fidgety to the max, and would not shut up. The other two people were much more calm.
But when the fireworks began, the other guy began fidgeting, and talking non-stop, and I could tell that the meth had kicked in. As the first flashes of light filled the sky, and throughout the entire display, I got my own personal, shall we say, enthusiastic play by play of the fireworks.
SPEED FREAK ONE: WHOAAAAAAA!, DUDE, THAT WAS AWESOME! WAS THAT AWESOME? DID YOU FUCKING SEE THAT! IT WAS AWESOME!
SPEED FREAK TWO: MAN, THAT WAS THE AWESOMEST, THOSE LITTLE STRINGS FALLIN’ DOWN, TOTALLY FUCKING AWESOME, (another explosion) OOHHHHHHHHH, THAT WAS AWESOME TOO, FUCK’N’A, DUDE, DID YOU SEE THAT, TOTALLY FUCKING AWESOME!
SPEED FREAK ONE: I COULD WATCH THESE FUCKING FIREWORKS ALL FUCKING NIGHT MAN, NO SHIT, I COULD SIT HERE 24/7, OHHHHHH (LAUGHS) DUDE, DID YOU SEE THAT, OHHHHH, DUDE, DID YOU FEEL THE HEAT FROM THAT FUCKING THING?
SPEED FREEK TWO, DUDE, OHHHH, I FUCKING FELT IT ON MY FACE, IT WAS AWESOME, TOTALLY FUCKING AWESOME, IT WAS LIKE A FUCKING A-BOMB WENT OFF, OHHHHHHH, THERE GOES ANOTHER ONE, OOOWWWWWWWW! WHAT A FUCKING GREAT SHOW, DUDE, IS THIS FUCKIN’ AWESOME? FUCK’N’A MAN I JUST WISH THEY’D FALL RIGHT ON TOP OF US!
You get the drift. It was pitiful, all that ridiculous cussin’ and pontificatin’, from where I sat, midst a large and harmonious audience of Seattle families and their grade school aged offspring, but a bit funny too.
The next day, walking through Costco with my daughter, I made some comment like, “Man, I really like those Costco halibut fish ’n’ chips”, as we passed the freezer case, and then, I got this vision of somehow finding myself, there in Costco, walking behind those same speed freaks, and having to listen to them go on about Costco, ad nauseum, as in, “THOSE FUCKING FISH AND CHIPS, DUDE, HAVE YOU HAD THOSE?, DUDE, THEY ROCK, THEY ARE TOOOOO MUCH, TOTALLY AWESOME, I’M GETTIN’ SOME!”
My name is Ric Seaberg, and when I was much younger, I spent a few years myself, taking amphetamines, the pill kind, recreationally. I am ashamed to admit that I know the speed feeling. I am certain that I made the drive from Seattle to Portland a few times, talking non-stop, and going on over enthusiastically about any number of things, oh, billboards, whatever. So I don’t want to be too hard on those guys, but they were certainly old enough to know better, and they just sounded like complete idiots. What a coupla’ losers, those Meth Usin’ Lynnard Skynnard Lovin’ Dorks.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Football
I know it’s only August, but right about now, every year, I start thinkin’ about football. Football grabbed me when I was a kid, and I have played a lot of it, well, years ago anyway. To make that interception, after barely tipping the ball from it’s intended receiver, and then fingertipping it along the sidelines until you finally manage to bring it in, and then run it back for a touchdown, to me, that’s perfect. And it’s great fun to watch other guys do it too. Gimme some hot wings, a couple of Oregon Sports Action tickets, a comfy chair, and maybe my son (or my daughters) to share it with, and I am one happy Sunday Afternoon Football Lovin’ Dude. I think another reason why I like football so much is, though it does have it’s size requirements, it is a very creative game. The “playbook” as they call it, is complex.
Marie isn’t particularly fond of football, with it’s hard hitting and inevitable injuries, but she is kind to find another TV in the house, so Blaine and I can waste the day ooooohing and ahhhhhing over terrific plays, and spends her time with a more, uh, girlish project, maybe quilting. Sometimes, she might nap, and then, of course, just as she nods off on the living room couch, finally down deep in REM-land after a rough week at work, and while our little white dogs form her comfy blanket, a great or not so great play will occur in the game Blaine and I are watching, and I will yell, at the top of my lungs, “ WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?”, much to her shock and dismay. “Could you guys maybe shut your door”, she quietly begs, heart pounding. She is such a sweetie for putting up with all that Autumn boy energy.
I favor the Seahawks, since it’s our closest franchise, and some other reasons, like I was living in Seattle myself when the franchise was formed, and now, both my daughters and their families live there, so we share our enthusiasm for the Hawks. Recently, Blaine celebrated his 26th birthday, and we gave him two tickets to a Seahawks game, which we are going to order as soon as they go on sale. He and I are going to take the train, from Portland to Seattle, probably in September, and then just walk, or roll in Blainey’s case, over to the stadium in Seattle, which is right by the train station. Amtrak is quite accessible, and apparently, there is seating in the Seahawk’s stadium IN EVERY SECTION for those who use a wheelchair, which blows my mind, and is in itself a great reason to support the Seahawks. After we go, I will let you know how it went.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Marie isn’t particularly fond of football, with it’s hard hitting and inevitable injuries, but she is kind to find another TV in the house, so Blaine and I can waste the day ooooohing and ahhhhhing over terrific plays, and spends her time with a more, uh, girlish project, maybe quilting. Sometimes, she might nap, and then, of course, just as she nods off on the living room couch, finally down deep in REM-land after a rough week at work, and while our little white dogs form her comfy blanket, a great or not so great play will occur in the game Blaine and I are watching, and I will yell, at the top of my lungs, “ WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?”, much to her shock and dismay. “Could you guys maybe shut your door”, she quietly begs, heart pounding. She is such a sweetie for putting up with all that Autumn boy energy.
I favor the Seahawks, since it’s our closest franchise, and some other reasons, like I was living in Seattle myself when the franchise was formed, and now, both my daughters and their families live there, so we share our enthusiasm for the Hawks. Recently, Blaine celebrated his 26th birthday, and we gave him two tickets to a Seahawks game, which we are going to order as soon as they go on sale. He and I are going to take the train, from Portland to Seattle, probably in September, and then just walk, or roll in Blainey’s case, over to the stadium in Seattle, which is right by the train station. Amtrak is quite accessible, and apparently, there is seating in the Seahawk’s stadium IN EVERY SECTION for those who use a wheelchair, which blows my mind, and is in itself a great reason to support the Seahawks. After we go, I will let you know how it went.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Sunday, August 07, 2005
The Writing Grunt
My wife Marie says that, when I write, I grunt. The first time she mentioned it, we were sitting in our Airstream, in the picturesque beauty of a Washington State Park, enjoying the quietescence and each other’s company, at our spendid and unusual oak parquet dining table, when apparently, I shattered her concentration, and she burst out laughing.
“Whut”? I spoke, as her sides split, and she fell across the divan. “You grunt when you write honey, it’s like “............and then she went into this little grunting sound, nay, more of a routine, to show me my grunt.
Being a forgiveness nut myself, and not one who would be defensive at such a time, I just made a little remark like, “Oh yeah, sorry, I guess I’m really getting into it over here, sorry”. But then, minutes later, after suddenly being made aware of this malady, I caught myself doing it, right at the crescendo of some sentence with a wallop, and I knew she was totally correct. I do grunt when I write.
Woeful little tick, don’cha think? Ya sit down with a guy for a bit of peace and quiet, maybe read a bit of The New Yorker, or The Atlantic, sip some Chardonnay, but then you see him get out his legal pad, and a pen, and you realize, oh goody, I see I am about to experience, yet again, “the grunt”.
When my Dad, Bob Seaberg, was alive, bless his soul, he had a bunch of little habits that drove me nuts, not the least of which was scooping the remaining food on his plate onto his fork with his middle finger, his hand and finger assuming the basic “fuck you” posture as he prepared to eat his final peas. I am certain I chastised the poor man time and again about it, but alas, my concern never took.
Honey, I fear I am doomed to be a grunter, when I write. When you caught me at it tonight, I thought, Jesus, there I go again.
These days, when I look into the mirror, especially when I have those 40’s style glasses on, I see my Dad looking right back at me. And my grunting is probably here to stay. But I am never gonna flip anybody off, knowingly or otherwise, at the dining table.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
“Whut”? I spoke, as her sides split, and she fell across the divan. “You grunt when you write honey, it’s like “............and then she went into this little grunting sound, nay, more of a routine, to show me my grunt.
Being a forgiveness nut myself, and not one who would be defensive at such a time, I just made a little remark like, “Oh yeah, sorry, I guess I’m really getting into it over here, sorry”. But then, minutes later, after suddenly being made aware of this malady, I caught myself doing it, right at the crescendo of some sentence with a wallop, and I knew she was totally correct. I do grunt when I write.
Woeful little tick, don’cha think? Ya sit down with a guy for a bit of peace and quiet, maybe read a bit of The New Yorker, or The Atlantic, sip some Chardonnay, but then you see him get out his legal pad, and a pen, and you realize, oh goody, I see I am about to experience, yet again, “the grunt”.
When my Dad, Bob Seaberg, was alive, bless his soul, he had a bunch of little habits that drove me nuts, not the least of which was scooping the remaining food on his plate onto his fork with his middle finger, his hand and finger assuming the basic “fuck you” posture as he prepared to eat his final peas. I am certain I chastised the poor man time and again about it, but alas, my concern never took.
Honey, I fear I am doomed to be a grunter, when I write. When you caught me at it tonight, I thought, Jesus, there I go again.
These days, when I look into the mirror, especially when I have those 40’s style glasses on, I see my Dad looking right back at me. And my grunting is probably here to stay. But I am never gonna flip anybody off, knowingly or otherwise, at the dining table.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Thursday, August 04, 2005
The World's Largest Tire
Those of you who have been stumbling through my blog entries for awhile might remember that, in 1997, Marie, Blaine and I took a trip to Cleveland, to see The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and other sights, and to Detroit, to take in Hitsville, USA, the recording studio where Berry Gordy Jr. and his crew cranked out a ton of Motown hits. Blaine is a big Motown buff, (as are Marie and I), and this vacation was to be his high school graduation present.
I have written here about some of the sights we visited during that amazing and fun trip, which also included a day trip to Ada, Michigan, to see The World Amway Headquarters, just because we are completely out of our minds, and one day, we found a museum in Cleveland called The Cleveland Style Polka Hall of Fame, which was just a blast. We dined on perch from Lake Michigan, visited several other museums, on and on. It was one great vacation.
One day, in Detroit, when we awoke, we decided to, among other things that day, go see “The World’s Largest Tire”, in Dearborn, Michigan, yet another site related to auto manufacturing in the Detroit area. I should say, "The World’s Largest Uniroyal Tire”, since it is basically a promotion for Uniroyal, and sits, billboard like, just off the freeway. We had read about the tire in one of our “Wacky Shit To Do OnYour Vacation” books, and after our sumptuous Fruit Loops breakfast from the motel lobby, we headed out in our rented van.
As we approached Dearborn, we could see the tire looming on the horizon. The fucking thing is huge. Of course, we ad-libbed our immense pleasure at seeing it, as we approached, saying things like, “Oh my God, would’ya look at that thing, it’s gigantic, it’s wonderful, I can’t believe we finally made it!” I know, I know. It’s a bit offbeat. But we were keyed up.
However, as we got to the neighborhood, to try to get right up close and personal to the tire, we realized, this is not gonna be easy. There were no signs to help one find the tire. There were no apparent roads to the tire, I mean, so that you could get right up by it. The heck with that, we all said, we are gonna get to that tire! We have come all this way just to see this tire, up close, and by God, we are gonna do it!
As we entered the neighborhood, which bordered the freeway, and the tire, all we found was a neighborhood. The tire was barely visable, just the top part, above the tree tops, as we looked toward the freeway. Suddenly, Marie saw some residents on the street, and told me to pull over. To my shock, she accosted these unsuspecting neighbors, who were standing in their driveway, with “excuse me, we have travelled here from Portland, Oregon, just to see The World’s Largest Tire, that one over there by the freeway. We want to get up close to it, so we were wondering, since you live here and all, how do we get over there”? If my memory serves me correctly, there were three people there, listening to Marie’s question, and when she was through, they just stood there and stared at her. For like, awhile. As in, lady, you’re scaring us. Finally, one of them piped up, “No, we don’ know”, and they all began slowly back pedalling toward their garage. Ha! Dearborn proves to be no match for the little gal from Portland! As we drove away, no smarter, Marie groused about the encounter, as in “wellllll, those people were no help, probably lived here all their lives, and they don’t even know how to get to the tire, gawd!” Blaine and I were laughing so hard, I finally had to pull over again to regain control.
Undaunted, but becoming a bit skeptical about our chances to view the tire from its base, we drove and drove. In the neighborhood. Out the neigborhood. Back onto the freeway and past the tire again. And again. Finally, I spied what looked to me like a possible roadway to the tire, next to an industrial building. There was an expansive parking lot in front of this building, and I entered cautiously, scanning for security, and any other significant factors, like “employees only” signs, uniformed guards, anything. I kept driving, through the lot, and came to a large cyclone fence gate, which was wide open, and it looked to me like the road ahead just might lead to the tire. I was happy to see the gate was open. But my glee was dampened when I saw the large sign, next to the gate, permanently affixed to the fence which said, NO TRESPASSING.
We looked at each other, and I said to Marie, “what do you think?”. But as she was contemplating an answer, my wild side, and the fact that we had come this far, got the best of me. I slammed my foot down onto the gas pedal. “Dukes of Dearborn” time.
The road was gravel, and very rough, and since I was driving so fast, it was one hell of a bumpy ride. Just for fun, I let fly a war whoop. I can remember Marie shouting “Oh my God!” as we appoached a creek bridge, visions of Chappaquiddick dancing in her head. But moments later, as we threaded our way, at 40 mph, through the forest, while the brush on the sides of the road scraped our van, the forest opened to reveal the grail.
There, rising mightily before us, and our battered van, as we sat in silence, and angels sang, stood one huge black Uniroyal tire, on a rather large pad of grass, not exactly manicured, but definitely maintained. There were no picnic tables, but there could have been. It was like a small park, no baseball diamond, just The World’s Largest Tire. We took some photos in a hurry, laughed until we cried, and got outa there.
Here’s a picture.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
I have written here about some of the sights we visited during that amazing and fun trip, which also included a day trip to Ada, Michigan, to see The World Amway Headquarters, just because we are completely out of our minds, and one day, we found a museum in Cleveland called The Cleveland Style Polka Hall of Fame, which was just a blast. We dined on perch from Lake Michigan, visited several other museums, on and on. It was one great vacation.
One day, in Detroit, when we awoke, we decided to, among other things that day, go see “The World’s Largest Tire”, in Dearborn, Michigan, yet another site related to auto manufacturing in the Detroit area. I should say, "The World’s Largest Uniroyal Tire”, since it is basically a promotion for Uniroyal, and sits, billboard like, just off the freeway. We had read about the tire in one of our “Wacky Shit To Do OnYour Vacation” books, and after our sumptuous Fruit Loops breakfast from the motel lobby, we headed out in our rented van.
As we approached Dearborn, we could see the tire looming on the horizon. The fucking thing is huge. Of course, we ad-libbed our immense pleasure at seeing it, as we approached, saying things like, “Oh my God, would’ya look at that thing, it’s gigantic, it’s wonderful, I can’t believe we finally made it!” I know, I know. It’s a bit offbeat. But we were keyed up.
However, as we got to the neighborhood, to try to get right up close and personal to the tire, we realized, this is not gonna be easy. There were no signs to help one find the tire. There were no apparent roads to the tire, I mean, so that you could get right up by it. The heck with that, we all said, we are gonna get to that tire! We have come all this way just to see this tire, up close, and by God, we are gonna do it!
As we entered the neighborhood, which bordered the freeway, and the tire, all we found was a neighborhood. The tire was barely visable, just the top part, above the tree tops, as we looked toward the freeway. Suddenly, Marie saw some residents on the street, and told me to pull over. To my shock, she accosted these unsuspecting neighbors, who were standing in their driveway, with “excuse me, we have travelled here from Portland, Oregon, just to see The World’s Largest Tire, that one over there by the freeway. We want to get up close to it, so we were wondering, since you live here and all, how do we get over there”? If my memory serves me correctly, there were three people there, listening to Marie’s question, and when she was through, they just stood there and stared at her. For like, awhile. As in, lady, you’re scaring us. Finally, one of them piped up, “No, we don’ know”, and they all began slowly back pedalling toward their garage. Ha! Dearborn proves to be no match for the little gal from Portland! As we drove away, no smarter, Marie groused about the encounter, as in “wellllll, those people were no help, probably lived here all their lives, and they don’t even know how to get to the tire, gawd!” Blaine and I were laughing so hard, I finally had to pull over again to regain control.
Undaunted, but becoming a bit skeptical about our chances to view the tire from its base, we drove and drove. In the neighborhood. Out the neigborhood. Back onto the freeway and past the tire again. And again. Finally, I spied what looked to me like a possible roadway to the tire, next to an industrial building. There was an expansive parking lot in front of this building, and I entered cautiously, scanning for security, and any other significant factors, like “employees only” signs, uniformed guards, anything. I kept driving, through the lot, and came to a large cyclone fence gate, which was wide open, and it looked to me like the road ahead just might lead to the tire. I was happy to see the gate was open. But my glee was dampened when I saw the large sign, next to the gate, permanently affixed to the fence which said, NO TRESPASSING.
We looked at each other, and I said to Marie, “what do you think?”. But as she was contemplating an answer, my wild side, and the fact that we had come this far, got the best of me. I slammed my foot down onto the gas pedal. “Dukes of Dearborn” time.
The road was gravel, and very rough, and since I was driving so fast, it was one hell of a bumpy ride. Just for fun, I let fly a war whoop. I can remember Marie shouting “Oh my God!” as we appoached a creek bridge, visions of Chappaquiddick dancing in her head. But moments later, as we threaded our way, at 40 mph, through the forest, while the brush on the sides of the road scraped our van, the forest opened to reveal the grail.
There, rising mightily before us, and our battered van, as we sat in silence, and angels sang, stood one huge black Uniroyal tire, on a rather large pad of grass, not exactly manicured, but definitely maintained. There were no picnic tables, but there could have been. It was like a small park, no baseball diamond, just The World’s Largest Tire. We took some photos in a hurry, laughed until we cried, and got outa there.
Here’s a picture.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Bullies
My wife Marie and I are known to our grown children as a couple who spoil their dogs endlessly, ad nauseum. When they came for Christmas last year, and entered our foyer, to the enthusiastic yapping of two little white Bichon Frises, in their velvet red and green Christmas outfits, well, let’s just say, we got “the look".
However guilty we feel for ending up, admittedly so, as two of the most hideously doting doggie parents of all time, pales in comparison to the depth of our love and commitment to these little “live stuffed animals”, as I sometimes refer to them. “Pippi (for Pippi Longstocking), and Poppi (for Popcorn) give us so much love and pleasure, how could we do less?
At the pet store, we buy the requisite “Greenies”, and a beef tendon treat they love called “Flossies”. Pippi will sit, and whine quietly, forever, at my office closet door, where I keep the Flossies, until I enter and pull one out of the special plastic drawer I keep there, labelled “dog treats”. But at $1.99 a pop, and since our dogs are small, I cut the Flossies into four pieces each, with a sharp “nail puller” tool I have placed in the drawer for just this purpose. Many times, working on my knees somewhere in the house, discovering a nail to pull, I have walked to the closet and to the dog treat drawer to retrieve it. Pippi will take her piece of Flossie immediately to the open area in my office, and begin to toss it wildly, up in the air, and then chase it, retrieve it, and do it again and again. Folks, trust me, it’s too damn cute.
Another treat our dogs love, but which we seldom buy anymore, since they reek, is the much touted “Bully”, or length of dried bull penis, also available at your local pet store in a variety of sizes. Apparently, they are quite yummy, as the bulging bins of bullies suggest, and I have seen our dogs, as Marie and I watch TV, gnarl one for hours, occasionally looking up to us to say, “Dad, Mom, yer the best”. The first time I bought some, a teenage clerk spotted my quizzical fondling of the bullies and announced, without discretion, “THEY'RE BULL PENISES”, and then, as an aside, she suggested, “dogs love’m. But don’t leave’m out in the yard, cuz they’ll reconstitute, and then, they’re totally gross!” I have noticed that not all bullies we have taken home are equally pungent, but most, to put it mildly, might require the additional purchase of one of those tacky plug in style air fresheners, the kind that can beat down any raunchy smell in favor of some scent like “”Overwhelming Pine” or “Wildflower Fields My Ass”.
We employ a wonderful Ukrainian couple, who come to our home twice a month, for several hours, to help us keep our house in order. They clean, especially giving our son Blaine’s room a thorough going over, which would be worth the money even if they didn’t do anything else. We deeply appreciate their help.
Each time they arrive, the dogs swarm them, in our foyer, as Cyrillic nouns and adjectives fly. Some minutes later, after the dogs have calmed, they go about their business, and as a rule, I guess you could say that they pick up their share of dog toys, which have been strewn anew, around the house, since the last time they cleaned. We have several baskets for said toys, and by the time they leave, each basket is in it’s spot, neatly teeming with toys. Within hours of their departure, however, someone, some dang dog, has tipped the baskets over, and the cycle begins again.
I am certain that our Ukrainian friends, who come from poverty in Eastern Europe, must think we are out of our minds, with this pet obsession of ours, including all of our dog toys and pampering. They are so kind, and are obviously fond of us, and we trust them implicitly as they move from room to room, collecting dust bunnies and restacking my lyric sheets. Sometimes, if they have run out of a product, or, perhaps, need a new package of vacuum bags, they will call me from my office to assist. “Reek”, they might call, and when I arrive, they relate their need, in ever so broken English. For the most part, given the language barrier, we do a pretty good job of understanding each other.
On one recent visit, however, I must say that I fell out of my league, out of my cultural context, in the understanding department, when I was called for a consultation. As I sat at my office desk, our female housekeeper stood at my door, and uttered my name. I turned to give her my complete attention. I could see that she was holding a “Bully” in her left hand, and one second after our eyes met, raised the bully up toward me, and posed the question....”Ees nah-chew-rahl?”, and then, before I could say one word, and I swear this actually happened, raised the bully further, up to within about one-half inch of her left nostril, and without reservation, put a humongus and deeply drawn nose hit on that bully, it’s gnarled end still dripping with dog spittle, slimy and white, and surely bearing the utterly gamey fragrance we have come to recognize from several rooms away. As she placed it back to her side, awaiting my answer, I think I saw her eyes tear up. “Yes”, I replied, and then, as she retreated, I thanked God that she had asked no further questions. Anyway, in my two years of Cyrillic study in college, I don’t believe I ever came across the translation for bull penis.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
However guilty we feel for ending up, admittedly so, as two of the most hideously doting doggie parents of all time, pales in comparison to the depth of our love and commitment to these little “live stuffed animals”, as I sometimes refer to them. “Pippi (for Pippi Longstocking), and Poppi (for Popcorn) give us so much love and pleasure, how could we do less?
At the pet store, we buy the requisite “Greenies”, and a beef tendon treat they love called “Flossies”. Pippi will sit, and whine quietly, forever, at my office closet door, where I keep the Flossies, until I enter and pull one out of the special plastic drawer I keep there, labelled “dog treats”. But at $1.99 a pop, and since our dogs are small, I cut the Flossies into four pieces each, with a sharp “nail puller” tool I have placed in the drawer for just this purpose. Many times, working on my knees somewhere in the house, discovering a nail to pull, I have walked to the closet and to the dog treat drawer to retrieve it. Pippi will take her piece of Flossie immediately to the open area in my office, and begin to toss it wildly, up in the air, and then chase it, retrieve it, and do it again and again. Folks, trust me, it’s too damn cute.
Another treat our dogs love, but which we seldom buy anymore, since they reek, is the much touted “Bully”, or length of dried bull penis, also available at your local pet store in a variety of sizes. Apparently, they are quite yummy, as the bulging bins of bullies suggest, and I have seen our dogs, as Marie and I watch TV, gnarl one for hours, occasionally looking up to us to say, “Dad, Mom, yer the best”. The first time I bought some, a teenage clerk spotted my quizzical fondling of the bullies and announced, without discretion, “THEY'RE BULL PENISES”, and then, as an aside, she suggested, “dogs love’m. But don’t leave’m out in the yard, cuz they’ll reconstitute, and then, they’re totally gross!” I have noticed that not all bullies we have taken home are equally pungent, but most, to put it mildly, might require the additional purchase of one of those tacky plug in style air fresheners, the kind that can beat down any raunchy smell in favor of some scent like “”Overwhelming Pine” or “Wildflower Fields My Ass”.
We employ a wonderful Ukrainian couple, who come to our home twice a month, for several hours, to help us keep our house in order. They clean, especially giving our son Blaine’s room a thorough going over, which would be worth the money even if they didn’t do anything else. We deeply appreciate their help.
Each time they arrive, the dogs swarm them, in our foyer, as Cyrillic nouns and adjectives fly. Some minutes later, after the dogs have calmed, they go about their business, and as a rule, I guess you could say that they pick up their share of dog toys, which have been strewn anew, around the house, since the last time they cleaned. We have several baskets for said toys, and by the time they leave, each basket is in it’s spot, neatly teeming with toys. Within hours of their departure, however, someone, some dang dog, has tipped the baskets over, and the cycle begins again.
I am certain that our Ukrainian friends, who come from poverty in Eastern Europe, must think we are out of our minds, with this pet obsession of ours, including all of our dog toys and pampering. They are so kind, and are obviously fond of us, and we trust them implicitly as they move from room to room, collecting dust bunnies and restacking my lyric sheets. Sometimes, if they have run out of a product, or, perhaps, need a new package of vacuum bags, they will call me from my office to assist. “Reek”, they might call, and when I arrive, they relate their need, in ever so broken English. For the most part, given the language barrier, we do a pretty good job of understanding each other.
On one recent visit, however, I must say that I fell out of my league, out of my cultural context, in the understanding department, when I was called for a consultation. As I sat at my office desk, our female housekeeper stood at my door, and uttered my name. I turned to give her my complete attention. I could see that she was holding a “Bully” in her left hand, and one second after our eyes met, raised the bully up toward me, and posed the question....”Ees nah-chew-rahl?”, and then, before I could say one word, and I swear this actually happened, raised the bully further, up to within about one-half inch of her left nostril, and without reservation, put a humongus and deeply drawn nose hit on that bully, it’s gnarled end still dripping with dog spittle, slimy and white, and surely bearing the utterly gamey fragrance we have come to recognize from several rooms away. As she placed it back to her side, awaiting my answer, I think I saw her eyes tear up. “Yes”, I replied, and then, as she retreated, I thanked God that she had asked no further questions. Anyway, in my two years of Cyrillic study in college, I don’t believe I ever came across the translation for bull penis.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Friday, July 29, 2005
The Airstream Chronicles.............Umatilla Indian Reservation, Oregon
When we travel as a family, Marie and I, and our son Blaine, we usually start with a loose itinerary, something we can all agree on. Maybe I propose that we go east of the mountains, since it’s May, and we will find better weather there. Agreed. Maybe Marie has been itching to see some museum or other attraction, maybe one that received a grant from the trust she works for. Sure, Blaine and I say, we’re up for that. And then, in an effort to sweeten the pot for Blaine, we might find a sporting event, or a chess event, or maybe..........a CASINO!
Such was the case in June 2005, when we trekked, with Marie’s mom, and Marie’s sister’s family, to one of our favourite spots in the world, Eastern Oregon, to visit a few museums, and the “Wildhorse Casino”, on the Umatilla Indian Reservation, near Pendleton, Oregon.
The drive to Eastern Oregon, down the Columbia River Gorge, past Multnomah Falls, Hood River, The Dalles, Arlington, and others, is a beautiful straight and flat drive, just right for pulling an Airstream. However, this time we had decided to first stop at the Warm Springs Indian Reservation, further inland, to see the Warm Springs Museum there, so we drove some mighty hilly backroads to get there. We stayed at the less than scenic KOA in Madras, but we had time to visit and barbecue, and stare into
space, so who’s complaining? Plus, there was a comfortable, accessible cabin for Blaine. But because we had booked there, specifically for the accessible cabin, we were rather shocked to find that the campground’s main bathroom was totally inaccessble. There IS a ramp at the bathroom....leading up to one tall step.....oops! During our first day there, we struck out for the Warm Springs Museum, which we found very well done. And then, Blaine bought everything he could find in the gift store which contained huckleberries, don’t ask me why. The second day, we stopped at the Sherman County Museum in Moro, Oregon, smack in the middle of wheat country. The Sherman County Museum has received multiple awards for being a thorough and interesting museum, and we were not disappointed.
We travelled more backroads on our third day out, and ended up at the Wildhorse Casino RV park. Blaine and his Grandma got a room in the hotel, and Marie and I pulled into our space at the park, which is a new park, and although the ammenities are complete, at this time, with immature plants, it lacks privacy. But who cares, we came to GAMBLE!
Having been disabled since birth, with an assortment of disabilities, my step-son Blaine is a hero to me, with all he has to deal with. No one is really sure exactly how his brain works, but it seems okay to me, and if you have a math problem, give it to Blaine. And when it comes to any kind of math based game, chess, poker, blackjack, the man is good. As in great. So I get a kick out of watching him wheel into the casino, and pull into the low wheelchair accessible blackjack table (thank you very much Wildhorse Casino!), and as some of the other players let him wiggle in, I can sometimes feel in the air an attitude of, oh, the poor disabled kid, here to lose his money, awwwwwwww.
Strictly speaking, those guys don’t know who they’re dealin’ with. I have very seldon seen Blaine leave a casino without some of the casino’s money in his pocket. While I throw away my money on the slots and maybe a bit of Roulette, Blaine is busy takin’ the house down. Disabled my ass.
And before we hit the road for home, we made one last stop at the Tamastslikt Cultural Institute on the Umatilla Reservation, http://www.tamastslikt.com/press.asp?id=98, one of the finest museums I have ever encountered. There are original treaty documents. There are fascinating displays of all kinds and including the true stories of the Indian’s struggle in Oregon as told by Indians. The building itself is stunningly beautiful. Out back, they are creating a real Indian Village, using skills handed down for centuries. There is a reference library, and a performance hall, where we watched ancient dances performed by Umatilla tribe members. Of course there is the requisite restaurant, and a very nice, large gift shop. This one gets thumbs up from Ric and Marie.
Some photos of our Airstream are here
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Such was the case in June 2005, when we trekked, with Marie’s mom, and Marie’s sister’s family, to one of our favourite spots in the world, Eastern Oregon, to visit a few museums, and the “Wildhorse Casino”, on the Umatilla Indian Reservation, near Pendleton, Oregon.
The drive to Eastern Oregon, down the Columbia River Gorge, past Multnomah Falls, Hood River, The Dalles, Arlington, and others, is a beautiful straight and flat drive, just right for pulling an Airstream. However, this time we had decided to first stop at the Warm Springs Indian Reservation, further inland, to see the Warm Springs Museum there, so we drove some mighty hilly backroads to get there. We stayed at the less than scenic KOA in Madras, but we had time to visit and barbecue, and stare into
space, so who’s complaining? Plus, there was a comfortable, accessible cabin for Blaine. But because we had booked there, specifically for the accessible cabin, we were rather shocked to find that the campground’s main bathroom was totally inaccessble. There IS a ramp at the bathroom....leading up to one tall step.....oops! During our first day there, we struck out for the Warm Springs Museum, which we found very well done. And then, Blaine bought everything he could find in the gift store which contained huckleberries, don’t ask me why. The second day, we stopped at the Sherman County Museum in Moro, Oregon, smack in the middle of wheat country. The Sherman County Museum has received multiple awards for being a thorough and interesting museum, and we were not disappointed.
We travelled more backroads on our third day out, and ended up at the Wildhorse Casino RV park. Blaine and his Grandma got a room in the hotel, and Marie and I pulled into our space at the park, which is a new park, and although the ammenities are complete, at this time, with immature plants, it lacks privacy. But who cares, we came to GAMBLE!
Having been disabled since birth, with an assortment of disabilities, my step-son Blaine is a hero to me, with all he has to deal with. No one is really sure exactly how his brain works, but it seems okay to me, and if you have a math problem, give it to Blaine. And when it comes to any kind of math based game, chess, poker, blackjack, the man is good. As in great. So I get a kick out of watching him wheel into the casino, and pull into the low wheelchair accessible blackjack table (thank you very much Wildhorse Casino!), and as some of the other players let him wiggle in, I can sometimes feel in the air an attitude of, oh, the poor disabled kid, here to lose his money, awwwwwwww.
Strictly speaking, those guys don’t know who they’re dealin’ with. I have very seldon seen Blaine leave a casino without some of the casino’s money in his pocket. While I throw away my money on the slots and maybe a bit of Roulette, Blaine is busy takin’ the house down. Disabled my ass.
And before we hit the road for home, we made one last stop at the Tamastslikt Cultural Institute on the Umatilla Reservation, http://www.tamastslikt.com/press.asp?id=98, one of the finest museums I have ever encountered. There are original treaty documents. There are fascinating displays of all kinds and including the true stories of the Indian’s struggle in Oregon as told by Indians. The building itself is stunningly beautiful. Out back, they are creating a real Indian Village, using skills handed down for centuries. There is a reference library, and a performance hall, where we watched ancient dances performed by Umatilla tribe members. Of course there is the requisite restaurant, and a very nice, large gift shop. This one gets thumbs up from Ric and Marie.
Some photos of our Airstream are here
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Saturday, July 23, 2005
The Institute Of Sanitation Technology
Sometime in 1971, my buddy Cac, who was the official leader of our band, The Morning Reign, announced that he was leaving the group. Cac had graduated from Willamette University, and he had received an offer he couldn’t refuse, working in concert promotions.
I had been contemplating the future myself, since I was not all that happy, travelling as much as we did. I was so in love with my baby daughter, Stacey, that I thought it might be a good time for me to move on too. So, Cac and I quit the band together. It was a bit sad, since we had both invested our hearts and minds so deeply into that endeavor for over 5 years. But we both knew it was time.
We were living in Seattle, and my wife at the time, my daughter’s Mom, Donna, was working for Safeway. But for the first time ever, I was going to have to get a real job. I was 24 years old, I had two kids, and absolutely no idea what to do.
In reading the want ads, I spied an ad that read, “Come to The Institute of Sanitation Technology, Guaranteed Job After Graduation”. In the days that followed, I drove there to check it out, and found that the people who owned the school also had a janitorial company. That was how they guaranteed jobs. I signed up.
I must say, one would think that being a janitor isn’t much more than emptying waste baskets and cleaning toilets. And mostly, I was just after that guaranteed job. But I was surprised to discover that there actually was a curriculum, hands on experience with machines, and lessons about cleaning agents and other substances. There was a section on all the different types of flooring that one might find in a building, and the correct way to clean them, which agents to use, etc. What I thought was going to be sort of a joke, was actually quite a good learning experience. I finished the school, which was about a month, got a job with the company, and for the first time in my life, was supplying my own health benefits. I remained a janitor for about a year, and then found a job as a baker’s apprentice.
In the years to come, it was remarkable how many times I came to need the experience I had gotten as a graduate of “The Institute of Sanitation Technology”. For example, when I built my first bakery, I saved a ton of money by buying my own floor machine, and stripping and waxing the floor on a regular basis by myself. And believe it or not, there is a right way and wrong way to mop, with a big 28 oz. mop, and that little bit of knowledge made my job so much easier over the next twenty years of owning a bakery. Of course I passed on my knowledge of how to clean things properly to my employees.
My friend Stan, who came to work for me as apprentice in 1977 and ended up buying my bakery from me in 1995, used to make light of my “sanitation education”, when I would brag about it to him by stating, “Oh yeah that’s right Ric, I forgot, you did attend "The Institute of Sanitation Technology “At” Seattle”. Very funny. But all in all, I think my experience there suggests that, if you are learning something in school, just about anything, it will probably come back to help you later.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
I had been contemplating the future myself, since I was not all that happy, travelling as much as we did. I was so in love with my baby daughter, Stacey, that I thought it might be a good time for me to move on too. So, Cac and I quit the band together. It was a bit sad, since we had both invested our hearts and minds so deeply into that endeavor for over 5 years. But we both knew it was time.
We were living in Seattle, and my wife at the time, my daughter’s Mom, Donna, was working for Safeway. But for the first time ever, I was going to have to get a real job. I was 24 years old, I had two kids, and absolutely no idea what to do.
In reading the want ads, I spied an ad that read, “Come to The Institute of Sanitation Technology, Guaranteed Job After Graduation”. In the days that followed, I drove there to check it out, and found that the people who owned the school also had a janitorial company. That was how they guaranteed jobs. I signed up.
I must say, one would think that being a janitor isn’t much more than emptying waste baskets and cleaning toilets. And mostly, I was just after that guaranteed job. But I was surprised to discover that there actually was a curriculum, hands on experience with machines, and lessons about cleaning agents and other substances. There was a section on all the different types of flooring that one might find in a building, and the correct way to clean them, which agents to use, etc. What I thought was going to be sort of a joke, was actually quite a good learning experience. I finished the school, which was about a month, got a job with the company, and for the first time in my life, was supplying my own health benefits. I remained a janitor for about a year, and then found a job as a baker’s apprentice.
In the years to come, it was remarkable how many times I came to need the experience I had gotten as a graduate of “The Institute of Sanitation Technology”. For example, when I built my first bakery, I saved a ton of money by buying my own floor machine, and stripping and waxing the floor on a regular basis by myself. And believe it or not, there is a right way and wrong way to mop, with a big 28 oz. mop, and that little bit of knowledge made my job so much easier over the next twenty years of owning a bakery. Of course I passed on my knowledge of how to clean things properly to my employees.
My friend Stan, who came to work for me as apprentice in 1977 and ended up buying my bakery from me in 1995, used to make light of my “sanitation education”, when I would brag about it to him by stating, “Oh yeah that’s right Ric, I forgot, you did attend "The Institute of Sanitation Technology “At” Seattle”. Very funny. But all in all, I think my experience there suggests that, if you are learning something in school, just about anything, it will probably come back to help you later.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
The Rustler
In the Summer of 1975, a few months before I opened my first bakery, “Richard’s Bakery”, in Tualatin, Oregon, I was hurtin’ for work. It was taking longer than I had planned to get the bakery opened, with construction and legal issues, so I was ready to take just about any kind of piece work, a day here or there, just to keep a few bucks coming in. I worked several different jobs, not all of them as a baker. But for several weeks, right before my bakery was ready to go, I worked at an Albertson’s Bakery in S.E. Portland, at 39th and Holgate, which is currently a Trader Joe’s. I replaced vacationing staff, even including the manager of the bakery, whose name was Hubert Smiley.
I was still quite young, 27, and although I was capable of most of the requirements of that job, there were a few difficult moments, even in the short time I was there. For example, when I was called on to decorate a wedding cake, I admit standing back and looking at it and pitying the couple who had ordered their wedding cake at a grocery store bakery. Later, I became a much better cake decorator.
But one certain faux pas is especially worth mentioning, as I recall here.
One Sunday, working alone, I found an order on the spindle for a few hundred “poor boy” or “sub sandwich” style buns. Apparently this was a standing order for a Portland restaurant named “The Rustler”, who picked up these buns once a week, froze them and pulled them out as needed during the week, for steak sandwiches and other delights. I remember having to call Hubert Smiley at his home to ask a few questions, like, for example, where is the recipe?
The “formula” (the baker’s word for “recipe”), was a rather standard white dough, and also called for a small addition of “egg shade” which is a powder or liquid, and is used to color the dough to a rich yellow, as it might look with the addition of eggs. But when I got to that part, there was no egg shade to be found. I called Mr. Smiley back to ask him what to do, but there was no answer.
Ok, I sorta freaked. I should have just left the dough white, but instead, I found a regular yellow food color in the cake decorating department, and squeezed the bottle into the dough. A little looked pretty good, but too light. I squeezed again, and then again. Suddenly, as the dough spun in the mixer, I realized I had a bit of a problem on my hands, as in, yellow Easter egg colored bread dough. 100 pounds or so of, well, flourescent yellow dough. Shit.
What to do? Damn. If I start over, I will be here all day, given the necessary fermentation time, plus I will have wasted all these ingredients. Shit. Okay lessee. I could add something to tone down this yellow. Hmmmm, okay, I’ll use the “caramel color”, which is usually used to make the whole wheat or rye bread darker, and sometimes used in maple bar icing. I put a “glug” into the dough, and spun it again. Not enough. Another glug. And there, before my eyes, in the shiny 80 quart bowl, was.....
I don’t know how to explain it really. I guess it would be fair to say that the color went from Easter egg yellow, in a matter of seconds, to a color, well, a color unknown to nature. Sort of an eye popping yellowish burnt sienna, something, but, oh, not a color one might relish biting into.
The amount of work it takes for one baker to take a dough this big to the bench and make several hundred buns is daunting. But I had already made the doughnuts, iced the cakes, made the french bread, the wheat bread, the danish, several icings, brownies, on and on, and so, there in the Albertson’s Bakery on 39th and Holgate, on that sunny Summer day in 1975, I made the decison to continue. I went ahead and made the buns with that awful dough. For The Rustler.
When they were done baking, they didn’t look half bad. They were a nice golden brown, indistinguishable from the Rustler’s regular order. But when you looked inside, uh, there was that color, that tan bread, all ready for a nice piece of medium rare sirloin. NOT.
In the days that followed, I recall that the Rustler made a call to Hubert Smiley, to make their disatisfaction known. However, they did use up all the buns. And in the Fall of that year, just after I opened my store, The Rustler closed down. I have always hoped that the demise of that eatery, and my yellowish burnt sienna colored poor boys, was just a coincidence.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
I was still quite young, 27, and although I was capable of most of the requirements of that job, there were a few difficult moments, even in the short time I was there. For example, when I was called on to decorate a wedding cake, I admit standing back and looking at it and pitying the couple who had ordered their wedding cake at a grocery store bakery. Later, I became a much better cake decorator.
But one certain faux pas is especially worth mentioning, as I recall here.
One Sunday, working alone, I found an order on the spindle for a few hundred “poor boy” or “sub sandwich” style buns. Apparently this was a standing order for a Portland restaurant named “The Rustler”, who picked up these buns once a week, froze them and pulled them out as needed during the week, for steak sandwiches and other delights. I remember having to call Hubert Smiley at his home to ask a few questions, like, for example, where is the recipe?
The “formula” (the baker’s word for “recipe”), was a rather standard white dough, and also called for a small addition of “egg shade” which is a powder or liquid, and is used to color the dough to a rich yellow, as it might look with the addition of eggs. But when I got to that part, there was no egg shade to be found. I called Mr. Smiley back to ask him what to do, but there was no answer.
Ok, I sorta freaked. I should have just left the dough white, but instead, I found a regular yellow food color in the cake decorating department, and squeezed the bottle into the dough. A little looked pretty good, but too light. I squeezed again, and then again. Suddenly, as the dough spun in the mixer, I realized I had a bit of a problem on my hands, as in, yellow Easter egg colored bread dough. 100 pounds or so of, well, flourescent yellow dough. Shit.
What to do? Damn. If I start over, I will be here all day, given the necessary fermentation time, plus I will have wasted all these ingredients. Shit. Okay lessee. I could add something to tone down this yellow. Hmmmm, okay, I’ll use the “caramel color”, which is usually used to make the whole wheat or rye bread darker, and sometimes used in maple bar icing. I put a “glug” into the dough, and spun it again. Not enough. Another glug. And there, before my eyes, in the shiny 80 quart bowl, was.....
I don’t know how to explain it really. I guess it would be fair to say that the color went from Easter egg yellow, in a matter of seconds, to a color, well, a color unknown to nature. Sort of an eye popping yellowish burnt sienna, something, but, oh, not a color one might relish biting into.
The amount of work it takes for one baker to take a dough this big to the bench and make several hundred buns is daunting. But I had already made the doughnuts, iced the cakes, made the french bread, the wheat bread, the danish, several icings, brownies, on and on, and so, there in the Albertson’s Bakery on 39th and Holgate, on that sunny Summer day in 1975, I made the decison to continue. I went ahead and made the buns with that awful dough. For The Rustler.
When they were done baking, they didn’t look half bad. They were a nice golden brown, indistinguishable from the Rustler’s regular order. But when you looked inside, uh, there was that color, that tan bread, all ready for a nice piece of medium rare sirloin. NOT.
In the days that followed, I recall that the Rustler made a call to Hubert Smiley, to make their disatisfaction known. However, they did use up all the buns. And in the Fall of that year, just after I opened my store, The Rustler closed down. I have always hoped that the demise of that eatery, and my yellowish burnt sienna colored poor boys, was just a coincidence.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Michael Jackson
My Michael Jackson story contains no shattering news about seeing him fondle someone, as is the custom, lately, for those who tell their stories of Michael. Mine is from the much more innocent and positive Michael days, circa 1969.
My old band, The Morning Reign, had a recording date set up at Don Costa Studios, in Los Angeles, to do vocals on a few tracks, most notably, a song titled “Can I Believe In You”, written by Dennis Lambert, who already had many hit records to his credit. We were excited to be doing a project with him. We met in the morning, and recorded for most of the day. As vocal sessions go, we sang, sang, and then sang some more, trying to get it just right. I sang the flip side of the record, which was called “Tomorrow Morning’s Love” (Nelson-Fink), and our guitarist Gene, with his a great sounding pop music voice, sang the Lambert song, which we were certain was our ticket to stardom. Or one-hit wonderness anyway.
When Gene was singing his part, over and over, I went from room to room in the building, checking it out, trying to stay out of trouble, but snooping nonetheless. In one room, which was about about 12’x12 ‘, I came upon a music stand, holding a large piece of poster board, with a passage from the Jackson 5 song, "ABC". It was the verse where Michael, as a boy, sang the part that went “TEE-TEE-Teacher”. It was written out, by hand, in large print, so someone could read it easily from a distance, five feet or so. I was dying to know what exactly had gone on there, and later asked one of the engineers. “Oh yeah”, he said, matter of factly, “Michael did the vocals for that song here." I probably could have taken home that crummy poster board with a polite request.
Gods of eBay, where were ya when I needed ya?
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
My old band, The Morning Reign, had a recording date set up at Don Costa Studios, in Los Angeles, to do vocals on a few tracks, most notably, a song titled “Can I Believe In You”, written by Dennis Lambert, who already had many hit records to his credit. We were excited to be doing a project with him. We met in the morning, and recorded for most of the day. As vocal sessions go, we sang, sang, and then sang some more, trying to get it just right. I sang the flip side of the record, which was called “Tomorrow Morning’s Love” (Nelson-Fink), and our guitarist Gene, with his a great sounding pop music voice, sang the Lambert song, which we were certain was our ticket to stardom. Or one-hit wonderness anyway.
When Gene was singing his part, over and over, I went from room to room in the building, checking it out, trying to stay out of trouble, but snooping nonetheless. In one room, which was about about 12’x12 ‘, I came upon a music stand, holding a large piece of poster board, with a passage from the Jackson 5 song, "ABC". It was the verse where Michael, as a boy, sang the part that went “TEE-TEE-Teacher”. It was written out, by hand, in large print, so someone could read it easily from a distance, five feet or so. I was dying to know what exactly had gone on there, and later asked one of the engineers. “Oh yeah”, he said, matter of factly, “Michael did the vocals for that song here." I probably could have taken home that crummy poster board with a polite request.
Gods of eBay, where were ya when I needed ya?
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Chestnut
In late 2000, when I was recovering from a heart attack, Marie and I began to discuss the merits of dog ownership. Mostly, we just felt like we wanted a dog. We also spoke of the value of having a dog for our son Blaine, who, at the time, was home almost exclusively, given his disabilities and the fact that he loves it at home too. I mean, with DSL, and oodles of cable channels, (and a step-dad to razz constantly), what more could a guy want? Besides a dog, I mean.
I once owned an Australian Terrier, who I named Toffa, after a childhood friend of one of my daughters. I love Terriers, but we thought we might go for a more calm, big lug of a dog, like a Lab. We dug out the dog book to do our research, to find a dog that would fit into our world, and yep, we decided a Lab would be the way to go.
We found a Lab breeder, and went out to visit her kennel, where she had a new litter of Chocolate Lab puppies. Talk about cute! The puppies weren’t quite old enough to leave their Mom yet, so we made a plan to come back later in the month. We put a sold sign on a little male. We kept quiet at home, intending to surprise Blaine.
On the appointed day, we loaded Blaine up in the van with the promise of a drive in the country to be followed by lunch. But oops, we detoured to the kennel, and before long, there Blaine was, sitting in the rear of the van, one smiley twenty-something, with a Chocolate Lab puppy in his lap, and me, the guy who cries at commercials, with tears in my eyes.
We all three contributed then, as the days went by, to the “name the dog” conversation, but I think it was Marie who ultimately came up with the winner, which I thought was a great choice, “Chestnut”. We went forward then, buying every dog toy known to man, a bed, a kennel, on and on. Don’t let anyone tell you it isn’t spendy to have a dog. And then we fell in love with him.
Chestnut was a great puppy, totally cute, rambunctious, hungry, all things Lab. A typical Lab tennis ball chaser, a dog who loved his walks, and a dog who could waste your shoes with the best of ‘em. As the house husband with a heart to heal, I was appointed chief dog walker. Chessy and I left the house several times a day. As he grew, our walks became longer, and by the time he was 6 months old, he was dragging me, as my heart got stronger, to the dog park about a mile away, twice a day. That’s 4 miles, every day. I am sure it was one of the things that contributed to my improving health. One might say, in fact, that my relationship with Chessy was a major factor in my recovery. I remember thinking, as he pulled me along 24th, past Lincoln and over to the park, how lucky I was to have my dog.
At 14 months old, however, Chessy got sick. He had just completed obedience training, and he had done well. But he was exibiting several different nasty symptoms of illness, and our worst fears were confirmed. Chessy, at such a young age, was going to die, from cancer.
At first, when you find out that your dog is going to die, you can’t believe it. So on the day that we were advised of Chestnut’s fate, we took him home. We made an appointment with a specialist, and I took Chessy for a walk to the park. He was still able to walk all the way, and he even pulled a bit. I knelt to praise him a bunch, as he basked in my approval. At the park, I tossed the tennis ball as usual, and he would run for it. But when he got there, about 30 yards away, he just stood there, and then turned back to look at me, long faced, energyless. It broke my heart.
Several days later, at the specialist’s office, we put Chestnut to sleep. For those of you who have never put a dog you love to sleep before, it sucks. For those of you who have, I offer my sympathy. We drove home silently, Marie, Blaine and I. These days, we speak lovingly of Chestnut often. I know that Marie and Blaine had a special bond with Chestnut, and that it was ever so difficult to see him go. But for me, it almost feels like he came into my life to help me recover from the heart attack, and then move on. We loved him so much, and he is deeply missed.
When he was a puppy, I wrote a song titled “We Got A Lab” which appears on my 2002 CD, “Useful Information”. Blaine “calls the dog” during the solo of the song. Click here to listen.
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Monday, July 11, 2005
Where Bitches Pee
I tend to not be especially PC, as in politically correct. I do recycle with the best of them, but if I am in The State of Washington, where they do not have a bottle bill, and I know I saw a pop can in the bottom of my van’s garbage bag, before someone else, never me of course, filled that garbage up to the brim, with coffee grounds and fishwrappers, I will likely toss the whole thing in the dumpster, not only legal, in Washington, but one whole hell of a lot more efficient, and way less icky.
But this pickin’ up your own dog’s shit sucks. I am committed to not fouling my neighbor's lawns, er, allowing my dogs to do so, and that’s why I am one hell of a stellar citizen, but here’s the deal.
When I was a kid, say, oh, 4 to 17, before I went away to college, I was the chief shit remover in my family. So I get it that people don’t want huge omega clumps of nasty Bull Mastiff feces on their putting green pristine lawns, and neither did my folks, who would dispatch me to my task with a wave, whenever we would see Rover having his way with our turf. “Ric”, my dad would holler, “that damn Frenchy pooped on the parking strip”, and off I would go, trowel in hand. In those days, it was homeowner beware, in lovely Portland, Oregon, in the 1950s, 60s, and later. Those who would take responsibility for their own dogs, well, most of them hadn’t been born yet.
I come by my green thumb honestly, having been the gardener at my folk’s house for much of that time too, and after awhile, one grows to check for dog shit on the lawn before one takes the Toro to it, since, though doo can be smelly and unpleasant to remove, sliced doo is potentially overwhelming. So there I would be, as a ten year-old, already fully capable of breaking down the Briggs-Stratton, on my knees, scraping feces from fescue, before returning with the lawnmower to comply with my parent’s wishes. And even into my adult years, as I began buying houses, it was still the job of the homeowner to remove any doo he might find on his property. Seems like I have spent my entire life removing dog shit.
We have a lovely turn of the century six-plex next to our home, and occasionally I will run into the owner, who shows now and then to do maintenance. His lawn is full of those little brown patches, where bitches pee, burned by the much heavier nitogen content of a female dog’s urine. I am sure it pisses him off. The last time I saw him, walking my teeny tiny dogs, with my bone-shaped doggy doo plastic bag dispenser tethered to my yuppie dog leash handle, one of them shit on his lawn. As I began to fumble for my poop bag, he was quick to remind me, “you’re gonna pick that up, aren’t ya?’. Being responsible for removing your own dog’s shit, is, i think, in all honesty, a very good thing. Still, I almost popped him.
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But this pickin’ up your own dog’s shit sucks. I am committed to not fouling my neighbor's lawns, er, allowing my dogs to do so, and that’s why I am one hell of a stellar citizen, but here’s the deal.
When I was a kid, say, oh, 4 to 17, before I went away to college, I was the chief shit remover in my family. So I get it that people don’t want huge omega clumps of nasty Bull Mastiff feces on their putting green pristine lawns, and neither did my folks, who would dispatch me to my task with a wave, whenever we would see Rover having his way with our turf. “Ric”, my dad would holler, “that damn Frenchy pooped on the parking strip”, and off I would go, trowel in hand. In those days, it was homeowner beware, in lovely Portland, Oregon, in the 1950s, 60s, and later. Those who would take responsibility for their own dogs, well, most of them hadn’t been born yet.
I come by my green thumb honestly, having been the gardener at my folk’s house for much of that time too, and after awhile, one grows to check for dog shit on the lawn before one takes the Toro to it, since, though doo can be smelly and unpleasant to remove, sliced doo is potentially overwhelming. So there I would be, as a ten year-old, already fully capable of breaking down the Briggs-Stratton, on my knees, scraping feces from fescue, before returning with the lawnmower to comply with my parent’s wishes. And even into my adult years, as I began buying houses, it was still the job of the homeowner to remove any doo he might find on his property. Seems like I have spent my entire life removing dog shit.
We have a lovely turn of the century six-plex next to our home, and occasionally I will run into the owner, who shows now and then to do maintenance. His lawn is full of those little brown patches, where bitches pee, burned by the much heavier nitogen content of a female dog’s urine. I am sure it pisses him off. The last time I saw him, walking my teeny tiny dogs, with my bone-shaped doggy doo plastic bag dispenser tethered to my yuppie dog leash handle, one of them shit on his lawn. As I began to fumble for my poop bag, he was quick to remind me, “you’re gonna pick that up, aren’t ya?’. Being responsible for removing your own dog’s shit, is, i think, in all honesty, a very good thing. Still, I almost popped him.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Friday, July 08, 2005
Guy Talk
I came along to join this family about 8 years ago, in 1997, just about the time my step-son Blaine was graduating from Wilson High School here in Portland, Oregon. I was still the new guy on the exact day of his graduation, so I didn’t feel as though I was entitled to go. But suffice it to say that, even then, not knowing him very well yet, I was impressed and amazed that, given his disabilities, he (and his Mom) had pulled graduation off.
As time went by that summer, Marie and I continued our courtship, staying up too late at night to watch the sunset from her front porch. Many times, Blaine would wheel out, and we three would tell stories and giggle as the moon drew near.
It didn’t take me long to figure out that Blaine liked having me in his life, and as he approached his 20s, we became great friends, talking sports, participating in things we both enjoyed, as guys, like, for example, teasing each other mercilously about all manner of things, while Marie hung her head in disbelief. In fact, I would proudly go so far as to say that I have had a significant impact on Blaine, teaching him the ways of manhood, like making him treat his Mom right, showing her the respect she deserves, and other things, like how to put a new electronic device together without reading the instructions. He is a great student, a natural.
About a year after I had moved in, we were all watching TV one evening, a National Geographic special. Each time they broke for commercial, the show would pose an animal question, like, how fast does an ocelot run, and then give you three answers to choose from. We would each choose one, just ‘cause we are typical TV watching suckers who won’t change channels during a commercial when there is a big burning question to be answered. Each time, we would wait patiently to find out which one of us got the answer right.
On about the third question, which was something like how many quills does a porcupine have, I went into a rant, as the commercial played, about how smart I am, about how I was certain I had chosen the correct anwer cuz, well, “Some people are just brilliant, smarter than others. Some people actually READ now and then, something besides stupid chess books and bodice rippers, something where they might LEARN something, like how many quills a porcupine has”, on and on, just to make them both squirm, especially Blaine, as Marie laid on the couch and Blaine sat, arms folded, not saying a word.
When the show resumed, the announcer came on and, much to my feigned embarrassment, tipped his hat to Blaine, whose chosen answer was correct. Suddenly, as quick as a jackrabbit, and without mercy, as he sat perched in his wheelchair, Blaine turned, and from the very depths of his being, shot up his hand and middle finger my way, forming the universal sign for FUCK YOU RIC, right there in front of his mother, to my dismay and approval.
Marie, whose former relations with her son had been, shall we say, less worldly, opened her eyes about as wide as dinner plate dahlias, and sat there totally silent for a moment, before shouting, B L A I N E! At that moment, I knew I had been playing the role of step-dad to perfection.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
As time went by that summer, Marie and I continued our courtship, staying up too late at night to watch the sunset from her front porch. Many times, Blaine would wheel out, and we three would tell stories and giggle as the moon drew near.
It didn’t take me long to figure out that Blaine liked having me in his life, and as he approached his 20s, we became great friends, talking sports, participating in things we both enjoyed, as guys, like, for example, teasing each other mercilously about all manner of things, while Marie hung her head in disbelief. In fact, I would proudly go so far as to say that I have had a significant impact on Blaine, teaching him the ways of manhood, like making him treat his Mom right, showing her the respect she deserves, and other things, like how to put a new electronic device together without reading the instructions. He is a great student, a natural.
About a year after I had moved in, we were all watching TV one evening, a National Geographic special. Each time they broke for commercial, the show would pose an animal question, like, how fast does an ocelot run, and then give you three answers to choose from. We would each choose one, just ‘cause we are typical TV watching suckers who won’t change channels during a commercial when there is a big burning question to be answered. Each time, we would wait patiently to find out which one of us got the answer right.
On about the third question, which was something like how many quills does a porcupine have, I went into a rant, as the commercial played, about how smart I am, about how I was certain I had chosen the correct anwer cuz, well, “Some people are just brilliant, smarter than others. Some people actually READ now and then, something besides stupid chess books and bodice rippers, something where they might LEARN something, like how many quills a porcupine has”, on and on, just to make them both squirm, especially Blaine, as Marie laid on the couch and Blaine sat, arms folded, not saying a word.
When the show resumed, the announcer came on and, much to my feigned embarrassment, tipped his hat to Blaine, whose chosen answer was correct. Suddenly, as quick as a jackrabbit, and without mercy, as he sat perched in his wheelchair, Blaine turned, and from the very depths of his being, shot up his hand and middle finger my way, forming the universal sign for FUCK YOU RIC, right there in front of his mother, to my dismay and approval.
Marie, whose former relations with her son had been, shall we say, less worldly, opened her eyes about as wide as dinner plate dahlias, and sat there totally silent for a moment, before shouting, B L A I N E! At that moment, I knew I had been playing the role of step-dad to perfection.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Love It Or Leave
My nephew Max Angell is becoming a good songwriter. I love to hear his songs, and watch him as he crafts them. He is already writing mature and interesting lyrics, at his tender age of 21, and his Uncle Ric is about as proud as is possible. I find such joy in listening to his songs, as I can see some similarity in our writing style. After all, we are related. I was there, watching him come through, on the day he was born, in my sister’s bedroom. Keep your eye out for Max Angell.
When I was Max’s age, and in my old band, “The Morning Reign”, I was writing songs for the band to learn and perform, by myself, and with the advise and consent of the other members of the band. Since I was the most prolific writer, we ended up doing a lot of my songs, and to this day, I feel most grateful to those guys for being accepting and enthusiastic about the material I was handing out, which, looking back, was at nowhere near the maturity level of say, Max Angell.
I love self-deprecating humor, and I could go on and on about the crappy, inane lyrics in some of the songs I talked those boys into performing. I would bring them a song, perform it for them on guitar, and they would almost always say, okay let’s do it, pick up their instruments, and away we would go. Before long, we had a rockin’ version of some song of mine, pumped out through a wall of Marshall and Sunn amps.
Songs like “Feelin' All The Things I Did”, written from the perspective of an old man, which, since I was only 21 when I wrote it, could be called into question as a bit of a stretch. Or the ever meaningful and downright literary song about those who left for Canada rather than be drafted to fight in Viet Nam, titled “Exit Us”, and it’s more pop offspring, a ditty called “Love It Or Leave”, a title taken directly from a bumper sticker produced and sold by The Elks Club circa 1967.
Here, for your twisted pleasure, I offer one verse:
“Got a letter from my Grandma, said I oughta join the BPOE
They got stickers for your car now boy
Gonna set our country free
So I got a sticker, and read the message there....
“Love It Or Leave” gonna make me heave...
I sent her a lock of my hair”
God I hate it when my masochistic side raises it’s ugly head. But I offer this verse as
evidence of The Morning Reign’s willingness to play and record the music I was generating at the time, and I continue to offer my heartfelt thanks to those boys for their contribution and zeal.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
When I was Max’s age, and in my old band, “The Morning Reign”, I was writing songs for the band to learn and perform, by myself, and with the advise and consent of the other members of the band. Since I was the most prolific writer, we ended up doing a lot of my songs, and to this day, I feel most grateful to those guys for being accepting and enthusiastic about the material I was handing out, which, looking back, was at nowhere near the maturity level of say, Max Angell.
I love self-deprecating humor, and I could go on and on about the crappy, inane lyrics in some of the songs I talked those boys into performing. I would bring them a song, perform it for them on guitar, and they would almost always say, okay let’s do it, pick up their instruments, and away we would go. Before long, we had a rockin’ version of some song of mine, pumped out through a wall of Marshall and Sunn amps.
Songs like “Feelin' All The Things I Did”, written from the perspective of an old man, which, since I was only 21 when I wrote it, could be called into question as a bit of a stretch. Or the ever meaningful and downright literary song about those who left for Canada rather than be drafted to fight in Viet Nam, titled “Exit Us”, and it’s more pop offspring, a ditty called “Love It Or Leave”, a title taken directly from a bumper sticker produced and sold by The Elks Club circa 1967.
Here, for your twisted pleasure, I offer one verse:
“Got a letter from my Grandma, said I oughta join the BPOE
They got stickers for your car now boy
Gonna set our country free
So I got a sticker, and read the message there....
“Love It Or Leave” gonna make me heave...
I sent her a lock of my hair”
God I hate it when my masochistic side raises it’s ugly head. But I offer this verse as
evidence of The Morning Reign’s willingness to play and record the music I was generating at the time, and I continue to offer my heartfelt thanks to those boys for their contribution and zeal.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Sunday, July 03, 2005
The Remote Controlled Fart Machine No. 2
I dunno how I got there, but a few weeks ago, I ended up on a gadgets for sale website, on the page where one can buy the new and perfected “Remote Controlled Fart Machine No. 2,” also known as the “Boom Box Blaster”, for around 20 bucks. I ordered one straight away.
This past week, the fart machine arrived, and I have been having a ball with it. It uses a 9v battery, in the machine itself, and the remote control is about the size of a key fob. I tore the machine from it’s plastic packaging when it arrived, and got it working. Next, I went to place it somewhere near my perfect and sometimes proper wife Marie, who is mostly not known for a love of bathroom humour. After cleverly and slyly placing it near her butt, I stepped to the other side of the room, remote control in my pocket, and began to play the neverending plethora of amazingly realistic and varied loud fart sounds, as she sat, eyes closed, in, shall we say, utter amazement. Some minutes later, as I continued to use all my energy in an effort to keep from splitting a gut, as it were, Marie remarked, eyes still closed, in an understated sort of way, ‘You’d think a wife would have the right to expect that, at some point, her husband would grow up”. Which of course, only made me laugh all the harder.
A bit later, two of Marie’s filmmaking associates rang the bell. Tony and Peter are in their 20s, an upbeat duo. As Marie prepared lunch, I introduced them to the fart machine, by placing it on the table on our deck, among the Doritos and guac. There I demonstrated the fart machine’s repertoire, and before long, oh, say, 4 or 5 farts into the demo, I thought I might have to take them both to Emergency. I was right behind them, tears rolling off all our cheeks. As I entered the kitchen, I caught Marie’s eye, and although it is nearly impossible to not laugh when those around you are in hysterics, drooling, and expelling a suitable beverage out their nose, she had remained calm.
I tell Marie, in my most sadistic moments, that I am going to put the fart machine in my back pocket, and use it relentlessly at say, the bank or the grocery store, when we are there together. Or that I might need to bring something to her at her work this week, where she holds a most responsible and respectable position, packin’ my new toy. I promise her that, after I have furtively blared out a few tear-ass creepers from the rear pocket of my shorts, I will act as though nothing is wrong, by looking directly and stoicly into the eyes of my various victims, and announcing, in my most assertive and challenging voice, “whut?”. She remains unamused.
Click here to see The Remote Controlled Fart Machine No.2.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
This past week, the fart machine arrived, and I have been having a ball with it. It uses a 9v battery, in the machine itself, and the remote control is about the size of a key fob. I tore the machine from it’s plastic packaging when it arrived, and got it working. Next, I went to place it somewhere near my perfect and sometimes proper wife Marie, who is mostly not known for a love of bathroom humour. After cleverly and slyly placing it near her butt, I stepped to the other side of the room, remote control in my pocket, and began to play the neverending plethora of amazingly realistic and varied loud fart sounds, as she sat, eyes closed, in, shall we say, utter amazement. Some minutes later, as I continued to use all my energy in an effort to keep from splitting a gut, as it were, Marie remarked, eyes still closed, in an understated sort of way, ‘You’d think a wife would have the right to expect that, at some point, her husband would grow up”. Which of course, only made me laugh all the harder.
A bit later, two of Marie’s filmmaking associates rang the bell. Tony and Peter are in their 20s, an upbeat duo. As Marie prepared lunch, I introduced them to the fart machine, by placing it on the table on our deck, among the Doritos and guac. There I demonstrated the fart machine’s repertoire, and before long, oh, say, 4 or 5 farts into the demo, I thought I might have to take them both to Emergency. I was right behind them, tears rolling off all our cheeks. As I entered the kitchen, I caught Marie’s eye, and although it is nearly impossible to not laugh when those around you are in hysterics, drooling, and expelling a suitable beverage out their nose, she had remained calm.
I tell Marie, in my most sadistic moments, that I am going to put the fart machine in my back pocket, and use it relentlessly at say, the bank or the grocery store, when we are there together. Or that I might need to bring something to her at her work this week, where she holds a most responsible and respectable position, packin’ my new toy. I promise her that, after I have furtively blared out a few tear-ass creepers from the rear pocket of my shorts, I will act as though nothing is wrong, by looking directly and stoicly into the eyes of my various victims, and announcing, in my most assertive and challenging voice, “whut?”. She remains unamused.
Click here to see The Remote Controlled Fart Machine No.2.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Stayin' Alive
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| I wholeheartedly recommend modern day helmets for childhood sledding |
I know it’s not the same for all of us, but I think there is a good portion of men, who, when we get older, sometimes wonder how we possibly made it this far, given all the physical disasters (and mental too) we experienced in our lifetimes. At 57, I have had my share of broken hearts, failures and disappointments, which sometimes threw me into a mental state, supplying me with plenty of angst and loneliness. But the physical stuff, the potential for some sort of physical tragedy, rising out of one’s male “go for broke” way of being, one’s attitude of invincibility, that’s where I mostly got myself in trouble.
As a kid, maybe 10 years old, a friend and I were sledding down the side of snowy Mt. Tabor, near my childhood home in Southeast Portland, Oregon. We spied a long snow covered downhill run, near one of the several water reservoirs on the hill. I recognized the spot as the usually ivy covered hillside, next to the stairs and handrail, which we would sometimes use as we travelled up the side of the mountain. I do recall having a teeny bit of apprehension, since it was incredibly steep, as I approached with my sled. I thought it might be a little scary, and dangerous, due to it’s steepness, and since, as I recalled it, the ivy patch was quite deep in it’s unsnowy state. I steeled myself for a fast and hairy head first dive into the abyss. GENONIMO!
Dude, what a ride. It was over in just a few short moments. I remember being fully aware that I was totally and completely out of control. And unfortunately, as the ride was coming to an end, I hit something, something that was never really identified, something that, looking back, I am sure nearly killed me.
It was probably a steel post. There was a handrail there, supported by 4” diameter steel posts, back then, along the stairs which meandered up the side of the hill, and cut through the ivy. My wind completely gone, I stood up, unable to gasp, and walked a few steps toward my buddy, my older next door neighbor Mike Hornbeck, and passed out cold. And get this......just the second before I passed out, my life flashed in front of me. I know it sounds weird, but I have heard others speak of this feeling before, and it definitely did happen to me. It's hard to explain, since it is just a quick flash, but as I was passing out, there was a flash of some sort of all knowing feeling about one's existence, a summary of one's life on earth. I have never forgotten that feeling.The next thing I knew, Mike was reviving me by smearing snow on my face, and calling out my name, probably a smart boy scouty kinda thing to do, as I awoke, prone on the snow. He pulled me home on my sled. I was weak.
I soon realized that I had little feeling in my upper left arm, and over the next few weeks, was given a battery of tests, as I recovered, but nothing was ever diagnosed. Ever since then, I have had a numb upper left arm, except if you slug me hard there, when it will sting more than my healthy right upper arm. It’s bizarre. However, it is not a big deal, and I have never really thought of it much.
I could go on and on, how I myself created dangerous situations for myself, especially as a young man, and barely escaped disability or death. And once, travelling the paved and winding back roads of Eastern Oregon with a friend in his maroon 1959 Ford Fairlane, he thought it would be fun to scare the shit out of me by driving, around blind corners, into the oncoming lane of traffic, time and time again, as I begged for mercy. Sheer luck permitted my survival, and allows me to be here today, writing this story. I feel blessed, having endured a lifetime of bein’ a guy, and runnin’ with guys, that I am still alive.
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Sunday, June 26, 2005
The Airstream Chronicles............Cape Disappointment State Park, Washington
In early Spring 2005, Marie and I (and our two perfect Bichons, Pippi and Poppi) had made a plan to vacation for a few days, somewhere, anywhere, for some alone time. Of course, when you have two needy little dogs travelling with you, there is only so much true alone time to get. But we love them so much we would still rather have them with us. We found a window of opportunity this past week, with Marie’s mom ready and willing to stay at our home with our son Blaine. We made reservations at Cape Disappointment State Park, on the Washington Coast.
Marie has been attending a documentary filmmaking class, and actually making a ten minute short for a class project. Since it is due to be completed for showing on June 10th, we took all of her filmmaking gear with us, her camera, two laptops, (one for me and one for her), an additional hard drive, and various and sundry other devices and connections.
Our time here has been lovely, quiet, peacefully uneventful. Since we arrived in the middle of the week, the park has been rather unpopulated, the sound of those three wheel vehicles kid’s ride kept to a minimum. Just the way two old people like it.
We rose each morning, to the smell of dark and rich Columbian coffee, strained through our plastic campin’ french press, oh yeah. Then, for the morning hours, and into the afternoon, Marie worked on her movie, and I did a variety of things, writing, fishing, dog walking. I drove into the City of Iwaco, a quaint little coastal town, and fished Black Lake, iin the middle of downtown. No luck, but a beautiful spot. I sucked up a couple liquorice ice cream cones, and went exploring in the hills next to the city.
i shant bore you with a menu of each meal we enjoyed here, but suffice it to say, I did get my Pinot and chateaubriand.
We walked the dogs on the beach, and let them run without leashes for the first time ever. They were in dog heaven, there among the smells of the ocean and sand hills. I was afraid they might just run off into the sunset, never to be seen again, but after a good hour of non stop fun, they were ready to come back to mom and dad, and go back to the trailer for some rest. I don’t they they moved once all night long.
Cape Disappointment is a huge and unforgettable state park. They are gearing up here for a very busy summer, since it is the 200th anniversary of Lewis and Clark’s journey from St. Louis to Oregon, a journey taken on the orders of Thomas Jefferson. There is a recently completed interpretive center, ready to greet people from all over the world. But we’re gonna get outa here today, and it has been a blast.
See photos here
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Marie has been attending a documentary filmmaking class, and actually making a ten minute short for a class project. Since it is due to be completed for showing on June 10th, we took all of her filmmaking gear with us, her camera, two laptops, (one for me and one for her), an additional hard drive, and various and sundry other devices and connections.
Our time here has been lovely, quiet, peacefully uneventful. Since we arrived in the middle of the week, the park has been rather unpopulated, the sound of those three wheel vehicles kid’s ride kept to a minimum. Just the way two old people like it.
We rose each morning, to the smell of dark and rich Columbian coffee, strained through our plastic campin’ french press, oh yeah. Then, for the morning hours, and into the afternoon, Marie worked on her movie, and I did a variety of things, writing, fishing, dog walking. I drove into the City of Iwaco, a quaint little coastal town, and fished Black Lake, iin the middle of downtown. No luck, but a beautiful spot. I sucked up a couple liquorice ice cream cones, and went exploring in the hills next to the city.
i shant bore you with a menu of each meal we enjoyed here, but suffice it to say, I did get my Pinot and chateaubriand.
We walked the dogs on the beach, and let them run without leashes for the first time ever. They were in dog heaven, there among the smells of the ocean and sand hills. I was afraid they might just run off into the sunset, never to be seen again, but after a good hour of non stop fun, they were ready to come back to mom and dad, and go back to the trailer for some rest. I don’t they they moved once all night long.
Cape Disappointment is a huge and unforgettable state park. They are gearing up here for a very busy summer, since it is the 200th anniversary of Lewis and Clark’s journey from St. Louis to Oregon, a journey taken on the orders of Thomas Jefferson. There is a recently completed interpretive center, ready to greet people from all over the world. But we’re gonna get outa here today, and it has been a blast.
See photos here
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Arch Enemy
I am not, generally speaking, what one might refer to as “fashion conscious”. Basically, I get up, toss on jeans and a white tank top, year round. If it’s cold, I wear a soft flannel shirt over my tank top. If it’s hot, maybe I will wear a short sleeved shirt in the morning, but by the time I’ve run the stairs a few times, it’s tank top weather. For shoes, I go with a slip-on cloggy shoe, maybe tennis shoes. I do have slacks, and a suit. Call me up for a wedding. I’ll show you the suit. When it comes to fashion, I’m that guy, on his haunches, hosin’ down his driveway on a sunny Northwest day, Starbucks cup nearby. Nothin’ too dressy.
There was a time, though, perhaps when I was a bit younger, when I might go for a look, oh, black leather boots, leather vest, or poet shirt. But those boots........oh man, they hurt like hell. And they were expensive boots, and I broke’m in right, all that. In my fashion conscious days, I went for the look, not for comfort. Well, them days is over.
Several of my songs address the issue of comfort over fashion, like “Marginal Style” from my second CD, “Regards From The Roombar”. Later this summer, there will be two new CDs, and one of them features a fashion related song titled The Fa".
But there is one song, “Arch Enemy”, that didn’t make the cut for either of the forthcoming CDs. In a nutshell, it explores my very deep feelings about shoes that kill. I offer it here for stream or download. It’s a bit on the risque side, so don’t crank it if your younger kids are there.
Arch Enemy Free Download
Arch Enemy Stream
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
There was a time, though, perhaps when I was a bit younger, when I might go for a look, oh, black leather boots, leather vest, or poet shirt. But those boots........oh man, they hurt like hell. And they were expensive boots, and I broke’m in right, all that. In my fashion conscious days, I went for the look, not for comfort. Well, them days is over.
Several of my songs address the issue of comfort over fashion, like “Marginal Style” from my second CD, “Regards From The Roombar”. Later this summer, there will be two new CDs, and one of them features a fashion related song titled The Fa".
But there is one song, “Arch Enemy”, that didn’t make the cut for either of the forthcoming CDs. In a nutshell, it explores my very deep feelings about shoes that kill. I offer it here for stream or download. It’s a bit on the risque side, so don’t crank it if your younger kids are there.
Arch Enemy Free Download
Arch Enemy Stream
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
June 21, 2005
It’s my birthday today. I am 57 years old.
Sometimes, Father’s Day falls on my birthday, and that’s cool. Some might say it’s not fair, having two special days fall on one, like having your birthday fall on Christmas or something. To be honest, the older I get, the less I like the fanfare. Take me to dinner, but don’t get the big flaming dessert and the singing waiters. Ugh. On Father’s Day, Marie and I ended up in Hood River, Oregon at a greasy spoon called “The Charburger”. Right up my alley. I missed having any of my kids around, but the atmospere was perfect for a guy with an artist’s heart and a taste for beef. There, beneath the long shelf displays of antique clothes irons and coffee grinders, sitting with my sweetheart, I quietly enjoyed one of the best ribeyes I’ve ever had.
When I had my bakeries, I always liked working on my birthday. For many years I was the head cake decorator at my bakery, so I got to decorate many cakes for those who shared my birthday. It was fun to go out into the sales area, to see who the people were who were celebrating their birthday on June 21st , as they picked up the cake I had just finished, and give them a special greeting. “Yo”, I might say to a 13 year-old. “Dude, it’s my birthday today too, and here’s the cake I just made ya”.
Last night, at some friends, Marie coyly and blatantly announced my impending birthday, and many wished me well. Someone said, “Oh, it falls on the summer solstice, cool!" I have always liked that part. In my cocky days, I might have said, “See, that’s why I have such a sunny personality.” But I think our friend Nancy said it best, and most graciously, when she commented last evening, “Ric, that’s where you get your mojo!”
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Sometimes, Father’s Day falls on my birthday, and that’s cool. Some might say it’s not fair, having two special days fall on one, like having your birthday fall on Christmas or something. To be honest, the older I get, the less I like the fanfare. Take me to dinner, but don’t get the big flaming dessert and the singing waiters. Ugh. On Father’s Day, Marie and I ended up in Hood River, Oregon at a greasy spoon called “The Charburger”. Right up my alley. I missed having any of my kids around, but the atmospere was perfect for a guy with an artist’s heart and a taste for beef. There, beneath the long shelf displays of antique clothes irons and coffee grinders, sitting with my sweetheart, I quietly enjoyed one of the best ribeyes I’ve ever had.
When I had my bakeries, I always liked working on my birthday. For many years I was the head cake decorator at my bakery, so I got to decorate many cakes for those who shared my birthday. It was fun to go out into the sales area, to see who the people were who were celebrating their birthday on June 21st , as they picked up the cake I had just finished, and give them a special greeting. “Yo”, I might say to a 13 year-old. “Dude, it’s my birthday today too, and here’s the cake I just made ya”.
Last night, at some friends, Marie coyly and blatantly announced my impending birthday, and many wished me well. Someone said, “Oh, it falls on the summer solstice, cool!" I have always liked that part. In my cocky days, I might have said, “See, that’s why I have such a sunny personality.” But I think our friend Nancy said it best, and most graciously, when she commented last evening, “Ric, that’s where you get your mojo!”
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Friday, June 17, 2005
Father's Day 2005
I miss my Dad, Bob Seaberg, who passed away in 1993. It seems like forever ago.
I miss his boisterous phone calls, his loyalty to the Portland Trailblazers. I miss his booming voice, even his insistance that I come over to his house to fix something, the lawnmower, or tend to my mother or grandmother, do something for one of them that he felt he did not want to do. Relationships were not his strong suit. But while I have sometimes lamented that my Dad saw me as more of a resource than a son, especially as I got older, I still miss the big galute. He was basically a kind, generous, honest man, and I feel grateful for that.
And I feel blessed to have been given the chance to be a father myself, first, to my perfect thirty something daughters, Stacey and Amy, who live in the Seattle area. Then, 8 years ago, when I met Marie, and I met Marie’s son Blaine, when he was 18, a new father-son relationship was also born.
I spend a lot of time with Blaine. Since I don’t work away from the home these days, I am almost always here to help him with any needs he might have, during the day while his Mom is at work, and we hang out a bit, maybe watch a movie, as we did yesterday, yucking our way, like a coupla' dorks, through genius Will Ferrell’s terrible movie, “Anchorman”.
Blaine is a chess fanatic, reads chess books like he does mysteries. He and his mother both can read a big book in a day. Sheesh, how’d I end up living with these MENSA people? Having gone to work as a volunteer at FreeGeek a year and a half ago, he has learned how to break a computer down and rebuild it, and a great deal about open source software, or LINUX. He is dynamite on crossword puzzles. When I get stuck, I sometimes have to call in Da Man. He is a sports nut, and spends some of his time as a moderator on the Portland Trailblazers Forum (Hear that, Dad?) And just for chucks, give him a math problem, like this number plus this number minus this number times this one divided by this one. He will do it in his head, crunch that thing up and spit out the right answer, everytime.
For Blaine to be such an achiever is an inspiration to many, since he is disabled. Blaine has had spina bifida since birth, hydrocephalus, other disabilities. Being paralyzed from the armpits down, he requires a bit of assistance each day when he rises, and uses a wheelchair.
I paused to say goodnight to Blaine last night, as I passed his room, before heading upstairs. From his wheelchair, he handed me a Sports Illustrated, with an article on the last page by Rick Reilly. I thanked him, and glanced at the article as I climbed the stairs. After seeing what the article was about, I tossed a box of Kleenex on the bed before I slid in and began reading to Marie.
The article is about Dick and Rick Hoyt, a father-son marathoning “team” (www.teamhoyt.com), from Massachusetts. Rick Hoyt, who is 43, has been paralyzed since birth. His father Dick, who is 65, has spent his life caring for his son, and, get this.......running marathons with him, pushing him in a specially made wheelchair, and ..........they have also completed 212 triathlons!!!!! At the end of the article, Rick Hoyt, who communicates by computer keys, calls his Dad “the father of the century”. Marie and I finished the one page article, held hands and wasted a few sheets of tissue. I caught my breath, and returned to Blaine’s room.
“You butt!”, I spoke as I entered his room. “Whut?” he giggled, fully knowing the effect the article would have on me. We embraced, as we do, me bent over his chair, and Blaine slapping my back as we hug. “Wow”, I said, “that’s quite a story, what a guy, taking his son on all those triathlons, helping him have a full life.” “Yeah”, Blaine replied, not known for being overly emotional, unlike his Mom and Dad.
I finally rose to return to bed, after much hugging and slapping. As I reached the stairs, I hollered, “Love ya man”, and Blaine shot back, “You too”.
A few photos of Blaine
NEWSFLASH: A clip of Ric's song "I Need A Car" will be played on NPR's "Car Talk" radio show this weekend. Check local listings. Thank you for your support.
"I Need A Car" Free Download
"I Need A Car" Stream
Buy Ric's Music
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
I miss his boisterous phone calls, his loyalty to the Portland Trailblazers. I miss his booming voice, even his insistance that I come over to his house to fix something, the lawnmower, or tend to my mother or grandmother, do something for one of them that he felt he did not want to do. Relationships were not his strong suit. But while I have sometimes lamented that my Dad saw me as more of a resource than a son, especially as I got older, I still miss the big galute. He was basically a kind, generous, honest man, and I feel grateful for that.
And I feel blessed to have been given the chance to be a father myself, first, to my perfect thirty something daughters, Stacey and Amy, who live in the Seattle area. Then, 8 years ago, when I met Marie, and I met Marie’s son Blaine, when he was 18, a new father-son relationship was also born.
I spend a lot of time with Blaine. Since I don’t work away from the home these days, I am almost always here to help him with any needs he might have, during the day while his Mom is at work, and we hang out a bit, maybe watch a movie, as we did yesterday, yucking our way, like a coupla' dorks, through genius Will Ferrell’s terrible movie, “Anchorman”.
Blaine is a chess fanatic, reads chess books like he does mysteries. He and his mother both can read a big book in a day. Sheesh, how’d I end up living with these MENSA people? Having gone to work as a volunteer at FreeGeek a year and a half ago, he has learned how to break a computer down and rebuild it, and a great deal about open source software, or LINUX. He is dynamite on crossword puzzles. When I get stuck, I sometimes have to call in Da Man. He is a sports nut, and spends some of his time as a moderator on the Portland Trailblazers Forum (Hear that, Dad?) And just for chucks, give him a math problem, like this number plus this number minus this number times this one divided by this one. He will do it in his head, crunch that thing up and spit out the right answer, everytime.
For Blaine to be such an achiever is an inspiration to many, since he is disabled. Blaine has had spina bifida since birth, hydrocephalus, other disabilities. Being paralyzed from the armpits down, he requires a bit of assistance each day when he rises, and uses a wheelchair.
I paused to say goodnight to Blaine last night, as I passed his room, before heading upstairs. From his wheelchair, he handed me a Sports Illustrated, with an article on the last page by Rick Reilly. I thanked him, and glanced at the article as I climbed the stairs. After seeing what the article was about, I tossed a box of Kleenex on the bed before I slid in and began reading to Marie.
The article is about Dick and Rick Hoyt, a father-son marathoning “team” (www.teamhoyt.com), from Massachusetts. Rick Hoyt, who is 43, has been paralyzed since birth. His father Dick, who is 65, has spent his life caring for his son, and, get this.......running marathons with him, pushing him in a specially made wheelchair, and ..........they have also completed 212 triathlons!!!!! At the end of the article, Rick Hoyt, who communicates by computer keys, calls his Dad “the father of the century”. Marie and I finished the one page article, held hands and wasted a few sheets of tissue. I caught my breath, and returned to Blaine’s room.
“You butt!”, I spoke as I entered his room. “Whut?” he giggled, fully knowing the effect the article would have on me. We embraced, as we do, me bent over his chair, and Blaine slapping my back as we hug. “Wow”, I said, “that’s quite a story, what a guy, taking his son on all those triathlons, helping him have a full life.” “Yeah”, Blaine replied, not known for being overly emotional, unlike his Mom and Dad.
I finally rose to return to bed, after much hugging and slapping. As I reached the stairs, I hollered, “Love ya man”, and Blaine shot back, “You too”.
A few photos of Blaine
NEWSFLASH: A clip of Ric's song "I Need A Car" will be played on NPR's "Car Talk" radio show this weekend. Check local listings. Thank you for your support.
"I Need A Car" Free Download
"I Need A Car" Stream
Buy Ric's Music
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
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