BRANGELINA!....THE SONG

As I noted only two entries ago, standing in the grocery line, and reading the headlines of the gossip magazines, causes me great pleasure, whether it’s about poor Whitney Houston’s alleged drug use, or whether Oprah is currently fit or fat, or if that woman Jennifer from Friends is still mad at her ex Brad Pitt, all that stuff. Last week, as I stood giggling, I became fascinated with the way gossip reporters have taken to combining the names of celebrities who are coupled, like when they used “Bennifer” for Jennifer Lopez and Ben Afleck, and most recently, “Brangelina”, to conveniently, I guess, shorten the names Brad and Angelina. Thank God, as I sit at dinner with my family, railing on about their relationship, that I don’t have to be constantly referring to them by using their whole first names.

Perhaps it’s a trend whose time has come. It’s perfectly alright with me, dear reader, if you choose, as you discuss my blog with your family over fish sticks and corn, to refer to my wife and me as “Rarie”, that is, the combination of the names Ric and Marie, pronounced Ruh-Ree.

So I had to write a song about it. My buddy Tim Ellis came over yesterday and laid down the guitar tracks, and I mixed it this morning. I have decided to make this one a freeby, since it is quite possibly the nichiest song I have ever produced, and therefore likely to be interesting to perhaps 5 people. However, I must say, I think it came out well, Tim’s parts are stellar as usual, and I really like the melody. So here it is, for your approval, for free download, or stream. The lyrics appear below. Please feel free to send the link on to anyone you wish.

Listen to "Brangelina", the song. here

My story in annoying detail:

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Glory Days

I never liked Bruce Springsteen’s song “Glory Days” that much, even though I totally agree with the message, ‘cause it kinda creeps me out how some people tend to live in the past. When I hear the song, it just reminds me of all the crazy shit I did when was a kid, even though there were good times, like the time I ran for president of the junior class, and since I was sick with some sort of infection and in the hospital, my buddy Jim Knutson actually got up in front of those 500 students and read my speech. What a pal. And I can’t help but giggle when I think of the time I pulled my 1959 blue and white Ford Galaxie off the road on Mt. Tabor, into the bushes of the park, and commenced hot and heavy petting with a girl I had met at a party, only to be accosted some hours later by the sound of metal tapping briskly against the car window, a giant four D-Cell battery size flashlight, handled by one of Portland’s finest, who made me put my shirt on. A couple years later, when I heard that line in the Loggins and Messina song “Your Mama Don’t Dance”, which went ....“Out of the car, longhair!”, I could identify.

So you won’t catch me going on and on at dinner, or over a beer, about the good old days, but I do have to admit I like to write about it. In my daily life, I believe I am a “be here now” kinda guy, which of course follows since we live right next to the Dharma Rain Zen Center. Sometimes, when I am walking my two little white dogs past the open windows of the center, on a gorgeous Portland summer day, I think I should get involved with that church, start meditatin’, but going to that extent, I dunno, it seems kinda self indulgent. I have too many people and dogs and things to take care of to spend time meditatin’. But I do try to live in the moment, and I think it is important to try to remember to do that, to not always be playing “what if” in my mind. As I pass the center, and hear the chanting of the folks inside, it reminds me to breathe, to notice my breathing, and the wind in the trees, and the sun on my shoulders, and to remember the love of my wonderful wife, waiting for me with a cup of coffee and her warm laughter, when I get back home.

So forgive me for digressing to the time, playing touch football at the Atkinson Grade School park, when my friend Danny Roisom, one of the fiercest competitors I have ever met, was carrying the ball around his team’s left end, and as he reached me, and I went to touch him down, he rared back, and in a motion meant to look, I guess, like a straight arm, basically cold-cocked me with a right cross to the left side of my head. Of course I did not touch him down, and as he raced for the touchdown, I stood up, dazed and confused, and fully pissed, and called him out, which resulted in a very boring half hour, during which the much bigger Danny basically sat on my chest and slapped me around, until the rest of the guys were sick of it and wanted to get on with the game. And forgive me if I bring up the time, in Johnny Clement’s attic, in the seventh grade, while snuggling with Patti Eaton, I asked her if we might attempt the World’s Longest Kiss, to which she replied, “no thanks”. Maybe it was the pepperoni and onion pizza that Johnny’s swell Mom Alice had provided us earlier, with those killer homemade chocolate shakes she sometimes offered.

And forgive me for telling the story of my old band, The Morning Reign, and our appearance on the popular Paul Revere and the Raiders hosted TV show “Happening “68”, when, dressed in our groovy brown and tan blazers, we lip-synched and instrument-synched on national TV to our own rockin’ version of an obscure Standell’s song, “Can’t Help But Love You, Baby”. Having won a Northwest “Battle of the Bands”, we arrived in L.A. in the summer of 1968, did some sightseeing and recording, played a gig with “The BoxTops”, and appeared on the show. As you can see from the photo above, (that’s me sitting in the middle, bottom) we looked hokey enough, but we were runner’s up to the grand prize, which was a recording contract, and that was okay, cuz what we did each win (there were 6 of us) was samsonite luggage, a portable black and white TV, 3 power tools including a drill, a circular saw, and a jigsaw....which basically gave me my start learning how to build....a tomato soup colored portable record player, which, though dwarfed by an LP, also had an AM/FM radio, and some other prizes I can’t remember. The judges were Bobby Sherman, Brenton Wood (The Oogam Boogam Song, Gimme Little Sign), and this guy Sajid Kahn, an up and coming young actor, who apparently faded to “where are they now” status, but he was a nice guy, and they all entertained us with stories of their Hollywood lives as we each scarfed a hot dog, during a filming break, at the hot dog stand on the lot.

Being on “Happening 68” didn’t exactly make us famous, though we did get our picture in some fan mags, and TV guide. But playing with “The Box Tops”, that week, even though our "Beatles medley" sucked, was the best. Standing there, all young and naive and foolishly proud, in our groovy brown and tan blazers, signing autographs for a throng of teenyboppers in the parking lot after the gig, that’s glory days.

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Brangelina!

Occcasionally, over the years, like most people, I have bumped into a celebrity, running about on my errands, dining out, gigging with my old rock band, maybe at a sporting event. Such was the case, in about 1993, while I sat in a Portland restaurant, the old “Vat and Tonsure”, sipping my Gamay Beaujolais, perusing my menu, when suddenly, I looked up to see, several feet away, after he had shut the restaurant door behind him, movie star Timothy Hutton, who was in town filming “The Temp”. Our eyes met, he managed a friendly “How ya doin’?”, and moved on. I didn’t lay eyes on him again, but we could hear him above the restaurant noise, later, laughing heartily, no doubt trying to keep up with my own unrestrained wine drinking. The restaurant was abuzz with the news of his attendance. I could see waiters and waitresses fawning about his table, and even our own waitress reported his presence to us as we began to dismantle our rosemary stuffed game hens.

Other celebrities I claim to have had brief encounters with are Gore Vidal, Desi Arnaz, Dick Cavett, Willie Nelson, Trini Lopez, Jim Morrison, Pia Zadora, David Ogden Stiers, and Joanne Worley, who, when I met her, bestowed upon me her signature wail, which was used unsparingly on the old “Laugh-In” TV show.

For some reason, I have never been given to hero worship, and though these sightings and encounters have stuck with me, I guess I am not that impressed with celebrities, or rock stars, the famous. Maybe if I knew them personally, had some idea of what kind of person they truly were, you know, what kind of parents they are, if they are kind to others, if they pay their bills on time, if they have any truly respectable talents, like carpentry, or computer skills, I mean, besides landing a part on a TV show, or headlining on the gossip rags of America.

Once, strolling my Old Portland Neighborhood with a former spouse, who shall remain nameless, we stumbled upon a local female news anchor, who was having a glass of wine with a neighbor on his front steps. We were introduced, and I could see that my former spouse was beside herself with glee and tension, as she stood red faced, tripping over her every word, and exclaiming amazing and embarrasing hero worship like statements, as in, “Ohmigod, it IS you!” I don’t get it.

So you can imagine my astonishment, as I digress into a mouth breathin’ gawker, standing in the grocery checkout line, reading the front covers of magazines and periodicals, touting the latest news about famous couples, like Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. This most fascinating union has been conveniently shortened by The Gossip and Paparazzi Industry to “Brangelina”, such that we can all use the abbreviation, to save our breath, when we are gabbing for hours on the phone and in the coffee shops of America about their relationship. Apparently, their impending marriage has been cancelled, since the cover photo of Angelina and her full lips is accompanied by the headline, “Wedding Is Off”. Godammit! I thought they were so right for each other.

Earlier couple couplings included “Bennifer”, a fitting and advantageous shortening of Ben Afleck and Jennifer Lopez, but, sadly, she dumped him for Mark Anthony.

Standing in my checkout line, I also saw that Whitney Houston is back on dope, and, judging by the photo they got of her, this time, it’s pretty bad. Ever since she got together with that damn Bobby Brown, she’s just been goin’ downhill. This time, her ”Shocking New Cocaine Binge” could finally spell disaster. Oh Whitney! As soon as I finish reading the Laci Peterson pregnancy diary, I am gonna figure out how you can get rid of that asshole.

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Pincushion

My wife Marie loves to sew, and quilt, and is a believer in the old sewer’s adage, “Whoever has the most fabric when they die wins”. Marie comes up with original and interesting sewn things, pillows and curtains for our 1964 Airstream, quilts for home and newborn grandchildren, specially designed potholders for departing employees, on and on. It’s fun to see what she comes up with. Being driven to creativity myself, I appreciate having a partner whose creative life is abloom. With Marie, beyond sewing, there’s filmmaking, writing, and art. Not to mention her creative flair in the kitchen. But sewing is at the top, I think, as far as level of enjoyment goes, for Marie. I picture her sitting on the couch, at home, or at the beach house we favor in Bandon, Oregon, in her irridescent pink half-glasses, beavering away at some new quilt design, looking up at the TV news only occasionally to catch a view of something she deems newsworthy enough to require her attention. Last summer, as I fished the incoming tide of the Coquille River, she banged out a cute and cuddly quilt for our newest grandchild, Ellery.

Marie’s office, in our home, which doubles as a sewing room, and triples as a fabric warehouse, tends to pile up with all things artistic, and she has recently been designing some new shelving for Ric to build, as soon as we move the couch outa there. This will allow for a much greater degree of organization, so I am all for it. All those scissors, pincushions, and piles of fabric will be much easier to find, and less likely to go astray.
I guess it was about 5 years ago now, while walking through our bedroom, which is a stone’s throw away from Marie’s office, when I stepped on the pincushion. Marie had already left for work that morning, and my caffeine level was not quite yet to 100%, as I moved from the bathroom back into the bedroom, coffee cup in hand, in my blue Seahawks bathrobe, and that’s when it happened. Apparently, the pincushion, the big red one, Marie’s principal pincushion, had wormed it’s way, unbeknownst to it’s primary user, from the sewing table in her office, to the bedroom floor, smack dab in the middle of the bedroom walking pattern. Suddenly, with nary a glimpse of forewarning, the southernmost point of my body, the ball of my left foot, just past the toes, propelled by my strappin’ 200 pound frame, slammed down on that prickly cushion, pin points facing up.
Maybe you can visualize the moment, that split second, before I reacted to the pain, as I stood in my robe, after just taking a sip of coffee, my cup still inches from my lips, looking straight ahead, my eyes suddenly grown to the size of salad plates.

The pain, then, was immediate, and excruciating, and, though I am generally not lost for words, this time, pretty much indescribable. The coffee went flyin’. I hit the floor.
You hear about people liftin’ cars n’shit, when the time comes for quick emergency action, to save someone, or save oneself. I think I may have been in that zone. I am certain that I didn’t say a word, I was movin’ too fast to yell, or complain. Within a very short amount of time, seconds, I decided to rip that thing off my foot. There was no time to make a considered decision. The decision was already made, somewhere in the depths of the self-preservation section of my right cortex. Get that fucking thing offa me.
This part I can describe, the removal part, which also happened at a rather fast rate of speed, as one might rip off a band-aid, or one of those waxing strips like they use on those hairy guys in movies and on TV. With my right hand, I peeled off the cushion, pin row by pin row, as quickly as I could from its imbedment, and as I did, and I swear to you this is the truth, and you can go ahead and try it if you don’t believe me, it sounded, and felt, as it released from my foot, exactly like Velcro.

There was very little blood, I dunno why, maybe cuz the pins are so thin, and the second I got it off, I just fell on my back and laid there, my head flat on the oak floor, for a minute or so. My eyes had filled with water, and I am sure I breathed a major sigh of relief as I grimaced and considered what had just happened. The pain immediately subsided, and as I cleaned up my foot, I was already starting to get into the humor of it, and considering how I might describe the event to Marie, with my tongue in my cheek, and blame her for it.

It was all kinda interesting, I mean the Velcro effect and all, but I hope not to come down full force on another pincushion anytime soon, interesting or not, and experience yet again the kind of pain usually reserved for those on the way to their maker. However, if I get a paper cut in my office, or put a hammer down on my thumb in the basement, or skin my knees in the garden, I am gonna run like hell to my dear wife, my lower lip pursed, for some more a’that pamperin’.



Marie is such a sweet and tender angel of mercy, as evidenced by the massive amounts of love and care she has extended to our son Blaine, with his physical challenges, and she didn’t disappoint when I told her my story, later that day, by expressing sincere and total sympathy for a guy with a thousand holes in his left paw. After her outburst of empathy and kindness, I couldn’t go on with my planned sick charade of incrimination and finger pointing for something that was, of course, just one of those things. I was enjoying the mothering too much.

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Motown Man

Every Christmas, Marie, Blaine and I pull out the ridiculous number of Christmas CDs we have accumulated, and actually listen to them. We have some great ones, in the pile, traditional, contemporary, even some over the top novelty stuff. But there is one artist who has been missing from our collection, so I rectified that this week by ordering “The Very Best Of Stan Freberg”, which holds that much adored Christmas classic, “Green Christmas”. When I was a kid, I completely loved Stan Freberg, and I count him among my musical (and lyrical) influences.

I opened the CD just minutes ago, and took it to show my step-son Blaine, who holes up in his room each morning readying for the day. As I sit and write, I can hear the CD emanating from his room downstairs, not only “Green Christmas”, but other nutty Freberg efforts, “John and Marsha”, and some off the wall version of “The Great Pretender” (Oh yes, I’m the great preteh-ender).

It’s weird hearing that CD wafting out of his room. Usually, Blaine has his radio set on an “oldies” station, and later, as he sits at his computer, the oldies continue, as his iTunes shuffle, maybe some Beatles, and lots of Motown, The Temptations, The Four Tops, Smokey Robinson.

When I met Blaine Deatherage-Newsom in 1997, he had just graduated form Wilson High school here in Portland, and, given his disabilities, it was quite a feat. The Gods of Education have shone down on Blaine, in many ways, his formal schooling, his Mom's influence, his extra curricular reading, his web cruising, his work experience. Never mind that he is a sponge for facts and figures. And one area that he has somehow come to embrace and excel at is, well, anything “Motown”. Marie is a big Motown buff, and they both LOVE the music, so that’s probably the root of it. But Blaine has basically got it down to a science. Sure, there are a few things he might not know about Motown. All I know is, when you need a Motown lifeline on “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire”, you couldn’t do much better than givin’ ol' Blainey a call.

To honor Blaine for his secondary school achievement, that year, his Mom (my future wife Marie) had been planning a special congratulatory trip for him. to Cleveland, to see “The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame”, and to Detroit, to take in the recording studio where Berry Gordy and the early stars of Motown plied their trade, “Hitsville, U.S.A.” Marie invited me to go, and it was just a fantastic, fun trip, as I have expanded on here before. And besides being a blast, I think we all decided, on that trip, that we were gonna be a family.

A couple of years ago, likely after a stellar display of Motown knowledge, I retired to my studio to compose a song about Blaine, which is titled “Motown Man”. It appears on my 2005 CD “Who Come Down”. Here’s a clip:
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Dancin'

Ya shoulda seen me, back there in about 1969, shakin’ my tailfeather like Mick Jagger, while beltin’ out Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride”, which I sang every time we did a show, phonetically, since I had no idea what the actual words were. Standing in front of a wall of Marshall amps, on stage with my old band “The Morning Reign”, while Steve Tate and Doug Heatherington laid down a capable backbeat to a Van Morrison tune, maybe “Domino”, or our own rockin’ version of “You Left The Water Runnin”, just made a guy feel like dancin’. I’m not positive, but I think maybe the fact that I was 21 years old may have also worked it’s way into my dance fever. I can remember, after a night of 4 or 5 rockin’ sets, maybe 50 songs, in a hell hole like the old Eugene Armory, being soaked to the skin. I dunno, jumpin’ around up there to the music, it’s just what a rock star wannabe does.

Cut to 2005, where I found myself with my perfect wife Marie, recently, at ground zero during a FreeGeek function, face to face with a local rock band. “Dance with me” Marie hollered over the din, rising from her chair enthusiastically with a smile and a wiggle.

Now, it’s not like I don’t have music in me. I’m still crankin’ out the tunes, and as some of you know, I do know how to rock. But suddenly, sitting there, in that venue where the B.O. is plenty, and the microphone still smells like a beer, geez, I just wasn’t interested. “C’mon Ric”, I said to myself, “What’s wrong with you, you old codger”.

I was kind of shocked really, that I wasn’t more willing and excited to jump up, just like in the old days, and git partyin’. After all, I WAS all hopped up on Atenolol, Lipitor, Zyrtec, Protonix, Plavix and Aspirin. You’d think, with all those drugs in my system, I’d be like a party animal. Plus, I’d had a glass of wine. When I finally did join Marie, it was fun. But getting me there, I admit, was a bit like pulling a tooth. Dancin’, these days, for me, just doesn’t hold the appeal it once did. Maybe it’s aging, maybe it’s self consciousness and body image, maybe dancin’ sucks.

On Christmas, Marie presented me with the certificate pictured below, (it was in my stocking) which says “ This certificate entitles Ric Seaberg to a 10-week class of ballroom dancing with his wife.....instruction in fox trot, salsa, tango and waltz included. Redeem at any dance studio, immediately after attending a play of your choice....Enjoy, Love, Marie”. When I first read it, I must admit that I experienced an overwhelming moment of fear that she might be serious. Seconds later, we all cracked up at her teasing, including my step-son Blaine, who loves it when anything gets under my skin. She threw that part about attending a play in there, since she knows how much I love to spend 2 or 3 hours in a stuffy little off the beaten path theatre, watching fine local actors and actresses vie for Drama King and Queen of Portland, wailing out their lines to a brand new piece of art written by an angry and confused twenty something. Forgive me.

After talking to Marie about her little joke, turns out, her position is that guys always tell you they are big on dancin’, and then, after they catch you, they suddenly lose interest. “Did I do that?”, I said to her, as she nodded her head yes. Okay honey, sorry. I’m just gettin’ t’be a fuddy duddy. Thanks for the kick in the pants. I’m ready t’go out and soul shake the night away anytime. But no plays okay?

Check out my song "Love You Anyway" from my 2003 CD "Regards From The Roombar" where I actually mention the play thing.

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Unfortunate Moniker

Years ago, back in the days of the original “Truth or Consequences” TV show, starring a much younger Bob Barker, I would sometimes find myself, before the blessing of remote controls, watching the show. On one particular occasion, as I watched, the consequences for not answering the nutty question Bob had posed to several contestants, was that the contestants were made to go out into the world, and for the following week, dig up as many people as they could with the most unusual of names, and convince them to return to the show, to receive a prize. For some reason, I actually saw the next show, ( I didn’t plan it, I swear to God) which produced the results of the contestant’s research. The contestants had gone forth, and had taken to cruising phonebooks, for weird names, and cold calling.

The contestants provided some real winners, which I have never forgotten. One woman, who was pleased to return to the show for her assortment of blenders and Samsonite luggage, had been named Rosemary, at birth, and with the last name of Hose, had endured a lifetime of ridicule and abuse as the holder of the truly unfortunate moniker “Rose Hose.”

There was an older man named “Safety Furst”, and another older man, whose parents were havin’ some kinda fun, at naming time, considering their last name of National, and surely splittin’ a gut when they wrote “First” on the birth certificate. I dunno, maybe they were hoping for a star wide receiver, or a movie star, whose unusual moniker may have been more of a help than a hindrance. All I know is, besides buying prunes in a lunch line, having the name First National could be one of the most embarrassing things ever.

In about 1973, my spouse at the time was working for Safeway, and one evening, after arriving to pick her up, I entered the store. The produce guy at that store, in Renton, Washington, was a gentleman named Larry Azolla. Apparently, someone had just called the store and asked for Larry, because, as I entered the store, one of the produce assistants, who had just taken a call in the main store office, was on the public address system, announcing his name. It was at this moment that I heard, loudly, and clear as a bell, with everyone else in the store, this young man's attempt at comedy, as he announced, "Larry Ass-hole-uh, telephone for Larry Ass-hole-uh please, line one for Larry Ass-hole-uh", several times. Kind of a stretch, making Azolla into Ass-hole-uh, but I admit, it was funny, and as I recall, he got away with it.

I am curious about unfortunate monikers. Any other stories out there? My mother knew a woman named Anna Versarie. What are parents with the last name of Moss thinking when they name their son Pete? Do you have anyone in your life with an unusual or unfortunate moniker? I’d like to know.

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Time For Love

Allow me to wish you all the most merry of Christmases, the coolest Kwanza, a grand pagan gathering, and a magnificent Hannuka, this year, as you celebrate your Spiritual Life.

It has been a fantastic year at our house. My step-son Blaine has continued his volunteering at FreeGeek, here in Portland, and has become such a go-to guy there that I don’t think they could live without him. We are so totally proud of him for all he has learned and how he is committed to his work. And I have to add that, given his disabilities, the fact that he makes such a great effort to go down there everyday and make a difference, is awe-inspiring. Way to go Blainester!

Marie and I became proud and ecstatic grandparents again, when youngest daughter Amy gave birth to Ellery. Ellery came through energetic but calm, and when they visit, I love to hold her, when I can get her away from my wife.

2005 will go down for us as the year of my wife Marie’s first film, which is titled “Finding RevPhil”, and it's a huge hit. Everytime I was at a showing, and people were laughing their butts off, I felt so proud of her. It’s a great short. You gotta see it.

And I cranked out not one, but two CDs this year, thank you very much, an enormous amount of work, but I loved every minute of it. And I continued to blog, and to get a lot of my stories down on paper, which I have been wanting to do forever. Thank you so much to all of you who come here to read the tales of my life, and dumb shit I have done.

And just because I am so grateful to you, dear readers, for your eyes and hearts, I would like to offer a FREE download of a “Winter” song I wrote in 1983, and have rerecorded just recently, titled “Time for Love”. Thanks again and I hope you have a great (and loving) weekend! Ric

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NO FRUITCAKE JOKES!

“Oh yeah, well I KNOW all about fruitcake buddy! I’ve worked in Emergency at a hospital, and I’ve SEEN what fruitcake can do to a person!”

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In 1972, when I began my baker’s apprenticeship, I didn’t know the first thing about fruitcake. But that Christmas, at the Seattle bakery where I worked, the candied fruit started to arrive, in 30 lb. boxes, with pecans, blanched almonds, and other ingredients. I can still see that huge stack of stuff, sitting in the corner of the storeroom, on the day I asked my boss, Karl Ekelmann, “Okay, so what are we gonna do with all that fruit?”

Several days later I found myself, shall we say, fully involved in the making of the fruitcake, with hundreds of pounds of those ingredients strewn out onto our 5’ x 12’ maple workbench. Karl and I poured the white colored and rum fragrant batter onto the top of the fruit and nuts, and then, began to gently turn the pile into a spicy, rich fruitcake mixture, using the full length of our arms. It was tiring. Basically, a good fruitcake contains mostly fruit and nuts, and very little batter. We finished, hosed down, and scaled the finished batter into round pans and full sheets, and baked it at a low temperature all day. When it was almost finished, we pulled the pans from the oven, one at a time, and topped all the cakes with fruit and nuts we had held out as topping, after, of course, soaking it all in rum and flavorings, and finally, brushed on a sweet and shiny apricot glaze over all the cakes. The making of that fruitcake, all those years ago, on that day, when I was still in my 20s, the spectacle of it, hooked me on fruitcake. I decided to like it.

I worked as an apprentice for 3 years, and then opened “Richard’s Bakery” in Tualatin, Oregon. Later, I opened my second bakery, “Favourites Bakery”, in Portland. Every year, while I was in business, my staff and I would crank out hundreds of fruitcakes, at Christmas time. Since it was an all day affair, I would try to make it fun, have other foods for the staff, maybe bring in a chef to make us something, sort of a Special Christmas Party For Baker’s Only.

In about 1985, after ten years in business, I began to tire of the plethora of “fruitcake jokes” out there, you know, how there is really only one fruitcake, that gets regifted around the world, since no one will eat it, how they make great doorstops, all that. Since I had been interested in fruitcake for some time, by then, I had been trying other fruitcakes every chance I got, and I was not surprised that fruitcake jokes were all the rage, given the many really lousy fruitcakes in the world. After thinking about it, and developing my ideas about it, I wrote a tract titled “In Defense of Fruitcake”, and placed copies of it on my counter for people to take. The basic idea is, if you make it right, use great ingredients, it’s gonna be good. If you make it cheaply, as is done so many times by wholesalers, and well, grannies, trying to save a buck, its gonna be shit. Later, owing to my attitude about fruitcake, and just for fun, I had some stickers made, depicting a big black circle, and slash, forming the newly invented International Sign for “No Fruitcake Jokes.”

Over the years, “In Defense Of Fruitcake” got around. I had sent a copy to “The Retail Bakers of America”, and through them, others found the article. One year, I think it was 1987, I got several small checks in the mail from newspapers around the country, who had reprinted it.

But the coup d’etat was in 1989, when writer Maria La Ganga, of the LA Times, did her research for an article she was doing about fruitcake, and used me, and my tract, as her springboard. The AP came out to my shop and took photos, and on December 13, 1989, the article came out, and was reprinted that year in many papers around the country. In the article, she refers to me as “the father of the fruitcake revolution”. You can imagine what a kick I get out of that. My usual hundreds of pounds of sales went well over a thousand that year. The article is still available to view online at The LA Times archives.

I didn’t get on Letterman, which woulda been a riot, me an’ Dave hurlin’ crappy fruitcakes offa the NBC roof, to see what kind of damage we might generate, but I did get phone calls from all over the country, from DJs, whose attitudes ranged from interested and nice to downright stupid. I would take the calls, negotiate my way through their questioning, and dumb jokes, all the while supporting my position on fruitcake.

When I sold “Favourites Bakery” in 1995, the name went with the sale, so I had to think of another name for my corporation. After very little thought, and since I can be such an impulsive sucka, I wrote “No Fruitcake Jokes, Inc.”, on the application to change the name of the corporation. I kept that name for a number of years, and it did shock and unsettle a few, when writing checks with the corporation name on them, or using business credit cards. Once, at Costco, when I used my “No Fruitcake Jokes, Inc.”, American Express Card, a management person was called over, and he quizzed me. “Sir, uh, what type of business was it that you have?”


Buy a "No Fruitcake Jokes" T-shirt

My story in annoying detail:

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In Defense Of Fruitcake
Copyright Ric Seaberg 1985

Are you, dear friend, one of the chosen, the enlightenend, the few........who enjoys a good fruitcake, chock full of the freshest pecans and candied cherries and pineapple, bound only by ounces of deliciously spiced and perhaps liquored cake batter? Then bless you!

Or are you, poor soul, the one who spouts at the mention of fruitcake, “Makes a damn good doorstop”, or “I hope Aunt Ruth brings her fruitcake this year, ha-ha, we need another football!?” Then shame on you!

In 1975, when I opened my first bakery, at age 27, I will admit that I had my reservations about fruitcake. I was young, inexperienced, and although I’d been exposed to quality fruitcake baking, I had not yet “discovered” fruitcake. I may have even, at some time in my life, given in to “fruitcake bashing” myself, joining in with the legion of misguided individuals who smear fruitcake, the naive, the palateless.

Five minutes ago, here at 3:30 a.m., I turned by hand 100 pounds of beautiful cherries, pineapple, pecans, walnuts and blanched almonds into rum flavor and rum......to soak, and to be used later as the fruitcake topping. The sight of the fruit mixture and the aroma of the flavors are more than heavenly. I know my assistant, Mary, will arrive shortly and exclaim, in a kind of low, sensual tone.....”OHHHHHHHHH,...........Are we making fruitcake today!!!?

So what’sa matter? How did fruitcake acquire do many foes? Folks who are assured that most people in the group will agree with them as they wince and moan and gesture their fingers down their throats that fruitcake makes a better paperweight than food.....?

Years ago, when Aunt Ruth, and millions of others like her were shopping for their fruitcake ingredients, they found something new on the shelf. Something pretty, something inexpensive..........candied citrus peel!!!! “Wouldn’t that make a fine addition to my fruitcake?”, thought Ruth, “and so inexpensive!!” And so, on that day, millions of pretty, but pretty awful fruitcakes were born.

Marvelous little packages, those Currier and Ive embossed canned hostess gifts, masquerading as fruitcake. Those mountains of chain-store gift boxes for the purveyors of the fruitcake myth. The perfectly merchandised two pound cans of batter laced citron, ready to go for $2.99.

In our business, we sell hundreds of pounds of “real” fruitcake each holiday season. I would like to offer several suggestions if you intend on treating yourself to a fruitcake this year:

1. Try to find an independent baker, whose reputation depends on making “good things to eat”.
2. Be prepared to pay handsomely for a good fuitcake.
3. Chill it before slicing
4. Serve it ceremoniously, sliced thin, with a good quality coffee or tea.

Fruitcake, misunderstood and stripped of it’s former stature by greed and corporate merchandising, needs our help! Enjoy a good fruitcake. Invite some friends! And don’t forget to buy one for Aunt Ruth!

Ric Seaberg’s Fruitcake Recipe 

Single recipe (for 9x13 pan). Double recipe in cups and also weight appear to the right of each ingredient.

3 cups dates, pitted and chopped (chop each date into 3 or 4 pieces) Sugared date pieces also available -6c (31.5 oz or 2 lbs)

2 cups candied pineapple chunks 4c (1 lb-5oz)

2 cups dried chopped mango pieces (Like 3/4 inch pieces) 4c (1 lb-5oz)

1 cup chopped candied papapya (not too small!, use your date pieces to inform your chopping size) 2c (11oz)

2 cups candied (glace, pronounced "glah-say)) red cherries 4c (1 lb-5oz)

4 cups walnut halves 8c (2 lbs)

4 cups pecan halves (your nuts must be fresh, taste one! taste good? Then use'm!) 8c-(2 lbs)

1 -1/2 oz rum extract 3oz

1 -1/2 oz PURE vanilla extract (imitation vanilla should be outlawed) 3oz

2 -1/2 cups all purpose flour 5c

2 -1/2 teaspoons baking powder 5t

1/2 teaspoon salt 1t

5 eggs 10

3/4 cup corn syrup ( I use light, but dark works too) 1-1/2 c

1/3 cup brown sugar 2/3c

1/2 cup vegetable oil (like canola) 1c

1 pint or half a fifth of light or dark rum 

Directions:

Day 1- put all your fruit in a bowl. If any of it is larger pieces, cut it into 1/2”-3/4” size pieces. Pour rum over fruit, stir well and cover. Return to stir fruit in bowl 4-5 times in the next 20-24 hours. This serves to flavor and hydrate the fruit!)

Day 2

1. Grease or spray (I use Baker's Joy) a 1/4 sheet pan (9" x 13"), and cover the bottom of the pan with a piece of parchment paper (double batch use a 1/2 sheet pan-12x18)

2. Mix the batter as you would a cake batter, oil and sugar fist until well incorporated. Then add eggs and other ingredients except flour and mix til incorporated. Finally add flour and mix til well incorporated. 

3.Add the batter to the fruit and nut mixture and turn until well incorporated. Be gentle! I like to mixtape it by hand right on my kitchen counter.

4.Pack the finished batter/fruit/nuts mixture into your pan

5.Bake at 275 degrees (135 degrees C) about 2 hours 15 minutes. Remove from oven and let cool. Ovens vary so check your fruitcake out in maybe 2 hours, if it feels quite firm to the touch, it is probably done.

6. Remove from oven and allow to cool at least 2 hours before cutting. I like to cut it into pieces I can easily place into zip lock baggies or celophane bags

7.Cheesecloth and the booze. Some peeps like to wrap pieces of fruitcake in cheesecloth, and then drizzle or spray a little rum, bourbon or brandy onto their fruitcake each week for several (or many!) weeks until the holidays hit, for that extra punch! Keep your boozy fruitcakes in an air tight container to reduce evaporation. And arrange for a driver ;)

Notes: don’t be too crazy strict

with your ingredient selection. I mean aside from ruling out using any citron whatsoever. Maybe you get a good deal on candied pineapple but the papaya is crazy expensive. So go with a little more pineapple and skip the papaya! As long as your total fruit weight is correct it’s okay to modify your fruit selection some. After you have prepared your pieces of fruitcake to eat or use as gifts, I think it is wise to keep them refrigerated in an air tight container or baggie. Some candied and dried fruits are less stable

than others. So keep cold or frozen to retard spoilage! Mwah!! 😚 

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Dick For A Dowry

The truth is, when a man gets divorced, then, in most cases, it’s time to start over, collecting holiday decorations. The truth is, when a man gets divorced, the children go live with the mom, anyway, mine did, and so, when it’s time to decide who gets what, the holiday stuff, the Christmas ornaments, the tree stand, other display items, like the Santa Moose Puppet and all the stockings, they go where the kids go. When I was divorced, the first time, and my 2 daughters were in their teens, I tried to arrange to keep one of my daughters with me, but she was a great soccer player, and was determined to go to the high school in the school district where her mom lived, to play for her sister's alma mater, and for a coach she admired greatly. So off she went, and any Christmas items that I had retained eventually went too.

There are a few things that have remained with me over the years, and today, when Marie and I were going through the Christmas boxes, and selecting the things we would display this year, she grabbed an ornament, in the shape of a baker, that’s me, an ornament which had been given to me a long time ago by my daughter Amy. I was pleased to see, among the tons of special ornaments that Marie has collected over the years (she kept lots of ornaments in her divorce too), vacation ornaments, ornaments purchased especially with my step-son Blaine in mind, things that Marie and I have bought together since 1997, at least one paltry Christmas thing of mine. As she grabbed it, she said, “Oh here’s the baker”, and I said, “Is that actually mine?”, and she replied, comically,”Yeah, it was part of your dowry!” Standing there, looking at those boxes and boxes of stuff, and my one lone contribution, leftover from my checkered past, I told Marie, “Man, when we met, I didn’t have dick for a dowry.



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Ric Seaberg's Holiday "Knick-Knacks"

This version of “Chex Mix” was first made by my mother, and every year I make it several times for friends and family. It’s a big hit, as a snack, and you can put it in tins or even gallon size zip lock bags to hand out to friends or co-workers as gifts. (Don’t forget the raffia!) Trust me, you’ll make points.

Gather these materials and ingredients:

2 aluminum turkey roasting pans, usually found in the foil section of the supermarket.

1 lb salted cocktail peanuts

1 lb. salted fancy mixed nuts

1 lb. unsalted pecan halves ( 12 oz. is ok, Trader Joe’s has a reasonable price, and Costco usually carries a two pound bag)

2 lbs. salted real butter

1 large box wheat chex cereal or multi-grain chex

1 large box cheerios

1 large bag Rolled Gold or other brand 4” inch pretzel sticks

2 tbsp.Worchestershire Sauce

1/2 tbsp.Garlic powder or granulated garlic (not garlic salt!!!!)

a few shakes of thin hot sauce, straight out of the bottle, like tabasco

Make it like this:

First be sure you wash out those aluminum pans you bought at the store. They will last for several years of making this stuff so treat’em nice. Dry before you add the ingredients.

Before you add the ingredients to the pans, you are going to make a butter mixture, so let’s make that first. Put all the butter, the worchestershire, garlic and hot sauce in a microwavable bowl and heat til it's all warm and mixed together. Or heat it on the stove. It doesn’t have to be real hot. You will definitely NOT need to add salt.

Since you are making two pans full, set them both on the counter, and then dump half of each of the ingredients into the pans. You know, open the cereal, and just eyeball what you think is half, and do that with all the rest of the ingredients too. That’ll be close enough. Same thing with the butter. I think it is a good idea to ladle the butter over the ingredients, such that you wet down as much of the cereal as possible. The cereal is the most absorbent of the ingredients and benefits most from the butter mixture. After your ingredients and butter are in the pans, use your hands or a couple of big spoons to turn it over a few times.

Bake for 1 hour at 250 degrees. Remove, Turn it over again, this time you better use spoons for sure cuz it’s getting hot. Be sure to bring up the stuff from the bottom and try to get that butter mixed in really well. Then bake for 1 additonal hour, and it’s done! Most ovens will accomodate both pans at once. Let it cool, and scarf.

This year I saw a new product which I added and it has been really popular. Snyders of Hanover makes a snack called “Onion Rye Pretzels” which are a 4” stick, about 3/8 inch in diameter, really good. I got’em at Safeway.

Other ingredients which have proved to be popular are Trader Joe’s little square peanut butter filled pretzels, (they also have cheese filled pretzels, I bet they would be good) and another ingredient I favor is the whole pumpkin seeds from Trader Joe’s, the white ones in the 14oz. package, they are inexpensive, look cool, and they are super good for you. But only 1 bag of them for the whole recipe, cuz they are fibrous and won’t appeal to everyone. And lastly, macadamia nuts are a great addition, if you are so inclined. Trader Joe’s has them in a bag too.

Happy Holidays from Ric, Marie, and Blaine, and have fun!!!

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Oh Tuna Tree

I proudly and readily admit that working at either of my two bakeries, first, Richard’s Bakery, in Tualatin Oregon, which I owned from 1975-1985, or at my second bakery, Favourites Bakery, in Portland, Oregon, from 1985-1995, for most of my employees, was a fun, if not wacky, working experience. The boss there, that would be me, tended to be sort of a cut up, not too strict, who loved to laugh. Who still loves to laugh.

The stories are endless, like the time I offered a free pastry to this painter guy who was a regular, if he would allow me to wrap his arm in a fruitcake fruit bag, the bag that lines a 30 lb. fruitcake fruit box, after we had removed the fruit. Lets just say, the insides of those bags are the stickiest, most icky surface ever. And to this guy’s credit, as we slid and slapped the horrible bag onto his arm, and giggled there before the pastry case, while other customer's eyes grew big with disgust and even horror, he played it to the hilt, saying how great it felt, how he would pay ME for such a treat, because he was not going to have to get his arms waxed for the holidays, that sort of thing. Loving to laugh as I do, it was totally worth the effort, however bizarre one might deem it to be. My employees, standing behind the counter, just went about their business, and plated up his free pastry, desensitized and undisturbed.

In about 1990, we decided to host a contest at Christmas time. We called it, “The Tacky Christmas Ornamentation Contest”, which challenged our regular customers and others to cull from their Christmas boxes, as they readied for the holidays, any odd and cheesy Christmas ornamentation they might find, and bring it to Favourites Bakery, to be displayed on a large table we had set up for such amazing artifacts. The response was spectacular, and before long our table, and other tables, were overflowing with the tackiest of Christmas Crafty Stuff, including, but not limited to, rotund Mr. and Mrs. Clauses, fashioned from Reader’s Digests, where you fold the pages just right, and add the facial features, etc, something, don’t quiz me on this. I am certain there are a billion of these things in people’s attics, since it likely came out as the Christmas cover story on Women’s Day in 1962. I am sorry to say that I cannot remember too many of the items, but if you want to know what those tables looked like, just go to the Goodwill or another major Thrift Store around Christmas, and you will find at least one aisle full of it. And it IS funny. I derive a great deal of pleasure from seeing these crazy crafty things that folks come up with, using egg cartons, milk cartons, syrofoam, broken pop bottle pieces, etc. Those of you out there who tend to adore the weird, might want to make it a destination, followed by a nice mug of piping hot mulled wine at home. And if you are with your spouse or significant other, be sure to pick up every other thing and feign undying admiration for the piece, oooohing and ahhhing, and suggesting your mantle as the perfect place to display such a treasure.

The judging of such a contest is so completely subjective, but since I owned the place, I eventually chose a spectacular item we dubbed “The Tuna Tree”, pictured above, which was fashioned by taking tuna cans, removing the tops and bottoms, ( of course you have to save tuna cans in a paper bag on your kitchen floor for months before you can make this decoration), spray painting all the cans, gluing them together in a tree shape, and then hanging little ornaments in the tuna cans using a bobby pin. Amazing! Gorgeous! A Yuletide Masterpiece!

I announced the winner at the Favourites Bakery Christmas Dinner, which was held at Portland’s “Sylvia’s Italian Restaurant” that year, but there was a special treat I had prepared to go with it. As I announced the winner, and pulled it from it’s hiding place, I had one of my staff hand out, as my employees ate pizza and drank beer, a sheet of paper upon which was written words which I had composed to the not so well known version of “Oh Christmas Tree”, titled “Oh Tuna Tree”, which goes like this:

Oh Tuna Tree, Oh Tuna Tree
Your branches tin amuse me
Oh Tuna tree, Oh Tuna Tree
Your meaning still eludes me
I can’t believe, though it is true,
That you once had a fish in you
Oh Tuna Tree Oh Tuna Tree
Your branches tin amuse me

Oh Tuna Tree, Oh Tuna Tree
Your lovely gold is so fine
Oh Tuna tree, Oh Tuna Tree
Your bobby pins blow my mind
You grab our hearts! To thee we sing
You’re groovy in this contest thing
Oh Tuna Tree Oh Tuna Tree
Your branches tin amuse me

Imagine, if you will, 25 or so partially inebriated bakery workers crooning this little tune, at the top of their lungs, in the middle of Sylvia’s Restaurant, before customers, as they swallowed their fettucini and bordeaux, and wait staff, whose jobs had suddenly become a bit more interesting. I think it’s safe to say, though, that one of our waitresses, an older woman who I recognized as a long-term employee from my many visits to Sylvia’s over the years, was alarmed. We took a few photos, finished our meals, paid our bill, and moved on to karaoke at the dive down the street.

Some years later, I turned my step-son Blaine onto the concept of Tacky Christmas Stuff, and he fell hard, hook, line, and plastic poinsettia. It wasn’t long before we found ourselves at The Goodwill, cruisin’ the bins. That year, we found among other excellent crafted ornamentation, and I swear this actually happened, a real piece of toast, from a real loaf of bread, that had been made into a Christmas tree ornament, all glittered and pipe cleanered, and then, had somehow survived through The Olsen’s Christmas Box, and the Goodwill Christmas Stuff aisle, to find it’s way into Blaine’s winter gloved hand, which he held up for my approval saying excitedly.....”OOOOOOOh Ric, check this out!!!!”

When Marie arrived home from work that day, I think she almost cried, when she saw that Blaine and I had already created a lovely display of the ornamentation we had purchased, at various Thrift Stores throughout the City of Portland, on our foyer table, so that when any holiday visitors entered, they would marvel at our awesome finds. I was taken aback, though, when Marie just stood there, frozen, staring at the table, with sort a of forlorn look on her face, as though she had just fallen victim to some of the craziest shit she’d ever seen, committed, sadly, by her lover and dear son. However, I don’t think she’d seen the toast yet.

My story in annoying detail:

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Christmas Lane

Before there were scanners, before there were Xerox copiers, ditto machines, mimeograph machines, thermofax machines, even before there were those trick and most modern “correctable” typewriters, which would allow you to correct your last 25 or 30 letters, and that’s all, there was the “jelly hectagraph”. I have been thinking about the jelly hectagraph my Mother used to use, because for years she would drag it out at Christmas.

The way the jelly hectagraph worked, to make copies, approximately, was like this: first, you would cook some ingredients, that came in a kit, and then pour the thick hot liquid into a very shallow 9 x 12 metal pan to cool. After it was cool, it was quite firm, but still jelly like. My Mother, Lorraine, would instruct us kids to not touch it, to be sure it was pristine for the copy job ahead. I believe she may have had a special ribbon on her typewriter, or one could use a special pencil, to then type or write the message one wished to make copies of. Then, you would lay your message paper onto the jel, carefully, and wait a couple of minutes for the ink to stick to the jel, and then peel the original off of the jel. And lastly, you would also very carefully lay your new paper onto the jel, and you could make 10 or so copies before the ink on the copies would become too faint. If you needed more copies, the process would begin again. It was a big hassle. But when my wife Marie and I met, and I said something about a hectagraph, and she knew exactly what I was talking about, and had used one herself as a child, well, I knew she was the one.


The reason my mother needed copies, was that she was the willing and continually elected secretary of The Harrison Street Homeowners Assn., where we lived at the foot of Mt. Tabor in southeast Portland, Oregon. At Christmas time, Harrison Street had for many years dressed up for the holidays, becoming the city wide attraction known as “Christmas Lane”. Mom’s flyers, which I think she called “The Harrison Street Gazette”, was filled with news of the current year’s Christmas lighting schedule, and other pertinent information, like the time and place of the annual Harrison Streeters Christmas Dinner, usually held at Portland’s popular steak house, “The Old Country Kitchen”, where, if you can put the 72 oz. steak away in an hour, and all the trimmings, it’s free!

Lloyd Hornbeck would drink too much, and his next door neighbor, whom he called “Parksy”, would be right behind him, there at the steak house, as Moms and Dads discussed the coming weeks on Christmas Lane, and how they would be decorating their houses that year. My Mom, bless her soul, always had some wacky idea, and my sisters and I love to recall the white plastic tree Mom favoured, which she would place smack in our living room window, which faced the street, and swath it in early and stiffish turquoise mesh netting, also known as tulle, so it looked like a really fake tree with stiff turquoise mesh netting clinging to it in a sort of haphazard way. But the Boyces lived next door, and since their daughter Charlene had announced to my Mom that “our house is always best”, Mom would try, on a budget, to outdo the Boyces, whose black lit giant white flocked pine tree was all the rage on Christmas Lane.

One year, in addition to our funky tree, Mom decorated the large dining room window like a Christmas present, complete with shiny red wrapping and bow, and the Swedish version of “Merry Christmas” written across it on the green ribbon, diagonally, which read “God Jul”. One evening, maybe Christmas Eve, as my Mother and I stood outside before Mom’s Lovely Christmas Creation, admiring it, as hundreds of cars and pedestrians streamed by, Mom and I were caught unawares by a man whose only sly comment to his wife, as they passed, not knowing we lived there, was, “What in the hell does “God Jul” mean?” To my Mom’s credit, she thought it was hilarious, and that sentence is indelibly etched into our family lore.

Living on Christmas Lane was great fun for a kid, being the center of attention, and my friends at school were obviously jealous. At the end of the street, in the cul de sac, the Harrison Street Dads would construct a creche every year, and place in it the Plywood Baby Jesus, The Wise Men, and the camel and other animals, which were painted by Mrs. Conway, our street artist. As I grew older, I was allowed to show up for the construction of the creche, and I would get the job of collecting downed fir branches from the slopes of Mt. Tabor, which would then be stapled to the sides of the creche. The year I turned 12, I got to do some of the framing, standing alongside the cigar puffing Parksy, and other Dads.

By the time I had turned 14, though, the bud was off the rose, for me, as far as Christmas Lane was concerned, with my raging hormones and general teenage lack of respect. It was difficult to take the family car anywhere, in the evening, when cars lined the streets for miles, even prior to the entrance of our street, so it wasn’t likely my folks would be taking me anywhere. A couple of my buddies from the street and I took to stealing fresh eggs from our home refrigerators, and hiding behind the creche, and hurling them at cars as they navigated the creche turnaround. We could tell if we had made a direct hit, by the sound of the eggs as they landed, where a THWACK” meant we had hit metal, maybe the hood, or the roof, and a chilling and satisfying “SPLAT” was heard on the few occasions that egg hit glass, some nice Christian Family’s windshield, as they considered the manger. Once, after a definite SPLAT, we heard a car door slam, and took off giggling into the woods. We heard a male voice say “SHIT”, as he stood before Jesus and the rest, and then, with considerable anger, hollered, “God Damn You Fuckin’ Kids”, and as we melted further into the forest, I heard my friend Danny, who had run ahead of me, yell back, “Merry Christmas!” Later, at home, my Mother remarked, as I snacked on some of her meringue Christmas cookies, “Gee, I cant believe how fast we’re going through eggs!”

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Avoiding Confrontation

I think it’s fair to say, that like so many others of you out there, I am a guy who tends to avoid confrontation. One whose personality dictates that he or she most often “goes along to get along”. In my case, I have spent most of my adult life avoiding confrontation, and tension between myself and others, even to the point of dishonesty, where I might be a little too kind to someone, to not make them feel bad. So be sure you don’t have a giant chunk of spinach on your front tooth when you come around, ‘cause I might not tell you it’s there.

I like to think that, at this point, I have adopted a more honest way of being, when it comes to confrontation, but it has been hard won, over my life. When I had my business, for over 20 years, and had 13 employees minimum at any given time, I tended to allow the worst of behavior and performance, before I would reluctantly reprimand someone. Or I would just do the person’s job myself, to avoid a confrontation. Dumb, huh? But over the years, I got better at dealing with the less savory parts of management.

There are those, of course, who fall at the other end of the continuum, like Brad Chesterton, Jr., (a name surely lifted from that preppy snob in “Animal House”), whose website “blogg’d” features Brad’s need to belittle, disguised as “critique”, or, as he, himself describes the site, “ destructive criticism at it’s finest”. Brad, Jr. was born with ample tools for confrontation. He courts it. He likes to make trouble. Me, I fall naturally at the other end of the continuum, equally as out of step as Brad, and have had to seek some balance, over time, not by going out of my way to be mean, as Brad Jr. does, but at least, trying to be more honest.

In 1978, I was still a neophyte business owner, 30 years old. My management style was more one of creating connection and friendship between myself and my employees, than one of being a taskmaster, and I mostly felt comfortable running a business. I got pretty good performance out of everyone, most of whom liked their gentle and upbeat boss.

One day around this time of year, late November, my cake decorating apprentice, Theresa, a young small town girl I favoured for her committment and desire to learn, asked me if I would cooperate with her in doing a Christmas present project. She asked if she could buy a 10 pound bar of high quality chocolate from the business, and other ingredients, at cost, so that she could make her own “Almond Roca” candy at home, and give it out to her friends and family as Christmas gifts. As a first term apprentice, Theresa wasn’t making a ton of money, and I gladly agreed to assist. Theresa took the ingredients for her project home and made her candy.

Several weeks later, right before Christmas, Theresa brought a couple of small packages of her Almond Roca in, cellophaned and tied with raffia, at 6 AM, to give to other employees, and to me. As she removed her coat she announced to my baker Stan and me, “you know, after I made the candy, I unfortunately stored it in my coat closet, and I think it has a bit of a taste of the closet, let me know what you think”.

A few minutes later, as I walked to the oven to pull the Danish, I removed the cellophane from my candy and snacked a bite. As I bit down, my nose next to the package, WHAM, it hit me, the full on and way nasty smell and taste of Moth Balls. Oh man, I thought, this poor young woman has blown this whole project. This candy stinks, and she has tried so hard to make something to give out at Christmas, on her limited budget, oh the poor thing. Theresa was watching for me to open my candy, and yelled up to me, “Well, what do you think Ric?” Still in shock, I immediately yelled back, above the din of the radio and oven bearings, “It’s great, T. I can taste that closet thing you were talking about, but I don’t think it’s that noticeable.”
Later that day, after Theresa had gone home, I asked Stan if he had tried his candy yet. “Nope, why?, he replied, as he began to unwrap his little bit of joy. And then, as he bit down, the look on his face said it all. Stan was and is a very nice person, and he immediately said, in his overly concerned way, “OHH NOOOOOOO, Ric, do you think we should tell her?”

Suffice it to say, that nary a word was said. Theresa went ahead and gave out her moth bally candy for Christmas, and likely, no one else said anything either. But I felt really sorry for Theresa, and it still haunts me, and if I had to do it again, having matured, and with less of a need to be likable, I would definitely say something, tactfully, but honestly, let her know her candy was awful.

I don’t know when it happens, when people who go to great lengths to avoid confrontation suddenly grow up, and decide to be more honest. For me, I think it came with age, or maybe it had something to do with the time I almost died of a heart attack. After that, somehow, one loses the sense that saving people’s feelings trumps honesty. I hope that I have come to a place in my life where any criticism I might make is more honest, fair, and balanced. But that Brad Chesterton, Jr. guy, he’s just a mean fuck.

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