Hamlet and The Dudes

We were 17, in 1965, and we were folk singin’ crazed. We had begun a little guitar strummin’ foursome we had named “The Firebrand Singers”, because, uh, I think it was because I had looked through the dictionary to find a word that suited our iconoclastic and raging hot repertoire, which included “If I Had A Hammer”, Tom Paxton’s “Cant Help But Wonder Where I’m Bound”, a few Chad Mitchell Trio gems, and of course, Dylan’s “The Times They Are A’Changin’, which I sang with great passion, and illumination, just in case any mothers and fathers throughout the land who shouldn’t be criticizin’ what they couldn’t understand were listening. I am happy to report, however, that we never stooped so low as to cover “Little Boxes”, (all made out of ticky-tacky and they’re all just the same). But I admit that when I drove through Daly City, in the 70’s, I finally understood what the song was about.

My friend Dan Haapala and I comprised the nucleus of “The Firebrand Singers” whose members included, over the six months or so we called ourselves a group, Dick Beswick, Jim Knutson, and Ken Holstrom. We didn’t practice much, and we never had a gig, but we were definitely bubbling under in the folk scene, in our minds anyway.

But my buddy Bruce Hofer, who was an electronics nut, and had made his own amplifier, could play the bass, and it wasn’t long before I was drawn into thinking it might be nice for this group to have a little backbeat, and then Dylan went electric, and then “The Firebrand Singers” went electric. I looked at the local music store’s musician bulletin board, and called a few drummers. We found a young guy on the other side of town whose chops on the drums far exceeded our own musicianship, but he was gung ho for a gig, and he was hired. I mean he said he would join the band.

Dan was a piano player, and he had been writing some of his own songs, which I thought were great, so we learned a few, most notably, a piece titled “Have You Been Listening”. After we had learned the song, and played it around, my pal Ted Sorenson, (who had an actual job at Portland’s original cut rate box store, Gov-Mart Ba’zar), offered to pay for us to go into a recording studio to cut the song, along with another I had written titled ”Second Love”.

So we found our way to “Kenneth Clair Recording Studio” in downtown Portland, there in 1965, and laid down our tracks. It was so much fun. Kenneth Clair had a 2-track reel to reel tape recorder, which meant we could play the music, and then sing the song over the music on a separate track, very high tech! Putting on the headphones, and listening back to the music while we sang, with a little reverb effect added, man, I thought we were on our way to stardom. After making the record, we needed a name for the group. Having always had a way with words, I suggested “Hamlet and The Dudes”, with me, of course, bein’ Hamlet.I have kept a copy of the 1965 version of “Have You Been Listening” and “Second Love” all these years, and my brother in law Curt Deatherage was kind enough to make me a cd from the original 45 rpm acetate, which had nearly disintegrated, lying in the bottom of some keepsake box. Below, you can hear Dan croon his fine song, behind several decades of record scratches and pops.

In 2004, just for the fun of it, I made some changes to the original melody of the song, and cranked out what I call “Have You Been Listening 2004", which I did here at home in my own little studio, where I can call on 32 tracks if I need to, like just about every other cat who records at home these days. Tim Ellis plays the awesome guitar parts. It was a blast rerecording the song, a song remembered by only a handful of former Franklin High teenagers, and giving it new life.

"Have You Been Listening 1965"

Hi-Fi Download  by "Hamlet and The Dudes"

Have You Been Listening 2004

Hi-Fi Download  by Ric Seaberg

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Frajeely

I honestly don’t care if I ever see “It’s A Wonderful Life” again, with that wacky Jimmy Stewart spittin’ all over himself as he runs through his beloved hometown, hollering Christmas greetings to his friends and anyone, after having figured out he isn’t actually dead. I suck. Poor Marie and Blaine had a tradition of watching it every year at holiday time before I came ‘round, just the two of them, all warm and fuzzy, a log on the hearth, and their rosy Christmas cheeks glistening from the steam of some piping hot chocolate. “Alright!”, Blaine might say, as his cheery and loving Mother removed the DVD from the box, “time for our movie again, time for George and Mary Bailey, and Clarence the Bumbling Angel, even Evil Mr. Potter!" “Bah humbug”, I may have been heard to say, later, after three or four consecutive watchings. “Can’t we do something more fun, like pull our fingernails out?”


But one Christmas movie I truly love, and can even watch, oh, say every other year, is the 1983 Peter Billingsley classic, “A Christmas Story”. The movie, which is narrated by the story’s writer, Jean Sheppard, and inspired the great TV series “The Wonder Years”, follows the little boy Ralphie over Christmas, and his fond wish that he might find a BB Gun under the tree. He gets the gun, and it's very cute (and funny) to watch his tale unfold, but all the characters are written beautifully, and with great humor. One scene in particular, where whiny little brother Randy begins eating, sitting in his high chair in his jump suit jammies, “like a little piggy”, by instruction of his nutty Mom, gets me every time. Just that scene alone calls me in for another viewing.

The role of the cantankerous yet well meaning Father is played in the movie by Darren McGavin, who passed away this week at the age of 83. He did a wonderful job in that role, his energy and general obliviousness enveloping the screen. I will forevermore remember Darren McGavin mostly as The Dad in “A Christmas Story”. May he rest in peace.

At one point in the story, “The Old Man” as Darren McGavin’s character is repeatedly decribed by the narrator of the movie, wins a contest, and a side plot of the movie relates his excited wait for the marvelous prize to arrive. Not knowing what the prize is, he speculates that it is surely something wonderful, and when it arrives, in its wooden crate, his expectations have peaked. When he sees the word “FRAGILE” written on the side of the box, he is certain, in his blind enthusiasm, that it must be a foreign word, describing, in some way, the precious contents of the crate. He reads the word slowly and with great drama.......”Fra.....Jee....Lee”. Alas, the coveted and life changing prize turns out to be the ugly lamp pictured above. Probably due to the popularity of the movie, you can actually buy one of these lamps here. And you already know how much I love ugly lamps.

The pronunciation of that word “Frajeely”, for “fragile”, stuck with me like glue, from the first time I heard it. I kept it in the little file in my brain where I keep potential song titles, and one day, not so long ago, it took on a little more life. My song “Frajeely”, appears on my 2005 CD, “Who Come Down”. The part where Marie calls me to plug her phone in for her, ( I think maybe she had the wrong battery charger), when I’m in The Can, did actually happen.

Stream "Frajeely"
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Mr. What the Balls

Managing my website, where I present lots of music and photos, and other stuff, for the last couple of years, has been a lot of fun. First of all, I tend to be an organized person, probably to a fault, which I learned as a result of being in the bakery business, since, if you are not organized in the bakery, you are screwed. So being able to have a lot of songs, links, press, all organized and neat, it’s right up my alley. I use a template offered by HostBaby, an affiliate of web guru Derek Siver’s CDBaby.

When I go ‘round back, to my website statistics administration pages, I can find out all kinds of stuff. Like how many hits my website got yesterday. Or how many times one of my songs was played. Like how many hits I got from Seychelles, or Guam. Or what site a viewer was on, just before they came to my website. As in, who is linked to me. I am not surprised when I see, right up at the top of the list, Google, which is where a person might come from who either typed my name into the search engine, or perhaps stumbled onto a photo from my website on the images section of Google, for some reason or another. And when I see that someone has come from my friend and famous web guy Loup Dargent’s site, I am not surprised, since Loup has reprinted many of my tomes and song links, God bless’m. My HostBaby admin lists maybe 40 “entry” sites like this.

But I was shocked, nay, confused and squish-faced, a couple of weeks ago, when I saw, way up at the top, many hits coming from a “MySpace” site, which I had never seen or heard of before. The site is hyperlinked in my admin, so I clicked on it to see what the heck was going on, and wow. Apparently, this dude, whose fortunate self-made site moniker is “What The Balls”, had given me an entire blog entry on his site! Which I, of course, immediately read.

Mr. What The Balls blog entry, (easily navigate to 2-7-2006 in the archives menu left of the page: you will have to sign on to MySpace) as you will see, if you go there, is, shall we say, somewhat critical of ‘Ol Ricky, and shows photos lifted from my website, along with Mr. What the Ball’s scathing critique. But somehow, when I read it, I couldn’t quit laughing. I sent the link to Marie, and she absolutely loved it.

Mr. What The Balls is a bit stingy with information about himself. There is a photo there, and it is easy to tell that Mr. What The Balls is a young man. But the truth is, he is a young man with a terrific wit, and writing talent to boot. Marie has posted to his site (easily navigate to 2-26-2006 in the archives menu left on the page) several times, much to Mr. What the Balls surprise, I think, but we know talent when we see it. So here’s to Mr. What the Balls, you handsome big hair sucka, thanks for the link, now go fuck yourself.

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The Fa

I am contemplating today’s job of painting our upstairs hallway, sitting here in the same clothes I first put on, oh, 4 days ago. I don’t think I reek, yet, (one never knows), but here’s the deal.

I tend to be a blue collar sorta guy, a guy who loves to work with his hands, and as such, I have spent most of my life doing just that. I put my first workshop together, complete with all the latest gadgets and power tools, when I was 24 years old, and it has only gotten worse. These days, I actually have two workshops, one at home, and one at the commercial building I own, and it is a seldom thing that I have to transport one or another power tool to either location, ‘cause I have whatever I need in both workshops. I am not embarrassed about this. To have it any other way, for a hands workin’ guy, and a motion economy nut, would just be wrong.

So I tend to wear out my jeans, rather quickly, and other clothes, crawling around on some bedroom floor, installing or painting moldings, or repairing a floor, placing an acer platenoides into the hole I just dug in the yard, or getting a big splotch of “Leaftree Green” semi-gloss right on my crotch. I just finished remodeling Marie’s office, which is adjacent to the hallway of which I speak, and I told her, as part of the expense, she would have to buy me a pair of pants.

It’s a lifestyle choice. Yes, I own a suit. Yes, I can meet my attorney for dinner in slacks and a sweater. But basically, GQ I am not. Today, I am gonna really trash out these jeans. But tomorrow, I am going to wake up, and decide to go fishin’, and I am not gonna put on a new pair of jeans to do that. My name is Ric Seaberg, and I tend to be anti-fashion. If you, sir, want to spend your money on fancy clothes, like it’s your hobby or something, cool. But me, I get up, throw on something simple, and get on with it.

I must say I get a kick out of the concept of the TV show, “Queer Eye For The Straight Guy”. I think I might be a candidate. Last year, as I was writing the songs for my 2005 CD “Who Come Down?”, I thought what it might be like if I suddenly turned fashion conscious. The result was my song. “The Fa”. But in truth, I mean the part about me gettin’ all fussy about my clothes, prob'ly not gonna happen.

To hear Ric's fashion song, "The Fa", click below
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Starr Routt

I guess it was somewhere in the Summer of 2003, when Marie and I started talking about Jimmie Rodgers. Sometimes called “The Father of Country Music” (or "The Man who Started It All" as Marie prefers), Marie has a fondness for his music, having grown up listening to him, his 45 rpm yodelin’ singles stuck to the turntable of her family’s brand new Magnavox Stereophonic Record Player. One afternoon, as we dropped Blaine off at work, she just started singing “T For Texas”, every word, to which I inquired “what is that?”.

Jimmie Rodgers (1897-1933) contracted tuberculosis as a young man, but during his 40 years in this world, he cranked out some of the most loved country music ever written, and to my mind, laid some of the groundwork for what would become rock and roll. Almost all of his uptemo tunes can be set to a rockin’ back beat. His songs are accessible for country, country rock, folk rock, even rhythm and blues interpretations. And I am certain there is a Jimmie Rodgers song out there by some reggae band.

My wife Marie comes from humble beginnings, having been raised in very rural Southern Oregon. The mailing address was Star Route, Milo, Oregon, to be exact, until she was 12 years old, when the family moved to Cottage Grove, Oregon, outside Eugene. There was limited radio and no TV reception in Milo, and when Marie got home from The Tiller School, just down the road in Tiller, Oregon, she would busy herself with the kinds of things that rural kids do, read, play with her siblings, maybe make a map of the entire county on butcher paper. Oh, and on her way to the outhouse, there on the banks of the South Umpqua River, she was ALWAYS careful to watch out for Rattlesnakes and Cougars.

But when that Magnavox Stereophonic Record Player arrived home, having been purchased in the big city, Medford, Oregon, it was life changing for Marie. Now she and the family could listen to music whenever they wished. And it wasn’t long before Marie, for her 10th birthday, bought her own 45 rpm record, which happened to be by Jimmie Rodgers.

As we talked about Jimmie Rodgers, and Marie told me how she had played her copy of “T for Texas” to approximate death, there in Milo, I suggested, “You know, we should do our own version of ‘T for Texas’”, since it means so much to you, and you and your family know the song so well. We could give a copy to your Mom, your brothers, and your sister, as a remembrance of those days in Milo”. Marie looked at me like perhaps I had finally gone ALL the way over the edge. “No really”, I said, “I’ll do the music, then you can come in and do the vocal, and then I’ll have Timmy come over and lay down the guitar tracks, it’ll be great, let’s do it!”

"But I can't sing," she reminded me. She grew quiet, and a pensive look passed over her face. "Hmmmm," she continued, "but maybe Starr Routt can..."

After those humble beginnings in Milo, Marie went on to graduate from The University of Chicago, and has become a consumate and respected professional. But bottom line, she’s One Rockin’ Mama.

Here’s the scene. The gravel and pot hole ridden parking lot at Portland’s “D-Street Corral” is packed with cars, and an equal number of workin’ pickup trucks. The refreshments stands inside are jammed, folks lined up for chili dogs and curly fries topped with melted cheese. The beer is cold. The warm-up band “ Great Balls of Fire” was adequate, but the crowd is growing impatient.

Miss Starr Routt primps in her dressing room, tuckin’ her hair up under a turquoise cowgirl hat, while her manager goes over the song list with the band. And then, the lights go down, and the mayhem begins. “Starr Routt”, Starr Routt”, Starr Routt”, the rowdy throngs chant. Starr straightens her sequinned vest near the stage door, as the band takes their places. “Damn, them folks is plain crazy!”, Starr yells above the din, and as the announcer calls her name, she joins the band, smilin’ and wavin’. Starr offers the greeting “HELLO PORTLAND!” over the mic. The crowd roars.

To hear Starr Routt perform Jimmie Rodger’s “T For Texas”, click to download here.
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Caricature of Starr Routt by Rhoda Grossman

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Didn't Say I Love You Right

It was nothing short of a miracle when my wife Marie walked into my life, as I sat contemplating, and probably feeling sorry for myself, under the rose arbor on my corner lot at Southeast 37th and Main, in Portland’s Hawthorne district. After exchanging our hellos, and small talk about my garden, we launched into a feverish email campaign, which resulted in a fabulous and close friendship, then escalating not long after into a full blown courtship. Man, I love my wife, and I am so lucky and grateful to have found her, er, well, I guess she found me, technically.

All that summer of 1997, I would walk down to her house, about 13 blocks from my old crib, and we would sit on her front porch, talk ourselves out, watch the sun go down, maybe have some Middle Eastern dish, or a frozen strawberry daiquiri. It was a blast.

A couple of years later, after Cupid had received a major gold star on his calendar, I found myself, one Sunday morning, reading the paper on that same front porch, as Marie lounged in her porch swing. “Honey” she said in a lazy drawl, like those who work hard all week and sleep late on Sunday are wont to do, did you hear any of “Car Talk” yesterday?” “No”, I replied, “why do you ask?”. “They read a letter from a guy”, Marie then added ,”that you would have loved.”

It’s a “women are from Venus and men are from Mars” story, told first in a letter written by Dan Edwards, and it goes like this: One fine morning, some years back, Dan was walking his girlfriend to her car, when all of a sudden, she says “I love you” for the first time. Dan, taken aback, probably flustered for words, and from Mars, searches his brain (and heart) for the best thing to say, and does, in my opinion, by looking past his sweetheart, to her needy car, for just a moment, and coming up with the most romantic, ”I am gonna have to fix those rust spots on your car.” Now, as any guy knows, making an offer like this is tantamount, nay, beyond a pedestrian reply such as, oh, saying “I love you too” back to his girlfriend. It’s a committment to do some important work for her, fer God’s sake. An effort that would take time and some serious sweat. As in a whole ball-busting day of hard work. But alas, his girlfriend was not impressed by his comment, and sped off to work, revealing later in the day that she thought his reply was “callous and insufficient “.

Marie knew I would love the story, and we chuckled greatly over this couple’s misunderstanding, and in sum, the trouble men and women can get themselves into, mainly cuz, well, they come from different worlds. They must. I thank God that my wife and I can mostly see little issues like these for what they truly are, that is, rooted in the different ways men and women see the world, and generally, not to be taken too seriously. Our horse laughs, rising above the morning mist on Madison street, then inspired my comment, “Poor Dan, I guess he didn’t say “I love you” right.

Several hours later, after those words had burned into a song, I found Marie again on the porch, and strummed and sang to her my version of the vision. “That’s so good”, she offered kindly,”You should send that to the guys on Car Talk”.

So after making a proper recording of the song, I did just that. And some months later, we were pleased that those wacky car talkin’ brothers, Tom and Ray, played it on their show. It was the beginning of a beautiful relationship, and to date, the boys have aired four of my songs, which always results in a spike to my CD sales, and hits to my websites. Click and Clack, you rule.

“Didn’t Say I Love You Right”, which appears on my 2002 CD, “Useful Information”, is likely my second or third most well known song, after “We Talk About Cars”, and “You Are My Folks”, thanks in part to NPR’s Car Talk. The song also made it’s way onto a Car Talk compilation, “Car Talk Car Tunes”. Please accept a free Mp3 download of “Didn’t Say I Love You Right”, here. Here is the original letter, "Love and Rust Spots" as read on CarTalk. Now don’t forget, gentlemen, to tell the woman you love, how much you DO love her, and give her a sweet kiss, as you look deeply into her eyes, and buy her flowers, and chocolates, and THEN go fix the rust spots. Gimme a call, I’ll help ya. I’ve got this brand new killer Makita belt sander, you gotta see it.

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Gadget Guru

I have spent an unacceptable amount of time in my life, thinking about how I might not be like my Father, Bob Seaberg, who was an odd man, narcissistic, sort of a handful. I did love him, and I miss the “nutbrain” (one of his favored terms of condemnation), but I must say, I don’t miss the embarrassment I would feel when I would see him or hear him treat someone, my mother, my sisters, (or me) with complete and utter insensitivity. “Not gonna be that way when I grow up”, has been on my mind far too often.

Okay well my Dad passed away in 1993, and when a person dies, you never get to see them again, which fairly sucks, and starts a person’s tendency to remember the better things about a person, and forget the bad. These days, I remember my Dad’s once annoying behaviors with humour, and perhaps, a bit more wisdom. But when he was alive, dude could piss me off. Once, at his second wedding, (Mom passed away in 1990), he raised his voice to me at the wedding reception, in front of many guests, such that my fine brother- in-law Tom felt compelled to take me aside and express his concern and support. There I was, brow sweating, after having catered the whole affair myself, and as he greeted his guests in the church activity room, he goes on a rant about how I had not “saved” enough of the nicer food offerings for him to eat. “But Dad”, I might have said, “I left the sandwich board sign I was gonna wear, stating “Hey everyone in the food line, leave the shrimp and the stuffed mushrooms alone ‘til the groom has eaten”, at home by mistake, I am SOOOOOOOO Sorrrrrrry!” But of course I said nothing, as usual, not wanting to escalate the tension, or be just like him.

My Dad was a great gadget aficionado, a tendency of his which I recall with great fondness. He worked as an electrical parts salesman, and running in that world, he was always onto some new gadget, or product, to make our lives easier. The “Speedy Weenie” six prong- three dog-hot dog heater upper, pictured above, arrived home about 1956. Talk about convenience. No longer would my mother have to go to the trouble of heating 3 hot dogs in water. I’ll tell ya, what a great time to be alive. Check this thing out. You thread the hot dogs onto the prongs, and they sit there in a sort of a half moon shape, and then you plug it in. Basically, 110 volts of electricity would shoot through each dog, heating it in the process. A wonder of modernity. Just don’t forget to unplug it. Cuz if your child happens by, and grabs those prongs while it’s still plugged in, they might die. Lemme guess. The Speedy Weenie was eventually pulled from shelves because of the potential danger to the user. Dah! And I will never forget the little red “Thirstee” plastic outdoor drinking fountain, pictured here, that came in the mail one day back then, much to my Father’s glee, and I remember him hooking it up to the hose bib on the side of the house, which unfortunately, was about a foot from the ground, but I did take a few slurps outa the thing, on my knees. “Ahhhh”, I’m sure I said as I wiped the refreshing drink from my lips, “And I didn’t even have to use that unclean and bacteria ridden hose end for a drink!” But alas, at our house, the Thirstee Fountain wouldn’t stay perpendicular to the bib, it was way loose, for some reason, so everytime you might want to use it, you had to hold it in place, and then, I recall that the stream of water was so tiny, that a nine year old boy might be tempted to just go back to the ol’ hose for a drink.

My dear Mom, who was a whiz in the kitchen, had a succession of Feemster Slicers, supplied by Dad, to help her with her kitchen duties. I believe you can still buy these things, a sort of early day chef’s “mandolin” slicer, where one strikes the carrot against the oh so sharp blade, and if you are lucky, keep your thumb tips attached to your body. I once cut myself horribly on one of these things, running some veggie through.

My Dad didn’t live long enough for me to present him with a convenient and money saving “Soap Slivers Compression Apparatus”, which I once spotted in a Miles Kimball catalog, in the stack he kept by his recliner. Talk about a gadget whose time has come! You keep all those little soap pieces, you know, the ones that have gone “face to butt” aproximately 400 times, and when you get enough of them, you put them in this manual compressor thing, sort of a soap vice, and voila, you have created another big and fresh bar of soap! And if you’re lucky, you might end up with a fragrance unknown to nature, such as the newly invented and unusual scent of Irish Spring, added to a sliver of organic Rosemary soap, combined with, among others, the pungent aroma of that “Chocolate Moose” soap bar you found in your Christmas stocking!

So I come by my love of gadgets honestly, a trait I inherited from my Dad, (the only trait!) like my love of power tools, for example, especially the new 18 volt battery ones, they’re awesome. And it is true that, two summers ago, faced with needing a new air conditioner for my office/studio, I did select the one that comes with a remote, such that, as I sit recording, I can flip it on and off from across the room, “On” when not recording, and “Off” when the mics are hot.

And I do have my entire yard irrigation system tweaked, which requires 4-option diverters on each of our four hose bibs, which is initiated by many timers. And the big waterfall which graces our pond, well, it has a remote control too.

My wife Marie is everything to me, beautiful, sexy, smart, kind, generous, funny, a great writer, my best friend, like I said, everything. And she is kind to look the other way, most times, as I bring home, since it’s in my genes, various and sundry gadgets. But when she put down her foot, and said that she would not abide my desire to buy remote contolled venetian blinds, so that we would no longer have to climb on the couch to shut them, honey, that’s just wrong.


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The Junior Rose Festival 1958

It’s raining like the devil right now, “liquid sunshine” as we call it here in Portland, Oregon, but as I walked the Bichons this morning, I saw that the Andromeda is beginning to bloom, a sure sign that Spring has almost sprung. Two large, blossom heavy Andromeda, pungently fragrant, in our next door neighbor’s yard, trumpet the arrival of Spring in our neighborhood every year. As soon as we get some sun, sometime next week, I am certain that, as I leave my house, and my nose catches that fragrance, it will slap me into Spring.

In Portland, when the Spring arrives, and June is on the way, that’s when the powers that be swing into action for the presentation of Portland’s annual “Rose Festival”. The Rose Festival, which takes place in June, is nearly 100 years old, and is described on the Rose Festival website as “an annual Northwest celebration, hosting over two million people each year. This month-long civic celebration creates unforgettable memories for local citizens and visitors, and generates millions of dollars to positively impact the region's economy.”

Roses grow amazingly well in Oregon, with our temperate climate. We do get our share of rain, but our summers are mild and beautiful, and roses basically grow like weeds. There are several beautiful civic rose gardens in Portland, and the Rose Festival, obviously, takes advantage of our great rose weather.

Rose Festival events include actual Rose Covered Float parades, a big amusement park built just for the month on the Willamette River waterfront, scores of fun events, and a Princess Court, as selected from each Portland high school. There is also a “Junior Rose Festival “ court, as chosen from the grade schools.

In 1958 , when I was 10 years old, I was in Mrs. McIntyre’s 3rd and 4th grade mixed class, at my grade school alma mater, Atkinson, in southeast Portland, at the foot of Mt. Tabor. To make a long story short, I was selected to vie for “Jr. Rose Festival” prince, (I was an outgoing child) because in 1958, boys were still asked to participate in the Jr. Rose Festival Court, as princes, basically escorts for the girls who were chosen as princesses. I do recall that the process, for a little boy, was a bit rigorous, interviews and such, but I hung in there, and was selected to represent my school.

Some weeks later, a competition was held at Portland’s Bagdad Theatre, where kids from the other 12 grade schools in the area, and me, gave a speech in hopes of being selected to represent school district #6, as a Junior Rose Festival prince or princess. My speech, a short little ditty mostly penned by my stage mother Mom, around the theme of “being proud”, which I delivered like a total ham, and still remember, went:

“You know that I’m proud to be here tonight.
You know that i’m proud of my school.
I want you, and my school, to be proud of me......
So I thank you for the chance to make my plea.
I’ll do my best, as a cub scout should......
If you choose me tonight, I’ll try to make good.

And now it is my proud pleasure to present to you,
my princess.......Miss Patricia Israel!

I was shocked and “proud” to be chosen as prince. The little girl who won as princess, Charlotte Larson, and I were whisked away to both of Portland’s newspapers for photos and interviews. Seeing my mug in the paper the next morning was a treat, and made me feel as though I had accomplished something. Our next door neighbor, Roland, who was like a big brother to me, and who was also our early morning newspaper boy, fashioned camelia petals to form the word “YEA!, which was waiting for me to see on our front porch when I awoke, on that beautiful and sunny May morning.

The next several weeks were a whirlwind of being wined and dined and well, treated like royalty. For starters, I got the last two weeks of school off! Each morning, my princess Charlotte and I would be picked up by the little convertible VW shown here, with our names emblazoned on the side, and delivered to some extravagant event, like lunch at the zoo, visits to hospitals and fancy restaurants, complete with favors and gifts for each of us. We were treated to plays and performances, ship and factory tours, TV appearances, and were positioned on our own float in several parades, and on and on. I am reminded of what a wonderful moment in time that was for me, as I gaze upon all the photos in the complete scrapbook my mother kept. It was an amazing, confidence building experience for a kid.So I was saddened to learn some years later, that due to financial constraints, and perhaps since being a prince was deemed a less than manly and acceptable thing for a young boy to do (there were those on my little league team who insisted on calling me “princey” for the rest of the summer) the Rose Festival Association had decided to eliminate boys from The Junior Rose Festival. I think it’s kind of a shame. I guess I was just in the right place at the right time.

I still live in southeast Portland, and go by the Bagdad theatre almost every day, and basically, love it here. The Rose Festival is coming up soon, with it’s many events and regalia, and economic opportunity for businesses and citizens. I keep my eye on the schedule in the paper, and as I drive across the Hawthorne bridge, I can see the giant Ferris Wheel on the waterfront, and sometimes smell the corn dogs and frying onions as I pass by. I don’t go to many of the events. But I still remember with great fondness The Rose Festival 1958, and how it had a huge impact on me, when I was a child. My memory of it reminds me how important it is to tell the 10 year-olds in my life how special they are.

My story in annoying detail:

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Super Bowl Bound!

Not to be outdone by their Super Bowl bound brother, Joseph, (our grandson), Colin (right) and Owen (left) sport matching head shaves, depicting the Seahawks fans' coat of arms, the numeral "12", which symbolizes fans' standing as the 11-man football teams' "12th man". Joseph and his Dad, Tim, will be leaving for The Motor City on Saturday morning. My daughter Stacey has strict instructions to TIVO the game, because Joseph doesn't want to miss the commercials!Colin and Owen decide to get serious!

Stream Ric's song "Superbowl Andy" here
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Seahawks Rule!

Super Bowl 40 arrives next weekend, when millions of women and mostly men will sit before their newly purchased 60” plasma screens and go hoarse rooting for either the Pittsburgh Steelers, led by the coyote ugly, major sourpuss coach Bill Cowher, or The Fantastic Seattle Seahawks, led by the fatherly and fashionable coach Mike Holmgren. Guess who we like at our house?

We love the Super Bowl. Every year we host a party, which is attended by several of our closest friends, who could basically not care less about football, but love to come see what kinda crazy shit we dream up for The Big Day. In 2005 we were into Tacky Foods, as I related in my Super Bowl Blog Entry last year, including, among other things, Cool Whip Trifle, which I must admit is one killer dessert. Blaine and I always request that Marie come up with the party theme, ‘cause we want her to be invested too, for if it were just about football, well, I am afraid we might lose her to some fabric sale, where zillions of women go to spend Super Bowl Sunday, away from the maddening crowds of stinky, rowdy, drunk husbands and brothers and sons, with their Nacho Cheese and Chili breath, lounging in the confines of formerly pristine and foofy living rooms and dens of America, scratchin’, belchin’, and sayin’ fuck real loud.

This year, Marie has asked us to each come up with a food of some kind that starts with either a S or an B, get it?, the first letter of the words Super and Bowl. So I am going to order a Beef Tenderloin Roast, bake it, slice it, and pour a healthy amount of Burgundy Reduction over the whole thing, as in Beef Burgundy, which truly fills the need for a letter B food. I could use some ideas for some other S or B foods though. Any suggestions?

We are extra pumped this year too, since my grandson Joseph and his Dad are actually gonna be there, in Detroit, somewhere in the nosebleed section, hollering for all of us. My daughter Stacey holds a couple of Seahawks season tickets, and when they held the lottery to see which ticket holders would be offered Super Bowl tickets, she won! So Joe and his Dad will fly to Detroit and likely come home with a pile of souvenirs and great memories.

As you can see from the photo above, Blaine and I are ready to roll. We made those Packers Cheese Heads into Blue Cheese Heads several years ago, because, oh I dunno, I guess ‘cause we are big Hawks fans, whose main team color is blue, and we have been a’wishin’ and a’hopin’ for the Hawks to go to the Super Bowl for years. I myself was living in Seattle, all those years ago when the franchise was established, and the Kingdome, which has already been demolished, was built. I once owned a framed and very large pen and ink drawing of the Seattle skyline, titled “My Silver City”, by Seattle artist Christopher Bollen, which depicted the Kingdome half finished. So I go way back with the Hawks, and we are gonna be there, watchin’ the game, screamin’ our asses off for Matt and Shaun and Bobby and Coach Mike, and Jim Zorn, and running back Curt Warner, and all the other guys who played on lesser Seahawks teams over the years, all the while suckin’ down our Buds and Millers and Beef Burgundy. Feel free to stop by. I’ll be the one with beef blood stains on my white tank top, and if we win, tears in my eyes.

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The Birdhouse

I guess it was a couple of years ago, when Marie and I were watching, yet again, a gardening show on HGTV, called “Curb Appeal”. At the end of the show, as the host was revealing the final appointments on the improved home’s “streetside”, we couldn’t help but be impressed with a large birdhouse she had installed, which had been built to match the main house, almost exactly. We oohed and ahhed a bit, but basically just sat there with our mint juleps, and didn’t budge.

About a year later, we found ourselves watching the same show again, same episode. Old people, like us, sometimes forget when they have seen a show before, and just go ahead and watch it again, as if it were new to them. Well, or so it seems.

Ric: We’ve seen this before.
Marie: We have? I don’t remember it.
Ric: I think it might be the one with the birdhouse.
Marie: What birdhouse?
Ric: You know, the birdhouse at the end of the show, the one that looks just like the house.
Marie: I dunno, maybe I fell asleep.
Ric: Nooooo, you saw it honey, we talked about it, you remember.......
Marie: What’s in that cup? Are you drinking too much coffee?

So we watched the show, and Marie did remember it finally, at the very end, when they showed the birdhouse. This time, when the credits rolled, we looked for the name of the designer. Later, I found the designer’s email address on the internet, and emailed her, requesting any information she could give me about the birdhouse, as in basically, where she got it. A couple of days later I received a reply, and a phone number.

After several calls and emails, and even snail mail, which included some actual pieces of our home’s roof, and color swatches of our actual house color, and front door color, sent to the artist, we received our Giant Bitchin Birdhouse in the mail. It was made by collectible birdhouses.com. My nephew Max and I installed it in our front yard, and I later put a light fixture on the post, which is timed to go on at dusk and off at dawn. It’s fun to see folks stop and take a look, and then realize it looks just like the big house behind it. Here are a couple more photos. If you ever wondered what our house looks like, this is it. One could imagine me, somewhere in the front room, just past the porch’s picture window, slumped down in my chair, suckin’ down some cold strong coffee, probably my wife’s leftovers from 8 a.m.
Here is our actual house, with concrete wheelchair ramp


A rear view of the birdhouse, including our deck and kitchen bay window. Note the round "clean out" on the left.

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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

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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:
Hi-Fi (Broadband)
Lo-Fi (Dial-up)

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