The Airstream Chronicles.....Prairie City, Oregon

Some weeks ago, in order to perform a work related task, my wife Marie travelled to Eastern Oregon, one of the most beautiful places on this here spinnin’ ball, all by her lonesome, in her Silver Volvo Wagon V70. After she arrived, she met with officials in Prairie City, Oregon, to discuss the details of her visit. But her non-work related task, as we had discussed before her departure, was to scout out possible camp sites for us to visit on a mini-vacation we had proposed for just this week, my birthday week, and more importantly, the date of our 5th wedding anniversary, which falls on June 24th (And also happens to be our grandaughter Calla’s birthday AND Marie’s father’s birthday!)

Marie finished her official business in Prairie City, and the following morning, while still parked in that quaint little burg, called me on my cell as I went about my workday back home in Portland. “You should see this place”, my small town girl at heart reported excitedly. ”I am having my morning coffee at the foot of snow-capped Strawberry Mountain, right here in Prairie City proper, and it is unbelievably beautiful!” After we discussed how she might go about her mission of finding us a place to camp, we said our fond goodbyes and she headed out for another meeting. Before leaving Prairie City, she pulled into the much touted “Depot Museum RV Park”, which is right in town, and situated on a fork of the John Day River. Fishin’ Hole!

As you can see from the photo above, we found a killer spot in this little park when we arrived Wednesday evening, June 21st, 2006. There are about 25 full-hook up sites here, and very few guests. We have been enjoying a predictably relaxing stay, and after having tiptoed through a couple of fields with our eyes peeled for rattlesnakes, as Marie did as a child growing up in Southern Oregon, we have even heard from the locals that there are no rattlesnakes, for some reason, in this valley.

It’s quiet here. If you are willing to drive far enough, peace and quiet and the slow life await you in remote Oregon towns. Better not have a major medical emergency here, or need a cop, (there are no police), but I think the 200 or so residents of this special little corner of the world know exactly what they have here, and are perfectly willing to sacrifice the conveniences of a larger city for small town tranquility and small town values.

I leave you with one photo Marie snapped of me as I awaited The Strike of the Rainbow on Magone Lake, just outside of town, in the Malheur National Forest. Follow the special photo links below to see a lot more photos of our mini-vacation to Prairie City on my website.


More photos of Prairie City
Still more photos of Prairie City

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Gardening In Portland 2006

My wife Marie and I met under the rose arbor at my last bachelor pad, near where we live now, as she was walking in our Hawthorne Neighborhood, here in occasionally sun-drenched Portland, Oregon, 97214. That was almost 10 years ago, and we have been married for five of those years. Our wedding anniversary is June 24.

On that wonderful day of our first meeting, and since my yard was all gardened up, Marie and I began talking gardening, and we haven’t stopped since. I come from a long line of gardeners, and I am convinced it’s in the blood. Gimme an acre of land stripped down, I’ll give you an arboretum in 5 years, complete with walking paths and fountains and bridges and ponds, maybe some raised beds for veggies and herbs. It’s a passion of mine. And Marie’s too! In our garden, Marie has done most of the design work, with me throwing in my two cents along the way, and then throwing out my back. We enjoy it so much, and it is an activity we share enthusiastically, especially in the Beautiful Oregon Spring.

When I awoke a couple of days ago, I walked out onto our front porch, and the sun was streaming in, and just right for a photo, so I grabbed the camera and took the picture, and then walked the yard shutterbugging among the bugs. Welcome to our garden.

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The Phantasmagoria Tranny Shop

1993-1995 was a tough, but interesting time for me. My father passed away in 93, leaving us to tend to Grammy, his Mom, who was frail. It wasn’t a huge adjustment, caring for Gram I mean, since my sisters and I had always seen to it that we spent time with her regularly. But man, she was blue. “I just can’t believe he’s gone” she would remark, talking about my Dad, and her only child’s death. Over the months after Dad passed away, my sisters put me in charge of Gram’s estate, and we met with an attorney several times at her nursing home bedside, to be sure things were in order. Gram was relieved when that process was complete, and I think she felt permission, at that point, to let go herself. She passed away the same year, at the age of 93. We miss them both tremendously, my Mom too.

After Grammy passed away, there was a ton of stuff to do, parting out her belongings, giving some of them away, going through all her files, meeting with her accountant and attorney.

Gram had purchased a car a few years before, which my Dad used to ferry her about. The car, a huge silver LTD, was basically used most of the time by my Dad, as he made his rounds to see friends, to go swimming at his swim club, or to attend Kiwanis meetings, where he was a revered and hard working member.

I thought I might keep the car myself. It was a mighty plush buggy for an old hippie like myself, but it was basically my Dad’s car, and it somehow held a special place in my heart, as cars sometimes do, in the hearts of men, all that dark blue crushed velvet, the Corinthian leather, the stellar sound system (for its day), lots of old audio tapes of my songs lying around, and all the power one could ever want in a giant touring car. My Mom might have remarked, on the day Dad drove that LTD home from the dealership, in her occasional Chicago accent, “Bawb, whad’ya need a car with hot and cold door nobs for?”

As we settled my Grandmother’s estate, I asked for the car as my inheritance, and my sisters, bless their little auto-geneless souls, heartily agreed. The car needed some repairs, which I set about making, some myself, some by auto shops.

One morning, driving that grey tank to work, I heard a funky sound coming from the undercarriage. I talked to a couple of my car buddies about it, and they all said one little word in the english language.......”Tranny”.

I took the car to a local transmission shop not far from home. A couple of days and about a grand later, they called to say it was done. I picked up the car, and it was working great.

It was winter, and the windows were a bit foggy as I drove away from the transmission shop. Having not had the car for very long, I wasn’t sure if there was a rag or anything to be found, so I looked around a bit, in the back seat, in the lighted glove box, and then, under my front seat as I sat driving.

As I reached to check for a rag, maybe an old t-shirt, my fingers felt plastic, like a baggie. I got a grip on it and pulled it out at a stoplight. As I laid it in my lap I realized, Good Gawd, it was a full bag of weed. As in Pot, marijuana, Mary Jane, cannabis, reefer, Egypt Purple. “What the?”, I might have been heard to say, like the last words of a Praying Mantis male as a female bites off his head.

Apparently, since there is no way this was my Dad’s pot, the guys at the Tranny Shop, pardon my speculation, scored while they were driving the LTD around to check their work. Or maybe they just drove that Pimpmobile over to their connection’s house, to pick it up. Any way you cut it, to find a full bag of pot under the seat of your Dead Dad’s Car is a trip.

Later that day, I began to consider how I might proceed. I cracked up thinking about what one might do under these circumstances. Does one return a full baggie of reefer to the Tranny Shop, walk up to the receptionist and say, “Uh, I think this might belong to someone who works here, maybe the guy that put the new tranny into that car right there, my car?” Probably not.

For some reason I do not recall exactly what I did with the baggie full of pot that one of the guys from The Phantasmagoria Tranny Shop mistakenly left under the front seat of my Dad's LTD. I think maybe I gave it to a friend, or tossed it, I really don’t remember. My short term memory is shot.

Here's a clip from a song about my Dad’s “King Omega LTD”

My story in annoying detail:

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Flipper Yam

I count myself among the ranks of the easily amused, along with my pluperfect wife Marie, God Bless’er, who laughs at my most insane gestures, whether I am telling her an old story about some stupid shit I have done, or even just cutting up, as I am sometimes drawn to do.

This morning, in the kitchen, brewing up another pot of "The Tao of Tea" brand Gemaicha Green Tea, (we’re into tea these days) I laid my eyes on our metal hanging fresh fruit and vegetable basket, and Lo and Behold, I discovered, right there in the basket, as if God were standing right there and talking to me personally, a yam in the exact form of a dolfin, and suddenly, like a thunderbolt, the words Flipper Yam popped into my head. ("Flipper" was the title of a TV show about a dolfhin named "Flipper" which ran in the 1960s, and a new version was produced in the 1990s)

Not being a particularly religious person, of course at first I was skeptical, but I do claim a spiritual life, and only moments later I felt as if I had somehow been chosen by a higher power to receive a message of some sort, so I removed Flipper Yam immediately from the basket, and tenderly and respectfully laid it on a paper towel on the kitchen island.

The longer I stared at Flipper Yam, the more I realized that something wonderful had happened. I carefully picked up Flipper Yam with two hands, and took it into my wife Marie, to get her reaction. I found her in the garden, and then, as I held it up high and close to her I announced in my best boss jock voice, “Call the Vatican, we've got Flipper Yam!”

Marie, having all too often been the recipient of my furtive and oftimes unusual imagination, broke out into a smile, but calmly replied, “Yes Ric , it’s a wonderful and mystical and amazing thing. If it starts shedding tears or bleeding, then you’ve really got something there.” I asked Marie if she could possibly whip me up about a 2 inch thorny crown. She didn’t seem too interested in making it herself, but suggested that one of her greenhouse plants, named “Crown of Thorns” would be perfect. I walked to the greenhouse and found the plant, and fashioned a crown of thorns for Flipper Yam, pictured above.

I dunno, maybe I’ve got the wrong idea here, this isn't exactly a case of stigmata. And those people who believe that they have found an image of Jesus on hunks of sheetrock and toast, maybe those items would be more metaphorically precise, I mean more than Flipper Yam. Still, I swear to God, this here is one special yam.

Perhaps I am still not exactly sure what the message from on high is, but I can tell you one thing for sure: as I was going through this entire ridiculous scenario, I laughed harder than I have in months, even making a sort of high pitched whoooooooo sound as I went on and on, and came to tears of joy several times, which required tissue to quell. It felt great. Kind of like having your prayers answered.

Later this afternoon, I swaggered into Marie's home office where I found her lounging on her pink faux suede fainting couch, and looked her way with my all-knowing, duck lippy look. "Whut?", she offered. I replied with a confident smirk, "Well, let's just say that, since I am the one who found Flipper Yam and all, that uh, I should mention that, down the road, there just might be Sainthood in a certain someone's future." Marie looked past her book, and rubbed her forehead very hard, eyes squinted, as she sometimes does at moments like this, and spoke. "Honey, don't quit your day job."



FLIPPER YAM ON EBAY




(5-28-06...Flipper Yam spent an illuminating week on eBay, but alas, did not sell)
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Competitive Eating

Once upon a time there lived a nice middle class family, right there on the fringes of maybe they could send their kids to college, or maybe not, depending upon if they bought the Marathon Bus RV they had always wanted, which they did, so Junior went to the local Junior College, and he thought the teachers sucked, so he quit.

Junior spent most of his days lounging about his folk’s house, in his pajama bottoms and a tank top, eating Cheetos and playing video games, watching TV, and once in awhile, if his Mother begged long enough, Junior would mow the lawn, maybe dig a few weeds, but not before he would moan about it, and then he would wait for his Mom to get home from work, when she would make him a whole Totinos Pizza, which he would devour, a little snack before dinner.

When Junior’s Dad would get home, dinner was served, and Junior, man, that dude could eat. Junior’s Mother and Father had taken to shopping at Costco, a sort of defensive move against Junior’s runaway eating habits, stocking up on those three packs of Baby Back Ribs, for example, since Junior could put away at least three entire racks on his own, along with a dozen corn on the cob, and at least an entire one of those Costco Deli Salads, the ones that come in those 7x11 black and clear domed containers, usually meant for 3 or 4 people to share. Dessert, later with TV, maybe Monday Night Football, or The Best Damn Sports Show Period, might consist of an entire coconut cream pie, and frequently a half gallon of Lucerne Chocolate Chip Ice Cream, peeled from its box after exactly 31 seconds in the microwave, and plunked down for easier access onto a green glass serving platter, once reserved for carved turkey, or roast beef.

After he quit school, Junior’s folks began to worry that their son was bound for slackdom, but they tried hard to not think about it, as they loaded up their RV for their next trip down the highway, bound for some noisy Washington State Campground, where Junior would consume several barbecued chickens, or 15 hot dogs, trimmed with relish, saurkraut, mustard, and mounds of sliced jalepenos. In bed at night, in the back of the bus, Junior’s Mom would confess her fears, teary-eyed, to her husband, whose comments didn’t help much, except when he would tenderly suggest that, at least, Junior had not shown any interest in becoming a mime. “True”, Junior’s Mom would reply, more contentedly, and roll over to find the Kleenex on her genuine oak laminate nightstand.

After about a year of floundering about, and after nearly eating his folks out of house and home, literally, one evening, Chris saw a TV show which changed his life forever. An eating competition, presented by the IFOCE, or The International Federation of Competitive Eating, caught Junior’s eye, heart and stomach. Only days later, Junior announced his intention to go for it. He would follow his bliss, and hit the road to join up with the competitive eating tour. Finally, a man had found his calling.....................................................

Now, I know there are people out there, like Junior, who truly get passionate about stuffing themselves, but, to be honest, I don’t understand it. And I have a hunch that most medical professionals would tend to agree that competitve eating is more than just a little crazy, given the artery clogging and stomach stretching and colon cramming such a competition bestows.

From 1986 to 1991, I ran a pie eating contest, each summer during “Fremont Fest”, a local festival, at my business, “Favourites Bakery”, in Portland, Oregon. After watching paricipants suffer greatly for the marginal kudos and prizes they might win, (We usually gave away a gift certificate to the winner) I finally decided I could no longer abide such a debacle. Just the sight of someone like two time winner Paul Geiger, pictured here, stuck somewhere between ecstasy and hurl, was enough to turn me against competitive eating. In the top picture, current popular Portland City Commissioner Erik Sten and his brother Matt enjoy diggin’ deep for more cherries, in their younger (and hungrier) days.

Check out The International Federation Of Competitive Eating website, these guys are serious.








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Bill Walton

In 1977, I had been in bakery business, at Richard’s Bakery in Tualatin, Oregon, for about a year, as the NBA season was drawing near. Having been a jock in my youth, and also influenced by my friends and family, I thought it would be a kick to get a couple of season tickets for the Portland Trailblazers, call’em a business expense, give a few away to my salesmen and other business associates, that sorta thing, and also, go watch the games a bunch myself.

NBA tickets have always been exorbitantly expensive, just like any fun thing to do, and in 1977, though they were cheap by today’s standards, I can remember I had to bite a couple of bullets to get it done without freaking out. I called the ticket office, and opted for tickets that were rather high up in the stands, which I could actually afford, sort of on the borderline between nosebleed and brain hemorhage. A few days later, a whole pile of tickets arrived, and I held them in my grubby little hands, two tickets for every frickin’ Blazer home game, 1977. Suh-weet!

That year, the Trailblazers were good. With several excellent journeyman players, including the “enforcer”, power forward Maurice Lucas, and led by former All-American UCLA center Bill Walton, the Blazers were unstoppable. When Bill Walton wasn’t stuffing the ball through the hoop, he was making insanely precise unselfish passes to his teammates, Larry Steele, Bob Gross, Dave Twardzik, Kermit Washington, and others. It was so much fun to watch these guys play. In 1977 NBA parlance, they ruled the maples. And big Bill Walton, when he was healthy, was probably the best center to ever play the game. Okay I’m a Portland guy so I rank him over Jabbar, Russell, all of them. If you saw this team play, regularly, and watched Walton grab the boards and send the most perfect bullet outlet pass to one of his teammates on the break, over and over, like a machine, you’d be a believer too. In 1977, the first year I was a season ticket holder, The Blazers won the NBA championship, by beating the Dr. J (Julius Irving) led Philadelphia 76ers, in the seventh game, at home. I was there. It was awesome.

Bill Walton was injured now and then, and his legs tended to be finicky, one ankle in particular. He was forced to play through the pain a lot. But the local papers made a big to do about his health, since he was a vegetarian, how his diet was hurting his play, and the team, on and on. Bill stuttered a bit, didn’t talk much. The papers also picked up on his hippie lifestyle, and he had a fat red beard, and then there was this time he was somehow connected with the Patty Hearst thing, because he was a friend of a friend, and he was not opposed to smokin’ pot, and he loved The Grateful Dead, and followed them around now and then, so the talented NBA star Bill Walton was a bit challenging to some people, even in tree-huggin’ Portland. He left the NBA in 1988, after a final season with the Boston Celtics.

I personally did not hear much about Bill Walton after that, until I noticed, in about 2000, that he was beginning to emerge as a basketball broadcaster, providing color commentary on some televised NBA games. Having known that Bill was a bit of a stutterer, back in the day, it sorta blew my mind, when I saw him eloquently and brilliantly provide the patter behind some play by play guy. Bill is one great sportscaster, with a smooth and intelligent delivery, and I offer him my heartfelt congratulations for a job well done.

So those of you who accuse me of choosing, shall we say, off the wall song topics, um, you got me on this one. In 2001 I wrote and recorded “The Bill Walton Song”, which I sent to Bill, and received a nice reply, altho I must say he should really make his producers play it over one of his broadcasts as they go to commercial, which would please me greatly.

“The Bill Walton Song” appears on my 2002 CD, “Useful Information”. The guitar parts, and the killer guitar solo, are played so capably (as usual) by my pal Tim Ellis. Listen free here: https://ricseaberg.com/track/1960813/the-bill-walton-song

Cruel Gruel School

My perfect wife Marie is a lover of books, so it came as no surprise to me, several weeks ago, that I spied her, yet again, curled up on the window couch, her psychedelic half glasses perched low on her nose, focused on fiction. “Is that a new novel?”, I begged, blowing through the living room, packin’ my requisite bucket-o-tools. “It’s not a novel”, she offered, as she turned the book around for me to view the title, “Ultra Metabolism”, by Mark Hyman.

At 56, soon to be 57, and 57, soon to be 58, Marie and I, though we recently both purchased bicycles, have spread out a bit, as it were, what with our love of food, and our “too busy to exercise” lives. Or maybe I should say “too busy to exercise because we are too busy eating” lives. Recently, we had decided to alternate weeks as head chef of the house, and man, we were eatin’ good. One week, I would bake a succulent Harris Ranch sirloin roast, medium rare, with all the trimmings, golden brown sauteed mushrooms, baked potatoes with sour cream and butter, asparagus, a bottle of burgundy, and there we would sit, with our our nearly toppling Fiesta Ware on our laps, watching American Idol. “Ric”, Marie might say, her eyes half rolled back in their sockets, “You’ve outdone yourself again”, and then we would barely say a word as we absorbed a zillion calories and carbs, until we would look upon each other some very short minutes later and utter, almost in unison, “Oh man, I’m stuffed”.

The next week, Marie would offer her unparalleled spaghetti and meatballs, giant perfect plates of Pasta and the most delicious and humongus garlicky meat balls ever devised, and with red sauce dripping down our gluttonous chins, we would sop up every last drop of sauce on our plates with dozens of buttered slices of Grand Central Bakery rosemary baguette, a bakery, which, unfortunately, is 2.275 minutes walking distance from our home. Add a nice big fresh green salad to this, loaded with ranch, baby, you got a meal.

And I must mention that, recently, one of us, I won’t say who, has discovered the joy of downing an entire pint of Dove Triple Chocolate Ice Cream, the one that offers a half-inch or so of chocolate ganache spread over the entire top of the pint, just in case you need more chocolate.

"What the heck is “ultra metabolism”" I asked Marie, propping my tool bucket on the coffee table. Marie spoke, “I think this guy really has some good things to say, honey, I’m doing some research. We both know we have to eat better and exercise more, for our health, as we get older, and this concept of firing up one’s metabolism, by, for example, eating only fresh foods, and no high fructose corn syrup, which is in so many things, is something we need to look at.”

A few days later, The Boss announced that we would be moving on to a different way of eating, and then, she went shoppin’. Many hours later, Marie returned home with one hell of a lot of groceries, and a serious game plan. As I helped her bring in the groceries, I snooped into the bags, where I saw everything from a ton of fresh fruit and vegetables to flax seeds and soy yogurt. As we put things away, Marie educated me further in the concept of super metabolism, and as I reached for my 5th cup of coffee, suggested that, instead, I might want to taste some green tea. We sat on the porch and discussed her plan, and I must say, I really enjoyed the green tea.

For the next few hours, the kitchen was abuzz with the sounds and smells of somebody cookin’ up a storm. Working in my office, I nearly salivated on my keyboard as the fragrances of sauteing garlic and onion and spices wafted their way upstairs. I finally went down to see how things were going. Marie was busy putting up foods for the coming week, entrees, salads, breakfasts, and said, “We’re going to start with Amaranth grain for breakfast, sweetie, made with soy milk and sliced apples. I’ll put it in this container, and when you come down in the morning, just take out about 2/3 of a cup, and have it for breakfast. Tonight, we’re having corn tortillas topped with a combination of fresh ingredients, veggies, salsa, other stuff”. Dinner was a huge hit, absolutely delicious, and I was perfectly content as we went to bed, not stuffed, and looking forward to the next eating adventure, as we dove headlong into heating up our metabolism.

When I awoke, I walked the dogs, took a few pills, and headed for the fridge, all smiley and chipper and positive, like that dufus in the Viagara commercial. I scooped out my 2/3 cup of breakfast, which looked sorta like Malt-o-meal, and willingly took a nice big bite.

I dunno, maybe it’s the soy milk, but the Amaranth Gruel For Breakfast, uh, it fairly sucks. But I ate it down, and then Marie ate hers, and then we agreed that eating it was well, basically, a gag fest. And then, we agreed to eat it for two more days, until it was gone.

On the second day of eating Marie’s Ultra Metabolism Amaranth Delight, Marie said, “Did you have your Amaranth?” “Yep”, I announced proudly, and she said, ‘I had mine too, and, you know, after this, I think we might be able to survive Armageddon, you know, since we can eat anything.”

We’re on to fresh fruit soy yogurt smoothies for breakfast now, which are, thankfully, really tasty. I have a shopping list for today, handed over this morning by my lovely wife, which I haven’t had a chance to look at yet. Call me crazy, but I have a hunch it doesn’t include any additional Amaranth.


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Oprah for President 2008!

If Oprah Was President

A couple of years ago, putzin’ around in the garden, droolin’ and a’dreamin’, I started thinking about Oprah. I like Oprah. I think I must’ve seen her show that day, or a portion of it, and it got me thinking about what a great person she is, smart, kind, generous, charismatic, all of it. I said to myself, “Aha!, Oprah has such a huge following, and she inspires millions, Oprah would make a great president!”

Some days later, I penned a tune titled, “If Oprah Was President”, which basically captures my feelings about the issue, and then Timmy Ellis came over and we made a record.

It was great fun to record the song, as always, but it’s one of those nichey songs, as I am sometimes wont to write, that might sit in a drawer for awhile, after the newness wears off. In 2005, when we compiled the song lists for my CDs “Dubs On Trial” and “Who Come Down”, and even though we truly like the song, “If Oprah Was President” didn’t seem to fit into the scheme of things.

But last week, cruising the web, I found a website titled “Oprah For President 2008”, and sent an email offering my song for them to use in their campaign. And today, I am proud to announce that they have elected to make “If Oprah Was President” the “Official Song of Oprah for President 2008”. These guys are organized.

Apparently, Oprah has stated that she is not interested in the job. However, I do think that she might be convinced to run if there was a huge groundswell, since she is so dedicated and cares deeply about the state of the country and world. So I am grateful that I am able to do my little part to possibly make it happen. Maybe one day soon, my song will make its way to Oprah's desk. Perhaps, on that day, she'll be heard to say, “Oh, Gail, I wasn’t gonna run for president, but then I heard this song, “If Oprah Was President”, by that Ric Seaberg guy, and, well, now, I’M GONNA DO IT!"










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Sweet Peas

When it comes right down to it, I have to admit that I like the fact that there are those of you who actually make an effort to come around here to read my blog entries. I would probably be writing this stuff anyway, but it’s nice to know that one’s audience is larger than say, oh, my wife and kids. Thank you. There are always lots of topics I’d like to write about, clammoring for further attention in my brain, so when I get a sec, I sit down at the Mac and bang something out. But sometimes, I am just not in the mood to crank out another life story, which I tend to labor over, digging deep for details and stupid shit I’ve done. So here for you, on national “light reading day”, is a little news about Sweet Peas.

Maybe it’s because my Mom loved Sweet Peas, and would grow them each year, or maybe it’s because they are just such an awesome plant, but when the sweet peas are in their place, and vining vigorously, and promising beautiful and fragrant blossoms in a few weeks, then, for me, all is right in the world. A few years ago, Marie and I created a large eastern exposure site, along our driveway, shown here, and we have planted lots of starts again this year. This is the before picture, and in 6 weeks or so, I will post the results. I wish you all a lovely Spring!


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Acquisition Mode

Turns out, after a lifetime of acquisition, these days, I just don’t care that much about Things. Well, that’s not exactly true, I use the microwave a ton, and when it breaks, I will get another. And my tools, oh man I love tools, don’t make me give them up. But most of the things I require, like tools, and a guitar, and my recording equipment, have something to do with art, the making of something, the process of art. So I guess I can’t tell you that I am one of The Zen Men, meditatin’ away all of my worldly possessions, but I think you get my drift.

Now, coffee table books, I can live without. I already have, oh, maybe 131, ranging from China to Espresso, and though they are very nice, I never look at them, so they just sit shelved in our crowded library, collecting dust. And all that serving stuff, bowl after bowl after platter after platter, “hmmmmm, maybe I should get on my hands and knees, down in the basement where those platters are, behind those 50 or so baking dishes, and pull out the platter that has a picture of a fish on it, since we are serving Salmon to our guests tonight, and, oh yes, while I am down there, I MUST get out that wine bottle basket, the brown one made from actual dried grape vines, it would look so perfect on our table this evening!”, see what I mean?

I think it must be an aging thing. When one is young, Things are the trappings and evidence of success. And it’s probably a good thing, since when you get older, and eventually live on your savings and Social Security, (knock on wood), you can’t afford to buy a bunch of stuff anyway.

Marie and I spent some time a few nights ago in a gift shop, where we attended a grand opening in support of the owner, a friend. As I browsed the store, I was amused at how difficult it was for me to find anything to buy. I mean, it was all cool stuff. But do I need or want a new lunchbox? A stove trivet? A wall clock? New artsy covers for my lightswitches? I finally decided on a few candles, we can always use them, but as for the other stuff, stuff that I will take home, and put on the dining table, where it will sit for a week or two, and then struggle to find a place to store it, only to uncover it in two years time and not even be able to remember where I got it, that’s just not for me.

Not long ago, a very special man whom Marie has worked with passed her office, and handed her off a book that he had been given as a gift. When he handed it to her, he said that he and his wife were “no longer in acquisition mode”, which as you can see, stuck to me like glue.

And another thing. There is a young guy who lives up the street, and as he approached me this afternoon, in his stocking cap and sweat pants, cigarette smoke swirlin’ round his anxious face, as I was walking the dogs, he went off an a diatribe about how his fancy car had been recently hit while parked, and since I walk the dogs so much, and even if it is a “shot in the dark”, did I see anything? I did not see anything, and I expressed sympathy, but when I saw the damage he was so uptight about, what I really wanted to say was, “fuggedaboudid, son, don’ sweat the small stuff.” So we say goodbye, and I watch him walk to his apartment, all stiff and worried and like he has a permanent broomstick up his ass. All set for an anxiety attack, for which he will require valium, or several martinis.

So I know I am full of shit, since I do care about certain of my possessions, but, as a 57 year old guy getting older every year, letting go comes a bit more naturally. If someone puts a dent in my car door, as it sits in some parking lot, or on Hawthorne Boulevard, my first thought is, “ahhhhh, I guess I can worry less about this boat being stolen now!”

But my real message here is for those of you who shower me with gifts, and if I may, I would like to provide for you a list of things I would love to receive in the future:

1. A sunset as seen from Manzanita, Oregon on a warm summer day, my wife by my side
2. About 6 grandkids piled on top of me laughing
3. A look of contentment and health in my children’s eyes
4. Absolutely no boxing Nuns or Rabbis from a store like "Presents of Mind"
5. A barbecue at my daughter’s house with my sons-in law barbecuing
6. Marie and I hanging around outside ourAirstream trailer in the morning with a cup of coffee in a park with huge pine trees
7. The Grand Canyon
8. A subscription to National Geographic Magazine
9. A trip to a Mariner’s game with my entire family
10. Massage
11. Dinner at Castagna twice a month with my pluperfect wife and a dry Grey Goose Martini
12. No more war

That last one is a doozy, I know, but try real hard to get it for me, will ya?

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Instant Karma

Last night, as Marie and I laid packin’ some much needed zees, snorin’ like a coupla’ frogs, after a long week, some little unconscious 14 year-old male, named Eddy, vandalized our front yard, by removing and breaking two of our solar powered landscape lights. When I walked the dogs, minutes ago, I found the parts lying about, in the street, in our neighbor’s yard, smashed on the sidewalk. When I returned with the dogs, after a brisk walk in serious rain, carrying my two little blue doggie poop bags, I cleaned up the remnants of Eddy’s fine work. Actually, I have no idea who the perp was. But being a boy myself, and having, ashamedly, done my own vandalizing as a kid, and having known first hand the teenage male energy which could create such a scenario, I have a very strong feeling that our vandal was a boy, likely 12-17, and I gave him the name Eddy cuz it’s greasy, in a sitcom kinda way.

When I walked into the house, my first comment to Marie was....”There is something intrinsically wrong with male humans”, to which she gave me a look which was a combination of all-knowing, mixed with a tinge of being caught unawares. “Why do you say that?”, she giggled over the Saturday newspaper, dutifully responding to my obviously loaded statement, her jazzy half glasses propped low on her nose. “Oh, some kid vandalized some of our lights in the front yard last night”, I replied, and we launched into a conversation about boys, and vandalism, and what the hell would make a kid wreck someone’s stuff for no good reason. Marie listened attentively as I spoke of my own experiences as a vandal.

I was 16, and I was a boy with plenty of need for the admiration and validation of my peers. That summer, several of us who had participated in “The Christmas Lane Egg Gang”, which was a rousing success, the previous winter, decided we should continue our efforts by launching eggs about the city from the back of a pick-up truck, or a car. I am not going to mention any names, because we are all certainly ashamed of ourselves, so many years later, for delightfully ruining the hoods of cadillacs and shopkeeper's front doors and even a turquoise cashmere sweater, once proudly worn by an unsuspecting matron, who, arriving for tea with friends on S.E. Belmont Street, 1964, took 3 extra large to the upper right shoulder. I am certain she had not flipped anyone off with such gusto in years.

The thing about being a good or even great egg tosser is that one must remain anonymous, that is, have a good arm, and be able to hit a target at say, 30 feet or so, such that one is not identifiable, and that one’s getaway vehicle, and license plate, especially if it’s your Dad’s car, cannot be documented. However, given the great pleasure one feels upon a direct hit, the satsifying sound of shell and albumen shattering on some poor soul’s fine cyprus knee gate, or herringbone jacket, one may be tempted to shoot off a few at closer range.

Such was the case, as my best high school friend and I trolled S.E. Powell Boulevard, one Sunny Summer Saturday, after stopping at the Quickie Mart for ammo. It was my turn to hurl, so he was driving my car. Well, my folk’s car, a 1962 Rambler, like the one pictured above. Idling at a side street stop sign, we allowed a couple of boys, perhaps a bit younger than us, to pass in front of the car. After they passed, and while they were no more than 6 or seven feet away, and much to my best friend’s shock, and praise, I sent several line shots in their direction, bing, bing. bing, and caught one of them on the butt, the other on the pants, as he wheeled to see what the heck was happening. Our eyes met.

Before I continue I would like to admit that, at certain times in my life, I have displayed behaviors that can only be descibed as despicable and stupid. The egg throwing is only part of it. As an adult, I hope I have distinguished myself by behaving oppositely.

But the truth is, that there are men everywhere, and surely women as well, who could report their youthful participation in vandalism, were they to be honest. This does not diminish the fact that I am mortified and humiliated by my own participation in such acts. But there is more to the story.

After shocking those two boys, just off Powell Boulevard, by scoring direct egg hits on both of them, my friend and I continued our foray, and eventually drove home. Later that day, I had to drive out to do some errands, buy some stuff, something, and I took the Rambler we had used that morning for our evil deeds.

I was not exactly headed for Powell Boulevard, but I did have to cross upper Powell, some distance from where I had egged the boys. Suddenly, as I drove, I looked out the car window, to my left, and saw the two boys, standing on a bluff above the street. I was shocked. I could tell immediately that it was the same two boys.

Maybe they recognized me, and the car. I won’t ever know that for sure. But in that moment, just about the second I recognized them, I saw one of them rare back, and heave something into the air. He was a long way off, but still, I stepped on it.

INCOMING!!!.........and without further ado, a good size rock hit the back window of the car, right behind my head, shattering the window. “Good God”, I may have been heard to think, “I could’ve been killed.”

I know it seems like a crazy coincidence, I mean that I ran into those same kids on the same day, but it really happened. I returned home, and after having reported the Completely Isolated Incident of Vandalism on Our Car by Some Bad People, my Mom gave me some money to have the window fixed, and I made arrangements at a glass shop.

I told Marie today that teenage boys should all experience the sport of boxing, so they can all get the idea that, if you are going to lash out, maybe hurt someone, there are going to be consequences, like maybe you are going to get your block knocked off.

She looked up at me, still jazzy in her glasses, and spoke. “Ric, back then, when you threw eggs on those boys, what would have been more meaningful to you.......having your block knocked off, or getting inside the lives of those two boys, and knowing what their lives were really like?”

Excellent question. I do remember feeling very guilty, some moments after I saw my eggs hit those boys. After all, they were totally innocent, and probably nice kids. But one thing for sure. After I saw that boy wind up, and give flight to that bullet, and then the rock exploded through my car’s window, and landed in the back seat, while 1962 Rambler glass went flying, well, that was then end of egg throwing for me.

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Breast Cancer

No, this is not a photo of The Godfather, it’s just me and my daughters, at my daughter Stacey’s wedding in 1992. None of us has breast cancer.

Perhaps you have noticed that I occasionally expound on how absolutely proud I am of my children, Stace and Amy included, as they go about their lives with gusto, intelligence, kindness, bravery, and a page full of glorifying adjectives you might drift off on. These are two great and respectable human beings, and I just happen to be their Dad.

You know how some kids in a family grow up, and when they are growing up, they don’t have that much to do with each other, sorta stand-offish with each other? Well, that didn’t happen with these guys. From day one, they have been best friends, and it has continued to this day. They live very near each other in the Seattle area, by design. When I ask one of them when they might move to Portland, to be closer to the old man, they just say, “when my sister moves down there, that’s when I’m movin’.

Marie and I have sometimes discussed how blessed we each feel to have met, for lots of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I have inherited a wonderful son, and Marie two daughters. We care deeply about all of our children, and grandchildren, and when we both retire, I am certain that they will approve the construction of a permanent Airstream pad on the side of their house. Gary and Tim, git t’work on that will ya? A full hook-up site will do nicely.

Stacey and Amy both hold down important jobs. Stace, a mother of four, runs her own successful online operation, AnnabelleHandbags.com, and Amy, a mother of two, is a marketing manager for a large corporation. Being the marketeers that they are ( I like to think it’s in the blood), I wasn’t surprised a couple of days ago when Amy wrote to ask if I might post a link to one of her upcoming projects, on my site.

For the last couple of years, Stacey and Amy have lent their time and their legs to The Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation’s “Breast Cancer 3-Day”, a 60 mile walk, over 3 days, in Seattle, and across the nation, to benefit the foundation and their fine work. The 2006 Seattle 3-day takes place from August 25-27. Last year, when Amy was 7 months pregnant, she worked in food service as a Crew Member, while Stace and her mother walked the route. This year, Amy is pumped to be walking the route, while Stace manages all the offspring they have accumulated.

Making this walk for breast cancer research, and for the benefit of breast cancer patients, is a huge committment. For starters, a walker must pledge $2200 to the foundation, and then begin the process of seeking donations for their effort. I sort of like the idea of the financial stipulation the foundation makes, because it tends to really make a person get out and do it right, but it is a lot of money. Still, I know Amy, and I am certain that she is holding her head up high and kicking some philanthropic butt to make it happen.

I am going to ask you to help Amy and Stacey in their efforts. Amy’s husband Gary is going to walk the 3-day too, and so I should also mention that we have two great sons-in law. But I don’ wanna get too mushy about those boys yet, 'til I see how that trailer pad they’re makin’ comes out.

Click here to donate to Amy’s 60 mile 3-day walk for The Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. ANY amount would be greatly appreciated!

And here are some more photos of the sisters.


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The Remote Controlled Fart Machine No. 2 Too

Some of you may recall my blog entry titled “The Remote Controlled Fart Machine No. 2”, which was basically the story of buying and displaying all the wonderful uses of such a device for my sweet wife Marie, who somehow, it turns out, does not find the electronic fart machine and its splendid sound-making capabilities nearly as useful as I.

But c’mon!, what could be funnier? When Auntie Rose is coming for dinner, first thing, you duct tape the fart machine to the bottom of her dining chair. Then, after the meal of Fresh Oregon King Salmon and Garlic Green Beans are devoured, and the Caramel Peach Bread Pudding (or Twinkies Flambe) are on their way, you make some comment like, “Good God that was a rich meal!”, and as Auntie Rose nods her head in agreement, without further adieu, you deploy the fart machine, repeatedly and without mercy, with the remote control in your pocket, which of course, as it sits directly under Auntie Rose’s chair, has begun emiting various and sundry killer fart sounds. At that moment, you get a horrified and shocked look on your face, and announce to your guests, “Well, yeah, I said it was rich, but I didn’t think it was THAT rich!

When I tell stories like this to Marie, as my step-son Blaine stands by with the giggles, she buries her head in her hands, maybe starts singing ”Mary Had a Little Lamb”, loudly, with her fingers plugged into her ears. I am sure it is just a Mars vs. Venus issue, and the fact that many women share a sensitive and sensible side that perhaps some of us men lack. But it’s ancient. I mean, when you are hunting the Tundra, and you finally bag a Woolly Mammoth, which will keep you and your family alive for months, isn’t it just so natural to sit around the campfire, way out there on the ice, and while you are wolfing down a seared, rare chunk-o-mammoth, rip off a few nice tear-ass creepers for your buddies to enjoy? Ancient men may have been short-lived, and had bad teeth, but surely they had a sense of humor! "Ayno, you boor!", one of them may have quipped, sinew in his cheek, "stop pulling Gargon's finger!"

Let’s just say, that approximately 105% of my male friends love The Remote Contolled Fart Machine No. 2, and if you sit it before one of them, just have them sit there, and begin to play the sounds, their reaction is not going to be one of dismay. It will take them maybe 3 seconds to start laughing, and then they will pick it up to examine it, and look at you with great wonder, and say, “Where, oh where did you get THIS?

But I don’t want you to think I have a deaf ear when it comes to my wife’s druthers regarding the fart machine. I mean, when Blaine and I discovered a little cubby hole up under our main dining table, and put the fart machine there, and left it there for many months, through dinner parties and other functions, we never once unleashed its delicious sounds onto anyone, all, of course, in deference to the lady of the house, who likely stood ready to clobber us, anyway, if we had. I continue to share it with my male friends, occasionally, (though I admit the newness has worn off), and it has been quite some time since Marie’s sensitive soul has heard (or seen) our little black box of joy.

So it came as a bit of a surprise, last night, at about 3 a.m., while slumbering way down deep in REMland, that I was awakened by the strangest sound, one which, in my stupor, I did not initially recognize, coming from the direction of my dresser top. But it was a loud and obnoxious sound, and I immediately sat up on the edge of the bed, right before stubbing my toe on the bed post, as I basically dove headlong toward the dresser. When I reached the dresser, I took one glance at my toe to see if I was bleeding, and then moved on to the more important issue of locating the source of the sound. I’m sure you have figured out that the sound in question was emanating from The Remote Controlled Fart Machine No. 2, (aka The Boom Box Blaster), and as I stood before my dresser, I finally realized, all tired and toe throbbing, that the little black box was stuck on fart. Or I should say, given to the amazing skill employed by those who created the machine's audio track, stuck on juicy fart. Then, even in a near dream state, it occurred to me that the little plastic remote control switch must be lying somewhere nearby, with a shoe on it, or maybe had fallen between the springs and the mattress on the bed, something, that would keep this thing farting continually and without fail. I picked the fart machine up, to discover that I was absolutely correct in my "annoying sound" sleuthing, since it became much louder as I drew it toward my face for a closer listen. All this time, of course, I am working like a beaver to hopefully remedy the situation before Marie wakes fully and sits up in bed and says, oh maybe something like, “what the fuck is going on?”

Being a baker for so many years, I know how to wake up fast, and so, in a second or two, I had removed the thing to my office/studio, where I keep a small phillips head screwdriver in my top desk drawer, just the right size for removing those little screws like one might find on a fart machine battery compartment. Shortly after, I had removed the battery and the sound stopped. I returned to bed, and laid there for, oh, maybe two hours, all wide awake, and tense, and injured, and dwelling, with my zenless monkey mind, on what I might write about such an experience.

Some minutes ago I located the remote contol, which was unencumbered, and apparently had nothing to do with the glitch. But after replacing the 9 volt battery in the fart machine itself, all is well, and The Remote Controlled Fart Machine No. 2 works great once again, which I am certain Marie will be delighted to hear.



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The Airstream Chronicles...Champoeg State Park, Oregon, 2006

Marie took a friday off, this week, so that we could shoot out of town a bit early with The Toaster in tow. Champoeg State Park, a large, beautiful and well serviced Oregon State Park, which is only about 35 minutes from our home, is a great place for us to land with our 1964 Airstream Tradewind Land Yacht. We take some videos along, and our laptops, and if the weather is inclement, as in cold and rainy, which it has been for most of our time here, we just hole up and catch up on a few documentaries or other dvds we have been wanting to watch. This weekend, we saw three of them, and once again, my Documentary Filmaker Wife Marie came up with some great stuff. At amazon.com, they just call her by her first name.

As you can see from the photo above, our Bichon “Pippi” is well at home in the trailer, as long as she is glued to her Mom or Dad. Poppi, pictured here, is our more mellow Bichon, and she tends to find a place to lie like a lump more often than her sister. It’s great fun to have Bichons, whether at home, or on the road. We brought our bikes this time, and if it gets nice later today, we may try to bike the paved bike path they have here, along the Willamette River, with our dogs secured in strap and velcro doggy pouches attached to our breasts as we ride. I hope to get a photo of that, just to make my kids wonder, yet again, if Dad and Marie have completely lost it.

This little weekend jaunt is our first foray of the trailering season, so last week I de-winterized The Toaster, where it sits in storage on its pad in my commercial building’s parking lot. I checked out the parking lights, etc., got it ready to roll. Unfortunately, I did not discover the serious water line leak in the galley area, so when I turned the water on here in this full hook-up park, we endured a bit of minor flooding under the kitchen sink, and decided we were going to have to rough it this weekend without cold or hot water in the trailer. Marie and I tend not to dwell on mishaps, and once we realized that we were stuck, we just adapted. We do have heat, and the fridge works fine, no worries. Next week I will get my friend Dean Pottle The Plumber to fix the busted water line.
As I sit here writing, my dog by my side, and Marie reading in her berth, the sun streaming in on my hands and keyboard, the only sounds I hear are the second hand movement of our retro chrome-look wall clock, an occasional small plane engine, and the voices of other campers, kids mostly, their reverb tinged conversations cutting through the stillness and quiet of the park. Marie said this morning, over our fresh hot coffee, that she had heard owls and possibly coyotes last night in bed. And yesterday, when I drove out of the park on an errand, I had to stop to allow four young deer to cross the road directly in front of me.

This park is greatly accessible, and we intend on bringing our son Blaine here, who uses a wheelchair, another time, and renting one of the accessible cabins for him, or possibly a yurt. As you can see, they both have accessible entries. But the restroom facilities located near the cabins are much more accessible, and even include a roll in shower with a hand held shower head! I look forward to sitting next to the fire with Blaine and Marie, the pups, maybe Granny, and any other family members I can talk into meeting us here, and crankin’ out some gooey marshmallow and fine dark chocolate gourmet s’mores.















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Radicchio

First off, let me begin by saying that, in my humble and completely objective opinion, the whole Sonny and Cher thing was kinda cute. I mean, the way they would rib each other, on their old TV show, The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour, Cher calling Sonny names, like Pizza Man, something, and then after the commercial, there she was, in some teeny tiny peacock feathered outfit, with headress, and the music would swell, and then, unfortunately, she would sing. And in my humble objective opinion, though she is a great gal, Cher cannot sing that well. As in, put her in front of American Idol truth teller Simon Cowell, for the purpose of actually judging her vocal talent....she’s toast. “Honestly Cher”, he might say, “If I’m being completely frank, you were off key, it was a total mess, the way your notes trail down like some sort of pa-thet-ic sliding drone, and I think you’ve just bought a one way ticket back to Duluth. I mean if I’m being toe-tah-lee honest.”

Other things I am having difficulty understanding the popularity of are:

1. Willie Nelson
2. Trying to smell your own breath
3. Johnny Cash
4. Sprouts (May I have something that tastes like dirt added to my sandwich please?)
5. That song “Never Been to Me”
6. The TV show “Fear Factor”
7. Listerine
8. Radicchio
9. Double Salted Licorice

Okay so radicchio, which has become a favoured green, or, red, if you will, for salads, is completely bitter, awful stuff. It’s pretty, sure, but it does not taste good. End of topic, end of conversation. Alright so maybe some people like bitter. But I have this fantasy that at some point, a consortium of highfalutin chefs and farmers got together and said, “Ya’know, this here radicchio, it grows like a frickin’ weed, I bet we could get the masses of gourmet diners to eat this shit, if we pretend it’s like a delicacy, those idiots’ll eat anything if ya package it right!” So after we enjoy our persimmon infused vodka martini, we move right on to our “Radicchio Caesar Salade with Garlic Polenta Croutons”, and the waiter in his crisp white apron says, all snooty like, “and how is everything?”, and if it’s me, I am all polite and say “fine”, and then I go home and write how radicchio, truth be known, is a conspiracy.

But "double salted licorice" takes the cake, and if you have never tried any, you must. Apparently, they like it in Europe, and much of it is made there. What happened, I think, is that many years ago, the person who made the first batch had like six young kids, and when he made this stuff, he was standing near the ever ripening diaper pail, its fumes rising and entering his candy pot, and so that’s why double salted licorice tastes like ammonia. And then it got popular. Go get a bag, will ya’, and explain this to me. Most candy stores carry it.

Okay so your turn. Be honest, what strains your brain on the appeal continuum?

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