The Wisteria Building

In 1993, after having been in bakery business for 18 years, I dived headlong into the purchase of the commercial building where my bakery, “Favourites” was located. It was a no brainer, really. The building was for sale, my bakery was the flagship tenant, and took up almost all of the leasable space in the building at that time. Plus, I was anxious to embark on another kind of work since I felt that my baking career was nearing completion. As I have said to others along the way, 20 years in the bakery business is quite enough.

Finding the money to make such a purchase, though, was a bit more problematic than the decision to buy. But eventually, I was able to convince the building owners to allow me to buy it for zero down, which in a nutshell, is a perfect metaphor for the old adage, “ it never hurts to ask ”. One month, I was still a tenant, the next, the building’s owner, no down payment required. I will always be grateful to Jack and Diane Baker for their kindness and generosity as they turned the keys (and responsibility) of the building over to me.

I went to work right away, improving the building such that it would accomodate more tenants, and, over the last 14 years, I have spent many, many thousands of dollars, and many, many hours of plotting and planning and waiting for plans examiners to call my name. But I have loved it. Turning this old building, which was originally built in the 1920s, into a living, breathing commercial property has been rewarding. We will soon open for lease a fourth retail store on the property.

Last week, I signed a lease with Francisco Diaz, who will operate his fifth Cha! Cha! Cha! Mexican Taqueria in my former bakery space in “The Wisteria Building” a name I conjured up cuz, well, I planted 4 purple wisteria in 1993, around the building, and now, they look like they have been here forever. Francisco makes killer burritios, and other usual and not so usual Mex dishes. If you are in Portland, we are at 4727 NE Fremont, also known as Beaumont Village. Stop by for a Margarita!

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The Compulsive Fixer

I dunno, maybe it’s cuz I owned my own bakery for over 20 years, employing no less than 13 people at any given time, and all that bakery equipment, sheesh, which tended to break down now and then, needed fixing, and that’s how I became a compulsive fixer. Maybe it’s cuz the rol-sheeter seemed to always need a new bearing, or the thermo-couple on the oven was spent, or the proof box needed a new floatation unit, or the roof over the roof mounted air conditioner was leaking, or those oddball thinline flourescent lights in the cold case wouldn’t stay on, yikes, I could fill this page with all the little fixes that I have done over time, out of necessity.

Or maybe it’s cuz I have lived in old houses for most of my adult life, those lovely and gingerbready and broken down painted ladies, or those old Portland Craftsmen Style Beauties, with their chipped and buckling wainscoting and unfinished and freezing water closets attached to the back porch, that has made me the compulsive fixer I have become today. When I go down to my small basement workshop in my home, I am amazed at all the tools and tool stuff I have acquired over the years. But I still need a dust collection system, I mean for the table saw, hint, hint.

I have had a small warehouse attached to my commercial building, on upper N.E. Fremont Street, here in Portland, for almost 15 years, and last summer, we decided to clean it out, you know, sell off all the detritus of entirely too many marriages, and the lawn chairs piling up at one end, and the bakery related stuff that mounted to the ceiling before I sold my store in 1995, et cetera, and get it completely cleaned out such that I could turn the old warehouse into a nice 830 square foot retail space, bring a cute little store in there, to complement the other 3 businesses in the building. It has taken me a year to finally get a permit from the City of Portland to make these changes, that is, to secure a proper drawing which was completed by my friend and killer architect Dan Glennon, and to trudge through the permit process, and I have just recently ordered the installation of 5 very groovy skylights, which will be hoisted into place somewhere during the first part of September. My plate is fullish.

So it might surprise you to learn that, given this new project of mine, and other stuff, oh, music, the care and feeding of my commercial tenants, the care and feeding of my wife, the care and feeding of my son Blaine, keeping up a blog, other stuff, that I have decided to hang out a shingle as a fixer, a little enterprise i have coined “Call the Fixer”. I helped our neighbor Nancy with some projects a couple of months ago, around her tri-plex, and I enjoyed it so much, and made some money at it, so I have decided to go pro.

My wife might describe me as a compulsive busy person, not just a compulsive fixer, maybe even squeeze in the term “antsy”, but anyway you look at it, it’s a good fit, for me to come over to your house and do some much needed fixes for you. So if you live in Portland, or Vancouver, USA, and need me to put a handrail on that dangerous basement staircase, or install some light fixures, or put some molding ‘round that kitchen door, give your friendly, compulsive fixer a call. Or email me for details.

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Finding Rev Phil

Lest I nauseate my flagging readership yet again, by spewing more platitudes about my wife Marie, the funny, talented, beautiful, pluperfect Marie, I must tell you a bit about one of her latest accomplishments, that is, her avocation as filmmaker. Documentarian, more precisely.

A couple of years ago, Marie announced, in no terms uncertain, that she would be buying a camcorder, a good one, and buying some books, and taking a class on filmmaking. You will have to ask her to tell you more about her road to actually knowing how to create a film, start to finish, but I gotta tell ya, in such a short amount of time, she has produced several films that are, for lack of a better term, GREAT!

Marie has been using her newfound skills at work, producing several short films, with the help of several other local filmmakers, to highlight non-profit organizations which have received grants from the philanthropic organization she works for.

But my favourite film of hers to date is one of her first efforts, titled “Finding Rev Phil”, which is a 20 minute documentary about one of Portland’s most interesting characters, genial iconoclast bike punk and all around good guy Reverend Phil, whom she met at FreeGeek, where our son Blaine holds court in the build department.

Suffice it to say, right before I direct you to the website where you can buy this little gem, that one of Phil’s great and fully documented stunts was the complete and overwhelmingly funny streaking of our local baseball venue, PGE Park, in 2005, much to the chagrin of local officials, but now, much to the pleasure of those of us who know and love the nut. The streaking incident, and even the local TV coverage during the mayhem is included in the philm.

To see a clip and read about the movie, click here.

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Blaine’s 27th Birthday Party

As many of you know, my 27 year-old step-son, Blaine, (my wife Marie’s actual son), has a few “disabilities”, that is, he was born with spina bifida, and some other stuff. Blaine is paralyzed from the armpits down, which of course makes for a laugh riot when one is called on to cut his toenails, and maybe you nick him, by mistake, and say to him, “did that hurt?” Sometimes I tell him, when the pain of gout is bothering me, what a lucky fuck he is to not be able to feel his legs or feet.

I love Blainey to death, he’s my bud, and I tell him so, as I did last night, while his mother and I were watching the news, after I had driven him home in our lift equipped van from his volunteer job at FreeGeek. “I love you with all my heart and soul, Blaine”, I believe were my exact words. Sitting there is his wheelchair, bobbin’ and a weavin’, he gives me this look, like I am completely out of my mind, and says back, “yeah right”, and wheels off. The bastard. Blaine turned 27 just this past week, on July 21st, and since he is so lovable, we decided to host a party for him at the courtyard next to my commercial building, the same courtyard where we store our 1964 Airstream. I have a big barbecue up there, leftover from my days in the food business, and the garden is cute, so we sent out invitations to all of Blaine friends at FreeGeek. We barbecued sausage and served confetti bean salad and spinach feta pockets and salsa and cookies and lemon drops, Blaine’s favourite cocktail. We opened up the Airstream and threw some Pabst on ice. Partially inebriated geek patter filled the air and rose past the tree tops on N.E. Fremont.
Blaine’s strength and bravery are an inspiration to many, including me, and certainly his friends, since life in general, if you are disabled, can many times be difficult, and even exausting. I credit Marie, Blaine’s occasionally exausted Mom, with having helped Blaine achieve such a marvelous disposition and attitude, given the daily struggle.
Blaine graduated from Wilson High School, here in Portland, where his Mom drove him every day, since at the time (he graduated in 1997), Wilson was the most accessible for a person who uses a wheelchair. And though Blaine is not interested in college, he has received a great education by volunteering at FreeGeek, and can break down and assemble computers with the best of 'em. There is nothing wrong with Blaine’s brain. Except when he criticizes his step-dad for believing in the bunt, a baseball strategy which Blaine cannot abide.

Having raised two daughters, Stacey and Amy, I figured I was done having children, but in 1997, when Marie and I met, and fell in love, I began to figure out that I was going to get a son after all. I am one of the luckiest guys on the planet, for having met Marie, and then Blainey, and then having them welcome me into their lives and accept me and love me. Blaine allows me to call him son. Celebrating his birthday this year was great fun. He is one special cat. Blaine is kind, humorous, forgiving, brave, inspiring, generous, honest, charming, and smart. I mean, except about the bunt thing.



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Live Coverage of Nothing

A nasty tragedy occured last week, here in greater Portland, when a Hawker Hunter, a vintage jet flown by veteran pilot Robert Guilford, crashed into a densely populated area near the Hillsboro airport, where the show takes place every year. The large explosion and ensuing fire destroyed two homes and part of a third, and unfortunately cost the pilot his life. I do not intend to make light of this horrific event. Luckily, no one on the ground was injured, and the fire was extinguished quickly.

Portland news coverage began in earnest immediately. Perhaps you know how much I love and trust local news reporting, which I ranted on about in a previous tract titled “Worst Case Scenario News”. I know, they’re just people with a job to do like the rest of us, but somehow, news reporters exhibit a kind of macabre enthusiasm when they are on the trail of really bad news, which can be, methinks, a tad self-serving, and sometimes, borders on the despicable.

Boy howdy, when that little jet went down, and sent Robert Guilford to his death, every news chopper and news van and news person in these parts was off to Hillsboro like a shot. Within minutes, every local channel was reporting live from as close as they could get to the scene, which was not very close, interviewing neighbors, firefighters, airport officials, and passersby. Helicopters   hovered above the neighborhood, as streams of water from firehoses filled the air.

As news trickled in, about the air show, the crashed jet, the fire, and the pilot, our local news teams were all over it. But eventually, within several hours, the news was basically, well, over. The fire was out. We knew all about the dead guy. The two destroyed houses were a black and wet mess. Conjecture about whether or not The Portland Air Show would ever play again at the Hillsboro Airport had been exhausted. It was at that point that the reporting took a bit of a turn.

Maybe they coulda just decided that enough was enough, and gone on to other news, but NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, as John Belushi once moaned, they thought they had us all in the palms of their hands, that we were glued to the TV for any little additional crumb of info about the crash we might get. So what if they had begun to interview people about the crash who lived in the neighborhood, several blocks away, and were not home at the time of the crash, and did not see it, or hear it, and who, basically, were not in any way affected by the crash. So what if the cameras were panning in again and again to the same charred and steaming rubble, as ultra coiffed news gals offered up questions like, “How do you think this awful crash will impact the neighborhood in the immediate future?”, and “Do you think the future of The Portland Air Show hangs in the balance after such a terrible tragedy?”, that sort of thing, for like, at least two hours longer than necessary. And when breaking for the imminent commercial, one young male reporter, after having basically nothing to say, breathlessly required of his surely rapt audience “don’t touch that dial!”

It’s kind of funny, really, watching news folks squirm and stutter and scramble for more news in a story that has so obviously burned out.

It’s at times like this that my wife Marie, who is a bonafide headlines hound, and I, have eye contact, and with a wee bit of disdain in her voice, and a lot of sarcasm, she will make her feelings known about that which she believes is sub-par reporting. Sometimes she just lets out a nice big ARGGGHHHHH! , maybe a hearty laugh. This time, she looked absolutely disgusted as she spoke. “Man, we're watchin' Live Coverage of Nothing”, I think were her exact words, and, as I am sometimes driven to do, it is her words which I have stolen, to well, beef up the news.

Click here to listen to the song "Worst Case Scenario News"

My story in annoying detail:

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The Saran Wrap Dress Guy

There runs amidst the white lined bike paths of Portland city streets a fervent bike cult, those who prefer the less polluting and petrol efficient two wheel form of travel. I do indeed count myself among the faithful, and although I do use a van for work, and to cart my son around, I dunno, life is just better on a bike.

Like any good cult, you have your various sects and factions, which in bike land, for example, include the Nike Aerodynamic Bike Suit clad, with their $1000 or greater sleek and sexy bikes, and those little dental-like rear view mirrors attached to their helmets. There are the The Family Bikers, young couples with their offspring who talk and giggle about their lives, which center around The Sunnyside Environmental Grade School, as they glide by my own impeccable and poisons-free landscape. There are the less serious bikers, like myself, and my wife, who just love the wind in their hair, on a ride along Portland’s east side riverview esplanade, and perhaps enjoy a tinge of the melancholy from glorious biking days past, when we soared with reckless abandon down the streets of Oregon college towns in our youth. And then, there is The Portland Wild And Crazy Bike Youth, those 17 through 20 somethings, not yet quite settled on career, or marriage, or family, and who perhaps, though they prefer beer to water, tend to be vegan. The hardcore bikers. The ones with green hair, poppin’ wheelies. The ones who rally for biker’s rights, know how to break a bike down and put it back together with a vice grips and a screwdriver, and on any friday night, may swarm to the streets for a good traffic halting protest. And if you catch’em on the right night, they might be buck naked.

Such was the case this past week as Marie and I travelled in our big white Chevy van, just minutes from our home, on our way to visit some friends. As we stopped at the red light on 20th and Morrison, I spied, on the corner, two young male bikers, who had apparently stopped to adjust something on one of their bikes, and, as I looked a bit closer, I noticed that one of them, the guy who was crouched down to look at something in his bike’s chain area, was wearing nothing but, get this, a saran wrap dress. “Oh, this is good”, I thought, as I pointed out the duo to Marie, whose mouth dropped open with lightning speed.

It was at that moment that I noticed, on the Saran Wrap Dress Guy’s bike, an entire giant roll of plastic wrap, the kind we used in my bakery days, to wrap bakery products for sale, perhaps 20 inches long, 8 inches thick, tied to the back of the bike, like a bedroll. You know, just in case you need to freshen up your look. And that’s it. No water bottle, nothing else attached to the bike. Just the guy, the wrap, and the saran wrap dress. I mean that I could see.

To describe the outfit a little more completely, well, imagine that you yourself were going to attempt this feat. The way you would do it is, first, get naked. Then, raise both your arms up, and with someone else’s help you begin wrapping yourself, under the pits, and across the chest and back, with many thicknesses of shrink wrap, and then, continue down ‘til you have a sort of mini-dress look, and then, cut off the wrap. Voila!

The other guy was dressed normally. I believe he had shorts on, and a T-shirt, and he was waiting patiently for Saran Wrap Dress Guy to finish fiddling with his bike, so they could cross the intersection.

Just then, the light changed. I drove on. Saran Wrap Dress Guy had mounted his bike, and was beginning to peddle our way, while our van crossed the intersection. As he began to peddle, his legs spread apart, providing us with a more thorough view of his undergarments. There were no undergarments. But he had something, something tan and black and small, attached to his, er, schwann. Maybe something like you might see in a National Geographic special about Natives in the New Guinean Outback, where natives adorn their genitalia with a variety of forest products.

It could’ve ended there, just a flash of something funny for Marie and I to remember over the years, in conversation, as we sit, and go forth, soon, into our twilight years, drinking wine spritzers in our beloved Pond View Chairs, but unfortunately, it did not.

Our dear friend Nancy, who lives within ear shot of our back door, has a way with gardening, as does my wife Marie, and the two of them are simpatico where flora rules. A few days ago, Nancy hosted yet another stellar dinner party, in her stellar garden, complete with her very famous barbecued Tandoori Chicken, an Eastern Indian dish she picked up while living abroad for many years.The scene was a delight. The garden's dining table was beautifully set, with Nancy's charming and eclectic outdoor plates and platters. Brightly coloured paper lanterns glimmered above spirited conversation. The fragrance of barbecuing Tandoori spices mingled with sweet mock orange blossoms in the warm evening air. Wine glasses were filled and refilled, and even our son Blaine wheeled over for the merriment. We finally sat down to dine, and at some point, I decided to butt in with my new favourite story. “Guys, listen to this”, I blurted, and then began a version of the story above, which you have just read, about the Saran Wrap Dress Guy, and his bike, and how Marie and I were so shocked and perplexed and well, you get the picture. But then, just because I have absolutely no sense, and because I am impulsive and immature, and occasionally needy for a laugh, when I got to the part about The Saran Wrap Dress Guy’s Genitalian Adornment, there at that lovely dinner party, attended only by wholly refined and intelligent guests, all smiley and attentive and polite, I suddenly exclaimed loudly and without reservation, “The guy, he had, well, HE HAD A CLOTHESPIN ON HIS PENIS”, which was not exactly true, but brief, and I immediately felt like a complete idiot, while some giggled and my wife trembled, in a cowering kind of way, in her patio chair by my side, there among the fine wines and exquisite foods, as I had proven, once again, that she just can’t take her husband anywhere.

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The Airstream Chronicles--”Ric And Blaine Go Gamblin’"... Lincoln City, Oregon

He might not be able to do the mambo at the Taco Del Mar, but one thing my 26 year-old step-son Blaine does do, with aplomb, is numbers. Lest I neglect to mention it yet again, Blaine can add numbers in his head, well, savant-like. And do not even ever suggest that someone lay down a bunt, as you sit watching the Seattle Mariners attempt to make a comeback, because in “Sabremetrics”, the baseball stats philosophy that Blaine has embraced, the bunt, under any circumstances, is considered a statistical blunder. So I always try to mention, Evil Dad that I am, and with equal aplomb, that now would be a great time for a bunt. Then, when he looks at me like I am an idiot, and says, NOOOOOOO, no bunts!”, I say, “Ha! Made ya say it again!”

So when it comes to games, like chess, where Blaine holds a high rating, and reads chess books for fun, Blaine just sorta naturally rises to the top. Once, when I agreed to play him in a game of chess, just because I have masochistic tendencies, I began the game by moving one of my pawns forward. At that moment, Blaine looked at me with a little smirk, and exclaimed, in a kinda belittling sing song tone, “OHHHHHHHH,... the Sicilian”, apparently referring to my move, as if I actually had some learned plan in mind, some strategy culled from my many years of study and plying my trade on the chess circuit. Of course I still have absolutely no idea what "the Sicilian" is, but I know it's a chess thing.

We have fun together, and, given Blaine’s disabilities, his Spina Bifida, and other stuff, well, he’s just a huge inspiration to me, and to others, the way he has dealt with and deals everyday with his limitations, stuff that those of us who are able bodied take for granted. Blainey has never complained about his condition even once in his life, and I have seen first hand so many times how his presence inspires the good in others. He brings out the best in people. Never mind that he is such a social person, and is always wanting to make conversation with just about anyone. There is just something about my son that softens people and makes them instantly more balanced. I like him that way.

Marie and I travelled to Prairie City, Oregon, in our Airstream, just the two of us, a couple of weeks ago, and left Blaine home with our two Bichon Frises, Pippi and Poppi. We don’t normally leave Blaine alone at home, and it was kind of a first for us all. But Blaine held down the fort well, (we had other people lined up to stop by to lend a hand) and part of the plan, since the Airstream was already hooked up to the van, was that, upon our return from Prairie City, Blaine and I would then go forth on our own, and take the dogs with us, leaving Marie at home, to Lincoln City, Oregon, on the Oregon coast, just a coupla’ guys.

The four of us pulled into Coyote Rock RV Park with the toaster in tow and set up camp. We had a little something to eat, and then took off, in the van, to Chinook Winds Casino. Next morning, we got up, had a little breakfast, sent some email utilizing the wi-fi in the RV Park, walked the dogs, and went back to the casino.


With all his gamesmanship expertise, you’d think Blaine would be good at gamblin’, and he is. While I mostly stick to the slots and occasionally waste some money on the roulette table, Blaine’s game of choice is Blackjack, where he usually fares quite well. Of course, anyone can hit a rough streak. But Blaine doesn’t make any mistakes. He plays every hand the way it should be played, based on the odds. He read the Blackjack book.

We had a great time, plenty of laughs, and some decent scores. I hit a jackpot for $400 on a slot machine, and then, of course, proceeded to give the most of it back to other machines. Blaine was down a bit on the Blackjack table after two days, but on the third, made a gallant return to the black. As you can see in the photo above, wearin’ my shades, he’s dangerous lookin’. We’re gonna do it again.


Here’s a song about Blaine from my CD “Useful Information” titled “Like Him That Way”

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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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