Freedom of Expression

I really like usin’ the F word. In conversation, or writing, there’s just no other adjective that says it like fuck. Throw down a fucking this or fucking that, you get the most mileage outa your sentence. Is it unbelievable or unfuckingbelievable? I do pretty well not using expletives among my grandchildren, lest my daughters give me the look, but among friends, I fucking use fuck a lot. No shit. That’s how I roll.

But as I mentioned above, there are sometimes that one just doesn’t need to cuss a blue streak, like among the grandkids. Or around your mom. And if I may digress, I don’ wanna see cigarette or hard liquor ads on TV, and I am glad we outlawed that. So let’s just say I love to be able to express myself freely, in this great country of ours, but there are limits. It’s a good thing to have some limits.

But as far as politics and discourse on the issues goes, it’s no holds barred with me. I wanna hear it all. In order to have a perfect union, we have to have firm resolve on freedom of religion, and free speech. Free speech is da bomb. I might hate what you have to say, but I am gonna defend your right to say it and make your point every time. That’s what makes our country great. So throw down some weird political or religious gobbi gobbi on me, I am gonna think you are an idiot. But I am going to be civil to you, and give you the floor while you blow. Then I am gonna say you’re an idiot, and tell you why.

Wrote a song about it. It’s titled Freedom of Expression. Listen here, and thank you. Hope you fuckin’ like it.

My story in annoying detail:

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So-So Title

I have been writing songs and recording them, off and on, since I was 16 years old, that would be, uh, 46 years. I've waxed on here occasionally about my small triumphs, like having my song "The Noise Pollution's Gone", become the theme song of NoiseFreeAmerica, or, most recently, having over 500 videos on YouTube using my music as a sound track. These things please me so, because besides being born to be a husband, father, gardener and steakeater, I was probably born to write songs, given it's recurring chorus.

Somewhere back there, I think I was in my late 30s, back in the days when one would make a master cassette tape of a song, and send it off to a publisher for approval, or disapproval, I got a lengthy letter back from one of them, with my rejected cassette. It was a lovely letter, really, from a Rusty Someone, full of observations about my songs, and even some kind comments. But I had used the word "spouse" in one of the songs I had sent him, (it was titled, "Knocks the Heart"), and Rusty's comment was that "spouse isn't a song word".

In the past ten years or so I have been submitting songs in the present day mp3 format, online, which is way more convenient. There are online services which will forward your worthy songs to publishers and others for use, as my representative "Rumblefish Music" has done for me by placing my songs on YouTube. I could just about keep my Starbucks card in the black with the royalty checks Rumblefish has been kindly sending each quarter.

Another online company with contacts to recording artists and others who need songs like filmakers and tv producers is Taxi.com, acompany which has placed many songs from li'l ol' writers like me with big recording stars. Each time a writer submits a song to Taxi, the writer receives a critique, a process I have enjoyed, and loathed. The artists and writers and industry professionals at Taxi who critique ones work are mostly kind, but honest. One part of the critique form rates your songs title, including one check box that says "So-So Title". Given my checkered songwriting past, I thought So-So Title was a pretty good title.

Listen to So-So Title, The Song, here.

My story in annoying detail:

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Home Court Advantage

I'm not a guy who thinks much about God. Well, that’s not completely true, cuz sometimes I wonder about folk’s weird conceptions of God, like those time honoured drawings and paintings of a old bearded white guy, reaching out to touch the hand of man, running the planet from the heavens, making it sunny or rainy, allowing school kids to mercilously bully other kids till they commit suicide, and giving my son spina bifida, the joker. Never really had all that much faith in God. But I do have faith in man.

Faith in “man” is what it’s all about. To me, that is the whole message in a nutshell, the message that Jesus and all those other cats want us to get, which somehow gets agonizingly misinterpreted. But it’s not an easy concept to grasp.

It’s not easy to have faith in man. Sometimes men, and women, do disappointing and foolish things, like lie to you, or steal your car, or break into your house, or fuck your best friend, or kill your dog. Sometimes people who seem to be perfectly well adjusted folks, pillars of the community, and who have done many good works, turn out to be rapists, child molesters or abusers, and serial killers. Or they do some other less appalling but still sinful dirty deed, like stealing money from the cash register at their work. Lessee, make the lunch for the kids, fill the bird feeder, send the ‘lectric bill, kiss the spousal unit and wish them a good day, drop the kids at school, call mom, oh crap look at all those 20s in this till, shit, I’m takin’ a couple.

Everyone (except my wife Marie, the most virtuous person on this mighty orb, no kidding) has done something bad in their life. I stole something from someone one time, when I was a teenager, over 40 years ago. I have regretted it SO MUCH all my life, but it did happen. That experience has also propped me up to never do anything like that again. I have gone on to better myself.

But while I don’t believe in God, I do believe in the collective unconscious. Call the collective unconscious God if you wish. If we all have faith in man, and talk about the good things that men and women do and can do, put the emphasis on that all the time, that’s the ticket. I get so tired of all the bad news on TV. I don’t think it’s healthy for the collective unconscious to dwell so much on the negative. Sure it might be titillating and interesting to see all the “worst case scenario” news on Channel 8, or watch a documentary about some serial killer, but I would love to see more balance, more good news. We need to have more faith in man, and faith in man will breed more faith in man, and more and more faith in the collective unconscious, and better behavior by all citizens. That’s the message! That’s what Jesus thinks! When men (or women) disappoint with negative behaviors, turn the other cheek! And if we all do that, and have faith in each other to do the right thing, magic happens.

Im not saying that you don’t lock up the serial rapist and throw away the key. But you do treat him humanely, and give him treatment. And when you catch someone in a lie, you don’t write them off as a lost cause and never trust them again. You tell them how disappointed you are, you tell them how they broke your heart, and you tell them to stop that shit. Then you forgive them. And you try with all your heart to have faith in them, as you go forward. And if you do that, they just might not lie to you again, and your faith will be affirmed and rewarded.

I have often wondered about home court advantage. There is no disputing the fact that teams win more at home than they do away, or, that they more often lose on the opposing teams home court. It is not impossible, for example, for the Phoenix Suns to beat The Los Angeles Lakers in LA, but it is more likely, as was the case this past week, that professional teams will win more games at home. The stats are overwhelming that there is actually truth to the concept of “home court advantage”. Is it because the guys or girls on the teams are just more comfortable at home? That they got more rest in their own bed? That they got to have their favourite breakfast, "moon over my hammy", at their favourite Dennys? Oh, that might be a little part of it. But what I think makes teams win more at home is that the home crowd is cheering and screaming and having faith in their team, and that’s what tips the balance. The collective unconscious of the crowd believing that their team is going to do good, do the right thing, and rousingly exclaiming their faith. Simple.

So I am gonna have faith in man and go forward believing that men and women are gonna do the right thing. And if they don't I'm still gonna give them the benefit of the doubt, and know they can do better.

Oh and Steve, that $5000 you owe me, fuggedaboudid. Call me. I miss you.

My story in annoying detail:

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Ric Seaberg's Homemade Dog Food

We are completely in love with our Bichon Frises, Pippi and Poppi, as I may have mentioned here one or twice. Pip and Pop are a big part of our family. When we are all together in our sitting room, watchin' the same House Hunters for the third time, with our dogs curled at our feet, all is well.

But both our dogs have had some medical problems, Pippi, pacreatitus, and skin issues, she's an itchy dog, and Poppi, the larger yet younger pup, a herniated disc, which required major surgery. I think it was mostly because Pip has itchy skin that I decided to try to make our own dog food, without preservatives and other lengthy word additives. It has been a boon to our dog's health.

This recipe, (or formula as we say in the bakery business), is a knock off from others you might find online, but I have expanded it to make a larger batch, so you can freeze a bunch of it and therefore make it a task that you might actually stick with, as I have. It's pretty easy, well, maybe it takes a bit of strength to stir it up in the final stage, but it's worth it. Here it is:

Ric Seaberg's Dog Food Formula

3 lbs brown rice (try to buy 3 lb bags to make this part easy. Or 2 lb and 1 lb bags!
1lb 5oz oats (1/2 large unit quaker oats)
Equivalent of 3-#10 cans veggies, yams, carrots, corn, peas. Diced carrots and yam pieces available in #10 cans at United Grocers and other food markets which cater to professionals. Varying the veggies in this recipe each time you make it will help supply your dog with a larger variety of nutrients.
5 lbs chopped pulled chicken mostly dark meat (United Grocers carries 10lb boxes of frozen "mostly dark" pulled chicken.

In very large professional size kettle with lid, bring rice to boil and cook on low boil for 35 minutes in 16 pints (16lbs) water (or 8 quarts)
Add oatmeal and cook on low for 5 minutes. Set aside to cool. If you are using any frozen veggies, like peas or corn, add these now. I buy frozen corn, it cools the mixture down which is helpful. When ingedients in kettle have cooled for an hour, add canned veggies. Drain canned veggies before adding. Some yams come in very light syrup so i drain the yams well and rinse. When adding yams squish in your hands as you add to insure that they will mix well. Wash your hands and stir this mixture well right in the large kettle with your hand and arm. You may store this food in larger containers as I do, just because I don't enjoy making individual servings at this point, or you can drop individual servings with a large ice cream scoop on pans which have been prepared with parchment paper. Freeze pans. When frozen, transfer servings to plastic bags for easy storage.

Makes approximately 120 scoops dog food

At our house we feed approximately 4 scoops per dog per day, in morning and late afternoon. At 4 per day total for 2 dogs, this recipe will last 30 days or one month.

Ric Seaberg

The Colonoscopy Song

Let's just say I'm in the last half of my fifties. And, since I'm mostly normal, I get to experience, as I go forth into the second half of my life, certain aging related joys, like the occasional back going out, various aches and pains, a tooth implant here and there, other stuff. You don' wanna see my toenails. But I'm super wise.

Our family doc, Brian Trafficante, is a great doc, a great guy, laughs easily, and characteristcally, I mean as a doc, harps on about weight, cholesterol, and oh yeah, Ric, you need to schedule a colonoscopy.

Recently, I finally got around to making an appointment for that over 50 test, and did the prep, the day before, liquids only, etc., got the test, and the findings were very good, so, though oldish, my butt's really healthy.

Marie drove me to and from the test, since a person is sorta out of it after a colonoscopy, given the dose of morphine they give you to keep you quiet. Some people fall asleep, Marie does, but I was awake the whole time.

But later, at home, in my cozy chair, trying to focus on the TV, I was in a bit of a daze.

I could barely hear Marie talking to her girlfriend Joyce on the phone, explaining to her that, since I was so out of it, we might have to cancel our plans to attend a lecture together that evening. Joyce relayed the situation to her husband, my friend Tom, as Marie listened in. At that moment, Tom, who loves to rattle my cage, whether or not I am in a morphine induced stupor, spewed, " Oh! I suppose now there's gonna be A SONG about a colonoscopy!!"

Later, after I came to, Marie told me about that chump Tom's smartass comment, about how, since I tend to write an OCCASIONAL quirky song, that, having just had a colonoscopy, I might be moved to write a song about it. That probably, after lying there, all doped up, while some stranger probed my colon wth a scope, I'd likely go all poetic. Pshaw, Tom. Get a grip. Never gonna happen.

Listen Here: The Colonoscopy Song

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NO FRUITCAKE JOKES!! 2007

OK, so one of my songs, “ The Noise Pollution’s Gone”, is the official theme song of Noise Free America. My song, “If Oprah Was President”, was first adopted as the official theme song of Oprah for President 2008, and then enjoyed a few plays on CNN behind the story of her staunch if misguided supporters. Two of my songs, “We Talk About Cars”, and “Didn’t Say I Love You Right”, appear on CDs born of NPR’s Car Talk guys, Click and Clack, the Tappet Brothers, aka Tom and Ray Magliozzi. Several of my tunes have been used in little movies and videos, most notably by Maria Deathstar, and can be seen on Youtube. Hundreds of podcasters have glommed onto my songs to use as featured or backing music on their podcasts, and I continue to actually keep my Starbucks card in the black by digital sales of my songs on iTunes and elsewhere. And my song, “Superbowl Andy” for some unknown reason, logs over 10,000 plays per month, as a free download, from China.

But these achievements pale in comparison to the fame I have enjoyed over the years, since 1989, when Maria La Ganga of the L.A. Times, in her article on fruitcake, referred to me as “The Father of the Fruitcake Revolution in America”, a title I continue to nobly honour and protect, given my fervent support of fine quality fruitcake, as a former bakery owner and writer. Nary a holiday season inches by without some sort of fruitcake patter, a queery for a statement from a reporter, or a phone call from a radio station in Fargo, or Duluth. This years’ request for an interview came from right here in Portland, when Peter Korn, a fine journalist for the Portland Tribune, sat me down for a series of questions. Peter must’ve gotten his training from those sixty minutes guys, cuz he grilled me like a pink salmon, till, at one point, I almost walked off the set. But in the end, we shook hands, and I must say his Q and A is one of the most thorough pieces of investigative journalism I have ever read. Here’s the link.

NO FRUITCAKE JOKES THE ORIGINAL
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The Doggy Bag Wave

Here in Portland, Oregon, when we're not huggin' trees, or beautifying our standard issue one quarter-acre lots, we're taking care of our dogs, feeding them the finest dog foods (available only at the vet), playing with them, snuggling and petting them, or walking them through the family friendly hood. I love this town.

As I have mentioned before in my blog entry titled Where Bitches Pee, it is absolutely incumbent upon the dog walker to remove all doggie excrement from neighbors lawns and gardens, by using any hand protective measures possible, a plastic grocery sack, bread bags, those gauzey thin transparent things the newspaper lands in, or, in our case, special 9"x 12" non-gusseted blue plastic bags, designed and sold specially to the discerning dog owner for pick up and discardment of canine feces, which come in a roll of 15, and actually attach to the 20' retractable yuppie dog leash I use by means of a little round container in the shape of a fire hydrant, or, in the case of my wife Marie, who prefers the multicolored single length leash style, a doggie bag container in the shape of a bone, or "boney" as we dog owners may be sometimes heard to utter in an excited tone, as in "Pippi, where's your boney?"

We have two dogs, both bichon frises, The Precious Pippi and Poppi, and the three of us, Marie, Blaine and I, pamper them relentlessly. As chief dog walker, I take them out 5 times a day, for them to do their doggie bizness, sniff other dogs pee scent to their hearts content, get their extracurricular petting from neighbors and passersby, and to take their requisite dumps. I hold both leashes in my left hand, generally, and when its time to pull out the doggie bag from its little plastic fire hydrant home, I do so with my right hand, and then, on the rest of the walk, carry that used bag in the same right hand. Oops, all out of hands!

Portland is a smallish town, and I have lived here for most of my life, so occasionally, a car will pass by, as I walk my dogs , and honk a friendly honk, the car horn of a friend, maybe a business associate, a neighbor, my sister. It's at those times I find myself stuck for an appropriate response, hands full of leashes and dog poop, but I give it my best shot. That's me above in pre-poop scoop mode, waving the empty hand in bag salute, fully ready to greet a pal or pick up shit. When you see me do this, please know I am just trying to be polite.


And of course, many times, I have already scooped the poop, when an old high school pal, or my wife's boss, come rolling by in their corn oil powered cars, so I offer the view next of what they might see. That's me again, charming and delighted to see you, saying hi with my blue bag plumb full of doody. Nice and friendly fella, that Ric.

But walking and coddling our dogs is not all we dog owners do for our pets, as was the case this Fall as we faced life threatening illnesses with both of them. Pippi, the elder stateswoman, and boss-o-me, stared down pancreatitis, a malady common to bichons, and, gratefully, has come through with colors flying. But two weeks ago, the world's sweetest bichon, our perfect Poppi, began showing signs of a back or neck issue, and has been saved by herniated disc surgery. In two weeks, she'll have about 30 stitches removed, (staples). meanwhile she's feeling much better, but still in some pain, so we are confining her in her new styley green canvas kennels (one for each floor) and filling her with meds, including codiene and 5mg valium. Here she is tethered to the bed in my studio, on a very short leash, mugging in my baseball hat, which, usually, she will shake off in about 2 seconds, but, well, she's tranqued up.

We love our dogs so much, they are truly a part of the family, and losing one them just isn't an option. We are thankful that we have dog insurance, which will pay for about half the expense of this latest round of vet bills, but where these guys are concerned, it's gonna be a small price to pay to see them both healthy again.

So when you're drivin' by later, and see me out on the corner of 26th and S.E. Madison, and I raise my right hand and send the doggy bag wave your way, all smiley and rosey cheeked, know one thing. Pickin' up crap twice a day for years has begun to feel more like meditation and less like drudgery, and I'm so damn glad my dogs are still kickin'! I mean, these here little live stuffed animal ones.

My story in annoying detail:

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Blackjack!

I’m not sure exactly when it was I realized that my step-son Blaine is mathematically gifted. Given his various downsides, like spina bifida, hydrocephalus, epilepsy, and other disorders, and my own lack of knowledge about his condition, back then, I may have been lulled into a stereotypical view of that crippled kid. But when Marie would say, as she sat doing bills, or some such other numberly work, “Yo Blaine, what’s 696 x13?”, and he would holler back, with very little hesitation, “9048”, you’d think a guy might take notice.

After I figured out that even someone with severe physical handicaps can be a math whiz, all proud of myself, I got into the action too. Like say, if I had 4 or 5 four digit numbers to add up, and I was calculatorless, or multi-tasking, maybe watching TV, I would call on Blaine to be my human calculator. Dude blows my mind. Where numbers are concerned, Blainey rocks.

I don’t think I can go as far as to say he’s “Rainman” like, but actually, I don’t really know. When I think about how he has amassed an incredible amount of knowledge about U.S. Presidents, and computers, and chess, and Motown, it’s easy to see that his mind works in a special, and rather unique way.

Blaine and I have a great relationship, and I feel privileged to be called step-dad. We comprise the sum of the male energy in this house, considering that Marie is a girl, and well, the dogs are too. We talk sports, The Blazers, watch games together, and..... surprise....razz each other. Sometimes, when I pick him up from his volunteer job at FreeGeek, around 7;30pm each night, we sit in the van, after we get home, and listen to half an inning of the Mariners game, before we go in the house, where of course, we immediately crank up the tube.

I have elaborated on this blog previously about how our maleness, and doing things guys do, can tend to overwhelm the most important and female member of our clan. But Marie mostly takes our whooping and hollering in stride, with a shake of the head, maybe a glare, or sometimes, an exasperated, “God, you guys!”.

One activity we favor that Marie “cannot abide” as she puts it, is gambling. Blaine and I like to spend a little time at the casino, risking our savings, a sport I have taught him with the love and tenderness of a real dad. And man, with his numbers skill, this cat can play Blackjack. Blaine doesn’t win everytime we go gambling, but lets just say, where Blackjack is concerned, he doesn’t make any mistakes.

The cards were pretty good to Blaine this past week when we spent two days at Spirit Mountain Casino, in Grande Ronde, Oregon, our current favourite, about an hour and a half from home. While I threw my money gleefully away on the slots, or sometimes roulette, Blaine hit the Blackjack table exclusively, his usual plan. I don’t see much of him during the day, when I am busy attempting to win that big slot jackpot, but I stop by his table now and then, just to see how he is doing. Sometimes, when I wend my way to the food kiosk, where one can live on the succulent chicken wrap, I pass by and slug him in the back. Not hard.

But this time out, and even though Blaine is a conservative bettor, I could tell that he wasn’t completely satisfied with his financial state. Sometimes, the cards just don’t go your way. So I wasn’t terribly surprised, that, about 10 minutes before our agreed leaving time, he came out to find me on the main floor.

Looking up at me excitedly, as he sometimes does, from his wheelchair, and squeezing the life out of two 100 dollar bills, he spoke. “Ric, I want to ask you something”, to which I replied, slowly and deliberately, intuiting that he was up to something, ‘Yes?” He took his time then, but finally spoke, grinning..... “Well, do you think I should go crazy?”

I knew immediately what was on his mind. He was thinking about placing a large bet on one hand of blackjack. Suddenly, I felt my father genes kick in, as Blaine blurted, “I’m thinking about betting the table max, $250, on one hand of blackjack, for once in my life.”

Now, you have to remember who we are talking about here. At 28 years old, and though this is a young man who possesses vast knowledge, and is well read, there are certain things in life Blaine has not, and will not experience. He is not going to catch the winning touchdown pass. He is not going to hit a walk-off home run. He is not going to run through the sprinkler. So, with the love of a dad who knows how guys think and did once hit the walk off, I began my schpeil.

“Well”, I spoke in a considered and cautious tone, if you are going to do that, I mean, put all that money out there for one bet, you have to be prepared to lose it, and know that if you do, you just have to chalk it up to experience and take pleasure from just giving it a shot, and if you can do that”.....but as I spoke my last few words, he was gone. I mean, he just went roaring off to that table in his chair. I followed.

Blaine had not been gone for long from the short, accessible Blackjack table in the non-smoking room, his preferred spot. The table was full of gamblers, none in wheelchairs, maybe 8 people all told, and several of the players welcomed him back with statements like, “he’s back!” and “well. you weren’t gone for very long!” Blaine placed his two 100 dollar bills in front of him, just beyond the bet circle. The dealer gave him a glance. Blaine spoke up. “ I’m going to bet the max”, he announced, to a very interested table, “for once in my life”.

The other players, with their $3 and $5 bets sitting before them, oooohed. For a second, the dealer looked very afraid, and then gave Blaine $200 worth of chips. Blaine added some chips, and stacked $250 in his bet circle. I stood behind Blaine. The lady to his right patted his arm and back. The guy on his left stuck his hand to his own forehead. And before he dealt, the dealer put his palm on the space in front of Blaine, and looked at him, and carressed the table, in a circling motion, as if to wish him good luck. The pit boss came closer.

The dealer turned the shoe and brought out one card for each player, and then his own card, which was a jack. I thought that everyone, including me, was relieved to see that Blaine had been dealt a king. No cigar, but a good start. And then, the dealer slowly brought the second cards out, to a completely hushed table. When he got to Blaine, he hesitated, and then.....very deliberately, and with a snap in his wrist, popped down....... an ace! .... onto Blaine's king. BLACKJACK!!!! The table erupted. One male player raised his fist and yelled “YESSSSSSSS”. The lady gave Blaine some more pats. I slugged his back. Hard. The dealer finished the game with the other players. Everyone sat back as others approached the table, wives, husbands, to find out what all the ruckus was about. As Blaine gathered his $625 worth of chips, other players related the story of Blaine’s “hunch”, and his blackjack. I doubt the non-smoking blackjack table at Spirit Mountain has seen that much excitement in weeks.

To his credit, Blaine wheeled immediately to the cash window and redeemed his chips for actual money. We got a hot chocolate at The Dutch Brothers drive-thru in Newberg. We called Marie on my iPhone so Blaine could tell her his story. And then, we talked, just a coupla’ crazy gamblin’ boys, about Blaine’s blackjack, exactly like the one pictured above, all the way home.

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Oprah for President 2008!

Thanks for viewing my true life stories pages. Please choose from any of the titles to the left, and you may stumble upon some useful information to help you in your own life, like maybe about the time I chatted up Jim Morrison, or my dad's penchant for gadgets, or how my plugs are firin'. Feel free to leave me a comment: I will respond. Enjoy!

The photo above was taken in Portland a few blocks from my house, on an actual bus stop bench, about 2003. It was an advertisement for a casino. I am trying to take it's message to heart.

Best Regards,
Ric Seaberg

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Oprah for President 2008!

Ass Whuppin' on the Produce Aisle

I dunno, maybe it’s because I owned a retail bakery for years, that I have developed a serious need to always know what’s in our fridge, I mean the one in our kitchen, and the freezer part too. And in the fridge in the basement. And the freezer part too. And the small but free standing freezer in the basement.

Like say, you wanna try some of Marie’s corn chowder from last spring, just ask. I know exactly where it is. It’s on the second shelf in the free standing freezer, about two-thirds of the way down, buried under some boysenberries and raspberries and blueberries and some pastry I baked a few weeks ago to accomodate my son’s jones for sweets. Or maybe you need to know if there might be a leg of lamb left from that Costco trip where we bought 4, for summer barbecues. Nope, none left. Used’em all. They were on the third shelf, way down deep, but don’t go there, they’re gone.

Marie and I take turns cooking for our family, trading places every two weeks. I enjoy my time in the kitchen, and even feel a little sense of loss when it’s Marie’s turn to take over. When it’s my turn, I am sure that there are plenty of ziplock bags at my disposal, and paper towels, and foods for all occasions. And I know where every frickin’ thing is, the mayo, the yogurt, the cheese, Blaine’s pastry, hot dog buns, whatever. And how much is left.

Today it’s Marie turn to take over. We are having guests for dinner, and early this morning, I found her making up her menu and grocery list for the week. Marie likes to take ownership of the kitchen during her stay, keeps the counters neat and sparse, where I tend to load up the counter with bowls of apples and chestnuts, candles, post-it notes, other stuff. She’s a great cook too, and I must say that I love it when I can find a sec to do a chore, instead of cook, or just watch TV, and wait to be presented a plate of some killer dish, prepared by my spousal gastronome.

Sometimes I will go shopping with her when it’s her turn, at our favourite grocery store, “New Season’s” which is basically like “Whole Foods” but local. They stock all manner of organic foods, which we prefer, in all departments, especially organic fresh fruit and vegetables. Today, when we were there, I spied not one, but two different varieties of organic persimmons.

Though I consider myself to be something of a God when it comes to my knowledge of just exactly what we have in our cupboards and retarders, Marie is not so impressed. I have noticed on past excursions with her, to the grocery store, that as she places something in the basket, which I know full well we already have plenty of at home, and I tell her so, a look of disgust and know it allness spite rises in her, which at first, I didn’’t get. I mean, why buy yet another pack of cheese bagels, if there are still 3 in the freezer? Or more of those small yogurts, when there are still 5 or so, almost past pull date, languishing on the top rear of the salad drawer? I finally realized that, even though I was thinking I was being helpful, my presentation was belittling and terse, which of course, I have never heard before. So I have vowed to actually hand the kitchen over to Marie without my bossy interference, and I think my sweet wife is glad about it.

Today, as we left for the store, I announced with full bravado that I was going to be pleased to supply her with all the information she would need to know as we shopped. She immediately objected with her eyes and body language, which only encouraged me to continue. So I promised that, to make things easier, I would just remove anything from her cart that I knew we didn’t need. Simple! Marie turned my way with a bit of a grin, as she announced, “Sure mister, go ahead. I mean, if you want your ass whupped on the produce aisle.”

There is definitely a surfeit of hot dogs in our home, at this time, which our son loves, but I am not all that worried about it. Even unfrozen, hot dogs last like, 9 years, so, when Marie placed those Hebrew National Kosher dogs in the cart, I spoke not. Besides, an occasional hot dog sandwich is a guilty pleasure of mine. Plus, my wife still loves me. And I can cheerfully report that my ass, well, it’s unwhupped.

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Indie Queen

We are a bit disappointed, Marie and I, after finally escaping Portland for a few days, that here at Washington’s Cape Disappointment State Park, the rains have come. But at 8 am, as we sit drinking our coffee and tea, our puppies cuddled at our side, on the Airstream divan, we are snug as a bug in a rug. This is campin’. After years of waking up in leaky tents, I must say, this gettin’ old thing, the way it calls one to seek certain comforts, like a hot water heater and a refrigerator and shower and bathroom and comfy bed, kinda rocks.

My son Blaine purchased a new iMac last week, and so, as Marie and I waited for him to complete his transaction, we walked the store with our credit cards burning proverbial holes in our pockets. Marie found a hard shell backback to carry her laptop in, as she rides her bike to work, down Portland’s Eastside Esplanade and into the Pearl District. Me, I stumbled upon a retro look iPod amp, the “Specktone”, which Marie and I immediately deemed perfect for the Airstream, and had to have. With our eyes still half-mast, I realized some minutes ago that I was waking up to the sounds of The Magnetic Fields lovely morning anthem, “Chicken With Its Head Cut Off”.

Sometimes late in the evening, or on weekends, Marie will retire to her office to do some work, pay some bills, read, whatever. I see her sitting at her computer as I lumber by, and occasionally, the iTunes window on her monitor. Turns out, one of Marie’s favourite activities is to cruise the iTunes store. She finds new and unusual indie artists, and songs, and then, like the perfect wife of an indie artist, clicks on “buy”. As a result, I get to hear, as I quaff my chai, new and interesting and wonderful indie artists. There is so much great indie music out there, man.
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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"

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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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