We were only freshmen

March 28, 2026May 24, 2026 ~ Randy Seaver ~ Leave a comment

I launched Parke’s career in journalism. He paid me back in spades, launching my career in public relations. It was really nice to start making decent money

Send Lawyers, Guns & Money…

God smiled upon me, and I was able to cap off my much-ballyhooed, mini vacation in the best way possible last night, spending time with my good friend Parke Burmeister.

______________

Parke and I have known each other since 2003, and he reminded me last night about how we met.

Parke had graduated from Colby College but was killing time, working in construction with dreams of someday being a reporter.

He had tons of enthusiasm but zero experience.

He went to the Press Herald. No dice.

He drove up to the Lewiston Sun Journal. Another rejection.

He was living in OOB, and –undeterred, still chock full of naive enthusiasm — stopped by the offices of the weekly Biddeford-Saco-OOB Courier on a Tuesday afternoon.

At that time, I was the managing editor of the Courier and three other weekly publications owned by Mainely Newspapers, Inc., then owned by David and Carolyn Flood .

What Parke did not know — and what most people did not know — is that Tuesdays were the Courier’s weekly deadline day.

That said, what most people — within 100-mile radius of Biddeford — especially our editorial staff — did know and accept was this:

You don’t fuck around with Randy Seaver on Tuesdays.

Laura and our kids embraced that reality.

I already had a reputation for being grumpy, short-tempered, impatient, brash, arrogant and opinionated.

Just your run-of-the-mill news editor, stressed to the max under a looming deadline and fueled by 36 gallons of coffee and at least two packs of Camel non-filters (I have since quit smoking).

The news staff called me “Chief.” I was a demanding, overbearing perfectionist prick (as it should be in a newsroom)

I made novice reporters cry and more experienced staffers angry and resentful.

I expected everyone around me to also work no less than 140 hours per week.

The news staff called me “Chief.” I was a demanding, overbearing perfectionist prick (as it should be in a newsroom)

So when I was called from my office to the lobby, I was predisposed to being a self-righteous asshole, full of sound and fury.

But I saw something in Parke. Something that intrigued me.

I also thought of all the editors who made me cry when I was a rookie; men like Bob Melville and Harry Foote, both of whom gave me a shot and just a sliver of encouragement.

I don’t remember all the details, but Parke does.

Here’s what I allegedly said in a terse and unforgiving manner:

“Okay,” I huffed. “Here’s the deal. There is a school board meeting in Old Orchard Beach tonight.

“Go there and write a 450-word summary. I’ll publish it and give you a byline as Staff Intern.

“That way, the next time you bother an editor on deadline, at least you’ll have something to show them.”

According to Parke, I then turned away with a huff and retreated to my office.

And that was how it started with me and Parke.

I launched his career in journalism. A few short years later, he played a huge role in launching my career as a political/policy consultant at Barton & Gingold.

Parke fixed my toilet. Laura and I traveled to Cape Cod for his wedding.

**RIDING THE MERRY-GO-ROUND** | Parke with my wife, Laura, in Old Orchard Beach, Summer, 2005

________________

I have had the distinct honor and privilege of watching Parke’s growth and success for nearly 25 years.

Today, Parke owns and operates a boutique law firm in Portland. He is raising two funny, beautiful and smart daughters.

These are the kind of friends you want.

These are the kind of friends you need.

When friends like this call, you drop everything.

**LAST MEN STANDING** from Barton & Gingold, a highly regarded public policy consulting firm that was sold and dismantled in 2016. (Left to Right) Tobey Williamson, Parke Burmeister and me after breaking my arm at Moosehead.

_________________

I am so fucking lucky because I have a small handful of other people in this same category.

We had so much fun last night. So many laughs. These are the moments that matter

Trump protestors face much bigger problems than Trump

June 14, 2025May 30, 2026 ~ Randy Seaver ~ 1 Comment

Earlier today — on the occasion of President Donald Trump’s 79th birthday – millions of Americans took to the streets to participate in hundreds of “No Kings” protests and events all across the country.

From where I sit, those protestors were wasting their time and accomplishing little more than barking at the moon – a theatrical circle-jerk of self-righteous indignation.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not a fan of Donald J. Trump – not by a longshot, but I have some very bad news for the Democrats and all the others who can’t stomach the thought of Trump sitting in the Oval Office:

You have much bigger and much more significant problems than Donald Trump.

This may be hard for you to hear, but Trump is not a king nor a dictator. He is the duly elected president of the United States.

And that fact should scare the bejesus out of all of us.

But no matter how shocked we are, no matter how angry or stunned we may feel about this nightmarish Administration, it is time for the Democrats to accept a very harsh – yet simple — reality. Trump won and you lost.

Instead of carrying cardboard signs and shouting at passing traffic from the side of the road, you should be working to fix what went so terribly wrong on November 5, 2024.

You should also be more concerned about a much bigger – much more frightening – threat to our democracy.

Screaming in the rain may have sort of therapeutic benefit, it may make you feel better; it may even help you believe that you are doing your civic duty – but as my therapist always reminds me: feelings are not facts.

Based upon only statistical data regarding life expectancy, Donald Trump is not going to be with us much longer. Today he turns 79. He’s not in the best of shape. The life expectancy for an American man is 77.4 years. Trump is already on borrowed time.

But when Trump finally does shuffle off his mortal coil, will things then go back to normal? Hardly. Why? Because the bigger threat will still be here.

In fact, do you really believe that things were more normal before Trump returned to the White House? Maybe, but that was only because so many of us were not really paying attention.

The boogeyman is real

During his farewell address from the White House in 1961, President Dwight D. Eisenhower – a Republican — warned us all about the potential dangers of a “Military Industrial Complex.”

Eisenhower specifically cautioned us regarding “the acquisition of unwarranted influence” by this complex within the government.

He also said this ‘complex’ could lead to the “disastrous rise of misplaced power” and potentially undermine our cherished democratic processes.

Ironically, Eisenhower’s successor was assassinated only a little more than two years later; and so was his brother a few years later during his own campaign for the presidency and so were civil rights leaders Dr. Martin Luther King and Malcom X . . . but I digress.

For the most part — despite the escalation of the Vietnam War, Watergate and the Iran Contra Affair – Americans basically let their eyes glaze over, rushing to embrace color televisions, cordless phones and so many other trinkets of distraction.

“The eagle has landed,” . . . about nine months ahead of National Guard troops slaughtering four unarmed college students who were protesting on the campus of Kent State University in Ohio.

Tin soldiers and Nixon’s coming . . .

Any of this starting to sound familiar?

Sure, it’s easy and much more convenient to focus our rage and indignation on Donald Trump, but he’s really nothing more than a placeholder, a puppet for a well-oiled machine that has repeatedly proven its effectiveness in eroding our civil liberties.

Trump is little more than a narcissistic, not-very-bright ego maniac. The bad news? He holds the nuclear launch codes.

If nothing else, Donald Trump
is the perfect distraction
to what is really wrong in our country.

What is the real threat?

According to the Southern Poverty Law Center and so many others, hate groups are on the rise in America.

According to the Wall Street Journal (hardly a bastion of liberalism), far-right groups were sharing violent messages ahead of the “No Kings” protests this weekend.

The WSJ also reported that accounts associated with extremist groups are “also sharing detailed information about protest organizers, including names and where protestors work.”

And then? Surprise. Minnesota lawmakers are killed and attacked early Saturday morning because of their political views. Coincidence? Yeah, right?

Sadly, hate groups are nothing new in America. These days, the Klan stays mostly hidden – but not inactive.

While Democrats are growing hoarse, screaming “No Kings,” they seem somewhat reticent to admit that more American voters chose Trump than Harris.

The Democrats also failed to gain back control of the House and lost control of the Senate. Despite the current make-up of the Supreme Court, eroding civil rights, infringements on women’s reproductive rights and the general rise of corporate welfare, the left basically screwed the pooch.

Why?

Well, lots of people much smarter than me have offered their own theories about what went wrong in the last election. But here are some factors that seem painfully obvious (in retrospect).

Democrats lost a big portion of their base leading up to the election. Many people say the party basically abandoned some of its key supporters: from younger men to non-white voters and a middle-class that values labor unions.

Instead, Democrats chased a platform of identity politics and a far-left political ideology that doesn’t match current polling. Their messages were blurred and inconsistent. They simply thought the threat of Trump was enough.

They were wrong.

Despite the fact that many Americans say the Biden Administration was weak on immigration issues, Trump and his allies were able to effectively torpedo a bi-partisan bill that would strengthen and enforce immigration policies just weeks before the election.

And there were lots of other things, namely the failure of Democratic leaders to acknowledge what everyone else already knew: President Joe Biden was mentally failing. They tried to keep it a secret until it became painfully obvious to millions of television viewers in the first debate of 2024.

Jake Tapper, an award-winning journalist and the lead Washington anchor for CNN, recently co-wrote a book about the Biden cover-up: Original Sin.

In a recent episode of Bill Maher’s Real Time talk show, Tapper said the Democrats lost a lot of trust by covering for Biden.

Does any of this really matter? I don’t know. Can it be fixed? I don’t know. Maybe.

But the fact remains that the bigger threats to our democracy go way beyond Donald Trump. Despite whatever batshit thing he says or does, millions of his supporters joyously cheer him on.

That is what should keep you awake at night. If nothing else, Donald Trump is the perfect distraction to what is really wrong in our country.

Randy Seaver is a cranky, nearly insufferable malcontent living in Biddeford. He may be contacted by email: randy@randyseaver.com

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The Dangerous Type

February 20, 2022May 30, 2026 ~ Randy Seaver ~ Leave a comment

Four years ago this week, (the third week of February) I was discharged from Spring Harbor, a psychiatric hospital in Westbrook, Maine.

It was my most recent hospitalization. I have been in and out of psychiatric hospitals for more than 40 years, sometimes on a voluntary basis; other times as an involuntary patient. I have been hospitalized in Arizona, Tennessee, Oregon and Maine. So, I consider myself a little bit of an expert on this subject.

Trust me on this: being a patient on a psychiatric ward sucks. In all fairness, being a patient in any kind of hospital for any reason is no picnic for anyone. Hospitals are typically places we go to when we are ill or injured. Other than child birth, most people do their very best to avoid hospitals.

It is the same for psychiatric patients. I have heard people say or joke that they could use a “vacation” on a psych unit or that “mental people use hospitals to avoid their responsibilities.” These are actual quotations.

I have been on vacations. I have been a patient on a psychiatric unit. Believe me. There is nothing similar between these two things. Nothing.

For more than four decades now I have been taking a wide variety of psychiatric medications. Today, I take five different medications to treat everything from life-sucking depression to anxiety and yes, the consequences of a schizo-affective disorder.

Imagine your spouse telling you that they had to stay in the basement in order to get away from the government? Or imagine what it would be like if your sibling called you, crying and confused because they had gotten lost on the way home from work?

Imagine not being able to remember anything that happened last week or being unable to read more than two pages a day? This is my life off medications. And yup, this is also my life on medications. The meds just make the consequences less frequent and less severe.

Why do I say all this? Am I just looking for sympathy? Shouldn’t I keep this stuff private?

Take me to the river

I have been publicly open about my mental illness for several years now. That, and my pitiful attempts at trying to be a father, are the two things I want to be remembered for. They are the two things in my life, other than Laura, that matter most to me. They are my only real contributions to society, to the world around me.

*It doesn’t get any better than this*: My sons and I enjoying some time together on the banks of the Saco River.

Of course, like most people, I am generally selective about what I share on social media. I try to portray myself as witty, as some kind of half-assed satirist, a fun-loving guy, someone you would want to be friends with; a hard-working and responsible member of society; a successful husband and father.

Maybe I am those things. Maybe not.

But it seems that publicly sharing my personal struggles with mental illness gives others permission to reach out to me in search of a friendly ear, advice about a family member or their own struggle with some kind of psychiatric illness.

That is so gratifying to me. Beyond words.

I want to break down and destroy the myths and stereotypes that accompany mental illness. Imagine a friend telling you that they have been diagnosed with brain cancer. What would you say? What would you do?

I’m almost positive you would not say something like “stop feeling sorry for yourself,” or “it’s all in your head,” which, ironically is sort of true about brain cancer. Why is mental illness different? Why is it still okay for Hollywood to refer to psychiatrists as “shrinks?”

Those battling cancer are described as brave and courageous. We wear ribbons to show our support. We are quick to offer our empathy, our support, our understanding.

Tell someone that you are hearing voices and the reaction is a lot different. Trust me. Way different.

Honestly, what do you think of when you think about someone with a psychiatric illness? Do you think about someone like the character “Multiple Miggs” in the movie Silence of the Lambs; or do you think of them as your neighbor, co-worker or someone walking their dog past your home?

At the start of this piece, I stated that I have been in and out of psychiatric units for more than four decades. That is true. What is also true is that during the same time period, I have purchased a home, paid taxes, worked hard and was promoted in the private sector, raised two kids, held together a marriage for more than 19 years (and counting). Today I still mow my lawn, pay my bills and spend time with friends and family.

The scary thing? I’m a lot like you and other people you know and trust. The idea of being diagnosed with cancer is terrifying and for good reason. I have lost close friends to that horrible disease. Unfortunately, I have also lost some very good and close friends to mental illness.

So that’s why I’m open about my struggles. That’s why I try to remember to take my meds, even though they sometimes adversely impact my libido, my energy, my sleep and appetite.

Later this week, I am scheduled to have another ECT treatment (Electro-Convulsive Therapy). ECT treatments terrify me. I am afraid that I will not wake up from the anesthesia. Basically, ECT involves having enough electricity beamed into your brain to induce a seizure. So why do I go through with it?

Because, for me and many, many others, it works. It allows me to live. Once a month, I participate in an ECT support ZOOM meeting with other patients. It is so gratifying to see the progress that many of these people have made. To see them smile, laugh and be able to hold a conversation. To hear them say they were reluctant to get ECT until they heard me and others share our own experiences.

That’s what matters. That’s what is important to me.

If you ever want to reach out; if you ever need a friendly ear, please do not hesitate to contact me. If you don’t know me or have my contact info, you can ALWAYS reach out 24/7 365 days a year toll free at 1.888.568.1112 if you are concerned about yourself or somebody else.

Thank you,

‘Let’s Go Camping’

July 13, 2002May 23, 2026 ~ Randy Seaver ~ Leave a comment

This is a story about our very first camping trip as a family in 2002. This, unfortunately, is a true story.

It was supposed to be a relaxing weekend of camping. I should know better than to include the word “relaxing” when talking about a camping trip with the kids and Laura, who — by the way — requires a minimum of 47 hours of sleep between Friday and Sunday.

This camping trip was a spur-of-the-moment decision Laura made while I was busy wrapping up some Saturday morning errands. Since we are planning a longer camping trip later this month at Rangely State Park, Laura suggested we should take a trial run at camping in order to check out the “equipment.”

*Tim, 8, poses for a picture during our family’s very first camping trip.*

So, I spend the next two hours packing up the Jeep, which includes taking down the kids’ tent that I put up in the yard. Laura makes a “quick” run to her parents’ house so that we can borrow a lantern.

I am alone with the boys, who are very excited and very eager to help pack, and they offer plenty of suggestions about what we need to bring. I load the sleeping bags, the tents, the bug spray, the lawn chairs, the tarp, the kids’ water toys and a cooler that weighs roughly 300 pounds, not including the ice we still have to buy.

As a finishing touch, I strap the canoe on the roof rack and squeeze the paddles over the pillows, blankets and cookware. And we’re off. Two vehicles, two kids and more “stuff” than the Allied Forces needed in Germany.

An ominous sign

While driving to the campground, my eyes catch a glimpse of gathering clouds on the horizon. If there is ever a drought, simply ask Randy Seaver to plan a camping trip. There’s no better way to ensure a steady downpour.

We arrive at our site at approximately 3:30 p.m. “Let’s set up camp,” Laura proclaims. Unpacking moves a little more quickly until we realize that we don’t have enough stakes to set up the “main tent.”

Matthew begins to cry. We forgot to bring a “floatie.” Tim meets a friend at the campground. He wants to know if he can visit her family’s site so that he can watch a video.

Fortunately, we picked a local campground relatively close to home for our ‘test run,” so I offer to drive back to the house, get the “floatie.” Roughly 90 minutes later, I return to the site. Matthew doesn’t want to go into the water now.

Laura wonders what we will have for dinner. We planned on steaks but there is no grate for the fire. So, we have approximately 250 pounds of snacks and salad stuff, but nothing for dinner. I still have yet to eat lunch. “Kentucky Fried Chicken sounds good,” Laura suggests.

I’m back in the Jeep with Matthew. Remember, Tim is busy watching a video. I tell Laura to keep an eye on the raging inferno that I built as a campfire. The mosquitoes seem to enjoy our brand of bug repellent.

The line at Kentucky Fried Chicken circles around the parking lot. We wait 35 minutes only to be told, upon finally reaching the counter, they are out of extra crispy chicken. “I don’t care, just fry something and put in a bucket,” I bark.

A “quick” stop at Hannaford for some “adult beverages” consumes another 22 minutes as I wait in the “express” line behind a woman who wants to cash a check from Neptune with no identification.

Summer traffic on Rte. One is a nightmare. Bumper-to-bumper and Matt tells me he needs a bathroom. “I have to go real bad,” he says, grimacing in the backseat.

Evening descends

I return to the campsite at 7:50 p.m. It’s getting dark. Tim tells me he is hungry. Apparently, watching a video in a neighbor’s R.V. is a physically draining experience. Laura notes that we forgot the marshmallows and graham crackers. The kids fight over who gets to use a particular stick. I trek a half-mile to the convenient camp store, where I use a strained Visa card to buy a dusty bag of marshmallows.

Finally, the kids are asleep. Peace and quiet and the great outdoors. I crack open a bottle, and Laura yawns from the comfort of her camp chair. “Goodnight,” she says, kissing me on the forehead. The fire needs to be extinguished by 10:30 p.m. The flames are three feet high. I look around and spot an empty, 16-ounce Mountain Dew bottle. Our lantern doesn’t work.

It takes me only 38 trips back and forth to the campground’s water spigot (located 350 yards from our site) to put out the fire. I finally enter our tent and lie down, exhausted. It is so quiet and peaceful that I can clearly make out the sound of air slowly seeping from the air mattress. I decide to ignore this latest development. And then, the rain starts and a clasp of thunder wakes the boys.

“Welcome to Maine,” I sigh. “The way life should be.”