Confessions
Hello. My Name is D. S. Vic, and I’m a Facebook addict.
In this life there are many things people do to relax and unwind. As mentioned, my preference is playing games via Facebook, Big Fish Games and a plethora of other sites over the years. I love to sit here in front of the computer and just turn my brain off (most of the time).
Sometimes the turning the brain off part doesn’t work so well. In those cases, I choose games that allow me to process my issues while keeping my hands and eyes busy.
Lately I’ve been spending a lot of time on Facebook playing Café World and Zoo World and Farmville. I greatly enjoy the (insignificant?) feeling of accomplishment when I get to serve a dish, improve my menagerie or harvest a large crop. I like it when the game audience cheers for something I’ve done. See? Even in pixel format I’m seeking fans.
Sigh.
Anyway, I’ve long known I’m really just a misunderstood couch potato. I’m a computer spud. While other people are out exploring the world around them, touching and feeling and experiencing and playing in the “real world”, I’m here in my safe little burrow. I like it here. There’s coffee readily available. There’s pizza delivery just a mouse-click away. There’s a bathroom right next to the office/computer room. It’s safe here.
Mr. Fixer is not of my particular persuasion. He wants to build things, touch things, tear things down, fix things and in general, interact with the “real world”. He likes to explore his environment in a tactile way. I like to explore my world in an imagination/keystroke kind of way.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t spend all day every day on the computer. In fact, there have been a few days when I haven’t even entered the office at all. And, whenever Mr. Fixer draws my attention (which is a lot of the time, by the by), I am wholly immersed in him. After all, had I not disconnected from the computer and chosen to take a little ride with him, how would I have discovered that it IS possible to rig up a manual, gravity feed, fuel delivery system?
Still, my dear, darling husband’s brand of adventure – blowing off steam – sometimes scares me. For instance, he recently had a rough day at work. There was some vehicle which was causing him all sorts of different problems, requiring him to spend almost 10 hours on a job which called for 5. He finished that particular vehicle but still had a lot of pent-up frustration. Therefore, he decided to teach Odie how to Luge.
Now, I’m not sure if it was really the frustration of the day or the recent end of the Olympics, but for some reason, Odie was fully interested in learning about this two-man bobsled idea. I’m thinking that the Babysitter was either away from his post for a few minutes or – more likely – foolishly trusted Mr. Fixer to not do anything reckless.
Regardless, the husband climbed to the top of the mountain (in this instance, the staircase to the loft of the shop) with his sled (a large, cardboard box). He set the sled at a precarious angle at the top of the stairs, stepped in and propelled himself down the stairs and half-way across the empty shop.
Shakes head.
Odie couldn’t resist. He wanted to try it. Somehow, though, Odie had the sense to not want to do it alone. Such activities are dangerous, don’t you know. Mr. Fixer, however, blowing off steam, tricked innocent Odie into getting into the sled/box first… then PUSHED IT, and Odie, over the edge!
The phone call describing said event to me had both crazy goobers’ laughter, so I knew both of them were okay, but still…
I’ll let my husband, and Odie, take on those dangerous activities. I think I’ll stick with my farming. The worst damage I’ll get is a blister on my little finger… maybe a blister on my thumb.
Until next time…
PS. 10 points for anyone who can tell me from what song that last line comes.
Please include Northwest Journal in the subject line of all correspondence. JD_DSVic at Yahoo.com
Copyright © 2010 D. S. Vic
All rights reserved.
What I Want To See On YouTube
I discovered multitracking on YouTube this week and suddenly remembered something from my college days that I would like to see done. More on that in a moment or two.
One of my current favorite multitrack favorites is the Star Wars Tribute (John Williams is the man.) Songs from Close Encounters of the Third kind, the theme from Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark, Superman, E T The Extra Terrestrial, Jurassic Park and Jaws are combined in a fun medley.
Another of my multitrack favorites is Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah as sung by Courtney Woolsey. I also like her take on Lollipop, a song made famous by the Chordettes (scary part here, I actually remember having to play this song on one of the many radio stations I worked for.)
That brings me to what I would like to see on YouTube. When I was in college our theater group put on a talent show and opened it to anyone who wanted to participate. We kept one of the songs a surprise, rehearsing it in secret and performing it only on the night of the show.
When the curtain opened a beautiful blonde in a tight red dress came out and the band played a single chord, then she started to sing “Rubber Ducky” as a Torch Song, in a breathy Marilyn Monroe style. The result was hilarious!
I would love to see someone do a video in this style and put it up on YouTube. The most fun video I’ve found so far of the Rubber Ducky song was done by Little Richard.
So. Any takers?
The View From Here is published every Sunday.
Copyright © 2010 Moody Publishing Co
All Rights Reserved
Truth in Advertising
I am not now, nor have I ever been, normal. I have an off-kilter perspective. I have a larger-than-life body. I am taller than most of the women and men I know (or see). I have an odd sense of humor which can not be accurately called “wit”. I am unusually forthright about those things I consider to be my personal flaws. And, while I might not say it out loud, I am usually thinking something that is definitely NOT politically correct!
Don’t get me wrong here, I’m not mean spirited. I very rarely think – and even more rarely say – something mean or truly rude about someone else. But, I’m tired of beating around the bush or couching my true thoughts/ideas in order to avoid implied insult. There are some things I refuse to pretend about.
If you’re going to call your pizza “fromage a trios” it better have a LOT of cheese on it, not just three kinds of cheese!!! (for those not in the know, “fromage” is French for “cheese”)
This past week I went into a local pizza place. They’re extremely popular and you may have seen them on “Man V. Food” this past October – if you have cable/satellite. Flying Pie Pizzaria is a Boise staple which serves gourmet (and normal) pizza. They have a pizza, only in August, called the Triple Habanero. It’s so hot that if you’re going to take left-overs, you have to sign a waiver before you can take them off the premises. This was the featured pie on Man v Food.
Anyway, I visited this place because Mr. Fixer wanted pizza for lunch. I figured that since he’d been talking about it since I moved here, I would give Flying Pie a look-see. While I was waiting, I saw something new and interesting every time I turned my head. There was even a HUGE ball of foil near the door which customers could add to as they so chose. It was a big ball of foil. (I think the sign said it was 267 lbs, but it might have said 167. I just can’t remember the specifics.)
One of the things I perused while waiting was the Boise Weekly. In it there was a cartoon which has become my favoritest ever! The cartoonist is E. J. Pettinger, and the cartoon is Mild Abandon. While you can see a bunch of cartoons on the website, the one that tickles me so much was published on March 3rd, 2010. It can be found, here.
Did you check out the cartoon? No? I’ll wait. Go check it out now.
Drums fingers.
Okay, now we can continue.
Thank you, E. J.! Finally, those of us who have heard “morbidly obese” so many times that the phrase has lost any meaning; finally we have a name for those work-out nazis. There IS such a thing as being too healthy.
I don’t want to be morbidly fit. Another slice of Fromage a Trois, please! This time, make it a double!
Until next time…
D. S. Vic
Please include Northwest Journal in the subject line of all correspondence. JD_DSVic at Yahoo.com
Copyright © 2010 D. S. Vic
All rights reserved
Pacific Northwest History
Contrary to the title of today’s column, this is not a history of the Pacific Northwest. Instead, it is a skip along the paths of memory. Unless you missed it during the first three months of my writings, I was not raised in the inland Northwest.
Though I don’t remember the exact age, for a few years before I was a teenager, we had a cabin on Mount Index; on the West side. I remember the ride on highway 2 through Snohomish, Monroe, Sultan, Startup and Gold Bar. The reason I remember this ride, Gold Bar specifically, is because of a simple, road-side gas station.
Completely unassuming, this little station was naught but a bunch of peeling-painted wood, a couple gas pumps and a little market. I remember old and slightly gnarled wood sides which looked as if they’d be more appropriate in an old Clint Eastwood Western than at-the-time-modern construction. I remember dust and road-dirt covered wood sculpture. This was the kind of decoration that could have come from Tonto’s yard, had we ever seen Tonto’s house. When we first drove through, I think the gas pump pad was the only paved part of that lot.
I could have been dead asleep at any given time during the lengthy drive to the cabin, but once we pulled into that gas station I would wake with a sense of expectant excitement. I would hear the crunch of tires on gravel. I would feel the rock of the car shift into a soft stop. I would blearily open my eyes and see the dusty cloud drift slowly around the corner of the building.
And I would smell it.
As if banishing the boredom of waiting; as if waving away the fog of a sleepy daze; as if laughing in the face of all things droll and dull, the scent of heaven would gently press its fingers through the half-open window to caress my salivary senses to full awareness. The odiferous emanations drifting, winding and wending their way from the open door of the little market beckoned to lazy summer expectation. I was enraptured by that Golden Ambrosia.
That little gas station in Gold Bar, Washington, just a little pit-stop of a place, a means to an end rather than an end in and of itself, that little bubble of perfection provided more than a kid could ever ask for. Toys. Games. Gold. Diamonds. Money. None of those things had any value or meaning when compared to the gas station in Gold Bar.
The scent of fresh-made waffle cones called to my olfactory senses. The display cases drew my body ever closer with their promises of refreshing, rejuvenating deliciosity. Home-made, hard ice cream in every flavor imaginable rested beneath the pristine, gleaming, glistening glass. Rich, brown chocolate; cool, creamy vanilla; pretty, pink strawberry; delightfully deranged, blue bubblegum; those were the things that made a child’s eyes big with earnest expectation.
It wasn’t just the fact that the ice cream cones were fresh-made. It wasn’t just the fact that there were so many flavors one could ponder choices until the cows came home. It wasn’t just the fact that the scents and sights and sounds of that place were ingredients for a life time of sweet dreams. The thing that really made that particular place special was the soft-ball sized scoop of ice cream that perched atop the cone.
Most ice cream places gave you a golf ball sized scoop of ice cream. Some places were extravagant and gave you a tennis ball sized scoop. But at that oasis on the way to Index, they believed more was better.
I think I can even remember a time when the clerk behind the counter started to hand me my deeply coveted cone but drew it back at the last minute, shaking her head. She then went back to the tub of bubblegum ice cream and packed even MORE ice cream onto that huge waffle cone. I think I wanted her to adopt me.
I’ve had Baskin Robin’s, Ben and Jerry’s, Haagen Dazs, Blue Bunny and a myriad other brands of ice cream in my short-longish life, but nothing truly compares to the mountainous mass of frozen ecstasy from Gold Bar. I would do a lot for a good pint of Haagen Dazs. I love the occasional pint of Ben and Jerry’s. But, no one and nothing can truly compare to my childhood bliss.
Sigh
I bet the cones would be just as huge as I remember them to be! I wonder if I that place is still there.
Until next time…
D. S. Vic
Please include Northwest Journal in the subject line of all correspondence. JD_DSVic at yahoo.com
Copyright © 2010 D. S. Vic
All rights reserved.
Chilly Hilly On Bainbridge Island
Every year traffic gets snarled on Bainbridge Island because of the Chilly Hilly Bicycle Classic, which is held on the last Sunday of February every year. Its a 33 mile ride around the island, which has quite a number of hills. This is an event that is in its 36th year, with riders coming from as far away as Alaska, New York and even France to participate.
I don’t participate in the race itself, but I do make a point of attending the chili feed that is a fundraiser for the Squeaky Wheels Bicycle Club. I congratulate the riders on their perseverance. The course is a demanding ride. In fact, it has been named one of the “four classic rides” by Bicycling Magazine.
I look forward to the Chilly Hilly every year because I get to meet people from around the world and chow down on some great chili.
The View From Here is published every Sunday.
Copyright 2010 Moody Publishing Co
All Rights Reserved
Feedburner
-
