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.
Monkeys and Ladders
How many monkeys does it take to put up a ladder? I’m sure this is a question that has haunted you throughout the ages. It probably keeps you awake at night. Even if it hasn’t, even if the question has never occurred to you before, don’t fear! I have the answer.
Four. It takes four monkeys to put up a ladder.
Now, before I tell you how I know that, I need to give you a little background information. First, the scene depicted below takes place at Mr. Fixer’s shop. Second, the roof of the shop is between 20 and 25 feet off the ground. Third, the characters involved are my dear, darling husband’s co-workers. As such, I have chosen nicknames for them; because I really, really don’t want to get sued!
The characters:
“Odie” is the bottom rung of this not-so-very-corporate ladder. He is earnest, enthusiastic, engaging and fun. He is also easily distracted. He’ll do anything you ask him to, but you might have to remind him a time or two. For that matter, you might have to prod him or even poke him with a stick. Personally, I’ve found that the best form of motivation for Odie is a combination of praise and cookies.
“Heuy” and “Dewey” are the next level in the shop hierarchy. They’re technically called “tire busters”, I think, but primarily they do such things as oil changes, brake inspections, alignments and so on. In olden times, Heuy and Dewey would be considered apprentice technicians.
“New Guy” is exactly that. He’s the most recent hire and the journeyman technician. Since he’s brand-spankin-new to the shop, I haven’t known him long enough to come up with a decent nickname. I’ll be working on it though.
“Mr. Fixer” is the lead tech; master technician. You already know a whole bunch about him, and I think I shouldn’t go on too much because I am most definitely biased in his favor!
The “Machness Monster” is the service guy. He’s kind of the jack of all trades. He’s a parts guy, estimate guy, inspection guy, salesman and (mostly) babysitter. He’s the one that makes sure the boss and shop guys understand each other. (and don’t kill each other)
“Almost Stumpy” is the front counter guy. He handles sales, manages customers and customer relations and does administrative stuff.
“Jedi” is the boss. He does boss stuff.
So, ladders and monkeys…
Seems there was a need to get up onto the roof of the shop. This was a daunting task because it’s very high off the ground. One can’t just jump up there. It takes a ladder. A big ladder.
Odie, Heuy and Dewey are smart, forward-thinking people. While in the shop, the three of them unfold the extension ladder to its fullest length. They make sure each hinge is appropriately locked as there’s little that could be worse than getting half-way up a ladder only to find it buckling beneath you!
Once the ladder is locked into position, Odie, Heuy and Dewey walk this monstrosity out of the shop and begin the arduous task of setting it upright against the building. Simple, right? Not so much.
The long ladder, now semi-upright, is top heavy. This means that the ladder is beginning to tilt to one side. You can’t really just “catch” it or anything, so the Three Amigos are trying to nurse the ladder back to center without actually bracing it against the shop wall. Why… because the shop wall was painted not two months ago. Odie, Heuy and Dewey don’t want to be responsible for scratching the paint! (That would mean erecting that ladder again to repair said scratches, of course.)
I think I should mention here that not a one of these young men are over the age of 25. Atop that, they’re all of fairly wiry physique. This means that while the three of them are alternately trying to coax and man-handle this ever-more-ungainly ladder, it is only the intervention of the Machness Monster that gets this odd thing under control. That is, of course, after the Machness Monster stops his nearly-uncontrollable belly laugh and sets down his can of soda.
So, ladder is up against the building, the Machness Monster has gone back to his laughing and the Three Amigos are pausing briefly to catch their collective breath. You’d think it was over. No. The ladder is still about four or so feet short of the roof. That’s a big gap. That’s a bigger gap when you’re trying to get down OFF of the roof.
Anyway, enter the New Guy. Actually, enter the New Guy’s truck. This truck is a character in and of itself. Like the Jeep Eater, New Guy’s truck has been raised, has big-ol-tires and is taller than any normal, self-respecting vehicle has a right to be. Cool, yes, and useful. Extremely useful in this instance.
New Guy backs his truck up to the shop so that the Three Amigos can lift-and-walk-and-totter-and-tilt the ladder into the bed of said truck. Of course, the bed of this truck is a good four or five feet off the ground. And, there are sides to the bed of the truck. And the Three Amigos don’t want to scratch the paint on the sides of the bed of the huge truck.
The ladder finds its way into the bed of the truck and Odie finds himself climbing gingerly up the ladder. He makes the ages-old mistake of looking down, then closes his eyes and again tries getting up the ladder. Once on the roof he pauses, glancing back and down at Heuy, Dewey, New Guy, the Machness Monster and Mr. Fixer and I, all of whom are laughing, and somewhat meekly calls out, “It’s spongy.”
Mr. Fixer says, “Watch out, there’s a soft spot right about there.”
The Machness Monster says, “Hey, are the gutters clear?”
As Odie returns from his primary task – untying a flag – Mr. Fixer can’t hold it back any longer. “Oh, and check the heater vents while you’re up there.”
The Machness Monster rescues Odie, telling him to get down. Half way down the ladder, though, he says that it’s lucky Odie isn’t the type to wear his pants down around his knees or wear his shoes untied. Overhearing that comment, Odie paused to pull up his pants. This set off the laughter in everyone! Again.
With Odie finally off the roof, the Three Amigos decided to shorten the ladder before removing it from the bed of the truck. Good job, boys. You’re learning.
Sigh
Therefore, while it takes four monkeys to put up a ladder, it only takes one to climb it. You can’t buy that kind of entertainment!
Until next time…
D. S. Vic
Include Northwest Journal in the subject line of all Email. JD_DSVic at yahoo.com Facebook Group
Copyright © 2010 D. S. Vic
All rights reserved.
Smoking Celebrity
From the time I was knee-high to a grasshopper, I have been passively hunting celebrity. I think I’ve finally found it.
Most weekends Mr. Fixer and I can be found at the Carpenter’s house. Rather, I’m usually in the house while the Weekend Heroes are doing what they do in the garage. Still, we see the Carpenter and his brood about once a week.
Wherever the boys are, there’s always something on TV. Since the Carpenter has one of those fancy satellite deals where you can rewind the TV program, the unspoken rule is that no one changes the channel. This means that when it’s not NASCAR season, UFC is on TV. – Before Mr. Fixer came into my life, there was no such thing as NASCAR or UFC. –
Anyway, it has long been my habit to have a notebook and pen with me. This has come in very handy as most of the weekend fights on UFC… well, you’d see more action watching grass grow. How anyone can call two men dancing around an octagon “fighting” is beyond me.
Sigh
On occasion, as the Carpenter walks past on his way to the grill or back to the garage, he will pause, look at my notebook and query, “Writing the next column?” or “Waiting to see what strange thing the Carpenter does next?”
The answer, to both questions, is almost always, “Yes!”
Anyway, sometimes I’ll heft my bulk out of the recliner to observe the goings on in the garage. This is nearly always a humorous thing. Why? Let me tell it this way:
I walked into the garage to find Mr. Fixer opening the door of an upside-down refrigerator. Oh, this can’t be good. Seems this week, the project is to prove that smoking can, indeed, be cool. Seems the Carpenter saw the plans on the internet. Seems those plans suggest that one could make a meat smoker out of an old refrigerator/freezer. One is supposed to be able to turn the appliance over, remove the compressor and other electrical doodads, remove all the melt-able plastic parts and… Voila! There’s your smoker!
So, I’m sitting in the frigid garage because these two men, engaged in their Man Work, are so incredibly entertaining. The Weekend Heroes are alternately sitting and laying on the very frigid cement floor. They’re alternately pushing and pulling various things in the freezer portion of this upside-down fridge. They’re alternately breaking, twisting and bending various plastic things that were never meant to be broken, twisted or bent! And, it’s all in the name of great barbecue!
“Guess we didn’t need that piece.” Says Mr. Fixer after slamming his fist against the plastic door of the butter tray in the topsy-turvy fridge-come-smoker.
“Huh. That’s got a couple little screws.” Says the Carpenter upon breaking off semi-large portions of the fridge light cover using sheer muscle strength.
“Wow, those blades are sharp.” Says Mr. Fixer as he tries removing the odd, metal grating/tubing thing that made the freezer into a freezer. “Real sharp.” He adds, pulling his hand back and examining it briefly. “Good, no blood yet.” He mutters under his breath.
“Ooohh, I’ve got red fire caulk around here somewhere…” utters the Carpenter.
“Hmmm, that’s gotta be useful for something.” Mutters Mr. Fixer in regard to the sharp, metal cooling thingie.
“Yeah, this is it!” says the Carpenter about the caulk. Then, reading the tube, “‘Heat and flame resistant’. Excellent.”
A brief ogling of the freezer-come-heat source – where the red-hot coals are going to go – then a quick glimpse back at the tube of caulk. “Oh… ‘highly flammable’. Guess that won’t work so well.” Continuing to read the tube. “‘Fumes highly explosive…’”
No, there’s nothing to fear. The Weekend Heroes are here!
There are people who pay dearly for various escapes. Hundreds of dollars get used for such things as concerts, sporting events, artworks and the like. Some people spend upwards of a thousand dollars for an evening’s entertainment.
Me? I get all this for free. I’m the luckiest woman in the world!
I’ll let you know if the smoker ever gets completed.
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.
Latest Project
Saturday’s column had me talking about the propensity of some of the Northwest’s denizens toward “playing in the garage”. I figured I would enlighten you, my glorious, two-member readership, as to what that actually entails. Therefore, we catch up with our heroes, Mr. Fixer and The Carpenter, as they continue work on the latest “playing in the garage” project.
The latest project is a small dirt bike purchased for The Carpenter’s son. This small dirt bike weighs no more than 40 pounds. It’s small. But, it won’t start. Therefore, there’s a REASON to be “playing in the garage”.
Now, the guys have spent two consecutive weekends working on this little bike. They’re trying not to “let the smoke out” which has something to do with a power source known as a “magneto”. (I don’t know what it is, what it means or what it does, but I think it’s funnier if you don’t know!) And they’re hoping to get the thing started so that they can troubleshoot the rest of the issues (ie: why the throttle is slow to return and why the gear box thingie is doing something it’s not supposed to).
The Carpenter is suggesting pull-starting the dirt bike. This is a bad idea. There are only two ways in which someone can do this: A) pulling the little dirt bike with the slightly-but-not-by-much bigger dirt bike, or B) pulling the little dirt bike with the big-as-a-house-by-comparison Dodge truck.
Hmmm, how could this possibly be a bad idea?
The Carpenter says, “Mr. Fixer,” k-shhhh (the sound of a beer can being opened), “we really need to pull it. If ya can’t get somethin’ started, stick it in gear and force it!”
My dear darling husband, still sober enough to refuse, says, “There’s gotta be another way. Did it ever start?”
Looking at the two of them, I put a quiet-voiced query to my husband. “What does a combustion engine need to run?”
He thinks about it for a long time – maybe .015 seconds – and says, “Spark, compression and fuel.”
The look of confidence in his eye tells me this is the right answer. (Hey, I know words, not motors and engines and tools.) So I ask which of those three things the little dirt bike didn’t have. It had all of them. So I then – following the logical progression – asked which one/s Mr. Fixer was certain were good. That’s when the Weekend Heroes decided to check the fuel-to-oil mixture.
It seems that a dirt bike has what’s called a “two-stroke” engine. It also seems that two-stroke engines require that their owners mix oil with the gasoline. Instructions for doing this are, supposedly, on the back of the two-stroke oil bottle. The bottle the Carpenter had suggested a mix of 34 to 1. This could easily be interpreted to mean 34 parts per gallon, right? So, the person who works with hammers for a living mixed 34 percent oil with 66 percent gasoline.
That’s not what the bottle means. The bottle means, Mr. Fixer calmly stated, that the recipe calls for 34 parts gasoline to 1 part oil. Hmmm, big difference. And, lo and behold, upon draining the old gas and adding freshly mixed gas, the little dirt bike started.
“Hooray,” you think. “This is great news. We’ve had success! Yippee!”
Yes. The little dirt bike started. At 9:30 pm. And it was LOUD! Very, very, very LOUD!!!! (I hope the excessive use of exclamation points gets the point across.)
The Carpenter, “K-shhhh”ed open another beer and grinned with pride. Mr. Fixer did not “K-shhhh” open another beer. Why? Because he was ON the little dirt bike doing a test drive.
Yes. Mr. Fixer sat perched upon the barely-eight-inches-off-the-ground seat of this little, LOUD dirt bike at 9:30pm. Yes. He took a victory lap of sorts, three-quarters of the way down the street. He then walked the silent bike back to the garage stating that figuring out the gear box and brakes would have to wait for another night.
It is times like this when I truly begin to understand the line from that old Country song: “Old enough to know better, but too young to care.”
Until next time…
D. S. Vic
Please include Northwest Journal in the subject line of all Email. JD_DSVic at yahoo.com
Copyright © 2010 D. S. Vic
All rights reserved.
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