Usually, I donâ€™t hearken to computer games, at least not since my fellow elementary school classmates and myself used to squabble over who got to shoot at pixilated buffalo and deer in The Oregon Trail game during our allotted computer time. Facebook frolics such as Farmville are beyond me, considering that if I actually wanted to bail hay and milk cows, I know several people whose doors I could just knock on as opposed to clicking a mouse.
After both Oregon and Oregon State looked about as interested in playing football last Saturday as I do in putting together a yearly business budget and participating in the hackneyed and clichĂ© Christmas shopping bacchanal, I thought it would be a great idea to test your Northwest Rivalry Recollection this week.
This week and last week are rife with annual college football rivalry games from Left Coast to Right. Most of them I have heard some working AARP knowledge of.
Homer is one of those loveable hound dogs. Heâ€™s very young, so this guy likes to jump and play. Homer is good with other dogs. He is possibly a mix of Beagle Harrier and Walker Hound.
Terri (not her real name) is a cute little girl. She is probably a Wire-Haired Terrier mix. She weighs only 18 pounds. She was found, lost.
Proof that it really is the little things in life:
That magical moment when you are cleaning out your car, thinking how nice a snack would be at that moment, when all of a sudden, "Hey, is that gator jerky under the passenger seat?"
Trust in providence and it shall provide!
Lessons learned the hard way:
It turns out The Lonely Goatherd from The Sound of Music is not a sexy song to spontaneously sing in public. Especially the "Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee ho" part. People tend to think you are a non-English speaker with Tourette syndrome, or that you are in need of a Riccola.
By Chris Cowbrough, Publisher
By Julie Crist, L. Ac.
Depending on whom you ask, about 55 million Americans do not have health insurance. The medical industry that kills 800,000 Americans every year--our leading cause of death--and gouges the rest of us, wants to make sure that you are suitably terrified of not having â€śhealth insurance,â€ť because if everybody caught on to the scam, it would put an end to their fountain of money.
My editorial offering this week might be a tad TMI for some readers, and thatâ€™s okay. Sometimes, in order to illustrate a point, you have to go there. No, Iâ€™m not about to describe the dirty details of deadline day here at the Statesman. You can unplug your dogâ€™s ears and pull up the blinds on the windows.
Iâ€™m going to talk about being a teenager. Remember that? Iâ€™m sure most of you do, even if youâ€™ve built enough walls around said memories to make Freud blanch with trepidation. Maybe youâ€™re a teenager reading this right now, and if you are, kudos, because this column is for you.
When I was in my teens, I was whole-heartedly predisposed to the notion that I had been born in the wrong time. Surely, I belonged in the days of Dorothy Parker and her intellect tank gathered at the Algonquin Round Table!
It never fails does it? With all the hustle and bustle of the holiÂ¬days, the parties, the shopping, the get-togethers with friends and families, some form of pestilence isnâ€™t far behind. It lurks in every hug, kiss and handshake, like an insidious in-law who deÂ¬cides to drop in unannounced for the season.
Yes, you are a sneaky little virus, Common Cold. And just like a manipulative in-law, you are just annoying enough so that youâ€™re unable to slap a restraining order on.
I think we have a tendency to treat old people like old dogs. Maybe we treat the old dogs better. At least they get fawned over and tossed a bone now and then (or in the case of my 13-year-old black lab, I have a coworker who occasionally brings her a small cup of plain Froyo and another who throws her more than one biscuit).