The few. The proud. The blogroll.

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I drink my milk, love my mother and date nice girls

College is a time of amazing self-discovery, if you’re lucky. Sure it can be a drunken, beer-stained haze. Or a quagmire of casual acquaintances (this message brought to you by Valtrex). But the rub is, that college takes you out of your comfort zone and plunges you into a whole new shark-tank of people––away from the distractions of Mom, Dad, neighborhood friends, your old high school girlfriend (and her crazy father), your parole officer—whatever.

And against that grain of society, you start to see where you fit. For example, as you head to the dorm showers at the crack of noon and step over some guy passed out in a pool of his own vomit, still clutching his red plastic beer cup, are you thinking:

A)    I’m late for Biology 501
B)    Poor fool, where’s my Sharpie so I can write PWND on his forehead
C)    Hey, what’s my roommate doing here?
D)    All of the above

I guess the really vague point I’m making is that you learn who you are by seeing who you are not. In my case, I was never that guy. I was born with a plastic spoon in my mouth, constantly busting my hump at 2-3 jobs to pay for school (despite being betrothed to Sallie Mae for 10-years of indentured student-loan servitude).

After two quarters of learning that wine and beer don’t mix, I pulled my grades out of their belly-up death spiral, by literally staying awake for four straight days to make honor roll. I figured out early on who I was, and who I wasn’t. When there was an impromptu boxing match in the basement, I was the guy you trusted to hold the money until it was time to settle all wagers. I was the guy that on a wild Friday night, skipped a party to take my mom to a Billy Joel concert for her birthday. I drank my milk and dated nice girls.

So when I found out mingle.com had a blog rating system, I already knew what mine would be. Maybe it’s because I have little kids, and they look over my shoulder once in a while as I write––so I’m careful, and consistent, in what I put on the page. Maybe as my kids get older, my writing will drift up the ratings scale. Maybe not. It’s probably just me.

With that in mind, what’s your rating?

Library funding, now overdue

While on vacation I did take one terribly depressing photo. See for yourself.

Every library in Jackson County, Oregon is now closed due to lack of funds. (I shoved a $5 bill under the door). Sad. Very sad. Here's a link to the now defunct library blog.

Check your rapier, dagger and cell phone at the door

One of my earliest childhood memories is of a bunch of naked people smoking pot and jumping into Oregon’s Applegate River. It was 1974 and I was six. It was all part of my bohemian childhood in the theatre town of Ashland, Oregon (pronounced Orygun, not Ore-Uh-Gone, thank you).

Then when I was 12, we moved to my father’s hometown of Seattle––a blue-collar town of rain and endless crew-cuts. With my long hair and the name Jamie, everyone thought I was a girl. So I gradually cut my hair, and went by my given name, James. And Ashland became a part of my history. I’d think about it, and not quite believe that the place was that scenic, or cultured or just plain magical.

But last week, I went back. And it was more beautiful than I’d remembered.

I went to attend the renowned Oregon Shakespeare Festival. And you know what? The place has grown up. This little town of 20,000 sells nearly 400,000 theatre tickets over an 8-month season. There are more boutiques and fewer head shops. But the spirit off the place is very much intact.

To be honest, it’s hard to describe—definitely being one off those “you have to go there to understand” kind of places. But here’s a list of Ashland moments that might help:

Dress code – There isn’t one. At Rite Aid we stood in line with a white guy in a full kimono. And despite a recent ordinance banning nudity in public parks, protests in the buff are still a common way to make a point and stay cool on a hot summer day. (Don’t forget the sunblock).

What fast food? – Ashland is probably the only place on Earth where McDonald’s actually went out of business. Along with KFC and Taco Bell. Unless they sold Boca Big Macs it was doomed from the beginning. Even Subway somehow seems crass.

Violin in the park – The 100-acre centerpiece of Ashland is Lithia Park, one of the finest city parks you will find anywhere. Along the wooded trails near Lithia Creek we found a violin class in progress. We sat and listened as a handful of grade-school kids lit up the park. Somewhere Vivaldi is crying a tear of joy.

Garden confessional – We stumbled on a little homemade book someone had left in Ashland’s Japanese Gardens. People wrote poems to total strangers and left touching messages for the next person to find. Email addresses too. If you look in the back, you’ll find a little soliloquy from yours truly.

No Swords, Daggers, Rapiers or Cell Phones in the Hair Room – This was an actual sign posted outside one of the make-up rooms backstage in the Elizabethan Theatre. Luckily, my broadsword didn't make it past airport security.

Organic everything – For breakfast one morning we had granola pancakes with dried cranberries and pecan butter along with sweet potato hash drizzled with crème fraiche. From the organic bakeries to the Ashland Food Co-Op, every store is a health food store.

Theatre everywhere – The 80-year old Oregon Shakespeare Festival offers 11 plays. The Oregon Cabaret offers 5. Then there’s the Oregon Stageworks, the University Theatre, the Camelot Theatre…you get the idea. A little old man I sat next to during Taming of the Shrew had come 14 years in a row. His wife had passed, but he still keeps coming. I guess the show really must go on.

People actually read – Everywhere we went: the park, the cafes, the restaurants, people were reading––and not on their Crackberry. Maybe it’s because the quaint little downtown has SEVEN independent bookstores. God bless a literate America!

There were so many other Ashland moments: the hippie chick chilling out on the roof of a 3-story house, the doggie drinking fountain at the Ashland Springs Hotel, the peace flags along the railroad.  

But best of all, my old house was still there. My old 8-sided house. Yes, I grew up in an octagonal house with shag carpet on the ceiling. After all, in Ashland, Normal is simply the name of a street.