HinesSight

Lovely Laurel comments

It was a big day on the Comments front yesterday. First, I was thrilled to find that Keith contributed the first comment to appear on this new home of HinesSight (on my Paris Hilton posting, accessible in the “Recent Comments” section in the left column). Then, I checked my email and found that on my old weblog I'd received another comment on my American Splendor/I learn to wash lettuce posting. This wasn't quite so thrilling, as the keywords “Laurel Hines,” “exaggeration,” “poetic license,” and “evil eye” leapt to my attention--notably the “Laurel Hines” identifier, she being the owner of the Wife Eye which I did indeed mention several times in that posting.

In response, I would like to point out that the words “evil eye” nowhere appear in that posting, there being an important and significant distinction between Wife Eye and evil eye. However, if this posting led anyone to the entirely erroneous conclusion that Laurel does indeed have an evil eye, I offer as beautifully exculpatory evidence this photo (click on it to enlarge). This is one of my favorite photographs of Lovely Laurel. She gave it to me some fourteen years ago, soon after we met, and in my eyes she has changed not a whit.

And since the girl is always present in the woman, as the boy is in the man, I further offer up this wonderful hand-painted (by Laurel’s mother) photo of Little Laurel that hangs in the stairway leading to my office. I love to look upon Little Laurel and ponder that who she was to become is so clearly reflected in her father’s sensitive photography.

Yet there is another side to Laurel, as there is to all of us—which makes human beings such interesting creatures. Then, as now, her sweetness is balanced by spiciness, producing a tasty combination. Laurel tells me that her girlish family nickname was “Baby B-Bomb,” which I can easily believe from this photo (also taken by her father and colored by her artistic mother).

Since Laurel is the youngest of three sisters, the “Baby” part of her appellation is easy to understand. The precise meaning of “B,” though, is open to question. “Brat,” says Laurel, is a likely choice, given how the littlest sister normally is viewed by siblings. This is a great photograph, capturing as it does Laurel’s “Oh, yeah??!! We’ll see about that!” side, nobly manifested in her environmental crusades such as working to preserve our neighborhood groundwater and coyotes.

Keep those comments coming. I love to get email, even (and especially) when it comes from the computer just a few feet above mine.

My Paris Hilton relationship revealed

I’ve come to feel that it finally is time to reveal the nature of my relationship with Paris Hilton. Laurel and I have been following her “career” (so to speak) with considerable interest, observing with wonder the marvel of how—as others have noted before me—it is so easy in America to be famous for being famous.

While this tidy circularity implies that Paris’ accomplishment has been largely effortless, our research on E and VH1 tells us otherwise: Paris works very hard at partying, and she devotes much time and attention to looking naturally beautiful. Yet Paris is more than a party girl. In addition to her well-known “acting” career, CNN recently reported that Paris also helped direct the artistically-filmed short subject in which she also starred.

Up to now I have kept my personal relationship with Paris Hilton a secret, divulging this fact to only a few close friends and relatives—including my wife, who, thankfully, is understanding of why a fifty-five year old man would be so interested in someone who is much younger than his daughter. One reason, aside from the obvious reason, is that Paris and I are…well, something-or-other-relations, perhaps third cousins once-removed, though I’m not sure about this.

Perhaps some genealogy-expert reader could decipher the true nature of our relationship, so I could confidently speak of Paris Hilton, my dear [whatever]. As Wikipedia reveals, Paris Hilton is the great-granddaughter of Conrad Hilton, the Hilton Hotel founder. Barron Hilton, Conrad’s son, is her grandfather, and Rick Hilton, Barron Hilton’s son, is her father. I am the great-nephew of Conrad Hilton (Eva Hilton, Conrad’s sister, is my grandmother, and her daughter, Carolyn Hines, is my mother).

This makes Paris and me something-or-other. Here I learned that a second cousin is a child of the cousin of your father or mother. And over here I found an impressive, yet confusing, genealogy chart that leads me to question whether Paris and I have any discernible familial relationship at all. This disturbed me, so I’m hopeful that someone can find a name for what links us. For I’ve become quite attached to the idea that underlying the obvious differences between Paris and me, there is some common genetic ground by which I can see myself in her, and she in me (assuming she ever were to come to know of me, which assumes that she would even have some interest in coming to know of me).

I was fortunate enough to spend quite a bit of time with Conrad Hilton (senior) in my youth, and, like Paris, he certainly liked to party—though not quite in the same fashion as her. When I was twelve or so, I can fondly remember meeting a gorgeous UCLA “co-ed” at his home in Bel-Air who, in retrospect, may not have been the hotel management graduate student that I took her to be at the time. The core of “Uncle Connie,” though, was something rarely observed in today’s business leaders: honesty, faith, trustworthiness. Some of the reader reviews on Amazon of his (out-of-print) book, “Be My Guest,” speak about this. I suspect that he would look aghast on the likes of Donald Trump, since his style of doing business was worlds apart from what passes for “leadership” today.

(Note to con artists: a major difference between Paris Hilton and me is that Paris and her sister are heirs to Hilton corporate assets, while I am not. My mother received $10,000 from her uncle’s estate, and I got nothing. Sadly, not even a Lifetime Guest Pass to his hotels, which I always thought would be a great present for a great-nephew. On a serious note, Conrad Hilton was my godfather, and I like to think that somehow I have benefited from his guidance over the years. He was a rare human being, both as a person and as a businessman.)

American Splendor/I learn to wash lettuce

Recently we rented a DVD of “American Splendor,” a great movie about the life of Harvey Pekar, who wrote comic books about the life of Harvey Pekar, and who appears in the film at various times playing himself, Harvey Pekar, while at other times an actor (Paul Giamatti) plays the life of Harvey Pekar.

All this intermingling of real life and cinematic life reflects the theme of the comic book (called, naturally, “American Splendor,” like the movie), which could be stated as: life is art is life is art.

Laurel didn’t like the film as much as I did, perhaps because she doesn’t have several Robert Crumb comic books from the late 1960’s carefully stored away in a box in our carport attic, as I do. Crumb illustrated “American Splendor,” though not with quite the same pizzazz as he did the R or X rated (by modern standards) comics in my college years' treasure box.

Back then my friends and I used to laugh uproariously over Crumb’s inspired work, which featured nasty big-breasted women doing unspeakable things at truck stops, the classic Keep-On-Truckin’ guy, plus various and sundry drug-addled characters—which probably described Crumb at the time, and certainly described me and my companions as we laughed uproariously over Crumb’s inspired work, which featured…(oh, am I repeating myself? started to feel some kind of weird flashback all of a sudden).

Another reason I liked the movie more than Laurel did is that I can thoroughly identify with Pekar’s take on life. Laurel couldn’t understand why the sample comics shown in the movie were so popular and why I found them so amusing. True, they simply show Pekar going about his normal life, dealing with his normal trials and tribulations.

But as Roger Ebert notes in the above-linked review, this is the whole point of “American Splendor.” Pekar’s comic book was drawn in the style of the superhero comic books so prevalent then and now, but the only superhero in “American Splendor” is an utterly ordinary guy, going about his utterly ordinary life, trying to make sense of what doesn’t make sense.

And that is what makes Harvey Pekar a superhero. As we all are, particularly we married men who have to engage in the daily battle of matrimony, all the while trying to remain sane.

The very evening Laurel and I watched “American Splendor,” I had the fantasy that, at the age of 55, I was competent to make a salad. For some reason I thought that because I had made countless salads during my life, I could do so one more time. However, I had forgotten that when a man is married, he can assume nothing—especially competence in the kitchen.

I was happily washing a head of lettuce in the strainer thingie that spins when you pull a cord to get the lettuce dry. Previously, Laurel had carefully taught me that this is how a head of lettuce should be washed—the leaves pulled apart, then placed in the strainer thingie, and covered completely with water. The dutiful husband then is to push the lettuce leaves up and down with his hand in a plunging motion, after which the strainer thingie is pulled up out of the bowl thingie, the water in the bowl is poured out, and, finally, the cord on the thingie is pulled.

I was accomplishing all this and was about ready to move to the shredding phase when I had the all-too-familiar feeling of the Wife Eye inspecting my work. “What? What’s the matter? I’m washing the lettuce like you told me!” I exclaimed, perhaps a bit too defensively, which merely helped to confirm Laurel’s suspicion that, indeed, a culinary crime was being committed by her hapless husband.

“I could feel some grit in the lettuce the last time you washed it,” she said. “Well, I didn’t. You should have said something,” I responded. Laurel replied, “I thought about it, but you get so defensive when I criticize you about things like this.”

With that, Laurel came over to the sink so the Wife Eye could get a better look. “There, that’s what I mean. Can’t you see all that grit in the bottom of the water?” she said. I argued, to no avail, “That’s the grit that has come off the lettuce. That’s a sign the lettuce is clean, not that its dirty.” She said, “Do it again, wash it again, the lettuce is still dirty. I don’t want to keep on eating grit in my salad.”

Which I did, not once but twice, as Laurel watched, the All-Knowing Wife Eye growing ever larger and more ominous, like that on the top of the pyramid on the back of dollar bills.

Finally, the executioner pulled the lever; the fatal sword blow was struck; the firing squad pulled the trigger. She said, “Why don’t you cut the carrots? I’ll wash the lettuce.” “Are you saying that I don’t know how to wash lettuce, that I can’t wash lettuce, that I’m being demoted to carrot cutting!!??” “Yes, that’s what I’m saying,” I heard, as Laurel shoved me out of the way and took my place at the sink.

She then proceeded to pick up each lettuce leaf individually and washed the leaves one by one under running water, turning each leaf over and over repeatedly to assure that every unseen atom of organic grit went down the drain and not into the salad.

I cut the carrots. Laurel washed them, naturally. I couldn’t expect, after the lettuce imbroglio, to be allowed to both cut and wash the carrots. And watching “American Splendor” later that evening, I composed my own comic strip in my own mind of my own life.

A man standing at a sink, middle-aged, gray-haired, happily washing lettuce, as his wife, standing a few feet away with her sinister Wife Eye upon him, says, “You don’t know how to wash lettuce.”

Is that funny? Is that the making of a comic book? Well, absolutely. Especially after I heard Laurel say during the middle of the movie, as she took her just-emptied bowl back to the kitchen, “You know, I think there still was some grit in that lettuce.”

I'm the king of the world!

King of the world, that’s who I am all right, in my own mind at least (where it counts). For I have replaced a rusted-out leaking drain on our laundry room sink, notwithstanding my normally plumbing-challenged handyman skills. There was something tremendously fulfilling about successfully dismantling the decrepit parts and installing the fresh new parts, adding the dollop of plumber’s putty, tightening the, um, whatever-you-call-its that needed to be tightened, turning on the water, and hearing the water run down the drain with nary a drip.

The list of those I’d like to thank for enabling me to achieve this marvelous accomplishment is short: the great guys at Saffron Supply in downtown Salem, that’s the beginning and end of it. This is the sort of place that can’t be allowed to disappear in the shadow of all the Lowes, Home Depots, and the like. I shamefully admit that I have a fondness for the bright lights, neatly stocked shelves, and cheerful employees at the Lowe’s store here in Salem.

But when you don’t know much about plumbing, and are carrying a plastic bag filled with a bunch of dirty, broken plumbing parts that no longer are plumbing for you, a place like Saffron Supply is where you want to be. It looks like it hasn’t changed much in decades. Wooden bins are filled with mysterious plumbing and electrical parts. When you pay, a pad is pulled out and you get a handwritten paper receipt. No women were in evidence, either staff or customers. I was careful not to wear a batik shirt last Wednesday, knowing that I would be entering the plain denim world of Saffron Supply.

Like a real man, I forthrightly admitted my ignorance right off the bat. I held up my bag of parts and said, “Whatever all this stuff is, it isn’t working any more.” I then made a concise plea for help, making sure that I threw in the phrase “plumbing-challenged” several times. The Saffron guy then took over. He walked over to one of the wooden bins, pulled out a shiny new thing-a-ma-bob and said, “This is what you used to have.” Wow! So that’s what it used to look like thirty-three years ago when our house was built! He then grabbed various other connectors, seals, and what not, and put together a perfect replica of the drain that used to drain before it stopped draining.

As I was gazing with wonder at the glory of the apparatus he had assembled for me, cradling it in my plumbing-challenged hands, the Saffron magic man walked up with a can of plumber’s putty and said, “Now, this is the piece de resistance. Have you ever used it before?” I thought that I probably had, but figured that the more ignorant I appeared, the more I would learn from the Plumbing Master. Which is how it worked out, for he gave me a quick lesson in how to roll out the putty and form it into a seal to be applied before tightening the doo-hicky that needed to be tightened under the sink.

Nine dollars. I walked out with a fully-functional replacement drain for nine bucks, and I didn’t have to use even a single plumbing-challenged brain cell to figure out what I needed. Saffron Supply took me in hand as soon as I entered their establishment and I left completely satisfied. It was an experience that you can’t get at a big box store. It was akin to the difference between impersonally ordering a book at Amazon.com and interacting with a real live human being at your local independent book seller. I buy from Amazon more I should, and I buy from Lowe’s more than I should. When places like Saffron Supply are gone, it will be people like me who are responsible. And you, if you’re like me.

The only awkward moment during my visit to Saffron Supply occurred when, in an effort to express my gratitude while the guy was writing up my purchase, I blurted out to him and several co-workers, “I could never get this sort of service at Fred Meyer or Lowe’s. You better never go out of business.” There was no response at all to my comment, just a quick glance or two in my direction. I felt like maybe I was treading on sensitive ground. “Oh God,” I thought with more than a touch of remorse, “what if they are on the verge of going out of business?” Then I was brought back to the present moment. “Would you like a bag?” “Sure, thank you.” My nine dollars worth of parts were put into a paper bag, the top carefully folded over, the handwritten receipt placed inside. It all felt really real. May Saffron Supply survive and prosper, and continue to produce kings of the world.

Caveat subjector

OK, “subjector” isn’t really Latin, but I wanted to add a P.S. to my last posting about subjectivity, and “let the subjective person beware” sounds so much more profound in pseudo-Latin. I’ve been thinking that my Howard Dean-like cry, “scream your subjectivity to the sky!” needs a qualifier: make sure you allow everyone else to do their own screaming along with you.

This, it dawned on me as I did my deep thinking while driving around today, is what makes the difference between irritating ranting and raving (per conservative talk radio) and interesting dialogue and discussion (per public broadcasting). A common denominator between almost all the organizations, people, and issues that push the button for Laurel and me is that they try to shut down open and honest discussion.

Along these lines, I’m proud of how well I’ve been able to keep my finger off of the KXL pre-set button on my car radio. The cocky, misinformed, uncourteous voice of Lars Larson doesn’t enter my brain anymore—except for a brief falling off the wagon today when I heard him say, “Why should 25% of Oregon beaches be off limits to people because of the plover [bird]?” Having just read in an Oregonian article that actually it would be dogs, camping, campfires, and driving, not people, that would be prohibited on certain beaches during spring and summer to avoid disturbing the western snowy plover, I instantly turned to Oregon Public Broadcasting to avoid hearing more of the lying liar Lars Larson, to borrow the wonderful phrasing of Al Franken.

It doesn’t bother us to agree to disagree when everyone concerned is committed to expressing the truth as they understand it, and respecting other people’s understandings, but it absolutely frosts us when facts are twisted in an unethical fashion, or someone in a position of power ignores opposing views in an attempt to maintain that power. Those who express strong views have to be equally strong advocates of letting others express their own strong views—even when the two sets of views are opposed. The Bush administration’s failure to do this is a big reason why we’re looking forward to the Kerry-Edwards ticket (my prediction and heartfelt wish) taking over the White House in 2005.

Relativity and sustainability

When I turned to the Opinion section of the Statesman-Journal this morning, the main editorial was called “Fairview plan would pay dividends for city.” Since Laurel and I are investors in Sustainable Fairview Associates, the LLC (limited liability company) that is trying to purchase and develop the 275 acre Fairview property, naturally I was interested in what the newspaper had to say.

On the whole, I had to agree that the sustainable community that hopefully will emerge at Fairview is a wonderful opportunity to showcase Salem and spark the local economy. But since we’ve been so intimately involved with this project for almost two years, and know more than the editorial board does about how the original vision for Sustainable Fairview compares with what is actually happening (and is likely to happen), I was struck by how the Pollyannish tone of the editorial contrasted with our negative attitude about the current direction of Sustainable Fairview Associates.

For example, is the project really “solving tomorrow’s problems in creative ways”? Is it true that “Architects, city planners and developers would come to check us out”? Actually, while the original Fairview vision was cutting-edge and genuinely creative, that vision has been pared back considerably. While I’m no expert in this area, my impression is that quite a few other sustainable developments around the world are better examples of sustainability than Fairview.

This definitely is true as regards the social and economic sides of the three-legged stool of sustainability (the other side being ecological/environmental, the techno aspect of solar power, open spaces, recycling, living system wastewater treatment, that sort of stuff). I look upon our investment much as a manager of a socially conscious mutual fund would: the quality and form of governance of the company is a big part of determining how sustainable it is. An autocratic corporation that treats its employees and shareholders like dirt isn’t “sustainable,” even if it makes hydrogen fuel cells.

Knowing Sustainable Fairview Associates from the inside as we do, whereas editorial writers only know it from the outside, it isn’t surprising that Laurel and I have a different perspective about how successful and wonderful the Fairview development likely will be. So I was primed to get some fresh insights when, later that morning, I read some more of Brian Greene’s great new book, “The Fabric of the Cosmos.” Greene is a physicist who wrote “The Elegant Universe,” also a good book, but “The Fabric of the Cosmos” is better, for sure. Clearer, also deeper and more philosophical.

I always love to read about relativity theory, in part because I never can get it absolutely straight in my mind how space and time work together. Do clocks run slower at fast speeds, or slower? Do objects get longer or shorter as they approach the speed of light? And, more importantly, why the heck does whatever happens, happen? Greene does a fine job explaining Einstein’s theories, so fine that I might even remember the basics of relativity theory this time (and this space, given the reality of a spacetime continuum). He points out something that I have read before, that Einstein never was happy with the term “relativity theory” and preferred something like “invariance theory.” For even though the timing and spacing of events is indeed relative to the location of observers in time and space, this happens because of the invariance of the speed of light, and the objective reality of the spacetime continuum as a whole.

However, not being privy to the wisdom of the Whole, I’m necessarily relegated to playing my role as a Part. A part with a personal, relative, idiosyncratic perspective. Here, of course, I’m taking some liberties with relativity theory, using it to help explain psychological rather than physical realities, but it is difficult not to find parallels between the two. Einstein demonstrated that there isn’t a privileged spectator in the universe, an entity that can say conclusively, “This is the way it is.” Things appear different to different observers moving at different speeds in different locations because they are different. It isn’t that one observer is right and another wrong. They are both right, from their own perspective.

So reading Greene this morning led me to a glorious feeling: subjectivity should be wholeheartedly embraced, not anxiously questioned. Subjectivity, in the sense of a personal perspective, is all that any of us has. Unless, that is, we become the objective Whole of the universe. Or more broadly, the cosmos. Until that moment transpires in the spacetime continuum, we’re going to view things our way, whether this be a beam from a coastal lighthouse or how a mixed-use sustainable development at Fairview is coming along.

Since Laurel and I are more critical of the management of Sustainable Fairview Associates than a good share of our fellow investors, sometimes our minority status makes me uncomfortable, and I even begin to wonder, “Maybe all the happy SFA members are right, and I’m wrong.” Thankfully, I usually quickly come to my senses, as I did today, and realize “There isn’t any right, and there isn’t any wrong. There is just being true to your own self, and your own perspective.”

As clichéd as it may sound, this is what makes life interesting—our different ways of perceiving the world. While oneness may be the destination that we all are seeking, the path that leads there is marked by marvelously entertaining multiplicity. We all should revel in our relativity, screaming our subjectivity to the sky—and beyond. To do any less is to deny reality, the reality that everyone sees things in a different way. So I’ll continue to look with my critical eye upon the blurred sustainable vision of Sustainable Fairview Associates. When I see things differently, then things will be different—for me, the only source of my seeing.

Cancel conservative cranks

I’m all for free speech, but that doesn’t mean I have to listen to, or read, all the hateful crap that conservative cranks, um, crank out. As I’ve observed before, conservative “talk” radio really doesn’t involve much talking between two people. Rather, the talking is almost entirely one-sided, with the cranky host using the public airwaves to rant and rave about his or her personal feelings, and having the power to shut off the voice of any caller who doesn’t adhere to the Republican party line.

Wednesday afternoon, while driving around in our Toyota Prius, I allowed KXL’s Lars Larson to enter into the otherwise pleasant Green atmosphere of my motoring experience. He was all a flutter about gay/lesbian marriage, given the Massachusetts Supreme Court’s decision that such had to be allowed in that state to guarantee equality under the law. Per usual, I noticed that when a fawning listener phoned in—“Hi, Lars. Love your show. I listen to you all the time. Here’s my take on the gay marriage thing….”—Larson would give the person free rein to say what they wanted.

Then, a thoughtful guy called up who had a different perspective. And almost instantly Larson started interrupting him, barely letting him finish a single sentence. During this “conversation,” Larson did at least three-fourths of the talking, if not more. This guy was trying to point out that the US Supreme
Court had ruled that people have the right to engage in any private sexual practice they desire, which has implications for the legality of gay/lesbian marriage.

Every time he tried to speak, Larson interrupted rudely. Finally, Larson had the gall to say, “If you’re not going to engage in a conversation with me, I’ll shut your mike off.” He then did just that, and finished with a lengthy tirade about how this idiotic caller, by God, wasn’t going to succeed in his attempt to take away the institution of purely heterosexual marriage from the majority of Americans who, like Larson, don’t want homosexual perverts joining their marital party.

At that point I jabbed at the power button on the radio and listened to blissful silence. Then, after a while, I turned the radio back on and enjoyed Oregon Public Broadcasting during the rest of my drive time. And that’s what I vow to do from now on—no more conservative talk radio listening for me. If I want to get my blood pumping, I’ll get on a Stairmaster. I’ve made this vow before, and have broken it, but this time I think I’ve really realized that by listening to these hateful conservative cranks I’m supporting them.

Another good example was just emailed to me by a friend who was outraged by Ann Coulter’s attack on Max Cleland, the ex-Georgia senator who lost three limbs in Vietnam. Coulter claims that because Cleland’s injury happened off the battlefield, it doesn’t make Cleland a hero. Coulter ends her column this way: “Cleland wore the uniform, he was in Vietnam, and he has shown courage by going on to lead a productive life. But he didn't ‘give his limbs for his country,’ or leave them ‘on the battlefield.’ There was no bravery involved in dropping a grenade on himself with no enemy troops in sight. That could have happened in the Texas National Guard—which Cleland denigrates while demanding his own sanctification.”

The Center for American Progress web site appropriately questions whether Bush will put up with Coulter’s attack on Cleland’s war service, and, more importantly, whether each of us should. This page has an email link to Fox News which I just used to say that I’m not watching any more Fox News until Coulter is canned. And that’s true. Even though I’m a news junkie, I can get my fix just fine with CNN on the television and OPB on the radio. Everyone should consider doing the same.

Secret of happiness revealed

An editor of a (non-commercial) spiritual magazine asked me to write an article for the upcoming issue. A friend had suggested to her that some of my HinesSight postings might provide fodder for the article, and she found my Mini Cooper ravings, which she thought might indeed be massaged into something approaching a mixture of humor and wisdom—likely more the former than the latter.

I took her advice and just finished my mini opus, “Secret of Happiness Revealed.” It ties together the gist of several of my postings into an examination of the deeper meaning of Mini Cooper longing. Much research, ten minutes at least, went into the article, including a thoroughly enjoyable visit to the “build your own” page of the Mini web site. There I learned that the Tiptronic/Steptronic transmission apparently is not offered on the Mini Cooper S, though I previously thought that it was, thereby saving me from extreme embarrassment if I had left in this feature as one of the desired elements of my Mini dream car.

I also decided to use Google to see how many other people in the world were, like me, publicly (on the Internet) asking God to bring a Mini Cooper into their lives. Somewhat disturbingly, I found that a search of “god mini cooper” brought up my own weblog as the #1 divine-pleading Mini Cooper site. One guy, damn it all, thanks God for fixing him up with his car, as if I want to know that the Almighty is answering the prayers of other people before me.

Hey, what gives, God??!! What good is the supreme Good if selfless requests such as I am making are not granted expeditiously? By “selfless,” I mean that the spirits of countless drivers and pedestrians will be raised when they see my racing green Mini Cooper flash by, reminding one and all that life is meant to be lived joyously. My current Volvo wagon does not convey that message, and it bothers me that I’m cheating passersby of the opportunity to be uplifted automotively. So bring it on, God. As I say at the end of the article, psychological research suggests that a Mini Cooper won’t bring lasting happiness, but I sure am willing to serve science and investigate that hypothesis.

Here comes the sun…appeal is done

Yesterday was bright for us for several reasons, not least of which was the Marion County Commissioners’ 3-0 rejection of the Nielsen’s request for them to hear an appeal of the denial of their lot partition request that Laurel and I have been fighting (along with other supportive neighbors) for what seems like eternity—but hasn’t been quite that long, I’m sure.

We got ourselves down to the Commissioners’ meeting room at the ungodly hour, for us, of 9:00 am, wanting to be there in time to hear Roger Kaye make use of the public comment time at the beginning of each meeting. Roger, President of Friends of Marion County, and apparently the only competent member of the Marion County Planning Commission, spoke clearly and cogently about the messed-up status of needed revisions to the county’s Sensitive Groundwater Ordinance.

The technical details of what he talked about are of interest only to groundwater aficionados like Laurel and me, but the political details should concern anyone who likes to believe that government bodies represent the interests of all the people, and not just those with money and political clout. Roger said that presently he is the only member of the Planning Commission without some tie to real estate development (George Grabenhorst), well drilling (Gary Monders), and other activities inimical to the goal of protecting rural residents’ groundwater.

So the Commissioners were warmed up to the subject before it came time to consider Denny and Laurie Nielsen’s appeal of the hearings officer’s rejection of their application to divide their Spring Lake Estates lot into two smaller lots, which would mean two wells. It took a lot of discussion to arrive at the conclusion that Laurel and I expected they would come to: that the hearings officer had carefully considered all the evidence in this case and appropriately concluded that our area couldn’t sustain an extra home and well.

One commissioner clearly wanted to find some reason to allow the Nielsen’s appeal, even saying at one point that she agreed that the legal process had been followed as it should, but that she still disagreed with the outcome (what does this mean? it’s akin to her saying that someone got a fair trial, and was convicted, but she wishes the wrong-doer had been acquitted; this attitude points to the fanaticism of many property rights advocates—it doesn’t matter what a real estate developer does to the environment, so long as he gets to use his property as he damn well wants to, regardless of the consequences to others).

This is a small victory for the environment, in the grand scheme of things. But the (clichéd) slogan still holds true: “Think globally, act locally.” And it also is a victory for our honest hydrologists, Malia and Greg Kupillas, who competently demolished the trumped-up data and arguments of the Nielsen’s hydrologist, Nick Coffey. Coffey caused us to spend quite a bit of money refuting his reports, and sadly the Nielsens spent even more. So we’re hoping that the Board of Geology ends up deciding to take away Coffey’s license before he does any more damage to his clients’ pocketbooks and nature’s groundwater.

Oregon, we (don’t) love dreamers

If you don’t live in Oregon, you may not know that our new marketing/branding slogan, or tag line, is now “Oregon, we love dreamers.” Yeah, right. Oregon loves the predictable, the status quo, the uncreative, the simplistic answers to serious problems. Clear evidence for this is tonight’s apparent 60-40% defeat of Measure 30, the 2003 legislature’s hard-fought bipartisan solution to our budget problems that was referred to the voters after an out-of-state anti-tax group stuck its nose into Oregon’s affairs.

Because most people are selfish, and don’t bother to inform themselves about complex issues, it looks like 60% of the voters fell for the utterly untrue argument of the “No on 30” campaign: “There’s plenty of money in state government. It just is being wasted. So vote ‘no,’ and school days really won’t have to be cut, and tens of thousands of people won’t be tossed off of the Oregon Health Plan, and the state crime lab won’t have to fire most of its employees.” Except, almost certainly all of this, and more, will happen. And worse, most of those 60% won’t care, because they’ll have their $58 a year, or whatever, that they will have saved by voting down Measure 30.

I used to be proud to be an Oregonian. Now, I’m not. We’re becoming the Northwest’s Appalachia, surrounded by states inhabited by people who better understand that government is necessary to supply the goods and services that individuals can’t obtain on their own. Like roads, schools, parks, health care for the poor, law enforcement. When I moved here in 1971 Oregon truly did love dreamers. We kept the Pacific beaches open to everyone. We passed one of the first bottle bills. We established a land use system that keeps cities citified and the country countrified, with very little urban sprawl.

People wanted to be move here to be part of the Oregon dream. Now, it’s more like a nightmare. Any corporate executive who considered moving his company here would have to think really hard about whether he wants his children going to schools that soon will have the shortest school year in the country. We’ve lost the ability to look beyond our own pocketbooks. Vision, dreams, doing things differently—these are dirty words in Oregon now. Cut taxes. Less government. These simplistic mantras comprise the full extent of the conservative/Republican agenda, which somehow a majority of Oregonians have bought into.

If you’re thinking of moving here, don’t. If you’re thinking of investing here, think again. Someday, I’m sure, things will get better. But before they do, things will get worse. It starts tomorrow, when people begin to realize what it means to cut $800 million out of a small state’s budget.