HinesSight

275 urban ac.; 700,000 sq. ft.; grt. vu.; Salem; $13 mil/offer

It’s been a while since I’ve written about the Sustainable Fairview development. I decided it’s time to send a classified ad into cyberspace, as above. True, as a mere investor in Sustainable Fairview Associates (SFA), I’m not authorized to represent the property. But I can pretty much assure anyone out there who has both Green leanings and $13 million or so of the green stuff: no reasonable offer will be refused.

Yesterday I asked Sam Hall, managing member of SFA, some questions about how things are going. This being a privately held limited liability company, I’m duty bound to keep details of the answers confidential.

Let’s just say that there still are plenty of opportunities for a well-heeled developer, investor, philanthropist, environmentalist, or plain person to get involved with an exceedingly rare opportunity: 275 acres within Salem’s urban growth boundary that contain 700,000 square feet of existing buildings and some of the best Cascades/Valley views imaginable. Plans are afoot to sell several parcels, yet most of the property is still available for purchase from SFA.

I’ve been writing about Fairview for quite a while (see “Sustainability” category). I’m frustrated with SFA’s lack of progress, much of which I believe can be attributed to management errors and lack of expertise. The potential for a world-class sustainable development is still very much alive though. Rezoning with the City of Salem is almost complete. A land-use appeal has been decided in SFA’s favor. Interest remains high among people wanting to live or work at Fairview (I frequently am asked, “When can I buy a lot there?” or “When can I move my business there?”)

What Sustainable Fairview lacks, most of all, is someone with Guts and Vision and Money who wants to do something that has never been done on such a scale before. Cautious small thinking has been stifling this project, along with a lack of $$$. So, come on, all you multi-millionaires out there who are looking to support a legacy that will live on after you’re gone, and who want to put their money to use in a fashion that promises both a high return on investment and a high return for the planet.

Back in October 2003 I was part of a group, Eco-Enterprises, Inc., that put together an innovative proposal for developing Fairview. We wanted to leave the land in a Community Land Trust, and use ongoing rents from the permanently leased land to generate sustainable revenue streams. Eco-Enterprises faded away when we couldn’t secure funding to gain control of Fairview. But the dream lives on. I’ll post some excerpts from our proposal both for historical interest and as an example of the sort of creative outside-the-box vision that Fairview sorely needs. Download eei_business_plan_excerpts.doc

Some of the proposal details no longer apply, given the changes that have occurred in the past nine months. It’s the big picture that is important, not the details. If I had ten to twenty million dollars lying around that I was looking to put to use (I can only wish…), this is exactly the sort of business opportunity I’d jump at: unique, creative, Green, potentially highly profitable, cutting-edge, and, yes, fun.

Bring the right person or firm together with these 275 acres and sustainable sparks will fly. Soon, a bonfire. The warmth and light will draw people from all over the world. Guaranteed. All that is needed are some million dollar matches.

Images of Salem's World Beat Festival

The worst-kept secret in Oregon? Salem is a boring town. I like to say that Salem is the amorphous undistinguished center between four interesting one-hour-away compass points. North is Portland. South is Eugene. West is the Pacific Ocean. East is the Cascades. And in between all these wonders? Blahville USA.

Except for a few times a year. July's Salem Art Fair & Festival and June's World Beat Festival are exceptions to the boring rule in the town we call, yawn..., Home. Laurel and I went to the World Beat Festival at Riverfront Park last evening, and I returned for another hit of funness this afternoon. Here are some images of what we experienced.

Our first stop was for some vegetarian dal and rice, which I ate while enjoying the Sisters of the Desert Moon belly dancers. I will admit that I enjoyed watching some of the dancers more than others, but I also heartily admire the grace, talent, and moxie of every woman who shares this beautiful art. I love belly dancing, and not only for the obvious reasons. There's something mysteriously mystical about it that attracts me aside from the physical. However, I draw the line at male belly dancers. Once I saw a man do his thing, complete with the tiny cymbals and flowing Middle Eastern garb. I'm still trying to erase that memory from my mind. Call me sexist, but I say belly dancing is for women. Period.

For a finale all the dancers, young and younger, entertained us to the tune of (if I have the name right), "Walk Like An Egyptian." I loved the purple outfit. Some women were lured out of the audience and joined the Sisters of the Desert Moon. Being dancing impaired, I applauded their courage. I was prepared to cling to the ground with clenched fingers and cry like a baby if there was any attempt to draw a gray-haired bearded geezer into the dancing circle.

During much of the time I was admiring the belly dancers, Laurel was absorbed in admiring dichroic glass jewelery. I left her in almost this exact position, watched the dancing for about ten minutes, and then got worried that Laurel had finished her jewelery browsing and was waiting at the booth with nothing to do. Yeah, right. When I got back she was still immersed in the never-ending fascination of dichroic glass. She got a nice ring and two pairs of earrings for a quite reasonable $50. We then headed to another booth where my capture captured a familiar Husband Sight.

We had never seen Salem's kind of famous Eco Earth globe close up. It is at the end of Riverfront Park, overlooking the fabulously gorgeous Willamette River slough and wetlands/fields, and the fabulously ugly Boise Cascade paper plant that should have been torn down decades ago instead of clogging up the riverfront with industrial unchic buildings. The Eco Earth globe is made of tiles that cover an old metal sphere that was used for something or other in the old days of paper processing. The names of contributors to the project encircle the globe. Sadly, we are not among them. I don't know why. I love to see my name in print, or engraved, so this was a missed opportunity to both support a good cause and stroke my ego.

Going back on my own this afternoon, I couldn't pass up a martial arts demonstration by the nattily attired members of the Ireland ATA Blackbelt Academy in Keizer. The kid on the left is five, I believe; the others breaking (rebreakable) boards just a bit older. They had impressive technigue and discipline for children that age. I started my karate training at age 40. Lucky them to begin just a tad sooner.

After the Tae Kwon Do demonstation I ran into a friend, Rob. He was with a woman who was holding the leash of an insanely large Great Dane. Well, I guess all Great Danes are insanely large, but this one made me want to put a saddle on it and ride off into the sunset to find a herd of cats. I made Rob get down on his knees to make the dog look larger. But that was hardly necessary, as you can see from this Yin and Yang photo of another canine that came up to greet its more massive companion.

My day ended with a pilgrimage to the Daryl Thomas West African Drumming and Dancing Workshop. Daryl had recruited a large group of enthusiastic dancers who twirled and whirled to the hypnotic African beat for a lot longer than I could have imagined, given the heat of the afternoon. Here they are near the end of the dancing, in an appropriately worshipful-looking World Beat Festival pose. I had a great time. All you Portlanders should come down next year and see how much fun Salem can be...on two weekends a year (don't miss the Salem Art Fair July 16-18 either).

Reason #836,492 why Microsoft sucks

Using Microsoft Office reminds me of being married to my ex-wife during our final unhappy years together. It’s all I’ve got for the moment, but I just have to believe that there is something much better which would really meet my needs. Today it was Outlook 2003 that drove me to imagine the hell that rightfully awaits Microsoft programmers (or, more justly, the executives for whom they work).

I dutifully have upgraded to Outlook 2003 from 2002, hearing that the integrated spam filter alone is worth the price. Yes, it is a nice spam filter, better than the stand-alone product I had been using. And yes, I do enjoy the snazzier look of Outlook 2003 (and the other Office 2003 products), the new color scheme bringing some brightness to my laptop world.

So my outlook on Outlook was pretty positive this early afternoon, as I finished entering all 86 names and addresses of the people in our Spring Lake Estates neighborhood association into a new Contacts file. I am the secretary of said association, and had been charged with quickly mailing out a survey to find out whether the members wanted the board to get involved with a proposed property development that could threaten the quality of water in our communal lake.

Having recently shifted over to a new laptop, I wanted to move the address file into Outlook, as I had been printing labels on an ancient version of AnyTime Deluxe that seemed just too archaic to transplant to my Wi-Fied E-Machines 6809.

Is it too much to expect that Outlook, Microsoft’s workhorse contact manager, would be able to print 86 labels on standard Avery stock? Mr. and Ms. Microsoft executives, is this Office 2003 user being unreasonable in his expectation that, if a $29 AnyTime Deluxe program can easily print those labels, your mucho-more expensive Outlook 2003 could do the same?

During the 90 minutes I spent trying to unravel the mysteries of mail merging an Outlook file into a Word document I had plenty of opportunity to ponder those questions—along with more malevolent fantasies of how those Microsoft executives would like living at Guantanamo in their orange jumpsuits, forced to endure 20 hour a day interrogations: “Why, why!, why!! did you not put the features into Office 2003 that normal human beings actually need, rather than all the fancy-pants crap that no one other than a computer science Ph.D. understands, even you?!”

I finally gave up and installed good old faithful AnyTime Deluxe on my new computer. I then printed out the labels and went to Kinkos. And when I got home I learned via Google that for $40 or $60, depending on the version, Aladdins Envelopes and Labels will do for me what Outlook 2003 should have done: print some damn labels.

I read on the Aladdins website, “Aladdins adds envelope and label printing functionality to Outlook.” And I think, “Should I really have to pay $40 or $60 for this?” And I answer, “No.” But I do. And after downloading the Aladdins software I find that it easily prints labels, just like they say. And I think, “Why does Microsoft, which makes programs that suck, rule the computer world rather than Aladdins, which makes software that works?”

The answer likely can be found only by delving into metaphysical karmic mysteries beyond my ken. It’s probably the same reason why George Bush is our president rather than Al Gore.

View my blogified photo (quickly)

When Jack Bogdanski emailed me and asked to use my recently-posted photo of the Three Sisters on his way-cool and way-popular Jack Bog’s Blog, I was thrilled.

Wow! I never dreamed I’d be almost a professional published photographer, the “almost” a necessary qualifier because (1) naturally I’m not being paid for use of the photo, (2) the heading of a weblog isn’t really a publication, and (3) simply snapping a digital photo when the camera is on automatic barely qualifies as photography (I did, however, press the zoom lens button with my right index finger, which involved some minimal decision-making).

All that aside, I’m thrilled that the cropped photo looks so nice on Jack’s weblog, viewable by clicking on the link above. However, I’m not thrilled that Jack has decided to close down his weblog on July 6. I’ve only been a reader of Jack Bog’s Blog for a fairly short time, but I’ve enjoyed it, and will miss it.

Maybe if we all send out a message to the universe, “Keep going, Jack,” we can create an altered reality in the Force/Tao/Providence/Destiny/Karma that guides such matters. I do respect Jack’s reasons for taking a break from his blog. But shutting down an interesting, thoughtful, informative weblog is a loss to the Blogosphere.

There’s still thirteen days until July 6. A lot of mind-changing can happen in that time. If not, thanks for giving my photo a nice home for a few weeks, Jack. May the spirit of the beautiful Three Sisters always be with you.

Oh, great, our dog is fat

While it might seem that a Pet Health Report Card isn’t the most fascinating thing in the world, actually there is a quite a bit of interest here. Laurel handed this to me when she returned from Serena’s semi-annual “wellness exam with preventative care” (it runs two pages, but the “Urogenital” section is on the second page and I wanted to preserve at least a semblance of Serena’s canine confidentiality; the condition of her sex organs is between her, us, and every dog in the world who comes up and sniffs her).

First, I was struck by how much more informative and detailed this report is, compared to what I get when I go for my annual physical. Plus, I’m pretty sure my photo isn’t in my medical chart—though I have to say that Serena was captured in a mug shot pose that isn’t very flattering. Second, Serena has these semi-annual wellness exams, um, twice a year. Which is twice as often as I see my doctor. And when Serena goes to the vet with a health problem we get a follow-up call within a couple of days, someone pleasantly inquiring about how Serena is doing and whether we have any questions about her treatment regimen.

By contrast, I could be on death’s door and I still wouldn’t be able to reach my Salem Clinic family doctor directly by phone, since all calls go through a central switchboard where you leave a message for the doctor, which then apparently goes straight to a shredder so Dr. Too Important To Be Bothered, M.D. doesn’t have to risk being late for his golf game by spending a few minutes phoning a patient. The notion that my doctor would actually call on his own to ask how I am is, of course, beyond imagining. But not for dogs.

So Serena gets better health care than do lots of people in this country, and most people in the rest of the world. Maybe this is just one tiny, itty-bitty part of the reason why America is both so respected and so despised by those beyond our borders. We treat our pets better than millions upon millions of people are treated in third-world countries. This doesn’t mean that Serena should get worse care, of course. Let’s raise the world health care water and lift all ships.

Serena is, by the way, a Lab/German Shepherd mix, as evidenced by her drooping ears. The Pet Medical Center has her down as a German Shepherd, which is what she admittedly looks like (apart from the ears). Personality-wise, though, she is very much a Lab. For which we’re eternally thankful, having spent the 1991-2001 decade with visions of bite-induced lawsuits going through our heads every time the UPS guy or mailperson came to the door. Tasha, our previously dearly beloved psychotic pet as I liked to call her, was a purebred German Shepherd. Give me a Lab/Shepherd mix any time (unless, I suppose, the time was when I was being attacked by a 250 pound meth freak with a baseball bat).

When Laurel came back from the vet she yelled out “Serena is overweight!” as if this was totally my fault. As if the chunks of cheese I sneak into Serena’s dinner every night, or the extra dog biscuits I give her when she looks bored in between meals, are going to make any difference. I’m confident that these treats actually cause her to lose weight, because her tail wags so vigorously when I’m getting them out, and that has to burn up lots of calories.

We did get a cheery “Great job with weight loss!” in the “Appearance, Weight, Temperature” section of this report. On her last wellness check Serena had ballooned up by at least five pounds more, so we have indeed been making progress. Maybe next time we won’t have any red marks on the report and I can pin it on our refrigerator with a magnet, a big gold star pasted on the weight section. Then I’ll celebrate by giving Serena a huge chunk of cheese.

We visit an exotic land, the Pearl District

Rural south Salem is just sixty miles or so away from Portland’s Pearl District, but we felt as if we had journeyed to a foreign exotic land, so marvelous were the sights seen there.

Not so marvelous, though, was the unfamiliar manner in which we learned Portlanders drive, on Friday afternoons at least. Rather than use their cars to move from one place to another, as is done in Salem, drawing near to Portland we observed thousands of them lined up neatly on the southbound freeway, seemingly motionless. We could not understand why so many Portlanders would choose to assemble in such a fashion on a nice sunny day. This was but the first of many enigmas we encountered on our visit.

When we found our way to the 1200 block of NW Couch, following directions supplied by some friendly natives who had invited us to experience their land, we were pleased to see an empty parking place. This made us feel at home, as such are common in our usual city habitat, downtown Salem. However, looking around we observed that parkers were making a pilgrimage to some shrine in the middle of the block, rather than simply getting out of their cars and walking on their way.

Not wanting to break some tribal taboo, we did the same, which led us to a truly mysterious piece of technology that took us some minutes to comprehend. This was not a parking meter, but it sucked up coins. It also apparently accepted credit cards, marvel of marvels. By following the 1-2-3 icons embedded on the face of the machine a piece of paper eventually extruded itself. Trying to decipher its meaning, we read that it was to be applied to the inside of our car window. Somehow.

Yet sticking it by its sticky side on the inside of the window would leave it facing the wrong way. And sticking it by its unsticky side would leave it falling off the window. Truly, we now were strangers in a strange land. It was only by following the adage, “When in Portland, do as Portlanders do,” that we were able to study other parked cars and find a way to affix the paper with another piece of sticky paper spit out by the machine. Our disorientation was now complete. Dazedly we made our way to the next block.

And there, wonder upon wonders, we entered a restaurant, P F Changs, that was utterly unlike any eating place to be found in our homeland. It was beautifully decorated, a blend of Chinese tradition and American modernism. Natives had thronged to it at 5:00 pm, and for good reason. Service was efficient, competent, polite, unobtrusive. The offerings were unique, and most reasonably priced. A tofu appetizer came with shells of lettuce leaves, within which we spooned the tasty Pearl District fare.

In all of Salem there is not such a restaurant as this. We did not want to leave. We tarried as long as possible, enjoying the company of our friends, absorbing the exotic atmosphere. Even the restrooms were a marvel.

After doing my duty I stood before the sink, perplexed by a the sight of a fixture from which water seemingly emerged (for such was made to happen by the man next to me), but…how? In Salem we have faucets, which we turn. I waved my hands in front of the fixture, remembering that in an airport one time this made water emerge. Dryness still. The native took pity on me, undoubtedly recognizing me for the tourist that I was, and pointed to a subtle black square on the fixture. Pushing it, water! I danced with joy. I had mastered a local custom!

Eventually returning to Couch Street, Laurel and I could not take our eyes off of the beautiful, finely-attired youth who thronged the sidewalks. So different from our native land, where downtown Salem is a wasteland on Friday evening. Also Thursday evening. And every other evening. We had seen fashion like this in magazines, but never had we dreamed to see real people wearing such. A lithe girl strutted past wearing a brown micro skirt over designer blue jeans. I started to pull out my camera to capture such a never-seen sight. Laurel grabbed my arm. “We must respect the privacy of the natives,” she said. “We are their guests here.”

I do not have time to describe all the other wonders that we experienced in the Pearl District. Salem brothers and sisters, you must see for yourself, for otherwise you would never believe us. Can you imagine a bookstore so large that our entire Jackson’s Books would fit into the science fiction section of it? Can you imagine a natural food store so similarly immense that our entire LifeSource Natural Foods would fit into its Deli department? No, such is to be experienced if it is to be believed.

Journey to the Pearl District as we did. Your eyes will gaze upon sights that never have and, sadly, never will be seen in Salem.

On torture and lot line adjustments

Yesterday, once again, we sat for over three hours in the Marion County room where land use appeals are heard. Then I went home, exercised and fed the dog, had some food myself, laid down on the couch, and opened up the Oregonian to a full-page story about the Department of Justice torture memo. By this time, my first thought was: “All lawyers should be ______” (you fill in the blank; just don’t make it anything pleasant)

Understand, we know some nice, ethical, good-hearted lawyers. So I really should have made some exceptions for the “All” above. But after listening at length to a land use attorney parse and pinch the language of county ordinances and state laws to fit her client’s narrow, selfish, lot partitioning goal, I couldn’t help but make a connection between how she and the Justice Department attorneys both look at the world in such a lawyerly, legalistic fashion.

Like…torture isn’t torture even when severe pain is inflicted, so long as the torturer has the idea in his or her mind, “I’m not torturing.” Okay, the actual Justice Department argument was a bit more sophisticated, but this is the gist of it.

Well, somehow I don’t think the innocent Iraqi being hung by the arms from a ceiling, whose shoulders are being torn apart, cares about the mental state of the CIA operative who is doing the torturing. This sort of disconnect between the reality of pain and the unreality of word parsing is what makes me want to hang the Justice Department attorneys from that ceiling. After a few hours maybe they’d want to change their definition of “torture.”

Similarly, though in a much milder and gentler context, Laurel and I were struck by how freely the land use attorney could twist the meaning of simple words to suit her purposes. We argued that since the lot in question is already below the minimum size (two acres) for a rural lot in Marion County, a county ordinance requires that any reduction in the size of this already “non-conforming” lot necessitates the applicant going through the partitioning process.

The attorney didn’t disagree, because the law is clear. But she tried to argue that while the lot line adjustment has to go through the partitioning process, it doesn’t have to meet the partitioning standards. Huh? This is like saying that while I’m required to run a 100 yard high hurdles race, I don’t have to clear the hurdles, but can run along beside them. Is it a high hurdle race if you don’t have to go over the hurdles?

We all laughed at Bill Clinton saying, “It all depends on what the meaning of ‘is’ is.” That’s just lawyer talk. It’s not so funny, though, when the lawyer is trying to get two extra houses, and two extra wells, approved to be built a few hundred yards from your house in a rural area that already has severe groundwater problems. The land use attorney we spent three hours with yesterday said that she lives in the city. So what does she care if rural people run out of water?

Laurel came home wondering how attorneys live with themselves when they know that the cause they’re advocating for is destructive, or their client is guilty. I had some answers for her, but I don’t think I convinced even myself. Guess that shows I would have been a lousy lawyer—which is something I should be proud of, for sure.

Three beautiful Sisters

Yesterday it was easy to fall in love with Three Sisters, they looked so beautiful. This photo was taken at the top of a knoll near Black Butte Resort that I’m pretty sure is called Gobblers Knob. Whatever it’s called, this was a great place to be on one those cool, clear June days in central Oregon that makes you feel, “Everything’s all right with the world so long as there are still places like this.”

It’s Laurel’s double-nickel birthday next Monday. So we started celebrating early with one of her favorite activities, a two-hour Black Butte Stables trail ride. I hadn’t ridden for several years, so I was rusty at deciding what to wear for the occasion.

Black cowboy boots seemed both fashionable and practical, but I went back and forth between black baseball cap and black cowboy hat. I remembered that most of the stable guides wore caps themselves, and I wanted to fit in. However, I ended up thinking, “How often do I ride a horse in central Oregon? If this isn’t the time to wear a cowboy hat, what is?” I think we both made some excellent fashion choices, though my blue sweatshirt looks a bit wimpy.

There were just two other people on the ride, a mother and daughter from the Tiburon area in California who had roots in Oregon. I and my rather stout horse had ended up last in line, while Laurel and her even more rotund steed were behind the woman. I couldn’t hear all of their conversation, but it didn’t take long before Laurel said, “My husband does martial arts too!” At canter time I convinced the guide that my horse was faster than Laurel’s, so for the rest of the ride I followed the woman and chatted with her about martial arts this and that.

She practices a mixed style with lots of ground fighting/jujitsu training, and is going to take her black belt test in the fall. She told me a story, with considerable relish, about how she got to apply some joint lock technique to a jerk in a bar. So here’s a tip: if you’re in some Bay Area watering hole, and you see a petite woman with distinctive flowing hair (as in the photo below), act nice around her. Unless you’re into pain.

I gave her my weblog address and told her I’d post a few photos of our ride. So if you see this, Karate Woman (forgot your name, I’m afraid), forgive me for not asking you and your daughter to turn around when I snapped this picture. Or course, since you didn’t bring a camera and I did, I suppose any photo is better than no photo at all. Next time you’re in Salem, drop by the Pacific Martial Arts dojo on a training day (Tuesday and Thursday 6 pm, Saturday 10:30 am) and make some new marital arts friends.

Great Camp Sherman “mountain” biking trail

We’re pleased to share with the wired world our favorite “mountain” bike trail ride in Camp Sherman, Oregon (it’s almost totally flat, which is the way we like our “mountain” biking, better termed off-road biking)). Since we haven’t seen this ride described elsewhere, this seems to give us the right to name it.

I briefly considered something close to my heart, like Brian’s Trail, but I’d rather save my fifteen minutes of naming fame for something more dramatic, like a heretofore undiscovered chemical element (Brianhinesium, I like the sound of it.)

So I’m calling this the Camp Sherman Creeks and Coffee Trail. Creeks, because you have to cross several of them, which makes this an ideal summer trail. Coffee, because the trail passes by the Camp Sherman store, which offers lattes and such along with every bit of fly-fishing paraphernalia you could ever want. When we get home I’ll try to remember to make a map, scan it, and add it to this posting. For now, the word map of the trial follows a few photos.

[July 31: Hey, it took me six weeks, but I did it. Here's a map (176 kb) that shows the overall lay of the land for the Creeks to Coffee Trail. Note that you can continue on the Metolius-Windigo Trail for a long ways, probably right up to the Jefferson Wilderness, if you keep going on the M-W Trail rather than turning right down the red dirt road to the Camp Sherman bike path. We've ridden up to First Creek. It's not as pretty as the greener and wetter territory at the start of the Creeks and Coffee trail, and there are more roots and rocks, but still well worth exploring.]

This ride is suitable for all ages and biking skills. The sole near-necessity is someone willing to wear Teva-like sandals or other shoes he or she doesn’t mind getting wet. In our case, that would be me.
(Note: To head off comments on this post from the Bicycle Safety folks, yes, I realize sandals and a cap are not sanctioned biking attire. However, we ride this loop slowly; it is flat; and none of it is ridden on a paved road.)

There are bridges or logs across most of the wet spots, but it is a lot more fun and easier to wade the creeks, bike in hand. Laurel dressed for today’s ride quite differently than I did, just as she often watches TV in sweat pants and a sweatshirt, wrapped up in a blanket, while I’m perfectly comfortable in a t-shirt and shorts. But don’t women have more body fat and deal with cold better? Not in our house, or on our bike rides. Well, vive le difference.

The difference today meant that I got to carry our bikes across the creeks. They’re cold this time of year, yet blessedly narrow.

OK, on to the trail description. First, you have to get to Camp Sherman. I’ll leave that to you to figure out (hint: it’s in central Oregon, near Sisters). There was a big fire in the area last summer. Thankfully, it didn’t get to the Creeks and Coffee Trail, so you’ll have a pristine biking experience.

This being a circle ride, you can start anywhere and come back to where you started. I’ll start from Potlatch Lane, which takes off to the left across from the wooden “Welcome to Camp Sherman” sign on the right side of the road as you approach Camp Sherman (near a speed limit sign with orange markers on it, and pay attention to the limit; there isn’t much crime in Camp Sherman, so Sheriff Dave has time to catch speeders). Another good place to start would be from the Camp Sherman store, where you can rent mountain bikes by the day.

Head down Potlatch Lane, a red dirt road that skirts the edge of the Metolius Meadows development. Keep going past the houses until the road turns to the left. You keep going straight, onto the Metolius Windigo Trail, marked with yellow diamonds on tree trunks (note: when a yellow diamond trail marker is angled, that means the trail takes a turn). The trail is a little hard to see after you leave the dirt road, but just keep going straight and you’ll find it.

Turn right across a creek (this has a bridge), following the markers. Stay to the left at the first trail fork, as the angled marker indicates (the right fork leads into Metolius Meadows). This is a beautiful mostly single-track ride through the woods and across several creeks. If you don’t want to wade, usually you can carry your bike across a log or a bridge, but if you’ve got somebody along who doesn’t mind getting his or her feet wet, that makes the crossings easier.

Eventually the trail will veer off to the right onto single-track. There are some pieces of wood across the double-track to warn you that you should turn if you want to stay on the marked trail. It soon runs into a red dirt road. Turn right (down) the road. On the left side you’ll soon see yellow markers, showing where the Metolius Windigo trail continues on (this is a nice ride also, but not part of the official Creeks and Coffee Trail).

Keep going down the red dirt road, which curves along gently downhill. When you run into the paved main road, cross it and join the gravel Camp Sherman bike path that runs along the side of the paved road. Turn left on the bike path, unless you want to take a detour and visit the Community Hall and fire station visible just down the road to the right.

The bike path winds along and through the woods. Not to grandmother’s house, unless she happens to live in Camp Sherman, but to another paved road and the Camp Sherman church/school. Ride on the shoulder of the paved road for a short distance to the church. Look across the street and you’ll see a trail leading into the woods, which you’ll take. Go straight past a driveway to a cabin bordering the road. Watch out for the wooden jumps put in by some kids (I assume). I get some air on them, but Laurel chickens out and rides past them.

This trail winds through the woods until it reaches a power sub-station, the ugliest thing you’ll see on this ride. Continue past the sub-station to the gravel electrical line access road, and turn right. This takes you a short distance to the end of the bike path, where you’ll turn left and cross a bridge across the Metolius to the Camp Sherman store. Take a break here. Get some coffee, ice cream, Red Bull, whatever. Sit a spell on the benches outside. Soak up the “downtown” Camp Sherman atmosphere.

Then, when the spirit strikes you, get back on your bike and head upstream on the red dirt road that borders the Metolius. It’s a steady slight uphill, about a mile to the end of the road and a bridge. You’ll turn to the right across the bridge onto the Tract C road. Keep to the left past the bridge (road to the right is a dead-end). Now you come to a choice. You can stay on the gravel road all the way to Potlatch Lane, where you started the ride (if that’s where you started, of course).

But we like to take a trail that starts across from the “24” marker a short ways from where the road turns to the left after you cross the bridge. (All the cabins have numbers). Look to the right where you see the “24” marker on the left, and you’ll see the trail going off into the woods. Follow it straight past a butte, and keep going straight as the trail follows along a fence that marks some private property. Eventually you’ll come to the main road and the Camp Sherman gravel bike path. Turn left on the path until you reach Potlatch.

And that’s the Creeks and Coffee Trail! Enjoy. It really is a lot of fun. Takes us about an hour and a half to ride, at our rather leisurely biking pace.

Check back here for the map if I haven’t put it up by the time you read this. I’d advise getting the Imus Geographics “Metolius River Black Butte and Green Ridge” map at the Camp Sherman store (or elsewhere) and study it before you start your ride. I’ll probably use an enlarged portion of this map to make my own trail map when I get back to civilization and a Kinko’s. It’s the best resource for navigating around the Camp Sherman area.

Trying to keep up with the border collie

I have to assume that Laurel is trying to keep our dog up with Rico, the really smart German border collie who knows the names of 200 objects and has language skills comparable to a young child.

Otherwise, why would she suddenly engage in a frenzy of obedience training today with Serena, the most recent (and still very much ringing in my ears) example being a 45-minute walk in the Metolius River countryside punctuated by virtually non-stop calls of “Serena, closer!” “Serena, no!” “Serena, heel!” “Serena, stay!”—depending on what out of control behavior Serena was exhibiting at the moment.

Laurel and I have different dog control standards, which makes me thankful that we’ve never had any children together. I suspect that, if we had, early on I would have been banned from going anywhere alone with the little tyke(s)—unless I was accompanied by a responsible adult, me not falling into that category.

Yesterday we got to Camp Sherman well after sunset, and Serena needed some exercise. I jumped on my mountain bike while Laurel was cleaning up the cabin and rode down a gravel road, then on a trail through the ever-darkening woods, and back on the road to the cabin. Serena ran along happily with me, and sometimes she ran along happily without me. But I always had at least a vague shadowy idea of where the family dog was when she was off checking out a deer or squirrel smell.

“Where did you go?” Laurel asked when I got back. “On a bike ride with Serena,” I replied. “Did you take a leash, a whistle, a flashlight, and her training collar?” “Um, no, I forgot.” I got the Jackie Gleason look I remember so well from the “Honeymooners”: Next time, Brian, you’re going right to the moon! But with no physical clenched fist. Just the mental version.

I probably am too casual with Serena on walks. But we both have been. On walks we’re always amazed to encounter other people who have a dog actually walking along with them. Usually Serena is only in our immediate vicinity during a few nano-seconds when geometric necessity demands that she race by us in the course of the frenzied, manic, “there’s a fresh smell just ahead!” circles she traces around us as we walk placidly along.

Well, not so placidly now, given the near-constant canine control calls Laurel has started to utter. She’s trying to reduce the radius of Serena’s racing from the current fifty yards to a dot in the distance, to what seems to me a wildly unrealistic fifty feet or so. I wish Laurel luck. She’ll need it, because as soon as I take Serena out for a walk by myself, all that training is going to start to unwind.

I figure that since Laurel never had any children of her own, she might as well get a taste of what child-rearing with a husband is like. Ah, I have so many fond memories of coming home from an outing with my daughter and overhearing the conversation in the kitchen as Celeste excitedly told her mother about her day. When I heard “Your father let you do what?! Where is he?!” I knew it was time to get my innocent face on.

Luckily, dogs can’t talk. Even Rico. And if Laurel somehow succeeds in training Serena to communicate what goes on during our man-dog walks together, I’ve got a few chew stick bribes up my sleeve that should quash any tattle-taleing. “Woof! Brian had me on the leash the whole time. He didn’t let me chase anything. Our walk was so boring. Woof! Can I go play now.” Good dog, Serena.

Four hours talking about groundwater

I bet you think that sitting in a Marion County Board of Commissioners meeting room for almost four hours listening to people talk about Sensitive Groundwater Overlay (SGO) zone policies would be boring. Well, if you think this, you’d be absolutely right.

But there we were at 10 a.m. yesterday, Laurel and me, along with a half dozen other Spring Lake Estates residents who wanted to let the Commissioners know what we think about the current loose and lax county system that almost allowed a lot to be partitioned here, and an extra well drilled, when it was proven that this would have led to unsustainable depletion of the groundwater needed by current homes.

Laurel got quoted in an article that was in today’s Statesman-Journal. After the meeting, when I saw the reporter talking to Laurel, naturally I tried to butt in and offer some witty, quotable comments of my own, but unfortunately the reporter could tell the difference between (1) a woman who has led the fight to improve the county SGO ordinance and knows what she is talking about, and (2) a publicity-seeking husband who just wants to get his name in the paper.

Laurel’s testimony was concise, clear, and well prepared, per usual. Mine was much more off-the-cuff, though I did spend five minutes the night before doing a little research on water in one of my science books. I was able to tell the Commissioners that three and a half billion years ago nature provided the Earth with just about all the water we’ll ever have, when the oceans filled to their approximate present level. I also pointed out that humans are about two-thirds water, which makes water pretty darn important for each of us.

Along with almost all of the dozen or so people who testified, I pointed out that groundwater limited areas like ours are presumed to (duh…) have limited groundwater according to the state Water Resources Department. So obviously anyone who wants to partition a lot, drill an extra well, and put even more stress on an over-stressed aquifer should have to jump over an extremely high hurdle.

This also was the Planning Department staff recommendation, and it was the recommendation of Rick Kienle, the hydrogeologist who wrote the famous (in Marion County groundwater circles, at least) “Kienle Report” that formed the scientific basis for the SGO ordinance. So professionals wanted conservative criteria for allowing additional lots in a groundwater limited zone. And the people who live in such an area testified that they wanted the county to set strict standards to protect their current wells and water supply.

So it was obvious what the County Commissioners would do, right? They are all Republicans. They are all avowed conservatives. So they would want to protect the property rights of rural residents who already live in groundwater limited areas, right? They wouldn’t want our wells to go dry just to line the pockets of greedy people who partition a lot, sell their land, and then go live in the city, would they?

Well, this was exactly what Commissioners Sam Brentano and Patty Milne wanted. We hope Marion County rural voters will keep this in mind when they decide whether to elect Brentano to the position he was appointed to some time back. Laurel and I knew that Milne was hopelessly on the side of real estate developers, but Brentano had made some nice-sounding public statements about needing to protect rural residents from the perils of over-development.

We were dismayed to see, though, that when it came time to make a motion on changes to the current ordinance, Brentano was determined to make it as easy as possible for lot partitionings to occur, no matter if people who currently live near that lot have to pay many thousands of dollars to deepen or replace their wells. Milne tagged along with Brentano.

Neither she nor Brentano appeared to have understood the two and a half hours of expert and citizen testimony that they supposedly had been listening to. I suspect they day-dreamed away the time, visualizing all the campaign contributions that would be coming in from real estate developers and well-diggers when they ignored the needs of rural people and voted in favor of as much development in groundwater limited areas as possible.

The whole show was disgusting, once the commissioners closed the public hearing and started debating what to do. The only saving grace was Commissioner Janet Carlson, chair, who has both a good grasp of the issues and compassion for those whose wells are at risk of going dry when too many lots are added to an area that can’t sustain them. Carlson pointed out the obvious flaws in what Brentano and Milne wanted to do, and saved the SGO ordinance from having too much damage inflicted on it.

So we came away pleased that some minor improvements had been approved by the Commissioners, but disappointed that narrow-minded politics and developer ass-kissing on the part of Brentano and Milne prevented the board from doing what so obviously needed to be done. Laurel will be back in a couple of years when the ordinance is revised again. Hopefully Brentano and Milne won’t be around, which will happen if the Marion County voters realize how little they care about the needs of rural residents, and how much they care about real estate developers.

Some religious common sense on C-Span

This is why C-Span is so great, even though it is so boring much of the time. Once in a while I channel-surf through the Dish network news channels, pause on C-Span, and listen to someone making so much sense I want to bottle what he or she is saying and pour it, forcefully if necessary, into every federal and state legislator’s brain. No, why stop there? Into the brain of every person in the United States. Even the world if I could find enough bottles.

Melissa Rogers was testifying today before a Congressional hearing on “Religious Expression in Public Places.” She is an attorney, a Baptist, a Religion and Public Policy Professor at Wake Forest University, and more, I’m sure, besides (including being a good-looking woman and a fine speaker, which helped keep me watching C-Span longer than I had intended.)

One of her main points was that the Constitution and the Supreme Court have hit it just right when it comes to religious expression. We don’t need new laws, she said, what we need is to understand and enforce the laws we already have. People have the individual right to express their religious views and practice whatever religion they want. People also have the collective right to have government not support religion in any fashion, because the support of religion is never in the abstract—it always is the support of some particular religion to the exclusion of others.

When governmental religious support does become abstract, it becomes meaningless, as when a pre-meeting prayer uttered before a public body is stripped of all denominational or religious content. “God, Supreme Being, Ultimate Reality, whatever we wish to call you, we ask for your blessings, if that’s what you give, or your presence, if that’s what you give, or whatever it is you give (if you give anything), which we can’t be sure of, since we can't really claim to know who or what you are.”

So Rogers was crystal clear and emphatic in her call for government to stay out of the sphere of religion. This isn’t a war on religion, she said. Just the opposite. Religion thrives best when it is free of government rules and interference. When people call for government support of religion in this country, what they really mean is support of the Christian religion, and this obviously is a huge Constitutional no-no. So people can’t call for this directly, but the actions of government speak more loudly than words (I think I read recently that no Muslim or Jewish group has received funding from the Office of Faith Based Initiatives).

Rogers had a great response to those who want to subvert the Constitution by having the Ten Commandments and other Christian dogma displayed in courtrooms. She asked how a Christian would feel if he or she went to court and saw Koranic sayings plastered all over the walls, then heard the judge start off the proceedings with an Islamic prayer. “Wouldn’t that make you feel uncomfortable as a Christian? Wouldn’t you wonder if you could get a fair trial?”

It is indeed bizarre that Bush and company want Iraq to be a secular democracy, while they are doing their best to make the United States a religious (Christian) democracy. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. If the Iraqis want to found their constitution on traditional Islamic principles, I don’t see how the Bush administration has any room to complain given their blatant efforts to make Christianity our own state religion.

How Reagan almost broke up our relationship

On Air America today (“the left side of the dial”) I heard the super liberal Randi Rhodes admit that she had voted for Ronald Reagan. “Once,” she said, noting that Reagan was appealing because he was so positive in a time of negativity. This reminded me of how Reagan almost broke up the nascent relationship between Laurel and me.

Nascent, because this was just our second date, so there wouldn’t have been much to break up at that time. But looking back at our fourteen years of marriage, it would have been a shame if a little thing like voting for Ronald Reagan had been a deal-killer at that precarious stage of our getting-to-know-you.

After a rather traditional first dinner date, Laurel suggested that we go to the Salem Art Fair the next weekend. Later she said that this was an indication of how promising she considered me, since her many years of singlehood had taught her that you don’t want to go to a fair with someone you might want to escape from after an hour or so. A restaurant or a coffee house is better suited to a look at your watch and a quick “Oh my gosh look what time it is I’ve got to be going bye” departure.

So there we were in July 1989, walking across the grass of Salem’s Bush Park toward the Art Fair, when somehow we got talking about politics. “Somehow” doesn’t mean accidentally, now that I think about it, because this probably was one of Laurel’s usual sort-the-wheat-from-the-chaff conversation topics with a new guy, she being seriously liberal.

I didn’t know that at the time, though, so rather casually replied, “Oh, I guess I’d call myself a moderate. I’m a registered Independent now.” Now? Laurel’s Man-Jerk sensing antennae start to quiver. “So, have you always been an Independent, or have you been something else?” I hadn’t dated for eighteen years. The italics in Laurel’s question didn’t register with me. Which almost turned me into chaff.

“I was a registered Democrat at one time. I think I even was a Republican at some point.”

Republican!!! An icy chill replaces the summer heat. Laurel stops walking. She spots a picnic table and sits down on the bench. I follow her. Obviously this is serious. I instantly wish that I could have taken back my words and substituted “wife abuser” or “heroin addict” for “Republican,” since Laurel was a social worker and could have forgiven me for moral or psychological lapses—but not for this, for once having been the most despicable form of humanity of all, a Republican.

Then, the big question: “Did you vote for Reagan?” My throat went dry. I had, once. God, there I was, sitting at a picnic table with a beautiful desirable woman—long blonde hair, a cute slim figure, great dresser, intelligent, sensitive, communicative, gainfully employed, childless—and now she was poised to push me off the relationship cliff if I told the truth. Which, of course, I had to do. I’d vowed that after all the half-truths, untruths, and unsaid truths in my first marriage, I was going to let it all hang out from now on. Better to let a relationship go than found it on anything other than what I really am, and was.

“Yes, I did vote for Reagan. Does that bother you?” Oh boy, did it. We spent the next ten minutes deconstructing my Republican past. As I recall, I threw caution to the winds and admitted that I had also belonged to the downtown Salem Rotary Club for several years. A Republican Rotarian. Laurel had to come to terms with this unfamiliar beast before she was going to an art fair with him.

Eventually I reassured her that though I had once been a Reagan-voting Republican, this was an aberration and I had now come to my senses. I could tell that she wasn’t convinced, but she was willing to give me a chance. For the rest of the day I felt like I was being closely watched by the Liberal Cop, who was waiting for evidence that the Conservative Criminal hadn’t really reformed. I sweated the art fair out, and not just because it was mid-July.

The next day I started growing a beard and letting my hair grow longer. Dredged out some tie-dyed shirts from the back of the closet. Hid my Rotary Club directory. Sent away for a “Don’t Hug Your Kid With Nuclear Arms” sticker to put on my BMW car bumper. Decided to hold off on showing Laurel my signed copy of a Reagan-for-Governor program that I got at a campaign rally in California (my mother was active in Republican politics, so I was able to shake Ronnie’s hand and get his autograph). Wisely waited until we were married to let that additional skeleton out of the closet.

Amazing what a big stud can make my wife like

Okay, a potential stud, according to Thoroughbred Times.com. Regardless, Smarty Jones got Laurel to do some things I never believed I’d see her do. Like, ask “Where is the sports page?” this past week and then actually read the section that heretofore had as much interest to her as the classifieds. Also, sit down in front in the TV this afternoon and watch a sporting event, the Belmont Stakes.

Of course, today there is no joy in Hinesville, for Smarty Jones pooped out on the backstretch. But we enjoyed our brief excursion into the land of horseracing, which probably was stimulated by our viewing of “Seabiscuit” not long ago. There are many similarities between Seabiscuit and Smarty Jones. Both horses overcame serious injuries, and the jockeys who rode them overcame serious personal problems.

It probably will be a long time before we watch another horse race. However, I did better realize today why the sport holds such an attraction for so many people. It is elegant. It has an old world charm, what with the buglers dressed in red, much of the (upper class) crowd elegantly attired, the stately deliberateness of the horses being led out to the track, where the favorite is greeted with huge applause and countless “Smarty Jones” signs that, apparently, the holders expect the horse to read.

It was refreshing to watch a big-money sporting event in which the winners and losers depart the playing field with such detached aplomb. No playing to the cameras, no “I won!” flaunting or taunting. I would expect this from the horses, but the jockeys and the owners were equally gracious. The jockey who beat Smarty Jones said that he was a friend of Smarty Jones’ jockey, and almost apologized for dashing the Triple Crown dream. “I had to ride to win,” I remember him saying. “That’s my job.” But you could tell that his victory was bittersweet.

Horses seem to race for the fun of it. Many (or most) of the owners are already so rich, probably this applies to them too. Yes, races are taken seriously. But right after the race Smarty Jones’ people didn’t look nearly as disturbed as one might expect, given the $10 million or so hit to the horse’s value caused by a single length loss in the Belmont. His jockey told the interviewer there wasn’t anything he would have done differently. “We just got beat,” he said. “That’s horse racing.”

I thought the reporter who rode up to Smarty Jones after the race, microphone in hand and antennae-equipped helmet on her head, looked way cool. That has to be a plum job, interviewing jockeys right on the track, sitting on a great-looking horse. I wouldn’t have the first idea what to ask (“Um, did you ever think you might fall off?”), but she could really talk horse-racing talk, which I guess is to be expected.

Why Jesus couldn’t have been married to Mary

Today I experienced within my consciousness one of those supernova bursts of enlightened understanding that dazzle me with my own brilliance (though not, it must be admitted, with my own humility). For I have discovered an unarguable answer to the controversial question posed by Dan Brown in his “Da Vinci Code”: Was Jesus married? Specifically, to Mary Magdalene.

No. This is an impossibility. For in the time Jesus spent on this earthly plane he came to be considered as the perfect Son of God by those who knew him most intimately. Hence, ergo, thusly, Jesus could not have been married, as “perfection” and “husband” are utterly incompatible concepts. Ask any wife.

I rest my iron-clad theological case.

I know whereof I speak, for I am married. And so I have been for nigh unto thirty-two years, adding together marriage to Wife 1 for eighteen years and marriage to Wife 2 for fourteen years (I like to take this additive approach so, eighteen years from now, I can reap all the congratulatory gifts for my Golden Anniversary). Now, I certainly do not claim to be the Son of God, though hidden somewhere under all the cluttered crap that clouds my consciousness, my soul may indeed shine with a spark of the divine.

I can, though, imagine what would happen if I were indeed the Son of God and climbed some Oregon Mount to reveal myself through a revelatory Sermon. I’d have to be careful to leave my wife behind at some shopping mall. Otherwise, as soon as I got rolling on my Son of God riff an all-too-familiar female voice would pop up from the midst of my heretofore adoring crowd: “Divine being? Perfect Lamb of God? Hah! Let me tell you what Brian is really like.”

Laurel would climb up onto the Mount, and I’d slump down the other side, knowing full well before she spake what she would spake of. Now, no doubt Mary Magdalene would have her own unique and culture-specific evidence that, while Jesus may be perfect before God, he damn well was a major-league doofus around the house. But I have learned, from my own experience and countless talks with other married men, that it is indeed not only possible but inescapable for a husband to serve two masters: (1) the second-in-command, Supreme Being, and (2) the head honcho, Wife.

So I’d be powerless to do anything but listen to Laurel itemize my imperfections, some of which I am capable of listing here, others of which would spring from the countless scraps of to-dos kept in her Husband Reform Drawer, only some of which, thankfully, have been communicated to me so far.

“Brothers and sisters, let me tell you about this so-called divine being. He leaves cupboard doors open. All the time. He considers that dish towels are to wipe his strawberry-soaked hands with, not to dry his hands with. He empties the dishwasher once every ten times and wants me to issue a press release about his selflessness. This is the mark of a humble servant of God? He drives way too fast on country roads at night, and with just one hand on the wheel, no matter how many times (and believe me, it has been many) I say, ‘Slow down! You’re going to hit some baby animal!”

And that would just be Laurel’s introductory remarks. Pretty soon she would have the crowd spellbound, my (rapidly evaporating) flock hanging on her every word, the women urging her on with cries of “Tell it like it is, sister. Lord, your man is just like my man. Divine being? Shit. In his dreams.”

No, I can’t picture Jesus being married. Even if Mary kept her mouth shut in public, Jesus would get an earful at home. No way would he be able to convince even himself that he was the Son of God.

This is the way it should be, the way it must be, to end this post on a more serious philosophical note. For I am convinced by the writings of the great mystics that whatever God is, God isn't anything familiar to us now. God isn't matter or energy. God isn't body or mind. God isn't a being or a thing. I share the eminently Greek perspective that the personal is far removed from the universal. To be the One is not to be the one we are now. Here's how Plotinus, the wonderful 3rd century Greek mystic philosopher, puts it:

"There one can see both him [God] and oneself as it is right to see: the self glorified, full of intelligible light--but rather itself pure light--weightless, floating free, having become--but rather, being--a god." So nobody, meaning "no body," can be God. Who is weightless? Not Jesus, and certainly not me. I prove that every time I get on our bathroom scale.

Eccentrics make the world go unround

When you attend a meeting of 500 aspiring mystics of both Eastern and Western persuasions, as I did last weekend, you’re bound to run into some interesting people. But there is “interesting” and there is “eccentric,” the latter being a pearl of greater price. For eccentrics, by definition, make the world go unround. They remind us that neat and tidy isn’t nature’s way. Rivers don’t take a straight course to the sea. Trees sprout branches in every direction.

I’ve had the pleasure of knowing some wonderful eccentrics. Eric was a friend of my youth. A few years older than me, he would ride his bike down the highway and whip it with a riding crop while wearing his authentic white Bengal Lancers helmet with a plume on top. We had great times playing Embassy, dressed up in his astounding collection of British army/navy surplus attire (after the Brits were kicked out of India, it seems that a lot of equipment went on the market in the 1950s). Eric was a true eccentric.

My Uncle Jack played the bagpipes. To people. Also to cows, who would moo in return. And to dogs, who would howl in return. He was a profound practical joker, never growing up even as he grew in years. He was astoundingly direct, even to a fault. Once my mother, Carolyn, and I took a train from California all the way across the country to visit him in Massachusetts. I remember us stepping onto the Boston station platform and hearing Uncle Jack’s effusive greeting in his New England accent: “My god, Carolyn, you’ve gained so much weight!” Uncle Jack was a true eccentric.

After I gave my talk at the Science of the Soul meeting last Sunday, I went backstage and got some congratulations from a few people. One was an English guy a bit older than me who I had corresponded with by email, but had never met. Right away I felt like we had been friends for years, especially after he said, “I liked your talk. You remind me of me.” Exactly.

William Pryor is a writer, an ex-addict, a great-great-grandson of Charles Darwin, a poet, a publisher. And, I could tell instantly, a true eccentric. In the best sense. Meaning, William, like Eric, like Uncle Jack, is absolutely himself. Not someone trying to play the role of an eccentric, or someone trying to not play the role of an eccentric, or someone not trying to not play…(I’m starting to confuse myself). No, an eccentric is so really true to himself or herself there’s no room for the usual interpersonal bullshit that wastes so much time and puts up so many barriers.

Five minutes after I met William, as we were walking along with Laurel to find a place on the lawn to have a chat, I showed him the copy of my book, “Return to the One,” that I had read from during my talk. I said, “Well, I just got this advance copy, so I wanted to use it in speaking about Plotinus, but at least I didn’t use this spiritual setting to overtly plug my own book.” With that, William started slapping me on the shoulder with the book, yelling “No! no! no!” And laughing.

Touché. Yes, he was right. I did indeed have in mind that by being so seemingly humble (not mentioning the title of the book, not holding it up for people to see, not even mentioning that it soon could be bought), this low-key good-karma approach to plugging still would lead to some sales. I liked how William playfully punctured my pretense. Eccentrics make you comfortable with being as imperfect or as perfect as you really are.

Sitting and talking with him was a welcome change of pace from the preachy “thou shalt” tone that pervaded some other messages I encountered during the weekend. Such as the “No cell phones. No cameras. No PDAs. No voice recorders” signs at the doors of the meeting hall. No one could offer a good reason why cell phones couldn’t simply be turned off. Or why photographs of the Science of the Soul facilities couldn’t be taken. It was just a rule. An opportunity for bureaucracy to try to make an eccentric world into a perfect circle. Which can’t happen. Which shouldn’t happen.

One day I left my cell phone in my hip bag instead of leaving it in my car, as the meeting organizers wanted, or checking it before entering the hall, another option. I felt deliciously rebellious. The next day, to avoid falling into a rebellious rut, I left my cell phone in our hotel room. For the first time, when I walked into the hall, an Indian sevadar (volunteer) looked at me and said, “Cell phone? Cell phone?” I replied, absolutely honestly, “No.” I felt deliciously obedient.

William is on a book tour, promoting his “The Survival of the Coolest: An Addiction Memoir.” I’ll let you know how I like the book after I read it. I hugely enjoyed William himself, so I suspect I’m going to also enjoy his writing.