presents the
Ashlandia Gazette
All editorial All social commentary All for the common good
Issue Number 16
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Not so long ago and not so far away, a gala celebration commenced in the sometimes musty, sometimes fusty hamlet of Ashland, Oregon. The purpose was a self-congratulatory, self-interested, self-indulgent tribute to the notion that you can’t fight City Hall.
Au contraire, mon frère.
When you eliminate delusion, deception, and denseness from the picture, it is not the BuBu’s (Bumbling Bureaucrats) of the world who will triumph. Check out history.
It is the will of the citizenry that is sacrosanct. And when given enough time to get the facts straight, that will is highly effective. High five on power to the People!
Alexis de Toqueville once warned of “tyranny of the majority.” Ironically, it was right after he visited Ashland in 2017 and witnessed the results of the Parks & Rec commissioners recall election. He dispatched a postcard to his girlfriend, FiFi, in Paris (rough translation with the mushy parts edited out): “What a wacky town! Quelle tragédie! Five women lost their jobs under false pretenses and the city council worried about the humiliation of the perpetrators! Mon dieu! The subterfuge! The lies! The cruelty! The idiocy! And I thought Louis XVI’s reign was a hot mess! Ashland needs a revolution: liberté, égalité, and non-sexist, non-ageist, non-anything-ist fraternité! Plus a decent restaurant that serves ortolan. Can’t wait to see you…”
As a reporter keeping a watchful eye on Ashland civic functions, I am aware of what de Toqueville speaks. I looked forward to City Hall’s rendition of a victory lap after the November elections. At the invitation-only masquerade ball at the Baloney Bar-n-Grill on the plaza, here’s what went down.
It was a dark and stormy night. How dark was it? You’d have to ask Rich Rosenthal, Ashland’s self-described expert on darkness. (Note: He equates a quest for justice as a dark event. Maybe he should take his blinders off?)
It was cold outside, too. Brrrrr. Ashlanders at home turned their heaters on; then off–trying to stay warm by getting hot under the collar watching their bills skyrocket with each nano-second of electrical use. Conversely, Ashlanders without houses huddled under a streetlight–careful not to snooze and get ticketed by the Ashland Police Department. Or worse, arrested for being black.
But in the spacious Underbelly Room, all was dim and loud and full of grub and grog and song and dance. The attendees–past and present BuBu’s and their special guests–partied like it was 2018–on a budget that had no limits. (Like the golf course operations.) At the trough-shaped buffet table, the most popular dish was the phony-baloney-&-big-cheese platter. It was scarfed down by old-thinking white men and their sycophantic side-kicks.
Costumes were subsidized by taxpayers via a new fee on their utility bills: bee keeping. As in better bee keeping city officials satiated. Or else.
The entrance to the room was guarded by a female Parks & Rec admin assistant dressed as a gargoyle. “No admittance without an invite! No admittance without a costume!” she barked at a group of people. Julie Akins, Julian Bell, and Tonya Graham were turned away when they said they didn’t want to wear a costume and pretend to be someone they weren’t. “We’re not in the business of fooling people,” they said.
To which the gargoyle replied, “You better learn how to play the game if you want to go places in this town.”
I gave my press pass to the gargoyle. She gave me the stink eye. “You need a costume,” she said.
“What’s your name,” I asked, whipping out a tablet and pencil. “Would you like to make a comment on the record about discrimination?”
“Listen, lady. I’m only doing as I’m told no matter how stupid I think it is. Or I’ll lose my job.”
She pointed to a table next to the entrance “These are extra costumes. Take one. You have to disguise yourself. No transparency. That’s the rule at Ashland City Hall.”
I perused the offerings: A dirtbag; a scumbag; a douchebag; a colostomy bag. “Hmmm… how about I wear my handbag?”
“Suit yourself. But you won’t have any fun.”
“Why not?”
“You’re dressed as a woman. And one more thing. You might want to hold your nose.”
“Why? Don’t these people bathe?”
“It goes deeper than that. You’ll see. I mean, smell.”
I arranged my Vera Bradley quilted purse (purchased from Paddington Jewel Box–support local businesses!) on my head. I entered the Underbelly. The air was stale and stinky. No wonder people wore masks. I thought of war correspondents and investigative reporters–what they had to endure to get the story. To get the truth. I had to soldier on.
The room was frosty and poorly lit, but I recognized a few people immediately who were standing in the limelight.
The uncanny resemblance of Mayor BuBu (aka John Stromberg) dressed as King George III was eerie. I overheard him say: “Damn those rebellious revolutionaries! Damn those treacherous traitors! Don’t they understand my absolute authority? I am no elected commander-in-chief! I rule by divine right! God picked me! And to anyone who opposes me: No tea and crumpets for you!”
Then he plopped onto a throne. And took a nap.
Councilperson Rich Rosenthal recreated the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz: To anyone who would listen he said, “You don’t need a brain to tell one Sue Wilson from another. They’re all alike. They’re all women. Which makes them a pain in the ass. They need to go away.”
He continued, “They want collaboration. They want compromise. They want compassion. That doesn’t make sense. One guy runs the show and that’s that! So if I can’t invade Crimea (too far away), let me decimate the Senior Center or anything else I want!”
Councilperson Dennis Slattery, dressed as Santa Claus, joked that his phony bag of presents did not contain fire sprinklers. That line was a crowd-pleaser. “I‘m keeping the riff-raff out of Ashland. It’s what I want. It’s what I believe. It’s what I will do when I am mayor.”
But like your typical politician, he did not know when to quit. He droned on: “I will make sure my wife Sandra retains her job at the Ashland Chamber of Commerce, no matter how ineffective that is. I will pretend to be interested in KAWS (Keeping Ashland Women Safe)–no matter how effective that group is. I will blah blah blah…I hope to blah blah blah, I need your vote blah blah blah…”
I had to shift positions. The smell was overpowering. Not much better at food buffet trough.
Parks & Rec Head Mucky-Muck Michael Black hogged the sushi platter. He slapped the hand away from a party guest reaching for a California roll. “Keep your mitts off my stuff. My resources are my resources. And your resources are my resources. I drive from Grants Pass every day. I deserve more!” Thrusting a spiny lobster into the air, he launched into a tirade (with phony accent): I, Emperor Hirohito, command you pilots to fly over Lithia Park. Find the 100-year-old trees and do your patriotic duty! NOW! Sayonara!”
Similarly, Parks & Rec Junior Mucky-Muck Rachel Dials hogged the dessert tray. As she ate, the elaborate sleeves of her Marie Antoinette dress scraped the whipped cream from a row of pink petit fours. She smeared the frosting onto a piece of pound cake. “Let them eat cake. But not my cake! I love cake! I don’t share with peasants! Or colleagues! Or Seniors!”
Former Councilperson Mike Morris (dressed as a rubber stamp) scolded his wife, Chamber of Commerce executive Cindy Bernard, for writing a letter to the editor supporting his candidacy without mentioning the fact that she was his spouse. “I told you people would think it was deceiving. I told you Ashlanders were smarter than you think. Now look what you’ve done!”
Ms. Bernard smoothed her red Oscar de la Renta gown and fluffed her salon-coiffed hair. “Look what I’ve done? If Ashlanders aren’t as dumb as you say, why did you vote in favor of so many boneheaded motions? Like not balancing the budget? I was only doing what Nancy Reagan would have done for her Ronnie,” she said as she caressed the “Reagan: Hero” button on her dress.
Morris lowered his voice. “I’m not the one who called Interior Secretary Zinke a ‘pompous ass.’ Nancy would have never used that language. You are no Nancy.”
“And you are no Ronnie…”
I scooted away from the skirmish and ran into Huey, Dewey, and Louie. It was hard to tell them apart. They looked alike. Waddled alike. Quacked alike. Due to lack of individuality other than the old-thinking white male thing, I’m guessing they were Parks & Rec Commissioners Jim Lewis, Rick Landt, and Joel Heller.
“We’re bored,” Huey said to Michael Black.
“Yeah, and there are no cute duckies to dance with,” Dewey said.
“And someone ate all the sushi!” Louie said.
“So we’re leaving and going fishing in the Lithia Duck Pond.”
I’m pretty sure Michael Black knows there are no fish in the Lithia Duck Ponds, but he said to the quackers:
“You guys are always full of good ideas! That’s why I support you 100%.”
I thought to myself, he may want to rethink that management decision. Could be costly.
I heard clapping in the corner of the room. A guy attired as a Peace Corps Volunteer played guitar. As he sang the Buffalo Springfield song, “For What It’s Worth,” the small crowd tried to clap to the beat. Without success.
I thought to myself, the singer, Bert Etling (editor of the Daily Tidings) needs a new gig.
When Bert finished the song, Paul Westhelle (Executive Director of Jefferson Public Radio) and a dead-ringer for his idol, Kasey Kasem, whooped and hollered. Although it was Mr. Kasem who sparked Paul’s interest in radio, he never figured out (as Kasey had) that the radio was for and by both boys and girls; men and women; and everyone else. “No shrill voices like Emma’s Revolution will be on our airwaves!” the JPR staff is reported to have said.
I thought to myself, good thing Joan Kroc didn’t live to hear that statement.
Causing a commotion was a pair dressed as Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker. No amount of wigs, make-up, false eyelashes, and false sincerity could adequately disguise Jim and Jackie Bachman (defeated Parks & Rec candidate and defeated councilperson). Their matching silk shirts were embroidered with “PTL” on the front and “Praise the Losers”on the back. With mopey-dopey faces, they lined-danced to “The Beat Goes On.”
“Why did Ashlanders beat up on me?” Jackie asked. “I can google! And just because I two-faced my way onto the City Council, that shouldn’t be a reason to give me the boot.”
Jim danced in a crooked line. “I guess Ashlanders didn’t like our ‘Nepotism is Nifty’ slogan,” he replied. “Or our switcheroo tactics. Or duplicitous nature. But that’s politics! What the heck do Ashlanders know?”
Obviously plenty.
Councilperson Stefi Seffinger sat forlornly by herself. She could not decide if she wanted to go with a Tammy Wynette costume or a bus driver looking to throw women under it. No one was around to tell her how to vote.
A giant Cheeto strutted around the room. It sported an unattractive comb-over and an extra-long neck tie. It wrung its tiny hands and whined, “Boo hoo hoo I have suffered so much for my job. I have been maligned–unjustly or justly. Doesn’t matter. As a result, I have perfected the angry, belligerent, old-thinking, white male persona. In fact, I’m so good at it I get recognized across the country. Who do you think taught the faux-righteous indignation routine to Lindsey Graham, Chuck Grassley, and Judge Kavanawful?”
I couldn’t get close enough–due to the pungent smell–but I think the guy in the Cheeto outfit was Michael Gardiner, another Parks & Rec Commissioner.
He continued, “Male aggression is the natural order of things. If you don’t want to face it in the workplace, don’t get a job!”
City Attorney David Lohman as Krusty the Clown chanted, “If there’s a pest in your nest I’ll remove it with zest.”
I wondered if Lohman knew he was quoting Daffy Duck.
Kelly Madding made a brief appearance as Felix the Cat. She told a co-worker, “Whenever I get in a fix, I reach into my bag of tricks. My newest trick: A campaign called ‘Disengage Ashland.’ Go door to door and tell citizens that their time is too valuable to worry about the goings-on at City Hall. Just let the politicians be politicians! And if we get any feedback, we will of course pretend to be interested. Now, where’s the Kool-Aid?”
Cynthia Rider, the soon-to-be departing Oregon Shakespeare Festival Executive Director schlepped through the room as a Dickensian orphan. She held out a porridge bowl, begging for more money from the City of Ashland. She hoped no one had noticed her poor management style–or reminded her of the disgraceful debacle of the bookstore boycott AND the brutal sexual assault scene from “Timon of Athens” that was presented as comedy. (Editorial Note: Good riddance!)
A super-duper surprise was Congressman Greg Walden (Oregon 2nd Congressional District). He explained his Hoover vacuum cleaner getup: “I like to suck up to people in power–especially those in an oval-shaped office. As far as my constituents go, I tell them all the same ol’ thing. I am working for you. And you don’t really need health insurance, a decent job, veteran benefits, or government programs. Fend for yourself! So far it’s working out.”
Mail Tribune editor and Daily Tidings “Voices” dictator Gary Nelson came as Walden’s chauffeur. Turned out it wasn’t a costume. He was on the Walden payroll–chauffeuring him whenever and wherever he wanted to go. Walden chuckled as Nelson bragged about the photographic hatchet job he did on an article about Jamie McLeod Skinner (Mail Tribune, Sept. 9, 2018). “Did you see the photos of her I picked out to publish? Wooey, not flattering! And one was on the obituary page next to dead people! And the facing page showed a cartoon of Governor Kate Brown sitting with an ugly witch! And did you see the more numerous photos of you I picked out? You looked like an angel on a Hallmark card! And how about the photo of you looking adoringly at Paul “Outdated Demigod” Ryan and Rudy “The Goonie” Giuliani? I made you look like a powerful white guy!”
Walden responded, “Fetch me a wine cooler. The pink kind. Then go wait in the limo.”
Keeping a low profile in the Underbelly, a Rogue Riverboat Captain—Steven Saslow (Owner/Publisher of the Mail Tribune and Daily Tidings)–was asleep at the wheel. I pinned a note to his jacket: “I’m concerned about a free press in Ashland. Call me.”
I am not holding my breath. Even though you really needed to in the Underbelly.
The party dragged on. The stinky smell increased. The gargoyle was correct: I was not having fun. But there was one last person I needed to report on.
Kristin Anderson, Ashland Librarian, identical twin of Sarah Huckabee Sanders, sauntered through the room looking for things to censor. She threw a perfectly-good coconut cream pie into the trash.
Rachel Dials was aghast. “Why did you do that?” she asked, scooping remnants from the receptacle and licking her fingers.
“I ban anything I don’t like. Or the old-thinking white male researcher who works for me,” Kristin said. “I would rather please my curmudgeonly, biased, sexist, hypocritical underling than protect the First Amendment or the integrity of the written word. Why did I become a librarian? So I can inspire young people. For instance, if they’re looking for a cool image or perhaps have body-image issues, my library provides Inked Magazine. There are many role-model photos of shirtless dudes and bikini-clad hotties sporting wall-to-wall tats. It’s a quality publication–well worth the money. Not like that rag the Ashlandia Gazette–which is free.”
Another thought: Never a good idea to piss off a writer with access to the Internet.
BOOM! A haz-mat squad burst through the door. They looked like Ghost Busters from Mars. The commander yelled: “We’re the Environmental Protection Army!”
One of the environmental workers pointed a cannon at the ceiling and shot a billowing cloud of gas. It trickled downward, dissipating onto the attendees. Luckily the gas smelled fragrant. Like fresh air infused with roses.
The commander yelled again, “This room is leaking toxic substances and polluting all of Ashland. It can be lethal if inhaled too long. You must all leave NOW! Party over!”
The crowd groaned. As they filed out, Rachael Dials gathered up the left-overs. Michael Black smuggled out a satchel filled with cracked crab and lobster tails.
On my way out the door I asked the Commander what had caused the toxic air.
He replied, “A virulent patriarchal strain of fermented testosterone.”
“Ewww.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll clean up this mess. No matter how long it takes.”
Outside I breathed a sigh of relief.
**** The End ****
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