Lincoln City

I was lucky enough to meet Lincon City Mayor Lori Hollingsworth at the Oregon Mayor's Association in Salem the other day, but just to keep things on the level we went down to her town for a couple nights just in case anything radical has changed over there.
In 1965 the towns of Cutler City, Delake, Nelscott, Oceanlake, and Taft got together and decided to cause a gigantic summer traffic problem by creating one meandering string of a City called Lincoln, named after a character in the famous David Brin novel "The Postman." Whatever happened to that book, anyway? They should totally make a movie out of it. Known mostly for that gut-wrenching casino breakfast buffet, Lincoln City also supposedly has a kite festival and a "finders keepers" deal where some lucky person hides glass floats on the beach for even luckier people to find and then sell at the shop on the south side of town with the faded sign that says "WE BYE [sic] GLASS FLOATS."

I first began visiting Lincoln City as a 5-year-old, when my parents would take their 2 weeks of vacation a year at the twin pinnacles of 1980s Lincoln City luxury, The Cozy Cove and the Sea Gypsy Motels. My little sister and I would roam around the various motels on the strip stealing the "Do Not Disturb" signs from doorknobs and then proudly displaying them on our own bedroom doorknobs when we got home. I believe people still disturbed us, however, in some sort of full-circle karmic revolution. Those motels still stand today, but I don't stay there for fear that said karmic revolution transcends decades and a maid will see me naked. I want to go through life without a maid seeing me naked. Unless--well, nevermind.
In high school my friends and I would constantly skip out early on Fridays to risk the $50 ticket and camp down where NW 15th Street allows you to drive right on the beach, stealing firewood from rental houses. My friend Tom lost a perfectly good Ford Festiva to an angry sea down there one night, only to have it returned to him the next morning in a slightly more used and barnacle-y condition. I had a first boob-feel down there, but for the life of me I can't remember with whom. Melanie maybe? The only time I ever saw it snowing on the beach was in that town.
That's the thing about Lincoln City, for me: We all have these landmarks in our minds that represent periods in our lives but Lincoln City just seems like a big dry-erase board. You can almost make out what used to be written on it last week, last month, 10 years ago, but not quite because new things have been scrawled over it so many times. Second base and Ford Festivas have had their time and place, but seeing your 22-month old son squeal with delight because he's caught his first hermit crab is indelible.
And yes, I used the word "boob-feel."
Six down, 236 to go. Let's put Lincoln City up on the Big Board!

Oregon Mayors Association

I just got back from the Oregon Senate Library in Salem where--thanks to Mayor White of Depoe Bay--I met about 30 or so Oregon Mayors at the Oregon Mayors Association.  It was like speed dating times a jillion.  It was pretty sweet:  Mayor White walked into the room and asked for everyone's attention, and he got it immediately.  He introduced me to the room and said I was from Newport, which is an easy mistake to make considering I have a beard and I like to fish.  But then someone in the back of the room said, "You mean Woodburn!"  It was Mayor Bain of Newport, who miraculously not only remembered who I was, but where I was from as well.  That moment was pretty special.  In a way, it was like the time I accidentally backed over Paula Abdul in my old '89 Subaru Justy in front of the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles:  Someone of influence knows me now, only this time the police aren't involved.  And Paula Abdul sure as hell never gave me a city pin, so Mayor Bain's one up on her.

Anyway, I'm having a total Oregonasm over the whole trip to Salem so I'll elaborate in future posts.  But seriously, who knew that Mayor Lori Hollingsworth of Lincoln City was such a hottie?

Depoe Bay

If Oregon Mayors were valued as rare baseball trading cards, then I've got a Mickey Mantle in the autograph of Mayor Jim White of Depoe Bay.  Next time you're trying to one-up your friends in a round of Oregon trivia--which I'm sure happens all the time--ask your mates what Oregon city has the only African-American mayor.  I'm pretty sure that no one will guess Depoe Bay.  Weird, huh?  You know what's weirder?  Up until a couple of years ago he wasn't the only African-American mayor in Oregon.  The other city?  Shaniko.  

When I was little we used to go to Depoe Bay every month to visit my Grandparents.  They lived in a little house just above downtown before they moved to a trailer park just down the road in Otis.  They died, as people sometimes do, and their ashes were poured out over the sea right there in Depoe Bay.  As were the ashes of my great uncle and my great aunt and half a dozen other cousins and half-cousins.  This was back before the condo boom of the late nineties and early oughts, so if anyone else from that side of the family dies they're going to have to get the permission of the good people at WorldMark before joining the rest of my dearly departed.  

My fifth favorite movie, One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, was partially filmed here.  I tried scallops here for the first and last time here, at Gracie's Sea Hag.  A seagull pooped on my head in this town during a busy summer day right in front of the Chowder Bowl when I was 17, so I no longer feed seagulls.  The bookstore just south of the bridge used to have boxes upon boxes of vintage Playboy magazines from the 1970s, and they probably still do but I'm too afraid to go in there because one of the bookstore cat that totally dislikes me.  Maybe that cat is dead now. Maybe its ashes are over at the WorldMark.

I called Mayor White from the Newport City Hall.  The receptionist said she'd pass my request along so I figured his autograph would have to wait until the next time.  Sure enough, he called me from his mobile phone 20 minutes later and offered to meet me at the Newport Fred Meyer Starbucks since he happened to be in town.  He was easy to spot because, well, how many African-American ex-Marines are you going to see hanging out in the fake Starbucks in a Fred Meyer in Newport?  Like, zero?  It's zero unless you're meeting the Mayor of Depoe Bay.  I figure he recognized me right away too because, well, how many dudes walk through a fake Starbucks in a Fred Meyer with a gigantic map of Oregon?

Mayor White and I hit it off swimmingly, I think.  We talked about the recent downturn of Oregon's economy, which was a bummer (Sea Hag isn't going anywhere, don't worry).  But then he told me about the Depoe Bay White House which I cannot do justice in retelling here because it's a story that you'll have to hear directly from him.  He was just a cool guy, the kind of guy you'd want to restore an old car with or something.  Or, I don't know, hunt geese with.  Maybe build a pergola.  Something along those lines.  I know this is pretty early on, but he's definitely my favorite Mayor so far.  

Oh yeah.  Apparently there's a Mayor's conference of some sort happening this Wednesday in Salem.  Before we said our goodbyes Mayor White said that if I showed up he'd introduce me to the other attending mayors.  If I can get off work--and learn how to iron a shirt--I am so there.

Five down.  237 to go.

  

Newport

I was lucky enough to walk into Mayor Bill Bain's office at the tail end of some sort of conversation about sports funding. I'm kind of an Oregon nerd so it was hard to pretend I wasn't eavesdropping. By the way, the office manager there at city hall REALLY likes butterflies, but that's probably neither here nor there. Anyway, if anyone reading this wants to totally brighten someone's day, then please send a check for $37 to Newport City Hall and write "one hour of gym rental" or something on the memo line. Kids need to play basketball, right?
Mayor Bain runs an appraising business and was just reelected this past month. He reminds me of my uncle Charlie who started the tradition of the wadded-up wrapping paper fight at Christmas every year at my grandparent's house. You know, the COOL uncle that let you play with his pocket knife when you're nine. It's funny, but I feel like I'm nine every time I meet these mayors.
And Newport, of course, is awesome. Here's a secret for next time you're out that way: When you go to the tidepools at the Yaquina lighthouse, pick up a few of those rocks on Cobblestone Beach and you'll find about eight bazillion purple shore crabs. They're about an inch or so long, and when you put one on the pants of your 21-month old baby, he screams with delight. Ooh! Another secret: When it's 9:15 at night and nothing in the fridge of your rental house looks good, head over to Nana's Irish Pub and get a burger to go with some of those crazy french fries with the ham and bacon and cheese on them. While they're cooking, you can enjoy a Guinness and talk to the probably-don't-need-another-beer fishermen that are heading out the next morning at 5am. And then when you bring said burger and fries back home to your wife, you are the king of everything because the chicken at the co-op costs $17.97 PER POUND (!) and it's vacation time and you don't need to be organic when you're on vacation. Right?
Four down, 238 to go.

Siletz

No trip to the Oregon Coast is complete without a trip to the Siletz Roadhouse. I imagine this place as being one of those places you would go to in the early 1980s and get beat up by either Chuck Norris, Patrick Swayze, or a monkey. Or possibly two of the above at the same time. There's definitely a monkey involved somehow. Up until about a year or so ago, they also brewed Siletz beer here, but they've unfortunately moved to Albany. The pizza here is still ridiculously good here for some incongruous reason, and you can still get a pint of Siletz Spruce Ale for three bucks. Since everything is so non-smoking these days, the wife and I taught little Henry how to hustle pool players on this visit. He made more than enough to pay for our meal in just under twenty minutes by jacking up a kick shot with money in the rack...or something.
I showed up 15 minutes early at City Hall for my appointment with Mayor Leslie Button so I could chat up the secretaries. Mayor Button showed up just after her weekly radio address in a worn pair of double-kneed Carhartts, which is probably the most awesome thing in the universe, ever. I wear Carhartts myself, but I never get to do a weekly radio address. She owns half of a plumbing company, and so the mayorship thing is strictly a volunteer gig. That's what kills me about these people: The selflessness and overwhelming sense of community that these people have is beyond admirable. Whenever I've volunteered to do something, It's usually for something kinda fun like removing ivy from Champoeg State Park or finishing off a keg. I sure as hell have never volunteered for something horrible like overseeing a water bureau. The paperwork alone would depress me beyond belief.
Three down, 239 to go.

Waldport

When Mayor Herman Welch of Waldport returned my email about my little project, he wrote that after he autographed my map, perhaps my family and I should spend some time "visiting some of the funky little shops in the business area" of town. One of the hats you have to wear as mayor of a small town, methinks, is the salesman hat. Mayor Welch has governed Waldport for about 10 years now. He's a soft-spoken guy full of likable verisimilitude--the type of man you'd invite to your wedding. He even came in to City Hall on a holiday to meet me.
Located at the mouth of the Alsea River, Waldport was named after the popular "Where's Waldo" books from the 1980s. I kid. But it did get a fancy new bridge in 1991 that looks suspiciously like the old one. I'm not sure if the original one had four lanes, though. Those four lanes make it easy to just blow through town without stopping, but of course you'd be doing yourself a great disservice if you don't at least stop in at the Sea Dog Bakery for some breakfast or a cinnamon roll. The best time to do this, of course, is on a Monday right around noon. That's when the tsunami warning horn is tested and all the tourists jump out of their seats and start heading for the hills. According to Jim, the owner of the bakery, sometimes the guy that tests the tsunami horn is a little early or a little late to the tower--thereby making the locals a little nervous as well. I'm not sure how one gets to be a tsunami warning horn tester, but I'd love to have that job. Think of the power you would wield over the unsuspecting citizens. While the Mayor was busy with zoning laws and sewer rates, I'd be too hungover to get to the tsunami tower until 1:30, thereby wreaking total havoc upon the good citizens of Waldport.
We took Mayor Welch's advice and checked out Keady Wayside on the south end of town. Little Henry and I dug for clams with our bare hands, but then we remembered that we don't like clams so we reburied what we found. Henry then enthusiastically dove into Alsea Bay but then remembered that it was January on the Oregon Coast so he started crying because, well, he's a baby.
Two down, 240 to go.

Woodburn

It was with very little fanfare that I got my first Oregon mayor to sign our map yesterday. I need to think this through a little better: Perhaps bring a camera or something? Bring a gift? Ask for a gift? Mayor Figley was extremely friendly and a pleasure to meet. She had just finished giving the State of the City address, which I think is pretty cool. She told me that one of the great things about being mayor is that she gets to do fun things like sign maps sometimes. I really appreciated her being the first mayor to sign. It means a lot to me since I grew up there.
True story: In 1994 I actually almost ran for mayor of Woodburn. I got the 20 required signatures and everything, but I forget why I never turned them in. It was either because of college or jail. I kinda get those two things mixed up sometimes. Founded in 1889 by Jesse Settlemier, he had the foresight to locate his town right next to a Wal-Mart. Ninety years later, I moved there and spent a good chunk of the 80s having bad hair. Home to the Woodburn Tulip Festival, Woodburn is a diverse city of Anglos, Hispanics, and Russians. As a child, I learned many curse words in both Russian and Spanish which have served me well.
If you visit, I highly suggest you check out Salvador's Bakery on 1st Street downtown. Sometimes they fire up the tortilla making machine, which I think must be powered by either steam or kerosene or whale oil because it's a messy, loud affair that I could watch for hours. The exact opposite of Woodburn's vibrant downtown is the Woodburn Company Stores, a place I find completely soulless and heartbreaking--although I think Le Creuset is having a sale on cast iron cookware this month. It's like John Cusack said: You can never go home again, but at least you can shop there.
One down, 241 to go.

I love Oregon

I turned 16 in the winter of '91, and on my birthday I convinced my Dad to drive me the 45 minutes north on I-5 to Portland so I could buy a used 1982 Chevy Cavalier. It was charcoal gray with more than a few dents and the interior had been beat up a bit, but it seemed to be firing on at least 3 of the possible 4 cylinders so I coughed up some of my hard earned Dairy Queen money and navigated my way out of the Beaumont neighborhood with the sweet taste of mobile freedom on my taste buds. 15 minutes later, I rear-ended a #9 Tri-Met bus. Probably should've got my license first, I guess.
The day I got the car out of the impound lot (and negotiated a restitution plan with the good people at Tri-Met), my girlfriend and I skipped school, pointed the car in a basic southeasterly direction, and just drove. Drove through Mt. Angel and Silverton and Stayton, past Gates and Detroit and Bend, around Prineville and Post and Paulina, and through Burns and Crane and Rome. We must have listened to that Pixies mixtape a hundred times before stopping to eat at a Basque restaurant in Jordan Valley. I was tasting lamb for the first time in my life when I realized that I loved Oregon, and that I was never going to leave.
Oregon turns 150 this year, and I miss that Pixies mixtape. That girlfriend, not so much.
I'm 33 now. I have an awesome wife with a shock of red hair that can strangle a cat and a 21-month old beh-beh named Henry who told me just this morning that chickens sometimes poop. We are--HOPEFULLY--doing two things this year: Travelling to every city in Oregon to ask the mayor of every city to sign our gigantic map of Oregon, and also totally ripping off that extremely popular "Where the Hell is Matt" video in an Oregon-centric fashion. Here it is in case you haven't seen it:

So the purpose of this blog is to chronicle our journey. It's no Oregon Trail or Lewis and Clark, but it sure beats flying to fricking Sarasota, Florida for a wedding. Sorry Brendan. I'm also hoping this helps to connect with Oregonians around the state that feel like dancing with me in front of, um, let's say the fountain in Lithia Park in Ashland, for example. It should also help me give some background to various mayors around the state when I email them asking for their autograph so they don't think I'm scamming them. I'd hate for Port Orford Mayor John Roorbach to think I'm trying to trick him out of his '04 Chrysler Sebring* or something.
So there it is. I think there are 243 cities in Oregon (I'll get back to you on that one). We have just over 11 months and about $5000 in the savings account. Should be a lot of fun.

*I strongly believe that Mayor Roorbach would look good in a Sebring.