Oregon! A place where the gods must have been drunk when they tossed the dice. A state where the mountains are so tall they kiss the sky, and the forests are so thick you could get lost in them for a lifetime. It’s a place where the sun can shine bright one minute and then unleash a torrent of rain in the next… a land of contradictions and extremes.
Picture this: you’re cruising down the Oregon Coast, the breeze cool and fragrant, the Pacific Ocean stretching out before you like a vast, angry beast. You’re surrounded by towering cliffs, sandy beaches, and tide pools teeming with life. But then, like a bolt of lightning from a clear sky, the fog rolls in, thick and heavy, obscuring everything. And just when you think it can’t get any worse, you swear you see a Sasquatch lurking in the shadows. It’s a scene straight out of a nightmare, a testament to the raw, untamed beauty of this place.
Beyond the natural wonders, Oregon is a state of mind. It’s a place where intellectuals and hippies rub shoulders, where the counterculture thrives, and where the pursuit of knowledge is as important as the pursuit of pleasure. From the sprawling campus of Oregon State University to the ivy-covered halls of Lewis & Clark College, Oregon offers a diverse range of educational opportunities.
And let’s not forget about the food. Fresh seafood, local brews, and a thriving culinary scene make Oregon a foodie’s paradise. From the hip restaurants of Portland to the cozy cafes of small-town Oregon, there’s something to satisfy every palate.
But Oregon is not all one love and kumbaya. It’s a place where the cost of living can be as high as the mountains, and where the rain can fall so hard it feels like a biblical flood. And yet, despite its challenges, Oregon remains a place of endless fascination and adventure. It’s a state that will leave you both enchanted and exhausted, but always with a story to tell.
Rollin’ through… An Oregon forest… I swear i heard… A sasquatch chorus… But back to Earth… The Portland gridlock… Take a breath… It’s gonna be a while.
So there we were, adrift in the Chicagoland archipelago, courtesy of Ronnie’s infallible sense of direction (or lack thereof). The Democratic National Convention was in full swing, a throbbing neon beast pulsating in the Windy City’s belly. Visions of ’68 danced in Ronnie’s head – anti-war protestors clashing with Chicago’s finest in a ballet of tear gas and billy clubs. A chance, he thought, to relive a sliver of history, that bygone era immortalized in grainy documentaries,
But alas, the cruel hand of fate, or perhaps… synchronicity, had placed us in Aurora, Illinois. Yes, THAT Aurora (party time… excellent). Here, amidst the beige strip malls and flickering neon signs, Ronnie embarked on a quest for the holy grail of his salad days – Stan Mikita’s Donut Shop, a shrine to the hockey legend and glazed pastries. But like a mirage in the desert, the shop remained stubbornly elusive, a figment of faded memory or perhaps a cruel hoax perpetrated by Saturday Night Live.
Excellent!Stan Mikita NEVER had a shop in Aurora
Undeterred, Ronnie retreated to the air-conditioned sanctuary of the Aurora Public Library, a monument to quiet nerdiness if ever there was one. Here, he became a voyeur to the DNC extravaganza, consuming news reports like a fragrant, steaming bowl of Pho. NPR’s police beat reporter, Martin Kaste, droned on in a podcast, his voice a steady counterpoint to the city’s distant sirens. WGN chimed in with a video report, a kaleidoscope of protestors and fence-busting partisans. In the end, thankfully bloodless. The anti-war protesters did persist, and they made their points, but the event planners and the Chicago authorities were able to keep things from spiraling out of control. Go here for a thoughtful compare/contrast.
Illinois itself, this “Land of Lincoln,” struck a dissonant chord. A state where prestigious universities rub shoulders with wallet-crushing property taxes, where the “Second City’s” sports teams inspire religious devotion amidst a backdrop of political chicanery. The summers, we’re told, are steam baths, the winters cryogenic chambers – a climate that could curdle a monk’s disposition.
Yet, there are glimmers of hope. Starved Rock State Park, a Xanadu of waterfalls and canyons, promise respite from the urban sprawl. The state boasts a pantheon of American icons – Honest Abe Lincoln, of course, but also Carl Sandburg, the bard of Spoon River, and Michelle Obama, a beacon of grace and intelligence. Even Michael Jordan, the basketball demigod (and Bugs Bunny’s unlikely sidekick), hails from these plains.
The engine of Illinois’ economy hums with a complex symphony – finance titans clinking glasses in Chicago’s skyscrapers, factories spew out automobiles and farm machinery, and fields overflow with corn and soybeans, a testament to the state’s agricultural might. And for the working stiffs, Illinois offers a cornucopia of opportunity – a robust job market, a smorgasbord of educational institutions, and a vibrant cultural scene in Chicago (assuming you can stomach the commute).
Anyway, before we peel out of Chicagoland, heading back through Hays on a pilgrimage to Colorado Springs (the final piece of Rocinante’s solar-powered puzzle, don’t ask), two burning questions gnaw at Ronnie’s soul. Did that Stan Mikita donut shop ever exist, or was it a collective fever dream of his generation? And more importantly, would the DNC erupt into the glorious chaos of ’68, fulfilling his dread of a historical reenactment (tear gas and all)?
Bad Day for HippiesDemonstrator faces a row of National Guard soldiers.Chicago shows how to deal with Hippies
After all, “Wayne’s World” was the “American Graffiti” of the 70s, and Ronnie’s dad, a veteran of the Commerce City Police Department, had been sent to Chicago in ’68 for some “Tactics and Control” training dispensed by the Windy City’s finest. In the final frames, will we find history had taught us the right lessons, or are we doomed to repeat the mistakes? And more importantly, can Ronnie score a cruller before we hit the road? Because frankly, at this point, nothing beats a good donut and a hot cuppa joe.
Onward through the fog… R.H.
In Chicago… You got the pizza wars… But don’t forget… The raging culture war… In Aurora… Wayne and Garth don’t care… ‘Long as they can party on.
So, the nightly news is all a-twitter about these “campus crusades,” wouldn’t you know it? Students these days, with their avocado toast and fidget spinners, are apparently throwing tantrums worthy of a cicada party. But fear not, America! We’ve got a crack security team on standby – guys in kevlar looking like they wandered off the set of a bad sci-fi flick. Apparently, pepper spray and zip ties are the new hotness in higher education.
Now, hold on a cotton-pickin’ minute. Back in the good ol’ days, when your grandpappy was dodging tear gas at a draft protest, things were different. It wasn’t a five-second news clip with dramatic music; it was a full-blown morality play beamed into every living room. Walter Cronkite, bless his soul, wasn’t whipping out metaphors about the wrath of God every time a student raised a fist.
But hey, that was then. Nowadays, the media landscape is more fragmented than a dropped kaleidoscope. Every Tom, Dick, and Harriot with a smartphone can be their own goddamn news anchor, spewing out half-truths and conspiracy theories faster than you can say “filter bubble.” Dissent ain’t a unified chorus anymore, it’s a cacophony of angry tweets and pixelated FB livestreams.
Back in the groovy 60s, students had their own media machine – underground newspapers, folk anthems that could launch Viking longboats, and even the occasional documentary that didn’t make the government look like a pack of bumbling buffoons. Nowadays, student activism plays out on TikTok, where teenagers with ironic mustaches film themselves chanting slogans in between dance challenges. Progress, they call it.
But let’s not forget the elephant in the room, shall we? The very foundation of our democracy is about as sturdy as a house of cards built on a sandbar. Politicians sling feces like it’s going out of style, and the concept of compromise has gone the way of the eight-track player. No wonder these kids are restless; they’re inheriting a world where “truth” is a relative term and civility is a forgotten relic.
And then there’s the whole “culture war” nonsense. It’s enough to make a body nostalgic for the good old days when everyone was united against a common enemy – like, say, actual fascism. Now, it’s all about who gets to use which bathroom and who gets offended by what pronoun. The lines are so blurry, Uncle Walter himself would need a double dose of Pepto-Bismol to sort it all out.
So, a word to the wise, folks: sending in the troops to silence dissent is a slippery slope steeper than a greased watermelon. Peaceful protest is the cornerstone of a healthy democracy. Take it away, and you’re left with nothing but a pressure cooker waiting to explode. Let’s not trade the right to disagree for the quiet hum of an authoritarian state. Because trust me, that’s a future that wouldn’t be very “groovy” at all.
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