Meals Without Wheels

My errands yesterday took me to Medford. I used to think of the downtown there as one long car lot, used and new. Now, upon closer inspection, it has changed over time into one long car lot and an expansive community college.

During a stop for lunch I overheard the word "Ashland" and swiveled my head a few degrees to listen in. The topic was, more specifically, about Ashland's Meal Tax, which was politically finessed years ago as a temporary measure. Ha-Ha.

The table, to a person, took umbrage with our long-accepted tax, swearing to never again dine in Ashland. Most seemed to have made the vow years ago.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the Council declined to put a one percent increase on this questionable tax, as it would run on the ballot alongside yet another Youth Activities Levy.

My question is, how did this puppy get extended so easily and why, should we go back to analyze its' implementation, did it ever get into the mix without the exposure of the backbiting tactics employed?

The definition of politics is that if you win, then you were right.

Something terribly has gone wrong, not for the politicians, but for the eager and nervous restaurant owners who put it on the line every day, this to serve us few who still pay trying to ignore how hard the tax drives down total restaurant revenues.

Ask anyone in the restaurant business their opinion. The next time you want to meet friends for dinner in Ashland from the balance of the valley, don't be surprised if they suddenly decide to see to some deferred project.

Why pay 5% more for the Imperial Privileged to drive to Ashland, eventually find a parking space and rub elbows with condescending snobs? Well, this is what our Meals Tax conveys. Wish our elected officials understood this.

Art is the Way

Did the First Friday thing tonight, where Ashland's galleries are open for a wash of enthusiasts to wander, plod, prod and poke their way around this berg most artistic.

Dropped by The Black Sheep, there to marvel at the organic illuminated sculpture of David Gelfand, whose chandelier graces above the bar therein. Droves swarmed in a sheep fest, munching upon the offered delicacies as David's art shone, glowed, throbbed and pulsed as a packed house warmed, then swarmed in appreciation of his organic, humming, vibrant displays.

Weak-kneed wanna-bees stood frozen on the sidewalk below. Devotion and dedication was required to hoist upwards and revel in the midst of David's creations.

Have you yet viewed this most moist hanging?

Thereafter was a jaunt to Judy Howard's den of delight, where visuals are always enticing. Judy defines the artistic level to which we all strive to attain, so the visit only served to remind me that I should drop by with greater frequency, lest I find myself some day, devoid of the still sensitive nature I once possessed, wandering amidst alley dumpsters while wondering what is sacred and what is sacked.