God's Special Place for White People

Many years ago, God took aside a group of 21.388 white people and told them, "I will grant you a place where you can live in peace. It will be your place, where you can pursue the interests and fulfillments native to you. It will be a precious place, with attractive, early 20th-century architecture and unsurpassed natural beauty.

There you will be free to eat baked goods, to buy clothing made of natural fibers, Gore-Tex and polar fleece. And you will drink only the finest beer, brewed on-site and served by cheerful, clear-skinned and straight-haired young women."

In return, the 21,388 white people were asked only to live by a few golden rules. First, they must be cheerful at all times, except when faced with political ideas unlike their own. The young men must grow interesting facial hair, or remain unshaven for several days at a time. They must wear unusual, whimsical wool hats without irony, and in fact must eschew irony of all kinds.

They must don footwear made not of leather but of nylon, rubber and, often, Gore-Tex. And they will ingest only foods and substances designed to leave them "mellow," and "laid-back," and "having no beef with anyone...except that facist Bush."

And occasionally, if a young white person had wanderlust or the need to sow their oats, rumspringa-like, in a large city, that city would be San Francisco, California, Portland, Oregon, or Seattle, Washington. Perhaps Denver, Colorado. But never Los Angeles, California.

And finally, they must agree to be proactive in spreading the message of enlightened whiteness native to them. They must create posters, hold protests and politically conscious events designed to educate the peoples of the world, well, actually, the peoples of the U.S. unfortunate enough to have been brain-washed by unholy forces beyond their control.

The 21,388 white people agreed to God's parameters and were welcomed into their special place. And that place was called Ashland, Oregon.

Occasionally, travelers would stop in Ashland, Oregon, on their way to the larger cities in the North. There they would be welcomed by the denizens of Ashland, Oregon, as long as they did not try to bring their dogs into Ashland's precious coffee shops. If they were to try to do that, they would be shunned by the white people working cheerfully at the coffee shop, even as they tried in vain to argue that the sign outside said not that dogs were not allowed in the coffee shop, only that they must remain on leashes upon entering the coffee shop.

Quickly realizing the futility of their argument, the suede-wearing, ethnic interlopers would then nod sadly and remove their dog to the chill outdoors. They would then tie the dog up to an attractive, circa 1900 park bench placed outside the coffee shop, where the dog would longingly stare through the window as the interloper bought his hot chocolate, doing his dog-like best to ignore the bearded young men smoking hand-rolled cigarettes a few feet away.

Thus put in his place, the interloper would then get a second chance from the very fair white people working at the coffee shop. After patiently waiting his turn behind a very clean-looking young family refilling their stainless steel coffee cups, then shifting from leg to leg and nervously looking out the window at his impatient dog while the young white woman working at the coffee shop discusses local happenings at great leisure with the clean-looking family, the faintly ethnic-looking interloper would politely order his beverage, trying to seem more than interested, no, actually understanding and empathetic as the young white woman explains her sudden bout of deja vu, which has been happening to her more and more lately, and still kind of freaks her out, even though she understands that it is the result of a scientific process, not any kind of mystical reminder of past experiences.

And though the interloper wants only to get his beverage, without whipped cream, and return to his dog outside, he will nod in understanding and offer his own opinion about recurring dreams, never having heard them referred to as "filing systems" nor having the slightest interest in the experiences of other Ashland, Oregon residents whose recurring dreams turned out to be actual foreshadowings of real-life events.

Eventually, the slightly ethnic-looking and normally impatient interloper would be sent on his way, full of understanding that the personal freedom of the other white woman working in the coffee shop required that she add a large pile of whipped cream to his hot chocolate, perhaps because the hot chocolate would be unable to completely express its innate hot chocolateness if it were to be served without whipped cream.

After all, once someone has educated you in the organizational ways of the human brain, who are you to argue that a hot chocolate can be adequate without whipped cream?

It is a type of paradise, and without question the best place to stop overnight on the Bataan death march that is I-5 between San Francisco and Seattle, not depressing like Grants Pass and Roseburg, and full of clean enlightened white people, not dirty enlightened ones like you'll find in Eugene. And consider that while the white populace of Ashland, Oregon may be annoying, they are certainly far less likely to find your wallet and then rush to Stater Brothers to spend $480 than the angry, frustrated residents of Lancaster, California.