Five years ago, in the midst of one of the craziest real estate booms in the country, Bend slapped a fee on new construction projects to raise money to help create more affordable housing.
The fee, the only one of its kind in Oregon, has been successful in achieving that objective. So far it has generated more than $2.7 million, and it's leveraged many times that amount in federal matching funds.
But the Central Oregon Builders Association has never met a fee it likes, and now that the affordable housing fee is coming up before the city council for renewal, COBA is doing its best to kill it – or at least put it in the intensive care unit.
Source Weekly
If You're Reading This Poop You Didn't Get Raptured
Monday,
May 16
The Impregnator and the Rapinator: Former California Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger reveals he fathered a love child 10 years ago; estranged wife Maria Shriver pleads for “compassion” for herself and children … Ex-International Monetary Fund chief Dominique Strauss-Kahn, accused of raping hotel chambermaid, is picked out of police lineup by alleged victim, undergoes tests for DNA evidence … One out, one in: Donald Trump announces he's bowing out of the presidential race, says he would have won, but “business is my greatest passion, and I am not ready to leave the private sector” … Meanwhile Mitt Romney, at fundraiser in Las Vegas, says he's “activating” his campaign, although he hasn't formally announced yet … Bringing up the rear: Intense interest in Pippa Middleton's ass sparks rise in plastic surgery in Britain as women seek to emulate her “curvy but not too peachy” contours.
Prineville to the Lions
While folks in Bend have been praying for spring, a group of residents in Prineville has been focused intently on another season as of late and it isn't summer. They've been thinking about Christmas, and thinking hard. Some of them have been hitting the streets, gathering signatures in an effort to save Christmas – not from the Grinch, mind you. No it's worse. They're trying to save the holiday from the godless atheists over at the ACLU who would stop the city from erecting a Nativity outside Prineville's town hall.
Dog Gone It!
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For whatever reason, I have encountered many stray dogs since moving to Bend. During the most recent encounter, I waited with the dog for an hour, hoping the owner would come looking. Instead, it was animal control. I could have let the dog go in the parking garage while teenagers raced the Autobahn, but chose to hang out and ensure a safe outcome. Having spent several hours in this situation, with several very sweet dogs, these are my comments:
To the City of Bend,
The $520 fine for a stray dog in the city limits is hyper excessive, especially in these economic times. This will only ensure that owners with limited funding will likely not claim their dogs from the shelter. What is likely to happen is these dogs, most of which have been older dogs, will not get a chance at adoption. Why not a fine and community service combo? Or some other options for those who may not have the funds, but still want their dog back? I fully agree there needs to be a penalty, but $520?!
Overcoming “Illegal”
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A rally was held Monday, May 11, asking public officials to protect the civil rights of undocumented people in Central Oregon. I was there because I have, for 12 years, run a low-income program for children. I started this group when, as a teacher, I became increasingly aware of children living in debilitating poverty.
The neighborhood I work in has changed over the years to one that is now mainly Hispanic. With that change has come growth and awareness on my part of the plight of immigrants who desperately want a better life for their children and are willing to risk and work hard to obtain it. They remind me each day that this is our heritage. This country is, has been, the “promised land” for all of us at one time in our history. Our common humanity, the reality that we are all children of God, with different stories is what motivates me to walk alongside these families in their struggle to survive.
Shimmer and Shine
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Caught in the Crosshairs: Excerpts from Rick Steber's new book about the still-unsolved 1994 murder of cowboy Phil Brooks
Rick Steber, the author of more than 30 books, spent the past 16 years researching and writing this book about the unsolved murder of Phil Brooks, a cowboy who was found shot to death in the desert near Fossil. “I'm going to run with this until there's an answer. This book answers a lot of people's questions,” says Steber. “There were so many rumors and it was my job to sift through all these rumors.”
On the last day of summer a deadly dance unfolds on the sprawling landscape of timbered hills and open sagebrush country that defines Eastern Oregon. A curious cowboy on a green broke horse, cow dog trotting faithfully alongside moves slowly, cautiously, down the spine of a rocky ridge. The cowpoke slips from the saddle, takes the lead rope in one hand and squints through a narrow opening between tightly packed trees and into the swale below. Then he squats on his haunches, takes a can of snuff from his shirt pocket and tucks a fat pinch of brown tobacco under his bottom lip. He replaces the lid, adjusts his hat to shade his eyes from the setting sun, and continues to intently stare downhill; hoping to see what he might see, expecting something to happen, not at all sure what that something might be. The lead rope remains in his right hand, the snuff can in his left. Behind him, the horse blows a soft trill of air out of quivering nostrils and begins to anxiously paw the ground. The dog at his side, alert to danger, cocks an ear and points it down the hill.
Cliff Hanger!
Nothing ever ends as good as it should. Example: my forthcoming death. Now, a person of my prestige should die in a spectacular way – such as being eaten by wolves, or rescuing a basket of kittens from inside an erupting volcano while using an experimental jet pack. Unfortunately, it ain't gonna end this way. Like you, I'll probably meet my fate at the hands of prostate cancer, heart attack, or worse, old age (staring out the window of my rest home, desperately trying to remember the details of my last sponge bath).
Full Steam Ahead to Tofurkytown
Editor's Note: This is the first column from local writer (and former advertising executive turned forestry student) Rachelle Hedges about her experiences as a vegetarian in Bend. It will appear once a month in this space.
I'm not a hippie, or a communist either. I don't belong to PETA. I don't eat “rabbit food” and I don't actually like portabella mushrooms, or eggplant, or any other vegetable commonly used as a meat substitute at weddings, for that matter.
I am, however, a vegetarian.
Now you see why I had to tell you all that other stuff first? Because it could have been really easy for you to get confused.
I've been a “veg” – as my friends like to call this affliction – since I was about 13 years old. No need to get into the nasty details of how it all got started, I'll just say it involved a visit to a distant relative's cattle ranch, a calf named Chucky and some serious emotional scarring. I'll let your imagination do the rest for you – because that's part of the magic of reading, right? It's been 15 meatless years since that moment and I'm still on the veggie train – full steam ahead to Tofurkytown.
Fleet Foxes – Helplessness Blues
While it might be hard for some not to hear the flannel shirts, soy lattes and overall bearded hipster nonsense that's associated with their music, Fleet Foxes aren't exactly poster boys for a new genre and don't even belong in the “indie” realm.
Their 2008 self-titled debut possessed honest four-man folk harmonies and Brian Wilson pop sensibilities. The songs felt strangely out of place in an age of digitized electronic swirls and pulsing beats. Even though folk ideals and guitar strummers with airy vocals have been “it” for sometime now, Fleet Foxes avoids this classification because their sound doesn't hover the corporate folk-rock/casual “indie” scene like Band of Horses or My Morning Jacket. Despite being oddly unique with arrangements that don't sell on paper, Robin Pecknold's ghost-tinged vocals are anything but a tough sell for radio listeners, apprehensive music buyers and Jack Johnson fans.

