Nightlife. The Rogue Valley.

It's hard to wrap my brain around these seemingly contradictory ideas. I've been struggling with it since two of my editors pulled me into an office and outlined my mission: Embed yourself in the valley's after-hours scene and report what you find.

And by the way, have fun.

For most people, Southern Oregon culture begins and ends with the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and the Britt Festivals. Oh, and Bruce Campbell might live somewhere near Jacksonville.

This is a problem for those of us who have to live here. When people come to know a place for two high-profile events, they show up with blinders on, catch a few shows, drink some local wine, buy a T-shirt and head back home. The area then caters to these transient culture seekers, leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves in the "off season."

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I hate that term. Off season. It suggests the people who live and work here are Stepford Wives-like robots who are shut down and put away in crates once tourist season ends.

Who knows, it could be true. Maybe all there is to do here is sit in half-empty bars on Thursday night and watch close-captioned SportsCenter on television. God knows, I tend to do a lot of that myself.

But two weeks ago I saw the Bloody Hollies, a hard-charging band out of San Diego via Buffalo, N.Y., do it right at Johnny B's.

I remember thinking, bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon in hand, how disappointing it was that only 15 people showed up for this band. Was there something I was missing on television?

A quick glance at the Monday night line-up answers that question: "Deal or No Deal," "Antique Roadshow" and "Wife Swap." I'll take the rock show.

I'm not a music snob, nor will I (hopefully) be writing only about music. And even though my editors are in love with bringing "young readers" into the newspaper, I don't care who shows up, young or old, for some of the shows or events I'll write about.

Since this new beat is calling for me to spend yet even more time at the bar, I have to ask you guys one huge favor. For humanity's sake.

Enough with the Journey.

I know, I know. The drummer supposedly lives in Ashland and, yes, we are trapped in the Age of Irony and — I admit — hearing the piano intro to "Don't Stop Believing" blast from the house system is kind of funny. At least the first few times.

I'm serious, every time I go out I have to endure a drunken, fist-raising Journey sing-along. Here's the thing: If something depends solely on its ironic value to be funny, the joke wears thin really fast. Watch an episode of "The Surreal Life" if you don't believe me.

It's bad enough that I have to endure the new sports guy's god-awful falsetto renditions of "Don't Stop Believing" five nights a week in the newsroom.

So put it to rest, Rogue Valley. Move on. You're too good for this.

I'm always up for tips, so if you've got something you want to get out there, call or e-mail me.

Reach reporter Chris Conrad at 776-4471, or e-mail cconrad@mailtribune.com.