As the fires in San Diego grew over the last few days I kept checking Jason’s blog for news on his house. The way he describes it I figured it was in a remote area, surrounded by highly flammable, woodsy scenery. Today, we get a little peace of mind as he writes that he’s ok (having just flown back from London), his cat is safe and sound, and for now, his home is still sturdy, if a bit ashen.
Since one of the things I have always appreciated about Jason Mraz is just how damn normal amd un-celebrity-like he is, I’m not sure why it tickles me to know that all he wanted out of his house were some Polaroids, surf equipment, and towels, or that he grabbed his little stuffed ducky friend. Probably because if someone gave me ten minutes to fill up my car with essentials, I would also grab my teddy and Spike the Rhino first, then the family photo albums (see how damn cute I was?). But then, who wouldn’t? Forget any of the pricey stuff, I want to save my childhood.
I imagine some people in his position would have called their assistant and had their entire house packed up while they stayed safe and clean in London, waiting for the unpleasantness to pass. They wouldn’t have wanted to get the smoke in their eyes, and the taste of soot in their throats, at least not unless they had photographers following them every step of the way to chronicle the trying ordeal for a full spread in People and a five-minute spot on TMZ.
But as always, Jason sees the big picture, and even keeps his sense of humor in tact:
My mates in London ask me how come I’m not on the list of celebrity evacuees. “I’ll get my publicist right on that.” I deadpan.
(Honestly? I was kind of checking the news for his name too, even though I know our Prophet doesn’t get the same press as Frasier.)