Oh the joys of social distancing!

The organic grocery I shop at installed big sneeze guard cages around the checkout counters. They're well constructed, with metal frames around plexiglass panels. Still, it's surreal. The store has a notice on their deli section floor instructing customers to remain outside the taped zone. Today was the first day I wore a mask. I didn't enjoy it much, but I will try to get used to it. My social life, which was already in decline, is nonexistent.

There came a point, not that long ago, when Covid-19 became more than just a subject of mockery, and was termed a pandemic. In the beginning, not quite two months ago, very few people took it seriously. Then they did. Literally, it was a matter of days when the virus dominated the news. Toilet paper disappeared from grocery stores. People fought over it. Why toilet paper? Why did shoppers leave entire aisles of water, juice, and citrus fruits untouched?

There were many rumors flying around the Census office. A woman said she thought it was a deliberate act of terrorism by the Chinese. Then the lockdowns began. Italy was the first country. Others followed. International flights were cancelled. San Francisco was locked down, and then all of California. Schools, libraries, restaurants, a host of various businesses were closed. Boeing temporarily closed, with no date set for a reopening. On the news last night, it was reported 30,000 Boeing employees are now laid off.

I have worked at a Census office since the first of the year. As the weeks progressed I noticed more of my coworkers coughing and sneezing. At least four Census field supervisors, and several enumerators resigned. Every Friday we had a group meeting, and the head honcho at first said the Coronavirus was nothing to worry about. In two weeks he said the opposite. We began wiping down everything: phones, keyboards, headsets, doorknobs. The handwriting on the wall; I knew it was a matter of a week or two and we'd all be sent home. My conversations with people I was hiring as enumerators followed a certain thread. People were progressively getting less interested in working for the 2020 Census, in any capacity. Staff were resigning. The places I'd booked for training enumerators began bowing out. Finally, three weeks ago, we were all sent home. Our weekly pay continues.

The post office by me has a long "shower curtain" between postal workers and customers. One of the clerks, who knows me by name, gave me a mask today. I just tried it out. I don't like it much, but maybe it will keep me safe. There is a lot of pollen in the air, so perhaps that's a reason to wear it. The Coronavirus is most likely going to be with us until June, maybe longer. Some suggest the onset of summer may stop the virus, or at least slow it down, because the virus doesn't do well in warm, humid conditions. Here's an article about the Coronavirus/Covid-19 with virologist David Ho:
https://www.caltech.edu/about/news/tip-iceberg-virologist-david-ho-bs-74-speaks-about-covid-19

There is good news amidst all the bad news. Once a person recovers from Covid-19 they are unlikely to be reinfected. Studies have shown that a vaccine for Covid-19 might happen sooner than later. The aforementioned article mentions a fifteen minute test was developed for the HIV-AIDS test. According to the latest news, a test for Covid-19 might provide results in five minutes. An actual vaccine probably won't be approved until next year.

During the plague (and there were at least four that hit Europe), two thirds of the people were immune and survived. Ninety-five percent of the people exposed to the Coronavirus recover. But that still amounts to an estimated 2.2 million people in the United States dying from the virus.

I've bought a bottle of organic merlot wine to celebrate the end of the Covid-19 this year. I may have to drink it alone. A friend in Australia, which is about to experience the troubles of the northern hemisphere, as they enter the winter months (and we the summer months), suggested we toast in a Skype conversation. It's still too early to celebrate. That celebration might not even happen this year. It's a gloomy, but realistic thought.


I'd planned on going to do some work on my land in southwest Utah, and felt bad I'd put it off last summer. I have to get out of this city. Living on my land is about the safest place I can be right now. It's off the grid, and six miles from a small store.

I've put off buying solar panels and materials for a small shack on my land. I don't like being cautious, but everyone says now is the time for caution. Many people in the Pacific Northwest have wanted a zombie apocalypse. Well, now we may have one, and the aliens will probably not show up to save us.

We're on our own in this part of the Milky Way. I'm going to try to get plenty of sleep, eat lots of chicken soup, and keep enough supplies handy to make it through this. In the grocery today I saw a woman whose cart was packed to the gills. She had ten cartons of eggs. Maybe she's going to bake a lot of cakes. Maybe she's an optimist, and expects this thing to blow over pretty soon. I hope she's right. If not, please keep six feet away from me. I need my space.

The holidays are over. I already miss 2019 as much as I missed the previous years. Where do the years go to, friend? One day you look in the mirror and you're old. I watch a lot of movies to help me assuage the passage of time. I think it might help me become a better storyteller. If nothing else, it provides me with lively party banter. And there is one more party left this year. New Year's Eve will arrive whether you want it to or not. It sort of makes me envious of people in insane asylums who are stuck in time. 

But let's talk about stories. They seem to happen to me all the time. I thought if I stayed indoors I'd be safe, but stories afflict me like a glass of absinthe in a Paris cafe. Why do I mention Paris? Well, I'm doing what most people rarely do: I'm adapting a screenplay into a novel. Why isn't this a good idea? Because screenplays typically are 100 to120 pages in length. Try selling a novel that's under 200 pages to a publisher. It's not easy. I'm on page 176, with three pages left in my screenplay. Should I hang out and ask random strangers about their misadventures in Paris? No, I know what I must do. I must extrapolate. This is a fun word that means go off on tangents that run on forever. Like two hundred pages more than they should. This technique is a useful one when a writer is bored, and is being paid by the word.

Recently I was invited to a party. It was slated to be a lesbian Buddhist party. It felt a lot like the tea party in Alice in Wonderland, with too many old Alices. I took two stories with me. I should have taken my guitar and sung a few songs; maybe Shallow by Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper. It was sort of interesting. But bringing the stories was a mistake. There are few things straight writers can write that won't offend militant lesbians. So I offended the host, who touts herself as an old crone dike. Another straight woman there, (or maybe she's bisexual), read my story, How Does That Make You Feel? and said it was a stream of consciousness. She's a hack writer who left her husband for some guy from South Africa, and espouses to be part of a coven. I haven't talked to her about her new religion. Witches aren't my thing. This woman's poems have to do with feminist concepts that never seem to go away in Seattle, decorated with lots of profanity. Man Hating is a popular theme. The host objected to my How Does That Make You Feel? story because I'd had the audacity to go inside the head of a woman who was questioning whether she was a lesbian. My protagonist's head wasn't the only head I'd pried open in the story. I pried everyone's head open. The story is from the third person omniscient, in the Vonnegut tradition. I thought writers are free to write from any point of view, human or inhuman. I thought this was America where we're all free to fly our freak flags.

A RECENT SHORT STORY PUBLISHED BY RED FEZ.

The publisher of a recent story, Somnambulist in Love, was supposed to give me X hours to do edits. 

Nope. They published it with few modifications. Let me give you a summary: A sleepwalker in San Francisco is torn between two women. Until recently, he didn't know he was a sleepwalker (a somnambulist). It's laced with comedy, as most of my writings are.

https://www.redfez.net/fiction/sleeplessness-somnambulist-in-love-972

One of the rich ladies he's involved with has paid for the best neurologist-psychiatrist in S.F. The man must make a choice about being with Lydia or with Nancy. Or make no choice at all, and continue living a lie. It is comedic, but I'm sure it will offend someone. There is no escaping offending someone. But if they keep turning the pages and read until the end, how bad can the story be? I used to be a sleepwalker. I wouldn't know about it except my mother told me of my shenanigans. Undoubtedly she didn't witness all of them. This went on from age five to age eight. It might still be going on. Or maybe I just became an insomniac as I got older. Who knows? My son suggested I dust the floor by my bed with flour and check for footprints in the morning. That won't work because I am up and down all night. I'm doomed. All writers with active minds are doomed.

There are many reasons why people lose their minds. One of them is due to applying for jobs.

Let's say I've dipped my toes in some strange swimming pools. If there were wrecking yards for jobs, I've found them. But wait, let me back up here. Most people are not creative. They are seemingly content to do ordinary, rather boring work their entire lives. The jobs make them feel secure. Most of these jobs are very low wage positions. The scariest ones pay huge salaries. The same effort is put into applying for most jobs unless your boss is a relative. The employers of generic jobs want people who will stick around. Forever. Thus, they take one look at my resume and say to themselves, 'This guy is way too creative. He might have ideas about our business. We know what we're doing; we don't need trouble-makers.' Why do I even bring this up? Because somebody needs me; somewhere in the world. Right now, even as this blog is read, by you or people like you, some overworked HR Director is sweating profusely, overwhelmed by the process of saying yes to some and no to others. They are weary of playing God. They have mortgages, and other financial obligations.

Even God is weary of playing God. If you want to pity someone, pity God, who has the worst job in the known and unknown universe. Nobody wants God's job. But I digress. We are not god-like beings, and Lord knows, HR Directors are not perfect human beings. No one is having a perfect, wonderful life on Planet Earth. You are not alone. Follow the light. No, not that light, the other light. There. Let me tell you about my recent misadventures in Job-Land. Not long after arriving in this town, slightly north of Seattle, I began a creative flurry of writing. My plan was to sell one of my screenplays, write new ones, do big paintings, talk a publisher into publishing my novels and short stories, play my guitars, eat good food, shower regularly, maybe hit a few tennis balls, wear clean clothes and good shoes, fall in love, raise a family, and retire in Key West or Santa Barbara. The raising a family part is a fib. I've already raised two children. They graduated colleges, got married, and moved far away. My ex-wife has moved on to other married men. No, I only fantasize about starting a new family. Fantasizing is what writers do. We invent other realities.

The most recent ludicrous job I've applied to is with the Census Bureau. I thought it would be a plausible way to get through the winter. But the government and I will never have a close friendship. I have tried. We dated a bit, and the chemistry wasn't there, so I told the government not to friend me on Facebook or other social media. They texted me day and night. I had to block them. No. Can you spell convoluted? That's the process of applying for government jobs. First, they skewer you, then they slather on the barbecue sauce. Then, just as you are led to believe the job is yours they forget you've applied. Because I write comedies, this should have made me smile. Probably if I ate green cookies everything could be a comedy. But who gets anything done while they're high? Answer: Most of the people in Seattle. Listen: The Census Bureau is run by numbskulls. The Three Stooges were rocket scientists compared to this wing of the Federal Government. The Census Bureau HR people directed me thusly, via a weird phone calls and equally weird emails:

1. What is your name? No, your full name. Huh, that's a funny middle name. Is it your real name?
2. What is your social security number? No, I'm sorry, that's doesn't agree with our records.
3. Yes, that about does it. We'll send an email confirmation, so you can go online and fill in our form. You say you've already filled in the form and submitted it? Sorry, we can't find it. Try again.
4. Upon receipt of the completed form, we will run a background check. We're sorry, you don't exist.
5. We received your application. Great! Now you'll need to go to a MacDonald's at the corner of Third and Furniture, to be fingerprinted. Yes, by the Big Mac machine. We're not sure of the address.
6. Please don't ask me any questions. Just fill out the dang form. I'm a volunteer, okay? Jeez.
7. We're sorry, if you don't return the form within the next week we'll shred your application.
8. Welcome aboard! We're so pleased you're a patriotic American. This census only happens once every ten years! We will carve your name on the trunk of a tree somewhere. Congratulations!
9. What is your name? No, your full name? What's your favorite color? What sign are you?
10. We checked your fingerprints and don't believe you're part of the human race. Goodbye.

I swear, it's a true story. Madness is the norm in the world. Meanwhile, I have begun looking for another part-time or possibly full time job. Possibly teaching English in Siberia or North Korea is for me. If there is no comedy involved, I don't want to waste my time or your time. I will bring my own straitjacket. And my own fingerprints, or someone's fingerprints. And how many people are living in this household? Uh-huh. And, where do all fifty of you sleep? Ah, I see. Is there someone else here I can talk to who speaks English? Are the other people living in this household invisible? I see. You're all fifty of those people? Okay then. Good day to you sir, and madam.

The Accidental Hero

The smile means I found tennis courts near my place.

I have made it my practice, since arriving in the Seattle area, to take walks as a way to clear my mind from having too many ideas, and as an aid to understanding humanity. It also help me write effective dialogue. Human beings are like an ever changing amusement park venue. If you pay attention you will be astounded.

These walks, regardless of the weather, have become an essential daily routine. Because I inevitably end up interacting with people it feeds my idea factory. But things in the real world, unlike things in the world of imagination are out of my control. Exhibit A: Two days ago, after discovering that Spring had sprung without the bone chilling wind I've gotten accustomed to, I ended up making a two mile walk. On the return leg I stopped at Goodwill, a place I've found to be a good cross section of America. Within thirty seconds of entering Goodwill I was drawn into one of those uncontrollable dramas real life throws at us. An agitated thirty-something year old Hispanic woman came in right after me and pleaded for someone to do something about a child that had been left in a car, in the Goodwill parking lot. The nearest clerk, Pamela, threw up her hands and begged me to confirm what the woman was saying. I felt like Dustin Hoffman in Accidental Hero https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uOA5UzlIwZM

The Hispanic woman led me to the parking lot and pointed to a car parked at the end of a row of cars, and said, "It's that silver white one down there." I assumed the woman would accompany me to the car, but when I turned to ask her questions off the top of my head, such as: 1. How is it she saw the baby in the car? 2. Her name. 3. What she thought about Trump's wall.  4. Whether the cold wind ever completely stops blowing around here.  5. If she'd ever seen the movie, Accidental Hero. But alas, the woman had disappeared. It was a Las Vegas magic act that would never be booked.

I've seen this sort of thing before. I call them angels. More than once I've met people who looked like human beings who vanished without a trace. If you live you life with this understanding, things often are miraculous and laden with humor. You only have to stop and pay attention. I was paying attention at that moment. I walked like Clint Eastwood to the car, which turned out to be a late model silver Mercedes-Benz. The first thing I noticed was all the windows of the car were rolled halfway down. And, sure enough, true to the testimony of the Hispanic angel lady, a little girl who appeared to be about two years old, was fast asleep in a carseat, in the back seat. Beside the sleeping girl, squatted down on the floor, and wedged beside the door, was a girl I estimated to be about four years old. Her black eyes were gigantic owing to the glasses she wore that indicated extreme farsightedness. Those eyes told me everything, and what they were telling me then was she was scared to death, and maybe not just because a stranger was staring at her. Maybe, even at her young age she realized it was wrong for two children to be left in a car in a parking lot regularly traversed by drug addicts and drunkards. I immediately turned and began to walk swiftly to the Goodwill entrance to have someone phone the police. Normally I carry my iPhone with me, but not that day. As I walked a slow moving low rider appeared and cruised past me, its open windows blasting rap music. It slowly passed the Mercedes, and it was obvious that anyone could abduct the children in under a minute, including the lovers of rap music who just passed me at one mile an hour.

Ten seconds later I was asking Pamela, or the other clerk I know there, Linda, if they could please phone the police. They were both busy. Too busy to save two endangered children? Maybe. But my serious tone prompted Linda to phone her manager, whose name is Sheila. I expected the manager to come flying out of her office, maybe on an electric bike or golf cart, and save the day. I was soon disappointed. I was still playing the role of Dustin Hoffman in the film, Accidental Hero.

Sheila moved at under one mile an hour. I was jabbering about the situation, but Sheila was apparently due for an operation to implant a heart, and probably overdue for the drug that made Scarlett Johansson so smart in the film, Lucy. Sheila's brain was operating on less than ten percent of its capacity. Five minutes later we arrived near the Mercedes. Sheila stopped to help a young athletic looking couple donate two cardboard boxes that weighed about five pounds each. At this point I wanted to know if I could be caught if I verbally assaulted a lethargic Goodwill manager. Then we were went to the car. I asked Sheila if she'd brought her cell phone, and if she had a piece of paper for me to write down the license plate number. My back to back questions made logical sense but in Sheila's world they were like people trying to understand Sheldon Cooper explaining Shrodinger's Cat  in The Big Bang Theory. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LFBrRKnJMq4

So I memorized the license plate and we returned to the store. I borrowed note paper from Linda, and wrote the license plate down. I was pretty sure Sheila had no interest in doing anything, since she immediately went in her office and bolted the door. I was by this time worried about the children, so I went out to the parking lot again. Two Hispanic women walked past and went to the car. One was about thirty, and the other about fifty years of age. They got in the car and off they went. Had I been fluent in Spanish (I'd heard them speaking) I'd theoretically been able to detain them. Maybe I would have asked to use their cell phone to report child endangerment. But instead, I threw up my hands and walked home. As soon as I arrived I phoned the police. I soon found myself speaking to another apathetic person. The policeman said something akin to they received innumerable phone calls and they couldn't be bothered with saving two children left unattended, nay - abandoned in a car,(in any parking lot in the city.) I had by that time given the policeman the license plate number. I asked, "Um, okay. Well, couldn't you find the address of the two women from the Mercedes. The 1. Kidnappers. 2. The negligent mother and grandmother. He said, apathetically, he supposed someone could. How about you? I asked. He replied it was possible.

Not satisfied by the apathy of all concerned I sat down and wrote a logical, non-accusatory letter to the Chief of Police. At the top was a license plate icon and model of the car I'd found in less than fifteen seconds after I hung up from speaking with the policeman. I tucked the two page letter in an envelope and walked the two blocks to the police station (yes, I'd mentioned the incident happened two blocks from the police station).

What am I to make of this experience? Well, for one, human beings generally don't make time to deal with emergencies unless they have to. I was the Accidental Hero, the one the universe decided was the man for the job. It's not easy being a hero. But somebody needs to be in this crazy messed up world.

My European vacation

Denmark was the best part of my trip to Europe, which I took between September and October of 2016. It seemed so familiar, and reminded me of western Oregon (where I lived for many years).

Rather than tell every aspect, I am going to share the links to my time in Europe. It's easier, and frankly, I have lost some of my ambition in regards to this blog.

So here we go.

The first leg of the trip was spent in southwest England. Here is a photo of me at Stonehenge.  It was cold, wet, and touristy. Not my cup of tea. Probably if I'd had time I would have explored the countryside.

After Stonehenge, I drove west and ended up in the Cornwall area. I enjoyed Bath, and Falmouth.
Saw an awful fight in the street on a Sunday morning in Glastonbury. One ragged lanky homeless man against a drunk older man, brought on by an older woman arguing with the lanky homeless man. It may have been his mother for all I know. The older man was too wasted to fight anyone, but he started it, and subsequently had a chair smashed over his head. This happened right after I stepped out of one of the crystal shops in the town. Note to self: Never go back there. The only good thing about that city was the tower on the hill.

The big surprise was there is a tropical part of England where young people go surfing. I did not
expect that.  They even have surfing championships. I bought half wetsuit in Falmouth. Never used it since. https://vimeo.com/150915476  Here is more:  https://vimeo.com/145649102

I flew from London to Copenhagen, and continued on to the small city of Aalborg, and spent the night at the Hotel Jomfru Ane, which has the steepest entrance steps I've experienced. Quite a workout to pull two suitcases up fifty stairs! The following morning I drove to Hjorring, which is about fifty miles from Aalborg.

But watch the video.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-QqbKQ8mmy0

There were many things I liked about Denmark. I had a nice room in downtown at the Det Bette Hotel in Hjorring. The breakfasts were heavy on processed meats and cheese, but I didn't complain.


Hjorring has wonderful public art, and numerous
galleries. The downtown is a wide cobbled boulevard for walkers and shoppers. Many people rode bicycles. It was a surprisingly urban
chic town considering its population is only
about 30,000.

From Hjorring I drove to every town to the east, west, and north. I accidentally almost drove onto a ferry that was headed to Norway. Oops.

The Danish countryside was my favorite
aspects of Denmark. I visited two archival offices to locate Klitladen (which means, 'Dune
Farm') but they were unable to help me. I did
come close though. I found a Mortensen construction firm in Lokken, and a family gravesite in Instrup, at a Lutheran church which was built in 1475.

From Denmark I flew to Paris, to see my daughter and her French husband. It was raining in Paris (often) and I didn't find it all that romantic because I didn't bring my umbrella.
I will close this blog post with a link to my time
in Paris. I will tell you the best non-touristy thing that happened was when I went in an optical shop and asked in bad French if the woman could put a nosepiece on my glasses. She put on
two nosepieces for free, and would not accept payment, so I went across the street and bought her a bouquet of stargazer lilies. She talked way too fast for me to understand her. I think I made her day.
Here is a link to my gallery trips in Paris.    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ybOxdHK6P0A

What to do when someone gives you land in Utah.

Southwest Utah is a long ways from L.A. It's a long ways from traffic jams, and stress. A visit to Cedar City is like going back in time to a time in America where the crime rate was low and there was no internet or terrorists.

I've returned to this blog after a long hiatus. My friend in England often uses the word 'faffing' to describe wasting the day away, but my hiatus is not due to faffing. I have simply been busy creating promotions for two clients: American Happenings, and America's Mock Election.

You can view a fund drive video for AME, here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L9wjf54XlAc  America's Mock Election is owned by American Happenings, Inc., and has as it's mission to inspire and engage young people to vote. One of the projects (part of the release of a newly mastered film on Blu-ray - "The Giant of Thunder Mountain." View a trailer I created, here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G2BIKjb5lJE

Since agreeing to move to Orange County, California - to work for American Happenings - I have been using all my free time writing video scripts, and feature screenplays. The results of my efforts has been to have placed in four screenplay contests in 2015 and 2016.

I wasn't supposed to be here this long. My contract was only for three months, but it was extended several times by John Herklotz, the CEO of American Happenings. He even went so far as to give me land in Utah, as a show of his appreciation.

I have just returned from a trip to Cedar City, Utah, which is the closest city to the eighty acres I was given. The story behind the gift from Herklotz is that it had been in limbo for about twenty years, after the death of Herklotz's wife, Dale Melbourne - an Australian actress who was a member of many musicals from the 1950s to the early 1970s. Melbourne bought the land in 1972, while married to another man (who died in the early 1980s). Herklotz had never seen the land, and had only vague ideas about what was on the land. So I set off with grandiose ideas about what I would find.

Rather than describe my trip in detail, it would be much easier for readers to simply watch the video I made and uploaded a couple of days ago (to YouTube). http://denismortenson.blogspot.com/

To get to Cedar City, Utah - from Orange County, CA - follow Hwy. 5 north towards L.A. With little effort you'll be able to connect to Hwy. 15 north, which passes through Las Vegas. The traffic was horrendous when I arrived in Vegas. Thus I noticed the landmarks, including Caesar's Palace, and Trump Tower (Trump Tower is hard to miss because it has 'Trump' emblazoned on the top of it.) This is all on the video. https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=21&v=TLe9vHEhHUo

Now, when you are gifted eighty acres in place you've never been, a natural thing is to research the area. I learned, for example, that Cedar City is known as 'Festival City.' Some of the accolade is due to its Shakespearean theaters, (Utah Shakespeare Festival) which are located on the campus of Southern Utah University.  http://www.bard.org

Cedar City is the ideal location for lovers of
Shakespeare, and also outdoor recreation, 
with several nearby national parks. While I was there I noticed a lot of people jogging, which is a good indicator of the lifestyle of citizens of this artsy, charming city. And to my mind it outshines nearby St. George for scenic views. https://utah.com/cedar-city  

To hiking, paddle boarding, kayaking, rock climbing, and winter sports enthusiasts - Cedar City is Heaven. The annual Outdoor Nation competition, which seeks to award universities across the nation who have the most students and community members involved in outdoor activities - chose Southern Utah University in 2015. http://www.ksl.com/?sid=37046884&nid=1288

But back to the land I was given. It was bone dry, but nearby farmswere green and lush with crops and sizable trees. Water is what is termed 'problematic' in Iron County, and Utah in general. Utah is the second most dry state, behind Nevada. In a good year, the area gets fifteen inches of rain, and most of that is in the form of snow. After all, the average elevation is 5,000 feet.

My land is at 5,163 feet. It had not been surveyed thoroughly since 1910. I found a surveyor via the Iron County Recorder's Office in Cedar City, who recommended Doug Grimshaw. He is a tall, lanky man - a few years away from retirement. He brought along a red haired teenager named Max, and we made good progress locating the original 'monuments' from the 1910 survey, which consists of metal pipe with a metal cap emblazoned with a date and other government survey information. Our efforts were delayed by forty minutes from having gotten stuck in a long, narrow sand dune that runs north and south on the property. I got a workout retrieving and breaking off limbs of dead sage to wedge behind the tires, (once the sand was cleared by shoveling).



I confess I have aspirations to be a part-time beekeeper. It's possible on my land, but first I will have to pay for a well, and obtain water rights. The total of these two things could be as high as $30,000 or as low as $20,000. In other words, it's not going to be cheap. But with water, my land can become as green as neighboring properties. My idea is to try removing twenty acres of sage and rabbitbrush and plant wildflowers for my bees. To help me visualize this dream, I used my Photoshop skills. It helps to visualize your dreams. Here is mine.


Scaling down my grand plan, I could possibly put up an artist's studio, run by a couple of solar panels. Then at least I'd have a place to use when I visited the land, and with the solar panels I would have electricity for lights and a small refrigerator. But for now, it's all up in the air. I have had two offers for the land. One real estate agent from Coldwell Banker sent a fax stating he could sell it and fetch $51,000. Anything over one dollar is profit, because I got the land for nothing.

Lumbersexuals: A Phony Throwback To The Ice Age.

Dan Haggerty as "Grizzly Adams." The real deal.

Most of my brothers and I looked like “lumbersexuals” at one time or another. We all grew beards, cut down trees, planted trees, sawed or chopped cords of wood, wore flannel shirts, and occasionally wore logger suspenders. We aspired to look like Dan Haggerty (Grizzly Adams), but none of us had full beards. One of us actually was a logger, (he was a manager for a logging company). Then the 80s and 90s came along and most of my brothers and myself morphed into clean-cut metrosexuals. We stayed metrosexuals for the next thirty-five years, and wore Jerry Garcia ties to work. Sometimes we regressed and grew beards, but the heyday of looking like lumbersexuals had passed. We had all endured the passing fads, and I expect the fad of looking like a lumberjack (without being a lumberjack) will pass as well. So if you are clean-shaven, don’t change; shave as usual. Q: Yo, lumbersexual hipsters! Do you really think now is a good time to look like you’re followers of Islam? True loggers have body odor, and little flecks of sawdust in their beards. They have dirt under their fingernails, and lots of muscles they didn’t get from a gym workout. They are the real deal, not hipsters in Portlandia. Real loggers don’t have to get their bodies covered with tattoos to be cool. They go to art museums to see art, not let some dufus inject ink under their skin, of a shrieking skull. Sorry, I had to release my pent-up beardless tension.

Many of the most famous men in history had beards, like Abe Lincoln, Moses, and Jesus. Beards were right up there with the creation of the wheel, and fire, and beards came first. Adam, the first man, is depicted as being without a beard. I think they got that wrong. I believe he looked like Tom Selleck with a beard. If you loved Dan Haggerty as Grizzly Adams, you might be a fan of beards. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E1Cye7d5EHI

We are an easily swayed species. Many women prefer bad boys to Calvin Klein models. One assumes women like the obvious differences between men and women, since most women cannot grow full beards. My ex wife used to talk about wanting to grow a beard. She had beard envy. Maybe she isn’t alone. In metro areas of Oregon I’ve seen many women playing the role of the man in lesbian relationships. Flannel and suspenders are de rigueur of this lifestyle (sans beards). It doesn’t explain the thousands of years Native American women preferred their men clean-shaven. Native American men mostly could not grow beards, but they had something most Caucasian men don’t have: really good heads of hair that can be braided and styled in a thousand ways by their women.

In this case, I am referring to Caucasian men. Picture the Brawny Paper Towel guy, but with a beard. Visualize a sweaty, dirty man with an unkempt beard whose beard awakens primal memories in womens’ DNA.  In some women’s collective ancestral memory, from hundreds of thousands of years ago, there is a half-naked bearded man in the mouth of a cave with his spear or club in one hand, and a dead animal in the other hand. “Honey, I’m home!” bellows the man. This cave man image pushes some women’s ancient buttons. A bearded man equals ‘He will protect me, and find me fresh meat to cook.’ His beard says he is a provider and his wife and children won’t stave. Man does not live by roots and berries alone. You need a fat, juicy, rare slab of mammoth steak once in awhile. You need the bearded man chucking the spear with his bearded bros when the cave bear shows up. Women who are turned on by bearded men, don’t see the flannel. They see the cave man in a loincloth. Women have better senses of smell than men for a reason. They can smell their man a half a mile away. But the modern men with beards are much cleaner than their Ice Age forebears. View this clip from “Sands of the Kalihari,” with Stuart Whitman. This is the epitome of everything I am writing here: Bearded man against civilization, and baboons! Bearded man gets the girl. Bearded man, GOOD! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y5QLvoLxSow

Women being attracted to the top ape in ancient times is not that different from modern human society. The top ape gets to impregnate the top woman. A man’s worthiness is still based on his ability to provide. Money equals security. It still is that way for most women. But not all bearded men are good providers. This is where the logic of it breaks down. Ask a woman in her twenties or thirties what a sexy man looks like, and surprisingly a fair number of them will point to the dirty bearded man with a blue collar job. The welder, the dude riding the Harley Hog, the logger, the mechanic get second looks. Dirty men are exciting men, with loads of testosterone! If there had been a survey in the 1990s (and I’m sure there were) women would have been gaga over Brad Pitt lookalikes. Now Brad, and other celebrities, like Ben Affleck for example, have beards. One woman told me in the 1980s, “Men who grow beards have something to hide,” such as a double chin, a wicked scar, crooked teeth, etc. For much of the 20^th and early 21^st century most women would confide that the idea of kissing a man with a beard was gross. But go back to the 19^th century and beards were the thing! The further you go back the more beards you’ll see. But how can kissing a mouthful of hair be exciting? Women have told me beards and mustaches make their lips and noses itch. Is there anything more sexy than a bearded man eating soup? I don’t think so! The use of paper napkins alone would be like clearcutting a forest.

We can blame the Ice Age for this deviant thinking about facial hair. Granted, some men are better off with beards. Some men’s facial hair is so thick they have to shave twice a day. Don’t blame women. It goes back to the beginnings of the human race.  A beard kept a man’s face warm.  But who needs a beard in Southern California?

Lumbersexuals usually only cut their hair for fashion reasons. They are only pretending to be real loggers.  Real loggers wear hardhats, so it makes sense to have buzz cuts. Real loggers also chew snuff, which isn’t a habit most lumbersexuals have adopted because it destroys the effects attained by spending five-hundred dollars to have their teeth whitened. Imagine kissing a lumbersexual with snuff spittle in his beard and a lump in his lower lip. Here, honey, get some mouth cancer! Mmmm. Not gonna happen. However, in Sweden, chewing snuff is very popular, (for men and women), but not so much in Portland or Seattle. Imagine beautiful blonde women in Sweden chewing snuff and spitting on sidewalks. Are you grossed out yet? So the lack of snuff is also an indicator that a man is only pretending to be a macho man with a beard.

I will never be a lumbersexual because I've actually cut down trees with chainsaws. I have also worked on fishing boats in the Bering Sea. I’ve done all the things a man does to build a house. I know my way around tools. I am the real deal, but I'm too vain to grow a salt and pepper beard. Some men can pull it off, but not me. I’ve grown a beard a few times, and I had a big mustache and French tickler for over five years. Here is a photo of me with a mustache and French tickler. Do I look happy? How could anyone know how I was feeling with this giant mustache? I have to admit, it did make me look dashing. But I was an imposter!

Me with my big mustache.

Beards require way too much care. Lumbersexuals are supposed to not care that their beards are wild. This is all a sham. Men do care. They are as vain as women. I spend too much time in the bathroom as it is. Having a beard (or mustache) was like having to mow my lawn five times a week. The problem with facial hair for men over forty-five is that facial hair is one of the first body hair that goes gray. I just can't see myself dying my beard. If I take up prospecting, or become a recluse in Idaho or Montana I suppose a long gray beard makes sense. I like the look of my big mustache, but the upkeep is time consuming. I will never be a lumbersexual. I’m too vain to grow a beard full of gray hairs. I want to look young, and beards make me look old. My older brother told me he often has young women flirting with him. For a while he was flattered, then he realized the women were not being flirty, they were being nice to him because he was old enough to be their fathers. I am having the same problem, and a beard would be the worst cure for my midlife crisis. So I guess I'll have to look clean cut as Donny Osmond until I die. They say that hair grows after you're dead, so perhaps all men grow beards in their coffins. That's a sobering thought. I wonder if they wax their mustaches in Heaven?