Jim Morrison's modest grave in the Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris still brings fans.

Paris was having a heatwave and I was wandering the unevenly cobbled sometimes shady lanes of Père Lachaise Cemetery, trying to find the legendary graves of Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde, aided by two Russian women.

I found myself in the company of two lithe blondes, a Russian mother and daughter, who were equally enamored with the Lizard King. The daughter shared that she played drums in a band and they were going to a Queen concert later that night. I had my eye on her mother but the daughter seemed to think, since I was from SoCal, that I was going to be the father of her children and keep her in the lap of luxury. They were following a Google map to Morrison's grave, so we walked together, me in my fantasies and they in theirs.

The grave was modest and tucked between monolithic tombs. With the helter-skelter angles of some of the ancient graves that had settled into the sloped grounds it would be easy to miss Morrison's final resting place. But unlike the other tombstones, his was festooned with momentos  from adoring fans. It would be creepy to be in the cemetery on a cold, dark, wet Blue Sunday. The mother and daughter were model material, and I thought of the lyrics of that song: I met my own true love one, on a Blue Sunday. She looked at me and told me, I was the only, one in the world, now I have found my girl.Then I went in search of Oscar Wilde's tomb. It was on the far side of the cemetery and I was in need of a guide because the Russian ladies had wandered away when I didn't show proof I was a multimillionaire American in need of a Russian hottie. Suddenly an old Frenchman showed up. He seemed to like me, so I explained, in bad French, what I was seeking to find. He was amiable and led me there, all the while I thought it was a coincidence that he was also on his way to the tomb of the man who wrote, "A friend stabs you in the front," but mais non - he was just being neighborly, and once we arrived he bid adieu. The tomb appears to be an attempt by a shabby artist to replicate a Babylonian ruler's crypt with its winged weirdness. It's surrounded by an eight feet tall plexiglass panel, to cut down on the many lipstick kisses applied to the megalithic tomb's stone. Even so, the plexiglass has quite a few lipstick marks. But why? Was it because of his wittiness, or what? Most people of his time saw him as a degenerate. Nowadays he would be a conservative.

My daughter had married a young French film director the previous day, and I had the hot afternoon was no longer thrilling me. My last visit to Paris had been overly long, and this one was overly short. But that's probably just as well because the temperatures were way above normal and I still hadn't recovered from my troubled arrival at Charles de Gaulle airport, where I'd almost not made it into the country due to my passport having been stolen. The fully booked flight on United could certainly be blamed for keeping me from sleeping during the ten hour flight from San Francisco. Losing a passport is serious, especially when the French TSA apparently aren't used to passport cards, which turned out to be my salvation when all else failed. And who took my passport? I have my theories. It had forced me to spend over half a day at the U.S. Embassy to get an Emergency Passport, which I thought I needed to board my flight out of Paris, and get back into the United States. Both of these assumptions were incorrect, but I'd never lost a passport before.

The second party was was a somewhat lavish but casual affair. Cheese platters (fromage) arrived, with the champagne.

The wedding had been held in the stylist second floor of a Marie, not far from my Airbnb, Parc des Buttes-Chaumont, and my daughter's and son-in-law's apartment. It was administered by an assistant mayor of the 19th arrondissement, and his secretary. The assistant mayor wore a three color French flag banner from his right shoulder to his left hip and he was in a jovial mood. The half-hour ceremony was entirely in French, and most of the forty guests and witnesses were French, so I only understood some of the language. At a certain point my daughter and son-in-law stood and were asked if they were willing to wed and they each said, "Oui" and that was that. Then the pronouncement was made that the lovebirds were officially wed and the guests mingled and posed for photos on the marble staircase and tossed rice on the newlyweds as they came from the building. In most ways it was like a justice of the peace wedding, but it had a nuance of something more stylish. 

It was probably just fine because my daughter and her fiancé had lived together for nearly fourteen years in Paris. Why get married? I heard at least one of their friends remark later at the first of two parties. The first party was in a bar a short distance from the Marie building and I tried to fit in and chatted with some of my son-in-law's film friends. Perhaps it was bad form to try to learn how I might sell my 21 Days in Paris screenplay, but what else was I going to talk about with strangers? I spoke little bad French and they spoke little bad English. Like most parties there were superficial conversations going on. Kudos to the French people I met because they were kind enough to listen to me going on and on.  My son and his wife were also there and some friends of my daughter's from New York. People were mingling; noshing on slices of cured meats, fromage, and sipping wines and spiked cider. A few kids were going stir-crazy. The following day there was a party in Parc des Buttes-Chaumont, and I have to say that everyone should spend time in this lovely park. I was lodged in an Airbnb just a block and a half from an entrance to the park, and I'd already taken two walks in it. I imagined myself living in Paris next to the park and how pleasant it might be. I was having a make-believe life in Paris. Oh-la-la.

You can see surreal things in any park. For instance, on my first walk in Parc des Buttes-Chaumont I found a lovely young woman sprawling on a tree limb, several meters off the ground. She gave me a flirtatious glance and then whistled to her Gypsy boyfriend and pleaded for a cigarette. And here I thought she was an earthy Mother Nature type. So I snapped a quick photo before her boyfriend arrived, though if she'd been alone she might have been my segue in Paris. Not that I need intrigue in a city enamored with l'amour. I'd previously spent more time in Parc de la Villette, which is also in the 19th arrondissement, and while I was there there were many outrageous sculptures beside the broad sidewalks. That was before the pandemic, in October of 2016. It would have been an ideal time to travel from Paris to Menton on the Côte d'Azur. But, alas, that trip will have to wait until later this year, or next year, such as the Lemon Festival (Fête du Citron) in February. My time in Parc de la Villette gave me lots of ideas for my novel and screenplay. The promo for 21 Days in Paris is here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1dsjHFUvpO8

Paris was in the mood to party when I was stuck in the U.S. Embassy trying to get a new passport. Grandstands were set up along the Champs-Elysées. But I'm not a big fan of fireworks.

Kudos to my son-in-law, Gregoire, for spending half the day with me at the U.S. Embassy, helping me get a new passport. It was probably a waste of a day because  my passport card would have sufficed. TSA people aren't deep thinkers; if I flashed my old man American smile and showed that passport card I probably wouldn't have been hassled and have to hear a stupid woman at the Newark, NJ airport police station say, "We don't who you are, sir." It was a philosophical question that needed me to reply, "Does anyone know who they are?" My recommendation, unless you have a gigantic head of hair, is to never used the photo booths in Paris, or even the one at the U.S. Embassy. My photos showed me as being a creature from another world. It appeared that my face was melting or on my way to becoming a deep sea creature. My lips were far too low on my face, and had a fishy look. 

So after the horrendous morning and afternoon at the U.S. Embassy, I was happy to go exploring a bit further. My bucket list included a stop at the I Love You Wall, which is easy to get to. Just hop a Métro to the Place des Abbesses stop. Le Our des Je t'aime is a must see, even though the middle of a sweltering afternoon isn't as romantic as a sultry early evening before its locked up. The garden is pleasant and it doesn't take a romantic rocket scientist to imagine sitting on a bench in that garden doing a little French kissing. More tongue please. Merci. 

Sacré Coeur de Montmartre offered a spiritual reprieve from somewhat stressful short visit to Paris. I was just warming up emotionally to the City of L'amour and wanted to kiss and make up, but my time in Paris was coming to a close.

My son-in-law and I walked up steep stairs and narrow cobbled streets to the top of the Montmartre hill to take in the view from the Basilica of Sacré Coeur. We joined a crowd entered the cool, dimly lit church, hushed by a church priest, and told to remove our hats. You see, it's bad form to be in a church with your hat on. Now, this isn't the case in a Jewish synagogue, where men wear yarmulkes and women wear head scarves. Does God care what we wear inside a man-made building? Nope. I suspect if we wanted to wear nothing but fig leaves it would be fine with God. I will leave you with Les Champs-Elysées by Pomplamoose. Will I be going back to Paris later this year? Maybe so. I found an unused Metro ticket in my wallet, and it states it's good until December. Voila.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7B4CLQGxHmI

 

Oh la la, 21 Days in Paris!

T’es pas du quartier, toi? 

Every time I reflect on Paris it's like falling in love with the idea of love. It's like kissing someone you are falling in love with, and just when you are on the verge of breaking up, your love is renewed. You can never grow tired of Paris. She will haunt your dreams, and the dreams will be light and airy, impossibly delicious, dark and sullen. Because Paris, like all big cities, and all big love affairs, can make you morose.

Paris is a wine with a complicated aftertaste. Slightly oaky and bitter, but then it warms and does a 360 in your mouth and delivers warm notes like birds in the trees of the Champs-Élysées, titilating to the tongue and palpitating your coeur. Oh la la, your giddiness begins as the gray of Paris skies give up the last of their rain, the sun kisses your cheeks, the love affair is renewed, and the sadness is washed into the Seine. Each day is a love affair in Paris.

Alors, am I speaking of my time in the 19th Arrondissement? Mais oui. Am I so stuck in time that I have no realistic view of Paris? Bien sûr! What did I do with my brief and magical love affair? Why, I did what any aspiring author does: I wrote a screenplay and a novel about it. You see, I went to Paris to visit my daughter, and her husband, Grégoire. He is an assistant film director, and has worked on some big projects, such as Midnight in Paris, Lucy, Valerian and the City of Ten Thousand Planets, and many French TV and feature film projects. My plan was to spend two weeks in Paris and then travel to Menton, on the Côte d'Azur. But as I've mentioned here, Paris is like an addiction. Like all love affairs, in the beginning you fall under its spell. I felt powerless to leave Paris. So I stayed for twenty-one days.

Naturally, this became the title of my screenplay and novel, 21 Days in Paris. Here, watch a promo I created to get a feel for what they story is about.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1dsjHFUvpO8

Here is a summary of the story. 

Ryan Hollister, a professor of art in Seattle, has fallen off the roof of his house. While in a coma, he dreams he is  in Paris, where he meets and falls in love with a French woman named Aurélie. Landscapes regularly morph into Impressionist paintings, and he has conversations with Degas at the Musée d’Orsay, and elsewhere in Paris, and with Mimi, a mysterious, magical, older woman who seeks to help him in his quest. On the eve of his asking Aurélie to marry him, while in a pedicab after seeing the Louvre, a bomb goes off. Ryan wakes in a hospital in Seattle, and discovers his magical experiences in Paris were a dream while in a coma for twenty-one days. He decides he must go to Paris to see if Aurélie is real or a fantasy. 

I suppose it's human nature for you to want me to tell you the ending of 21 Days in Paris. Sorry, I can't do that. Grégoire, my French son-in-law, said the ending of the screenplay was "sweet and satisfying." When the novel is published, and I see you at a bookstore signing, I will be happy to sign your copy of 21 Days in Paris. And if it becomes a movie after that time, and you recognize me in the snack bar, I'll buy you a bag of popcorn. I may be wearing a disguise, and be dressed like Degas.

The story in the screenplay and novel is partly based on my experience. You see, I fell off the roof of my house and broke my back. I was in and out of consciousness. After I recovered I needed a break from my job in Orange County, California so I went to Paris. It was the last stop on a vacation that included most of England and Denmark. 

Most of the story happens in Paris. So naturally the protagonist, Ryan, visits the tourist destinations in the city, but one I didn't go to was The I Love You Wall, which is off the steep street that leads to Montmartre. It's located at Square Jehan Rictus, Place des Abbesses. At the top of the hill is Sacré-Cœur, the Basilica of the Sacred Heart. In the 19th Century, and earlier, the hillsides of this hill were covered with vineyards, and there were many windmills. Now there are only a couple of windmills, and the Montmartre Vineyard, by Renoir's former house, which is the Musée de Montmartre. My favorite place in Paris is difficult to say. Of the major museums I most enjoyed and visited the Musée d'Orsay. It's where some of the magical parts of story happens. I did a video of the museums of Paris. Watch it here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ybOxdHK6P0A

You won't go hungry in Paris. If you have a sweet tooth, Paris will certainly satisfy you. They are big consumers of meat, and their pastries are to die for. There was a study done a few years ago to determine why French people have such a low incidence of cancer because they are prodigious smokers, and ravenous meat eaters. It was determined the reason for their robust health is the resveratrol in the wine they have at nearly every meal. It's their fountain of youth. So rush right out and buy some in your local health food store and you might live a little longer. You would have to drink a bottle of red wine a day to see any effects, so buy a bottle of resveratrol. You can find it in Paris, so don't worry. But if you go all the way to Paris, and other places in France, you would be much happier to go on a wine tour and forget about taking pills. Order wine with every meal, like most everyone in France.

Bonne journée!

When in doubt, chill out.

This is Avila Beach, near Pismo Beach, north of Santa Barbara. It’s a great place to chill out and think things through. And God knows I need to chill out. There is a row of shops by the beach, and I’ve gotten into the habit of ordering a fish sandwich and a cup of chowder from Mr. Rick’s. Yesterday I had a Corona with my usual order. Now I get those iconic ads for Corona.

My life the last few months can be summed up by the lyric from a Grateful Dead song, “What a long, strange trip it’s been.” 

The craziness began when I left the Seattle area last summer and went to Utah to sell my eighty acres of land. I went with the expectation that the sale would be quick, but when two buyers backed out, I had to fire my real estate agent. Months later, after camping out on my property in a big tent, buyers were found near the end of September. Unfortunately, I believed I might be able to buy a house on the West Coast, so I began driving around coastal California, Oregon, and Washington. I had a lot of misadventures, but my bids were outbid and my eyes were opened to the fact that the world had gone crazy not only via the Covid virus, but also in the real estate market. But I suppose I've got my feet wet if I ever decided to take up travel writing as a way to make a living.

 

After some looking around I discovered northwest Florida had affordable houses, so off I went to the panhandle of Florida. Was I worried about the Covid pandemic? Nope. I was apparently immune to it. I wore my mask, but saw a lot of people who didn’t. 

 

For anyone who hasn’t driven across the United States, it takes a lot of time and tanks of gasoline to cross Texas because it’s bigger than a lot of European countries. I arrived in Pensacola and honestly thought, "This is it!" Oh how wrong I was. 

White beach sand, gentle waves, pretty girls. What is there not to like? Yeah, Gulf Breeze, just south of Pensacola, is where I went to unwind. It's easy to be seduced by good weather, and wonderful beaches. Mea culpa. I used to hang out at the Artel Gallery, playing music with local musicians. It was an okay way to spend my time. I thought I was buying a house. I thought my life made sense. I even hit a few golf balls at Bubby Watkins driving range. Pensacola seemed like a cool place to hang out. I had blinders on.

I immediately put bids on many houses. Again I was outbid. I was also beginning to be educated about why the houses are so cheap in Florida. Hurricane Ivan and Hurricane Sally, who arrived in the panhandle of Florida sixteen years apart to the day, September 16, 2004, and September 16, 2020, had caused damage to the majority of the houses. I was two weeks away from closing on a house when the inspection showed leaks, wood rot, and the need to replace the roof. On the last house, a week from closing, the Veteran’s Administration said the repairs would have to be done by the owner, or I would have to show I had the excess funds to do the repairs. So that was the end of that. I could have opted to stay in Pensacola, there are nice beaches in nearby Gulf Breeze, and the weather is pretty nice. But I was burned out, and had spent a fair amount of money already, so I decided to head back to the West Coast. 

 

Siri, which had provided a mix of correct and incorrect directions in recent months, directed me on a rainy night into Mississippi from Mobile, Alabama. This time it was wrong. That’s when a young woman ran a red light and I got in an accident. It was everything the movies portray of the South. The cops were more interested in gathering together to shoot the breeze and not inclined to find out what caused the accident. The doctor at the hospital ignored and never examined me. My Nissan Pathfinder was totaled and I was stuck in a hotel room for two weeks. My insurance company, USAA, said I was on my own because I only had liability. The other driver’s insurance, State Farm, was equally unhelpful. Thus, I hired a legal firm in Hattiesburg, Mississippi to recoup my losses, and I paid the towing company to help get my Pathfinder running again. Miraculously, they resurrected it by pulling out the front end, replacing the radiator, and two new lights. I was in pain, and fed up with everything, so I got in my ruined truck and drove to Saint George, Utah to load a U-Haul with my things, and my truck on a trailer. And off I went to California. I was in no condition to drive due to having aggravated my sciatic nerve damage from when I’d broken my back in 2014, but I kept going. That is how I arrived in Santa Barbara County for the second time in six months, and decided I had no reason to go back to the Pacific Northwest. 

As of this writing I am still in Santa Barbara County, awaiting a financial settlement from the accident. There's not much chance of my buying a house in this area unless a miracle happens. I’ve used this time to finish writing my seventh novel, 21 Days in Paris. I’ve submitted it to a handful of publishers, literary shops, and producers. This story is based on a true story (mine). While in a coma after falling off the roof of his house, an art professor dreams he's in Paris, where he falls in love with a French woman. A bomb goes off on the eve of his asking her to marry him and he wakes in a hospital in Seattle where he learns he's been in a coma for twenty-one days. He goes to Paris to see if the woman he loves exists in the real world. Here's a promo: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oveaQGVrSsY  

Summer will soon be here. I’m not sure where I will end up yet, but sometimes it's best to simply stop and think things over. Chill out, kick back, and let God decide the best thing to do. The weather is nice, I'm eating beach food, wearing sunglasses and flip-flops. Life is good. Still feeling phantom pain in my lower back from my damaged sciatic nerve and lumbar vertebrae. Somehow, I don't know how, everything's gonna be all right.

Dove Tailed Christmas Greetings.

 

I am reminded of the lyrics of an old song that goes, 'If I had a hammer, I'd hammer in the morning.' You see, there's a little blue marble of a planet out in space, in a fairly ordinary galaxy, where something unusual happened: A Jewish carpenter tried to build up our faith and show us the way to Heaven. I expect a lot of people this time of year look up and say, "Lord, please save me from Christmas!"

My move to Pensacola has separated me from my relatives in the Pacific Northwest. In theory, the best Christmas is enjoyed with family, but strangely, no one disappoints us more than family. We can't all have Norman Rockwell worthy Christmas dinners. I'm emotionally ready to spend Christmas in an Airbnb. I'm not the only one in the world who will be alone eating a Subway sandwich on Christmas. It's just one day; I can handle it. There's Skype, email, and cell phones to shorten the distance. 

Christmas should be a time of quiet celebration, not migraines. There's a lot of pressure to shop for gifts and mail them in time for Christmas. I've violate this gift giving timeline every year because I mail gifts whenever the spirit moves me. I mailed Christmas cards to a dozen people this year, so I had better not find a lump of coal in my stocking. As of this writing, Christmas is only a week away. Soon it will arrive and quickly it will be forgotten. Christmas trees probably wish Christmas was abolished. About twenty-seven million live Christmas trees will be harvested this year. Twenty-two million fake trees will be sold. Wouldn't it be great if all the live trees were left to grow? We'd all have a lot more oxygen.

I am flummoxed by the timetable of stores transitioning to the next holiday months before it arrives. Halloween displays were up in Home Depot in August. Christmas displays go up in September. I imagine every holiday blending together. I have found Christmas stores that are open year round. I expect Valentine's Day displays are already being set up nationwide. This is why Jerry Springer in the Seinfeld show, invented Festivus, which afterwards was taken up by the masses and celebrated on December 23rd.

When I was a boy, Christmas mornings meant finding my expected present under a tree festooned with gaudy lights, tinsel, strings of popcorn, and ornaments. At the top of the tree was either a star or an angel figurine. An hour after Christmas morning began, the living room floor looked like a tornado had touched down, festooned with torn packaging, shards of ribbons that held the packages, and name tags that once were held in place with Scotch tape. 

My family's usual Christmas breakfast consisted of eggs, sausage, pancakes, waffles, glasses of orange juice, toast with jam or biscuits, and coffee for mom and dad. Bowls  of overly sugary cereals, adorned with berries, were a part of the bacchanalia. Then it was time to lounge around in pajamas watching Christmas themed cartoons and movies. Mom would order us to brush our teeth, and go outside to play in the snow while she cleaned up the mess. It was a simpler time, but most American families carry on this Christmas morning tradition. Nowadays, it's rare for families to stop and talk about the real meaning of Christmas as a family. 

I suggest there should be a time where everyone stops whatever they are doing, on Christmas Day, to contemplate the meaning of the holiday. The mistletoe reminds us to show a little more love to one another. Now that 2020, a year which will live in infamy, is coming to a close we have a lot to ponder. What will 2021 bring? How long before life returns to normal?

There are 7.8 billion people on Planet Earth; not everyone is a Christian. I imagine the extreme capitalism  of Christmas shopping must seem like temporary insanity to non-Christians. Surely the end goal is not in acquiring a huge treasure trove of presents. From December 10th to December 18th, Jewish families celebrate Hanukkah. It's a festival of light, remembering when a day's supply of lamp oil in the temple in Jerusalem lasted eight days. As a boy I was ignorant of their holiday, and the parish priest never talked about it. 

At the top of the entrance steps of the church my family attended, was a grand nativity scene with large ceramic figurines of Mary, Joseph, the baby Jesus in his wood cradle, the three Wise Men, and a couple of shepherds. There was real hay for the holy family and their friends, and animal figures, to rest on. It was gloriously lit with floodlights. The animals and figures were turned towards the baby Jesus, who had a happy look on his rosy-cheeked face, and his chubby arms extended to bless the gathering. The figures of Mary, Joseph, and Jesus had gold hued halos around their heads. The manger enclosing this scene was made of real wood, about ten feet wide and six feet tall. 

For many years I have reflected on Jesus, the real historical figure. I've read the prophesies in the Old Testament of the bible. Christians say they are proof and Jews say it proves nothing about Jesus. His life has a lot of gaps that are lost to history. As far as anyone knows, he never wrote a book. His Sermon on a Mount could have been a bestseller. And like most historical people, the real Jesus has been embellished to the point that it's rather confusing. Who can say with certainty what Jesus was really like? Was he like Brian, in the 1979 Monty Python film, Life of Brian? Was Jesus a man, like Brian, and simply misunderstood? What would Jesus say about Christmas, and how we celebrate it?

Christmas, the birth of Jesus, celebrated on December 25th, is made up. In ancient times it was a pagan holiday. The evergreen was a Druid thing. There is no Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Jesus wasn't born on December 25th. He could have been born in April. And his real name wasn't Jesus. It was Yeshua, or Yahushua, a form of the name, Joshua, that means 'to deliver; to rescue.' Sounds like Messiah, right? So we got his name wrong, and his birth date, and probably even the way he looked. The Catholic church can be blamed for a lot of the misinformation. I was raised Catholic. They had a lot of reasons to dumb down Christmas for the commoners. Most of the reasons had to do with making money, and making sure their version of the story was the official version. I was brainwashed like everyone else until I was in my late teens, when I began searching for the truth. It's like playing detective at a crime scene that is over 2,000 years old. There's not a lot of reliable evidence to go on.

The story of Christmas makes no sense if it's not true. There are biblical scriptures that describe what the Messiah would be like. But like in the movie, Miracle on 34th Street everyone has to discover the true meaning of Christmas on their own. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vE9M7a4wAZ0 

Like the little girl in the film, Susan, we don't believe in Santa until we see the miracle happen. Most people don't know that the story of Santa Claus was based on a generous monk named St. Nicholas, who was born around 280 A.D., in Patara, near modern-day Turkey. I often see miracles. I am grateful for the miracle that I never had Covid-19 symptoms, and drove thousands of miles, eventually to Pensacola, and never had an accident.

The bottom line of Christmas is Y'shua. Either he was a fraud or he was the promised Messiah. Some would say he never existed, but the Roman historian, Josephus, did make a notation about him, so he was a real Jewish man. As Jesus once said to his followers, "Who do you say I am?"

In filmmaking there's a saying that a movie works because it persuades a rational movie viewer to "suspend their disbelief." The Christmas story asks us to suspend our disbelief, and accept that once upon a time, God took the form of a human being living in a little backwater part of the world, for the purpose of saying, "Hey, you're forgiven for your sins. I want you to believe in me; listen to my words." Many people would say that God has used a lot of enlightened human beings to help us find our way. That is probably true. Have you ever had a person show up to help you in an hour of need? I have no doubts that some of the people we interact with in our lives are agents sent by God to help us. 

The idea behind the 1977 film, Oh God! is that God wants to get to know us, and wants us to believe and quit doubting. In the film, God, (played by George Burns), reveals himself to an ordinary grocery store manager, Jerry, (played by John Denver). It addresses questions and misconceptions people have about God. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VVvKuI8oK3c   

Ask most five-year-old children if Santa Claus is real, and they will enthusiastically say, "YES!" Ask them if Jesus was a real person, and they will likely say, "I don't know." If you are seeking the truth, then you already have a good foundation to begin to believe in the important things about Jesus, the reason for the season. God doesn't live in churches, or synagogues, temples, or mosques. That's architecture. Look for God's artwork in snowflakes, rainbows, flowers, and in everything that exists. Whether you call him by his real Hebrew name, (Yeshua, or Yahushua), or the wrong, transliterated form (Latinized) - name of Jesus, isn't important. 

I will plan to stop whatever I'm doing this Christmas and imagine, as John Denver did in that film, that there is still magic in the world, and God, who lives outside of time, can always do whatever it is (he, she, or it) wants to do. There are no obstacles; nothing is impossible for the Creator of everything. 

Welcome to Pensacola!

I've become accustomed to life in an Airbnb since my arrival in Pensacola, Florida, and generally I have no complaints. Who could object to this view of their backyard in December?

I feel lucky to be here in Gulf Breeze, with its proximity to some of the most beautiful beaches I've experienced in my life. I'm hopeful staying in various Airbnb's is not a permanent way of life. How, you may wonder, did I end up in Pensacola? It's a long story. My epiphany occurred after driving the coastlines of California, Oregon, and the far southwest corner of Washington state, to find a house I could afford. The Australian aborigines had a tradition of a young man doing a walkabout to find themselves. That's as close as I've come to being an Australian. I'm not a young man anymore; the mirror reminds me daily. But this was my walkabout. Fifty days camping out on my land, and thirty driving around three states would have been enough for most people. But not me. I turned right around and drove through five or six states to arrive here, and I still have my things in storage in Saint George, Utah. One day I will get my things out of storage in Utah and make the 1,800 mile drive to Pensacola. No sense in thinking about that now; I think I may still be burned out from the last 2,000 miles on the road. My life is up in the air at Airbnb's until I buy a house, or give up and lease an apartment. I'm okay with whatever the future holds.

After having my eyes opened to the reality that lenders were not going to give me a $350,000 loan, regardless of my excellent credit score, unless I landed a very well paying position, I decided to shop elsewhere for a house. Some would call this an insane idea. Maybe so. One of my brothers encouraged me to buy a house in Idaho. Unfortunately, Idaho has no beaches, and fish tacos are looked upon with suspicion. However, in inquiring, I found a lender in Idaho, with affliliate offices in states with beaches. That is a summary of how I started looking in Pensacola, Florida. 

To my surprise, the prices of houses in this area are quite varied. On the West Coast a house listed for $150,000 would have to be a trailer in a trailer court or a condo. Neither were options for me because the HOA fees are very high. But in Pensacola, a $150,000 house is comparable to a $500,000 house in Oregon and Washington. In most of California, south of San Francisco, the $150,000 house would cost close to a million dollars. But buying a house in Pensacola is like falling in and out of love. What happens is you find a house you like, and you begin to think you might be falling in love with it, and just when you are about to "marry" the house, it turns out to have problems. 

Three times I found houses I loved, and I was about to say "I do" when the inspectors found wood rot, a bad roof, a lack of wind mitigation (metal strapping to hold the roof to the structure in the event of a hurricane), and bad wiring, (aluminum instead of copper). Several okay houses were in rather dicey neighborhoods. A lady real estate agent said the reason for the plethora of houses with repair issues is because of Hurricanes Ivan and Sally. Wood frame houses do not fare well in Pensacola. But hurricanes are fickle beasts; they will leave some houses unscathed in their Caribbean samba dance along the coastline. Hurricanes are also spooky. Hurricane Ivan and Hurricane Sally made landfalls in Pensacola on September 16, 2004, and September 16, 2020, exactly sixteen years apart to the day. Based on this, maybe I suppose I would be wise to plan a holiday in Europe on September 16, 2036. 

The trick is lucking out and finding a house that has no repair issues; a house which will have a favorable four point inspection. The viability of a VA Loan depends on a good inspection. They are rare as marigolds on the moon. I found a lovely house, built in 1935, that had blue labradorite-black granite countertops, marble window and door sills, hardwood floors, and terracotta tile. I envisioned growing wildflowers on the large lot. I was in love again. But the roof, and wood rot repair costs ruined the  romance. As of this writing, I've found a quirky former real estate office as a possible home. I have yet to learn why it has a French motif. I jokingly suggested to Norm, my real estate agent, that it could be a creperie. it has a nuance of a cafe in Casablanca. Of course it has a few problems; all the houses I've seen in Pensacola have problems. But let's talk about Pensacola, a city which has been a possession of England, France, Spain, the Confederacy, and Florida. As a result, it has an eclectic charm. 

Access to beautiful beaches abound. I was elated to discover Pensacola Beach, the most southernly beach community south of Pensacola. Somehow, most of the pretty two and three story houses, and twenty-story resort hotels, are still standing intact after two major hurricanes. The white beaches are pristine, the gentle surf warm as tepid bathwater. What's not to love? The sand squeeked beneath my feet. I felt the endorphins being released in my brain. I stopped at Flounders, one of a many quirky beach restaurants, and had a fish taco. Not as good as my fish tacos, but few are.

                                            

No visit to Pensacola Beach is complete without visiting the iconic UFO house on Via de Luna Drive.

UFOs were once a big topic of conversation in Pensacola Beach. Opinions vary as to whether there was a hoax or an extraterrestrial encounter, in November of 1987. The newstory was published by The Gulf Breeze Sentinel, and featured photos of the alleged UFO. Ed Walters, a contractor in Pensacola Beach, claimed to have taken the photos.

    

When Walters moved from the area, he left a styrofoam model of a UFO in his attic. Pensacola News Journal reporter, Craig Myers, investigated Walters' claims a few years later, criticizing the Sentinel's coverage of the story as "uncritical" and "sensationalist." Myers was able to duplicate Walters’s UFO photos using that styrofoam model. Maybe there really was a UFO, maybe not. Welcome to Pensacola, a strange mix of fruits, nuts, history, and hurricanes. A place I've decided to call home.

Finding Happiness!

 

Happiness isn't a common word nowadays.

I have some ideas about how to find happiness in this Covid world. You will have to find your own. For one, I avoid talk about human beings whose evictions and foreclosures have been delayed due to the intervention of the government. I don't want to discuss the day in the near future when these people are going to have to cough up (a bad joke), a lot of money. Everybody knows somebody who has lost a job. What will the net result be? Riots, and general mayhem. If you hated the riots in major cities thus far, hold onto the arms of your rocking chair. Sorry, I don't mean to ruin your day. 

Maybe I'm wrong; maybe it won't get worse in America and the world. Vaccines are on their way. Some people think that a new president will solve everything. Sorry, it won't. But back to my point. Somehow, with all the bad news in America, we need to stay positive. I'm not suggesting we all put on a happy cartoon smiling face on our masks that says, "Have a nice day!" There's no doubt sad news can be depressing, and then we are no good to anyone, including ourselves.

Here's what I did recently: I sold my Utah land and left Everett, Washington with some truly idealist notions about living on my Utah land. I had a big new tent, a big solar kit, and a sleeping bag that could withstand freezing temperatures. But Utah is the driest state in the union. It is illegal to dig a well without water rights. And in the four years since I acquired my land, those costs have tripled. I blame Santa Barbara for why I love the beach and fish tacos. It it was a song it would be titled: Blame it on the guacamole. I've had a wake up call the past few months. I can't afford to buy a house anywhere on the West Coast of the USA., anywhere near a beach. If you don't already know, there is a feeding frenzy going on in the real estate market. The greediness of real estate agents and sellers have no bounds. As a sort of social experiment, I communicated with many real estate agents and three lenders. They virtually said the same thing: It all comes down to money coming in every month. The hypocrisy is that freelance income, unless it is guaranteed in writing for three years, doesn't count when you go looking to buy a house. However, if I land another position with an agency, suddenly the lenders will love me again. Even though this is illogical, because people are regularly permanently laid off in this pandemic situation.

What we are looking at is a world further divided between the haves and the have-nots. All the bullets in the world won't fix that. All the plywood nailed to protect windows and doors won't fix it. We may be in for a Zombie Apocalypse. It's like that novel (and film), The Road. I met several people who sleep in their cars in California. A lady from Iran, who came here six years ago, sleeps in her car near California beaches. Why aren't these people's stories on the front pages of every newspaper? The bottom line is: We all need to be a little less judgmental of others, and try a little more love. I try, but I can't afford to help everyone I've met. I couldn't help the Iranian lady. It's a heartbreaking thing to realize you can't help everybody you meet. I brought her breakfast once, on Pismo Beach, and gave her a pair of earrings I'd bought in Utah. It put a smile on her face. That smile was worth a million dollars. It was a good day for both of us.

There is still beauty of the world. Sunshine through fall colored maple leaves, a bird hovering on the wind, the ocean gently lapping a beach, elk that let you take photos from a short distance away. Despite the fires in California, Oregon, and Washington, the West Coast has some truly awe-inspiring natural beauty. Having spent two months in southwest Utah in order to sell my property, I was physically and emotionally in need of the moistness of the Pacific NW. For over fifty days, the temperatures in Saint George, Utah were over 100F. Too hot for this amphibian.

A buck in a herd of twenty-two elk I found by a harbor near Fort Stevens, in Oregon.

In my recent travels I found a few cool motels. Many motels are not being maintained, so when you find any joy at staying at a motel, you should fill out the surveys and let people know some happiness can still be found on The Road.

I stayed in motels as I drove north along the coasts of California, Oregon, and Washington. Weekends are the priciest time to stay in a motel. One motel lady said I should just pick one and go there to get a room and not bother with Booking, Priceline, Expedia, or any other service online. You often get the same rate. Three times Booking.com messed up my booking and I had to cancel reservations and get a refund. This involves having the motel proprietor reply to the booking company to let them know they would waive the penalty for cancelling. The last motel I stayed in was in Astoria, Oregon. The Atomic Motel. It's a kitschy motel; a bit funky too. 

The Atomic Motel's decor was 1950s Rat Pack. The lobby was also way kitschy.

The bottom line is: Have fun; remember that life is supposed be happy. Help people if you can. We must get through this, there is no other option. Do nice things for yourself. Buy that special creme for your face. Eat organic, and often. Drink lots of water. Avoid cane sugar. If the world seems too gloomy to go on, try making your own happiness wherever you are. Buy a lamp like this, and it may get you through the day with a smile on your face.

A Mystery Wrapped in an Enigma.

I'm selling my eighty acres in southwest Utah, which is located about fifty miles north of St. George, and forty-one miles from Cedar City. I spent a few nights on my land before the most recent heat wave drove me to a hotel room. I'd been living in a suburb of Seattle; triple digit temperatures are anathema there. A few days ago it was 109F in St. George. It's like climbing in a hot dryer

and shutting the door. Combined with low humidity, summertime weather in southwest Utah sucked the life out of me. I don't think I could ever get used to weather in Utah. I need humidity; I'm not from a land inhabited by reptiles.

Yesterday morning, as I dressed in the tent, a flock of about twenty blackbirds landed on the tent. I paid attention; I've heard of bird omens; perhaps this was one of those things. Or maybe strange things happen in desert lands, like a dry wind that comes out of nowhere. Most of the flock flew off after a few minutes, but one lingered and alighted on a tent tether by a screened window and watched me. It was as if she were telling me everything's going to be okay now that I've made a deal to sell the land. The second time I visited the property I spoke aloud to the sky and complained about the land. As I walked to my Nissan Pathfinder I found a Native American arrowhead. The artifact appeared from nowhere, as if the ghosts of Native Americans had heard my disappointment. 

Water rights are not cheap in Utah. It has one of the lowest rainfalls in the United States. Water is like gold. Only eleven inches of rainfall falls on this area of Iron County. More rain falls in Seattle in one month than falls all year long in Utah. But there is water beneath the ground in Utah. On my land there is an aquifer, as evidenced by the many farms south of me who regularly irrigate their crops. In Utah, if a landowner digs their own well without owning water rights, they are fined. It's even illegal to construct a water catchment system. The selling of bad water rights is an ongoing problem in Utah. It's up to the buyer to make sure the rights are still legitimate. I only knew this because I'd investigated two listings and found one had lapsed due to lack of use. This sounded illegal to me, but the water rights office told me that no one is being arrested for selling bad water rights.

In Utah, a land owner can buy water rights from anyone within a certain distance from their property within the same county. The cost of rights were in the five-thousand dollar range. After acquiring water rights I would have to hire someone to dig a well, at the cost of around ten-thousand dollars. It is illegal for a well digger in Utah to dig on anyone's land who doesn't own water rights. In other words, I would have to invest fifteen thousand dollars to have what most property owners in America take for granted.

Dale Melbourne, a theatrical actress, in the 1950s.

I'm relieved to be selling my land, but the mysteries remain. The one person who could tell me why the land was purchased, died nearly twenty years ago. I was given the land by my employer; John Herklotz, of American Happenings in Orange County, CA. It was his wife, Dale Melbourne, (nee - Mary Huleyard); a theatrical actress from Melbourne, Australia, who'd bought the property, and owned it since the late 1960s. Why, is the big question. It is within two miles of vast circular fields of alfalfa, in a remote area of southwest Utah. Herklotz had no reliable information about the land, which Dale bought before they met in Los Angeles, in the1980s. By that time, Dale was thrice widowed, and she and her sister had long retired from being actresses. When I worked for Herklotz he once had me organize files in the office closet. I came upon a stash of CDs that included footage of Dale when she was married to a cattle rancher in Illinois. I only know this because Herklotz mentioned it. The strangest part of the footage showed Dale doing various things. In one clip she is outside combing her long blonde hair. She is very Nordic looking, in her late 40s or early 50s. Then the footage segues to showing Dale in a leopard print bathing suit inside a grassy pasture surrounded by a white fence. She leads a 3,000 lb. Black Angus bull by a rope into the frame, ties the rope to the fence, and begins washing the enormous bull with a garden hose and what looks like a bottle of dish soap. The bull is nonplused by the attention. Maybe Dale raised that monster, and it isn't aware of its enormous size. After she lathers the bull on this strange summer day she kisses it on the nose, and proceeds to wash her own hair with the hose and dish soap. She has a towel hanging on the fence, and she squeezes the water from her hair as she bends over and wraps it in the towel and stands. Then she unties the bull's rope and leads it, stopping once to kiss it again on the nose. It is the tamest, most gigantic bull in the world. This is the woman that bought my land. Why? No one knows. She was only married to Herklotz for seven years. At most they'd known each other for a decade. I showed that footage to Herklotz and he said he'd never seen it before. This was when he told me Dale had once been married to a cattle rancher in Illinois. Herklotz had a number of fanciful ideas about the land. He said he thought it had been leased out to a farmer who raised alfalfa, and presumed it had geothermal potential. He never explained where he got his information. He sent me to investigate the land in early 2016, because he'd never seen it. He'd been paying property taxes for years. It was a bleak place, without obvious value. He seemed surprised by that news. I made a video titled My Utah Land, while a Utah surveyor named Doug Grimshaw and his young assistant did the first survey since 1910. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TLe9vHEhHUo

I let John know what the land was like and he shrugged. He said he'd assumed some things about the land; if I didn't want it he said I could give it back to him. He was a mercurial man, well versed in the arts of business double dealings. Maybe he simply gave me the worthless land as a way to play with my head; to elicit gratitude and get me to do more work for him, promoting his various interests in film. I was already doing a lot of work for his associate in Maryland, who ran America's Mock Elections.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L9wjf54XlAc

Fires were everywhere this past week in southern Utah.

Perhaps Herklotz gave his wife's actual land to someone else, and had one of his many lawyers do the switch. Perhaps he honestly didn't know someone in Utah had swindled him. Maybe no one swindled anyone. Maybe there is something buried on the land, like Dale's last husband, or a trunk full of cash. It's like David Lynch's Mulholland Drive storyline fused with that of The Big Lebowski. John was ninety-four in 2016, and not the business tycoon he once was, when he wheeled and dealed in telecommunications when it was in its infancy, and broadcast towers were popping up everywhere. He owned broadcast towers on Tesuque Peak near Santa Fe, New Mexico, which sold for about five million dollars in 2017. He'd retired from the Chicago Tribune, as a CPA. Herklotz died in December of 2018. Though the world remembers him as a great philanthropist who had a habit of suing people over entertainment issues, I knew him as a partially disabled old man who liked Svedka vodka, which he often asked me to buy for him behind the back of Lucy, his crazy, domineering, bipolar Mexican housekeeper. It was the love of vodka that resulted in my finding him on the floor of his bedroom one morning in 2016. He'd passed out and spent the night there, and was too obese to get back into bed. He gave me the land because I called the EMTs, worked hard on every project he gave me, took him to lavish charity events in L.A. and Orange County, such as the Gary Sinise party, and visited him while he was in the hospital in Irvine, and the care center in Lake Forest. One day when I'd brought his mail and reported about business matters, he said he'd decided to give me the Utah land. I said thank you.

Herklotz died broke. He gave away all his money to universities, and many noteworthy causes. So kudos to him. Most people don't make in their lifetimes what he gave away. He was a complicated man. Many rich people are; many philanthropists are. He promised me fifty-thousand for helping him sell Tesuque Peak., and twice that to a longtime mutual friend, Dan Wilkins, with whom he'd had some battles. We never got our promised monies. Herklotz funded Wilkins' film, Have You Seen Clem. It's the quirky story of a man who loses a chain of restaurants and seeks to wreak revenge on a banker, only to discover in his travels across America in an RV that there are many hurting people in this country, and so he decides to forgive the banker. The story is mostly true by the way, because Wilkins lost a lot of money and a chain of Duff's restaurants in Tennessee due to foreclosure.

Now that I'm selling the land, I regret never having the truth told to me about it. I'm not ungrateful, I just wish I knew more about it. If it is the land his wife bought, I suppose there are only a few explanations. One - she was exhibiting the first signs of Alzheimer's, the disease that eventually killed her in 1999. Or two - she buried something on the land she didn't want anyone to find, like her third husband, or a chest of money. But these are just the writer in me trying to develop the plot. Some secrets can never be told, and mysteries will always remain about my Utah land.