Post Mortem

Wow.

It's been a lo-o-o-o-ng time since I frequented these parts.

Lord knows just getting the access credentials was an ordeal. Truth be told, I'd almost forgotten I had even done this. PTSD works in amazing and untold ways.

And then the question is, as it so often is with things Bako... why?

Blame it on Liberace.

Which, when you think about it, can cover a wide variety of subjects

My partner had referenced the above image of Lee in all his patriotic glory and I said "I think I posted that on the old blog". Which lead to "the old blog", which lead to "Oh that was kinda fun", which lead to "Can we maybe print it out and memorialize it?" Which lead to... this.

And by "memorialize" it, I'm by no means thinking it's like the "Diaries of Anne Frank", it's more like an AllState quote for a bad accident on the 99. Something in print that would stand up in court on  "The People's Court".

And so here we are, nearly 8(!) years later.

Life is good.

We've lost some family, gained some family, changed careers and moved. And we have grown and thrived despite the odds and despite being... "Lost in Bako".

And to the good people of Bakersfield, thank you for welcoming us and hosting us, even though you were aware of doing neither. We wish you well and hope never to see you again.

I'm sure the feeling is mutual*.

Peace out.


* As we head into the Halloween season I'm reminded that the neighborhood kids were warned to "avoid the gays".  'Nuf said.

Yadda Yadda Yadda: An Epilogue

"Toto... I don't think we're in Bako anymore."

I can't believe it's already been a week.

The move was remarkably smooth and outrageously expensive. It was my first time moving "long distance", which is anything over a hundred miles. And it's a racket. "Long distance" moves are priced by the pound, by law. It's a Ponzi scheme and it's predicated on the fact that no one knows how much all their shit weighs. Here's how it works...

You fill out a standardized online inventory of your crap. It's very detailed and I erred on the side of caution and over-estimated the number of boxes, etc. You submit it to potential movers. I contacted about a dozen, some in Bako, some in LA, some in Orange County. The movers contact you back. With your inventory in hand, they ask you the size of the home you're moving, which in our case was a three bedroom house. Once you relay that information, they pause ever so slightly, and then they say...

"Well, for 8000 pounds, we charge 21/23/25 cents per pound."

It was suspiciously the same with every single mover. After I mentioned the three bedroom house, every last one of them came back with "Well, for 8000 pounds..." Now, you could be forgiven for thinking all your shit weighs around 8000 pounds. Every single mover, with their years of experience and your itemized inventory in hand, has thrown out the 8000 pound figure. And 8000 pounds sounds like a lot. It is, it's four fucking tons!

But in hindsight, you'll notice they didn't say "Your shit weighs around 8000 pounds." It turns out "8000 pounds" is mover-speak for "sucker".

The first red flag was when the movers showed up and the foreman made a big production of showing me the certificate they got from the truck scales when they came through empty. It was kind of like when a magician has you check out the box or hat or whatever to prove there is no trickery involved. It actually means you're about to be played for a fool.

The movers made quick work of everything and around 1pm the last of our things was loaded on the truck and the doors slammed shut and red flag number two popped up. Actually, it was more like a four alarm siren.

"Your stuff weighs way more than 8000 pounds" the foreman says.

NOW you tell me!? AFTER everything is loaded and locked on the truck?! How much more?????

The foreman shrugged, he didn't care. It's all part of the scam. And then he delivered the coup de grâce.

"I'll need one of you to follow us to the truck scale and verify the weight."

Our hearts sank. The only reason they would have us do this is if they knew in advance we were going to be shocked at the weight and dispute it. It was to cover their asses.

The boyfriend reluctantly went since I had the dogs. I left the house about 15 minutes after him and as I was driving out of Bako for the very last time, the phone rang with the news...

Our shit weighs 21,000 pounds!

And that was after we sold off two rooms of furniture!

It felt like a hostage situation but between our meager savings and a loan from my parents, we were all moved in by sunset.

And then there's the "house"...

The first time I saw it was when we moved in and, as feared, it's doll-house small. Just getting the basics in was like an advanced game of Jenga. Currently, the garage is full of everything that wouldn't fit and if I ever hope to park my car there we will be downsizing even further. It's a little like living on a boat or in an RV. An RV with pull-outs. But here's the thing... I really like it. These are compact times and I rather like living a compact life. The ironic thing is, while I'm fine with it, the boyfriend, who picked it out and fought for it, is the one who's most distressed. Primarily because his grand design vision was D.O.A. the minute the furniture started moving in and he realized just how small the space is.

At the end of the day, it's all a small price to pay for being out of Bako, for being close to family and old friends, for the work opportunities and peace of mind.

Not to mention, our health.

The first revelation our first morning here was... the air. That's one of those things you take for granted, air. Until you live somewhere like Bakersfield where it's in short supply. I walked out the door with the dogs and could smell eucalyptus and the ocean, which is a vast improvement over the stench of burning cow carcasses and pesticides which we'd sadly become accustomed to over the past two plus years. Within the first two days, the hacking cough I'd developed back in December vanished.

So so far, it's all been wonderful. I couldn't be happier. The boyfriend too.

We haven't really met many people yet, but the boyfriend and I have perfected our backstory. It goes something like this...

"When the economy tanked, we both lost our jobs and eventually we had to sell our house in LA, and yadda yadda yadda, we moved to Orange County."

'Nuf said.

As regards to future plans for a new blog... maybe. Probably. I really miss the writing so I'm sure in time I'll fire up a new one, but not right now.

And the reason is simple... I'm happy. I haven't been happy in four years. And I think we can all agree, happy blogs suck.

So give it some time. Knowing me, this too shall pass.

So thank you all for reading the blog. And if you ever find yourself passing through Bako, think of me fondly.

And consider yourself warned. ;-)

The Best Thing About Bakersfield...

Leaving.


***************************************

I'll post an epilogue of sorts sometime next week with news, if any, of future plans.

Eric

Quivering With Anticipation

I was watching the news a week or so ago and they were showing the story of the Costa Allegra, the cruise ship which suffered a fire and subsequently lost power and spent several days adrift in the pirate infested waters of the Indian Ocean. Ultimately it was towed to port in the Seychelles and when it arrived there were reporters dockside to interview the passengers. One woman summed it up...

"It was horrible, it was miserable, it was frightening. The heat was unbearable, what little food there was was inedible, the people didn't seem to know what they were doing. But worst of all was the stench..."

Honey, you just described the last two years of my life.

Her voyage mercifully ended, and ours is about to begin. Within 24 hours in fact. I couldn't sleep last night, neither could the boyfriend. He drove back last night for the last time and we packed until 3.

With just one day left, I suppose I could be charitable. I wish I had some profound lessons learned to share at this point, but about the best I can come up with "to each, his own". I have to say that the vast majority of the people in Bakersfield wouldn't dream of living anywhere else. Most of them were born and bred here and their families go back for generations. All that inbreeding has resulted in an odd little ecosystem that suits them to a T. It can be rough on outsiders, but that's beside the point... it isn't meant for us.

It reminds me of a nature show I saw awhile ago where they profiled these bizarre creatures that lived on the sea floor. Specifically, they had adapted and evolved over the eons to live comfortably around some boiling hot sulphuric vents. That environment would be toxic to all normal creatures, but they thrived in it.

So who am I to judge? I couldn't stand this place, but most of the people here are happy as clams. Little, toxic, mutant clams.

So to the people of Bakersfield, I wish you all well. Don't take this the wrong way, but I hope never to see you again. I'm sure the feeling is mutual.

One. More. Day.

Into The Great Unknown

I'm finding myself feeling somewhat adrift these days.

Part of it is the isolation; I've been in solitary confinement now for over a month, no offense to the dogs. And I mentally checked out of Bako weeks ago. I find on the rare occasion I leave the house or watch the local news, I've reverted to the same "what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-these-people" bemused detachment I had when I first moved here, before the reality and despair set in.

But the void has yet to be filled. I'm excited to be leaving, thrilled actually, but because I really have no idea where we are moving, rather than anticipation I'm feeling more trepidation. I have a vague idea where we'll be from the map and a few fuzzy online pictures of our future home, but other than that, it's a mystery to me. The boyfriend assures me it will all be great, but his continued use of words like "snug" and "cozy" isn't having the calming effect I think he thinks it does.

But in the end, it all doesn't matter. We'll be away from here and that's the important thing. I just want it over with already.

There’s Something Rotten In Bako

As I find myself wrapping things up and winding things down, I have to admit I've had pangs of guilt in regard to this blog. Have I been too mean? Have I been too hard? Have I been too judgmental?

And then yesterday I went to the market.

I found myself in line behind an attractive young guy. And then I noticed the giant tattoo on his forearm.

A swastika.

A big one too; you couldn't miss it.

I'm not sure which was more horrifying, the swastika or people's reaction to it, which was... nothing.

The woman in front of him chatted him up, the cashier cheerfully made small talk, the box boy happily offered to help him out with his bags, no one seeming to notice or care. But you couldn't not notice it.

I'm not so naive as to think there aren't neo-nazis or white supremacists lurking in any given part of the country, but I never thought I'd see them accepted as part of polite society.

It would be easy to dismiss if it was an isolated incident but it's not. A few weeks back the dogs took an unexpected detour through a vacant lot around the corner. The lot is huge and the neighborhood kids use it as a dirt bike park, building up mounds of dirt to make jump ramps. I was just gazing at the ground as we walked along when suddenly we came to a trench that had been dug in the hard dirt. It was about a foot wide and went in a straight line for about 20 feet where it made a sharp 90 degree turn. "What the hell?" I thought as we walked along and then I looked up and realized we were standing in the middle of a 50 foot swastika.

Why on earth would someone take that much time and effort to carve a 50 foot swastika?

I'm glad we aren't sticking around to find out.

“We Can’t Be Beat!”

We came up with a partial solution to our new dollhouse accommodations... Fire Sale!

The reality is our new place lacks both a family room and spare bedroom, so those are two rooms of furniture we'd have to pay to store, not to mention sundry other soon-to-be-homeless pieces of furniture. That simply isn't in the budget. And after moving three times in three years, we've decided to stay put for awhile, regardless of the circumstances, so there was little chance the stuff would be used again anytime soon. Plus, our move is going to be priced by the pound. A ton here, a ton there, it adds up quick. So if we can drop hundreds of pounds off the move, so much the better.

Everything went up on Craigslist last week and initially business didn't look promising. The only calls we received were from cracked out meth heads hoping we might be interested in, you know, giving it away for free.

Let me think on that a moment... NO.

Business picked up on the weekend. A woman called inquiring about the family room furniture and after checking it out, she decided to buy it. She said she'd return with some help to move it and was back in a surprisingly short time with what I assumed to be her family. There was a disheveled, middled aged man I took to be her husband, and three sketchy teenagers I guessed were her children. Turns out they weren't family in the traditional sense, but rather members of the same "group home", which was where our furniture was destined.

"It's a half-way house and it's right around the corner" the jittery teen girl announced. "There are a lot of them around here."

Well, that explains a lot.

And then there was Rachel.

Rachel and her husband were relocating here from LA. Her husband had accepted a job here six months ago and had been making the 300 mile round trip every day since. It had finally gotten the better of him and they reluctantly decided to move here. Rachel was interested in the bedroom furniture and came by to look it over.

She seemed anxious right off the bat and as she told her story she only got more so. When I told her that we too had moved here from LA, she looked to me for reassurance.

"It's nice here, right? she asked, almost pleading.

"Absolutely", I lied.

"Lots of things to do? Nice people?"

"Definitely", I lied.

Shameless, I know. But I couldn't afford to scare her off and lose the sale. Did I mention we pay for the move by the pound?

Rachel seemed visibly relieved and agreed to buy the whole room. She said she'd be back the next day with her husband to pick it up.

Sunday, they showed up to pick up the furniture and Rachel seemed somewhat stressed, her husband too. More than that, they both seemed apprehensive, maybe a little scared. I know the feeling well. That's how we were in the days before we moved here.

I wished I could tell them it would all be OK, but I'd already told enough lies for one weekend.