The Worst Year Of My Life.
I have never been so happy to see a year end in my life. I know it's purely symbolic - for all I know, the awfulness will just bleed over and continue into 2010. But I'm shockingly hopeful. And it's not just the liquor.
I've finally worked through, somewhat, the five stages of grief over the death of my career. Occasionally a job pops up that sends me back to #3, bargaining, but it's a mirage. It's over.
So... what's next?
I've been doing a lot of soul searching. I've had to do an honest evaluation of my strengths and skills. And a diligent assessment of the Bako job market and it's growth industries. And after many weeks, I've finally settled on two possible career paths.
Prison guard. Or WalMart.
Prison guard is actually a lot more appealing than you may think. It's HUGE here. There are quite a few CCF's and MCCF's. I don't know what those are, but there are a LOT of them. The pay and benefits are terrific. And the union is all powerful - it's nearly impossible to be fired.
What a pleasant change of pace THAT would be.
The only fly in the ointment is I'm not sure how wise it would be to give someone like me, in my state of mind, a firearm. I'm not sure it's even legal. Especially since I'm easily intimidated.
Something to explore.
And then there's WalMart. Sure, the pay is minimum wage and there are no benefits, including insurance. But they just opened a "Supercenter" - it's as big as Delaware and employs 12,000 people. And they're opening ANOTHER one, less than five miles away, this spring. Honestly, you can't swing a dead cat in this town without hitting a WalMart or Home Depot.
The hours would suck - it's open 24 hours. As far as I know, it's the only establishment in Shitsville open past 10pm.
Typically Bako - good luck getting a pizza delivered past 9pm, but you need a pair of husky boy overalls? Sure, come on in and browse at 3am.
But on the plus side, based on my observations of the local talent pool, I could probably work my way up to management fairly quickly. Maybe $12 an hour!
So I'm hopeful for a fresh start, a new beginning. Leaving all the unpleasantness of the soon passed year in the dustbin of history.
So to anyone who reads this blog, Happy New Year!
And welcome to WalMart!
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Feeling Blue
So it's a Blue Moon on New Year's Eve.
I don't know if that's good news or bad, but I'll take whatever I can get at this point.
It hasn't happened since 1990, and that year for me ended up being a decidedly mixed bag. But it started out great, so I'll hope for the best.
I don't know if that's good news or bad, but I'll take whatever I can get at this point.
It hasn't happened since 1990, and that year for me ended up being a decidedly mixed bag. But it started out great, so I'll hope for the best.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Where's My Lovely Parting Gift?
They say 40 is the new 30. That may well be true, socially. But in advertising, 40 is what it has always been... retirement age. The day before you turn 40, you may be on top of the world, with your finger on the pulse of the nation. The day after, you're just a bitter old man yelling at the kids to get off the lawn. It's all because the day you turn 40 you fall out of the Golden Demographic, the Holy Grail of advertising, ages 25 - 39. You're now worthless. I blew past that milestone several years ago but thought my innate good taste and talent would carry the day. We all did. We were wrong. Which explains why all my contemporaries and former colleagues are all unemployed or underemployed. Or have given up all together and taken up knitting. As a career.
I thought my career had completely hit bottom early this year when out of complete desperation I answered a Craigslist ad from an adult film company. They were looking for someone to design box covers and I hadn't worked in weeks and losing the house had become a very real possibility. And it paid ridicuously well.
A few days later I received an email from "Marco" expressing an interest in my work. A meeting was set up for the following day at 10.
10pm.
Which, it turns out, is the start of the business day in the porn biz. It's like working with vampires. So the next night, I swallowed my pride, and a Xanax, and set off for the big meeting.
Every cliche about the porn business is true. The address I was given was an unmarked, rundown warehouse across from the Van Nuys airport. Instead of a receptionist, there was an armed bouncer. After being kept waiting for almost an hour, I was finally led back through half-built sets (doctor's office, locker room, jail, etc.) and introduced to the owner, "Nick". An athletic version of Tony Soprano, he shook my hand and invited me to sit in a tiny chair set before his massive desk. There were five other men in the room who were never introduced and never spoke. I wasn't sure whether they were his henchmen or his entourage. After exchanging some pleasantries he asked to see my portfolio. I handed it over and he proceeded to leaf through it, slowly, silently. The goons just stared at me and I started to sweat uncontrollably. If he didn't like the work, my lifeless body would be found in a dumpster the next day.
But it turned out he liked the work and now it was time to meet his "VP of Marketing". It was now close to midnight. He made a call and within a minute in walked "Christiana". Mid 30's, quite pretty, in a slutty kind of way. She was formerly one of the stars, but was now schtupping "Nick" on the side and he'd promoted her. She'd obviously had work done, with the type of anti-gravity tits only found in porn.
She would be my boss.
Porn is a lot like baseball - you have your majors and then a farm system of minor league players that catch talent on the way up, or on the way down. In this case it was mostly down. This was definitely D-league. Their stable of "stars" was mostly 40-something skanks that looked pulled off the street. My first assignment featured a haggard woman who looked like my Jr. High lunch lady after a hard night. "Nick" had delusions of respectability and had said he wanted it "classy", but "Cristiana" had other thoughts and wanted it "DIRTY,DIRTY,DIRTY".
"Christiana" was insane. One minute she's be talking in a sex kitten purr, the next cussing like a rapper. She was either a crackhead or had multiple personalities. Or both. She'd already admitted she was "Marco", and her increasingly unhinged e-mails, always sent around 3am, came under a variety of names... "Destiny", "Lola", "Misty". My first artistic attempt was deemed too "soft", the second, (which featured the "star", bent over grabbing her boobs, taking it up the ass) was too "sophisticated". The third wasn't "dirty enough" and the fourth was dismissed with a curt "WHERE'S THE FUCKING PUSSY????". Throwing caution and taste to the wind, I made one final attempt. A tight crop on a beaver shot with an angry vagina that looked like the gaping entrance to the Holland tunnel. "I don't get it" she wrote back.
It was clear we weren't seeing eye to eye. Or eye to vagina. So I bailed. Never even billed them for all the work that had been done for fear of finding the goon squad on my doorstep. I'd finally reached rock bottom - I'd failed at porn. There's no way things could get worse.
And then we moved to Bako.
I've been scraping along for months with bottom-feeder local clients and the occasional bone tossed over the hill from LA. But I recently picked up a job that's done what porn couldn't... make me want to throw in the towel.
Port-A-Potties. An ad for Port-A-Potties. Granted, it's the deluxe, "executive" model, but it's still just a shitter on wheels.
Stick a fork in me. I'm done.
I thought my career had completely hit bottom early this year when out of complete desperation I answered a Craigslist ad from an adult film company. They were looking for someone to design box covers and I hadn't worked in weeks and losing the house had become a very real possibility. And it paid ridicuously well.
A few days later I received an email from "Marco" expressing an interest in my work. A meeting was set up for the following day at 10.
10pm.
Which, it turns out, is the start of the business day in the porn biz. It's like working with vampires. So the next night, I swallowed my pride, and a Xanax, and set off for the big meeting.
Every cliche about the porn business is true. The address I was given was an unmarked, rundown warehouse across from the Van Nuys airport. Instead of a receptionist, there was an armed bouncer. After being kept waiting for almost an hour, I was finally led back through half-built sets (doctor's office, locker room, jail, etc.) and introduced to the owner, "Nick". An athletic version of Tony Soprano, he shook my hand and invited me to sit in a tiny chair set before his massive desk. There were five other men in the room who were never introduced and never spoke. I wasn't sure whether they were his henchmen or his entourage. After exchanging some pleasantries he asked to see my portfolio. I handed it over and he proceeded to leaf through it, slowly, silently. The goons just stared at me and I started to sweat uncontrollably. If he didn't like the work, my lifeless body would be found in a dumpster the next day.
But it turned out he liked the work and now it was time to meet his "VP of Marketing". It was now close to midnight. He made a call and within a minute in walked "Christiana". Mid 30's, quite pretty, in a slutty kind of way. She was formerly one of the stars, but was now schtupping "Nick" on the side and he'd promoted her. She'd obviously had work done, with the type of anti-gravity tits only found in porn.
She would be my boss.
Porn is a lot like baseball - you have your majors and then a farm system of minor league players that catch talent on the way up, or on the way down. In this case it was mostly down. This was definitely D-league. Their stable of "stars" was mostly 40-something skanks that looked pulled off the street. My first assignment featured a haggard woman who looked like my Jr. High lunch lady after a hard night. "Nick" had delusions of respectability and had said he wanted it "classy", but "Cristiana" had other thoughts and wanted it "DIRTY,DIRTY,DIRTY".
"Christiana" was insane. One minute she's be talking in a sex kitten purr, the next cussing like a rapper. She was either a crackhead or had multiple personalities. Or both. She'd already admitted she was "Marco", and her increasingly unhinged e-mails, always sent around 3am, came under a variety of names... "Destiny", "Lola", "Misty". My first artistic attempt was deemed too "soft", the second, (which featured the "star", bent over grabbing her boobs, taking it up the ass) was too "sophisticated". The third wasn't "dirty enough" and the fourth was dismissed with a curt "WHERE'S THE FUCKING PUSSY????". Throwing caution and taste to the wind, I made one final attempt. A tight crop on a beaver shot with an angry vagina that looked like the gaping entrance to the Holland tunnel. "I don't get it" she wrote back.
It was clear we weren't seeing eye to eye. Or eye to vagina. So I bailed. Never even billed them for all the work that had been done for fear of finding the goon squad on my doorstep. I'd finally reached rock bottom - I'd failed at porn. There's no way things could get worse.
And then we moved to Bako.
I've been scraping along for months with bottom-feeder local clients and the occasional bone tossed over the hill from LA. But I recently picked up a job that's done what porn couldn't... make me want to throw in the towel.
Port-A-Potties. An ad for Port-A-Potties. Granted, it's the deluxe, "executive" model, but it's still just a shitter on wheels.
Stick a fork in me. I'm done.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Same Time, Next Year
"Cheer up" my friend said. "The year is almost gone and next year will be better".
Please.
I fell for that crap last year this week, and at the time I had a savings account, a 401k, stocks, collectables and a house in the Hollywood Hills.
It's all gone.
Yes, next year may in fact be better.
But that isn't saying much.
Please.
I fell for that crap last year this week, and at the time I had a savings account, a 401k, stocks, collectables and a house in the Hollywood Hills.
It's all gone.
Yes, next year may in fact be better.
But that isn't saying much.
Hello Dali
One of the first roads you cross after you exit the freeway en route to our house is South Real Road. The day I moved here I left the freeway still shellshocked by the move and completely disoriented. I looked up at the street sign that said "S. REAL" and misread it as "SURREAL".
Aint that the truth.
It's hard to explain just how strange this place is. People drive around with giant crucifixes in the back of their trucks. Teams in haz mat outfits patrol vacant lots and no one takes notice. Working oils wells sprout like mushrooms in unlikely places, turning parking lots into obstacle courses. There's one steps from the entrance to a nearby hotel and there's even one grafted onto an El Torito restaurant. Add in the pestilence and plagues. In three short months I've grown immune to the weirdness.
So I didn't bat an eye this morning when, while walking the dogs in the chowder-like fog, a gothic figure emerged and started walking towards me. It was a pear shaped woman in a velour track suit, complete with a hood. She looked like a medieval monk from the Brotherhood of Pierre Cardin.
"Did you hear about the cat burglar?"
Who was this woman? I couldn't make out her face in the fog, just her breath as she spoke. As far as I know I'd never seen her before because I definitely would've remembered the outfit.
And... "Cat Burglar"?! I'd only ever heard the term used on an episode of "I Love Lucy".
I told her I hadn't heard about it.
"Yeah, robbery, right around the corner."
Really, I asked. What did they take?
"Nothing".
And with that she was gone, vanished back into the fog in a few short steps.
Aint that the truth.
It's hard to explain just how strange this place is. People drive around with giant crucifixes in the back of their trucks. Teams in haz mat outfits patrol vacant lots and no one takes notice. Working oils wells sprout like mushrooms in unlikely places, turning parking lots into obstacle courses. There's one steps from the entrance to a nearby hotel and there's even one grafted onto an El Torito restaurant. Add in the pestilence and plagues. In three short months I've grown immune to the weirdness.
So I didn't bat an eye this morning when, while walking the dogs in the chowder-like fog, a gothic figure emerged and started walking towards me. It was a pear shaped woman in a velour track suit, complete with a hood. She looked like a medieval monk from the Brotherhood of Pierre Cardin.
"Did you hear about the cat burglar?"
Who was this woman? I couldn't make out her face in the fog, just her breath as she spoke. As far as I know I'd never seen her before because I definitely would've remembered the outfit.
And... "Cat Burglar"?! I'd only ever heard the term used on an episode of "I Love Lucy".
I told her I hadn't heard about it.
"Yeah, robbery, right around the corner."
Really, I asked. What did they take?
"Nothing".
And with that she was gone, vanished back into the fog in a few short steps.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Stink Different
"Well, time to head back to Shitsville..."
I laughed out loud and it punctured the gloom that had descended on us as the hours ticked down to the end of our weekend furlough. I guess we wouldn't be running off to Mexico after all.
There was a certain relief though. Not with returning to Bakersfield. God no. But with that one sentence all fears that the boyfriend had crossed over and Gone Bako on me were laid to rest. We were on the same page.
And headed back to Shitsville.
Shitsville! What an awesome name. I wish I had thought of it. It has the benefit of being both figuratively and literally spot on.
Figuratively in the sense of, well, just read this blog. A worse place you'd be hard pressed to find.
But also literally, in the sense that... Bakersfield smells.
You smell Bakersfield before you ever catch sight of it. At Thanksgiving, as we descended down the Grapevine, I had half-dozed off in the passenger seat with the dogs in my lap. Twenty miles later, with the windows rolled up, and my eyes shut, I knew we were nearly there. Eau de Bako.
I can't really quantify the scent. A mixture of toxic air, manure and pesticides, but I'm just guessing. You know it when you smell it.
So off we go. As I type this post they're playing "Road to Nowhere" by the Talking Heads in the background.
Sounds about right.
I laughed out loud and it punctured the gloom that had descended on us as the hours ticked down to the end of our weekend furlough. I guess we wouldn't be running off to Mexico after all.
There was a certain relief though. Not with returning to Bakersfield. God no. But with that one sentence all fears that the boyfriend had crossed over and Gone Bako on me were laid to rest. We were on the same page.
And headed back to Shitsville.
Shitsville! What an awesome name. I wish I had thought of it. It has the benefit of being both figuratively and literally spot on.
Figuratively in the sense of, well, just read this blog. A worse place you'd be hard pressed to find.
But also literally, in the sense that... Bakersfield smells.
You smell Bakersfield before you ever catch sight of it. At Thanksgiving, as we descended down the Grapevine, I had half-dozed off in the passenger seat with the dogs in my lap. Twenty miles later, with the windows rolled up, and my eyes shut, I knew we were nearly there. Eau de Bako.
I can't really quantify the scent. A mixture of toxic air, manure and pesticides, but I'm just guessing. You know it when you smell it.
So off we go. As I type this post they're playing "Road to Nowhere" by the Talking Heads in the background.
Sounds about right.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
A Very Bako Christmas
On the twelfth week in Bako,
cruel fortune sent to me...
Twelve toxic dust storms,
Eleven flies a-swarming,
Ten kilt-ers tilting,
Nine waiters prancing,
Eight neighbors glaring,
Seven lawns a-swimming,
Six freaks a praying,
Five Hooot-ers Grrrls,
Four pious scolds,
Three dense fogs,
Two witless hicks,
And a cockroach in bed beside me.
So we're bailing on Hooterville later today. Not a moment too soon.
I didn't ask for much this Christmas. Just to
N O T
C O M E
B A C K.
I'm not holding my breath on that one.
cruel fortune sent to me...
Twelve toxic dust storms,
Eleven flies a-swarming,
Ten kilt-ers tilting,
Nine waiters prancing,
Eight neighbors glaring,
Seven lawns a-swimming,
Six freaks a praying,
Five Hooot-ers Grrrls,
Four pious scolds,
Three dense fogs,
Two witless hicks,
And a cockroach in bed beside me.
So we're bailing on Hooterville later today. Not a moment too soon.
I didn't ask for much this Christmas. Just to
N O T
C O M E
B A C K.
I'm not holding my breath on that one.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Christmas Past
From Day One it's been obvious that I didn't just move 100 miles north, but also an indeterminate number of years into the past. While LA prides itself on being on the bleeding edge of just about everything, it's painfully obvious that Bako is more than content to hang out on the dull, trailing edge of all that and more.
So the question remains, how far in the Wayback Machine have we traveled? Ten years? Twenty?
That isn't as easy to answer as it may seem. Rather quickly I had pegged this place as mid-80's "Morning In America" Reagan Country. But something about that just didn't quite jibe. Whatever your opinion of Reagan, no one can dispute his stupidly sunny fake optimism. And that aint here. It doesn't quite capture the pinched, paranoid, resentful quality of life.
And then I saw something today that suddenly cemented this place in it's appropriate time. It was a TV commercial for a local business, with last minute Christmas suggestions.
"Why not give the gift of art?"
Original lithographs. Signed and numbered.
By..... LeRoy Neiman!
That's it!
It's 1973!
And you know what? It's spot on. There is something SO Nixonian about this place. I hate to admit it by I'm old enough to have lived through it, so I know of what I speak.
It's also the year our all time favorite movie was released...
"The Poseidon Adventure"
Which gives me a tiny bit of hope, in an otherwise hopeless holiday season.
"There's got to be a morning after
If we can hold on through the night
We have a chance to find the sunshine
Let's keep on lookin' for the light..."
Maybe, just maybe, we'll manage to crawl out of this hellhole.
Here's to hoping I'm Nonnie and not Mrs. Rosen.
So the question remains, how far in the Wayback Machine have we traveled? Ten years? Twenty?
That isn't as easy to answer as it may seem. Rather quickly I had pegged this place as mid-80's "Morning In America" Reagan Country. But something about that just didn't quite jibe. Whatever your opinion of Reagan, no one can dispute his stupidly sunny fake optimism. And that aint here. It doesn't quite capture the pinched, paranoid, resentful quality of life.
And then I saw something today that suddenly cemented this place in it's appropriate time. It was a TV commercial for a local business, with last minute Christmas suggestions.
"Why not give the gift of art?"
Original lithographs. Signed and numbered.
By..... LeRoy Neiman!
That's it!
It's 1973!
And you know what? It's spot on. There is something SO Nixonian about this place. I hate to admit it by I'm old enough to have lived through it, so I know of what I speak.
It's also the year our all time favorite movie was released...
"The Poseidon Adventure"
Which gives me a tiny bit of hope, in an otherwise hopeless holiday season.
"There's got to be a morning after
If we can hold on through the night
We have a chance to find the sunshine
Let's keep on lookin' for the light..."
Maybe, just maybe, we'll manage to crawl out of this hellhole.
Here's to hoping I'm Nonnie and not Mrs. Rosen.
Not A Creature Was Stirring, Not Even A Roach...
Well, that's not entirely true. Because out in the kitchen there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the couch to see what was the matter.
Roach.
Big one. Size of a pack of smokes. It must be their king.
The dogs were trying to play with it, so I made quick work of it.
Flush away! Flush away! Flush away all!
But I suddenly realized the roaches have been making themselves scarce lately. It must be the cold.
Do roaches hibernate? I'm still kind of new to the whole "biblical pestilence" thing.
Roach.
Big one. Size of a pack of smokes. It must be their king.
The dogs were trying to play with it, so I made quick work of it.
Flush away! Flush away! Flush away all!
But I suddenly realized the roaches have been making themselves scarce lately. It must be the cold.
Do roaches hibernate? I'm still kind of new to the whole "biblical pestilence" thing.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Off Kilter
"It's like Hooters, but the girls aren't as pretty..."
What an awesome Zagat review THAT would make! But it wasn't a review, it was a recommendation - I had asked a woman I'd worked with in Bako, one whom I'd become friendly with, where would be a good place to experience a Bako night out.
And she suggested "The Tilted Kilt".
Not at first... originally she's suggested Outback Steakhouse and Applebee's. I'm really beginning to believe the locals never cross the city limits and actually believe all these chain restaurants are Bako originals. But when I pressed her for something a little more authentically Bako, she offered up the Kilt. But not without a warning...
"The big difference is that at Hooters they make the girls wear pantyhose, but not at the Kilt, so you end up seeing all the cellulite. But the food is better!"
Well, with a recommendation like that...
I swear these people are beyond clueless. This particular woman knew I was gay (and had met the boyfriend and me out for drinks) and yet she thought our idea of a night out would involve skanks and wings.
But ya' know...I didn't dismiss it out of hand - you never know, it could be campy good fun, like Jumbo's Clown Room in LA.
So I Googled it.
First of all, it's another frickin' chain! Based in the South - there's a shocker. Bakersfield is it's only California outlet I think, which makes twisted sense and explains why no one has heard of it. It's not so much "kilts" as it it "slutty Catholic schoolgirl".
Britney Spears in tartan with potato skins.
I wanted to bleach my eyes.
I appreciated the suggestion, but ultimately we decided to go another direction.
We did drive-thru at Long John Silver's. The boyfriend got the pirate hat.
What an awesome Zagat review THAT would make! But it wasn't a review, it was a recommendation - I had asked a woman I'd worked with in Bako, one whom I'd become friendly with, where would be a good place to experience a Bako night out.
And she suggested "The Tilted Kilt".
Not at first... originally she's suggested Outback Steakhouse and Applebee's. I'm really beginning to believe the locals never cross the city limits and actually believe all these chain restaurants are Bako originals. But when I pressed her for something a little more authentically Bako, she offered up the Kilt. But not without a warning...
"The big difference is that at Hooters they make the girls wear pantyhose, but not at the Kilt, so you end up seeing all the cellulite. But the food is better!"
Well, with a recommendation like that...
I swear these people are beyond clueless. This particular woman knew I was gay (and had met the boyfriend and me out for drinks) and yet she thought our idea of a night out would involve skanks and wings.
But ya' know...I didn't dismiss it out of hand - you never know, it could be campy good fun, like Jumbo's Clown Room in LA.
So I Googled it.
First of all, it's another frickin' chain! Based in the South - there's a shocker. Bakersfield is it's only California outlet I think, which makes twisted sense and explains why no one has heard of it. It's not so much "kilts" as it it "slutty Catholic schoolgirl".
Britney Spears in tartan with potato skins.
I wanted to bleach my eyes.
I appreciated the suggestion, but ultimately we decided to go another direction.
We did drive-thru at Long John Silver's. The boyfriend got the pirate hat.
Monday, December 21, 2009
No, Virginia, There Is No Santa Claus....
... because he's gone! Circuit Party Santa is gone! I'm so bummed because he had recently been moved down to street level and I was going to get him some glow sticks.
I hope no one stole him.
Maybe he's just taking a well deserved break inside in the chill room. Or maybe he split early to join the Circuit down in Miami or PV.
But I have an idea of where you might find him...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mT1nDUy-eNI
I hope no one stole him.
Maybe he's just taking a well deserved break inside in the chill room. Or maybe he split early to join the Circuit down in Miami or PV.
But I have an idea of where you might find him...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mT1nDUy-eNI
A Spray In The Manger
Here's a thought - if you're going to put a life-size Nativity scene on the front lawn, turn off the damn sprinklers. For such overtly religious people, you would think that nailing the Baby Jesus in the head with the RainBird would border on the sacrilegious. But not here. They have their priorities, and nothing, absolutely nothing, is going to pry their sprinklers from their cold, dead lawns. If the Lord and Savior has to take one for the team, so be it.
It was dispiriting to see nonetheless, even for a lapsed Christian like myself. But it pretty much sums up my mood this cheerless holiday season.
I can't wait for this week to be over.
Or this year.
It was dispiriting to see nonetheless, even for a lapsed Christian like myself. But it pretty much sums up my mood this cheerless holiday season.
I can't wait for this week to be over.
Or this year.
Friday, December 18, 2009
An Open Letter to the Bakersfield Planning Department
Dear Fucktards,
I realize your city is boring beyond belief, but that's no excuse to turn every public space into a laboratory rat maze.
It doesn't make it "interesting".
Best Regards,
Eric In Bako
It isn't just the Byzantine housing developments. It's everything - parking lots, shopping centers, everything. In Bako, the shortest distance between point "A' and point "B" involves looping around to "G", doubling back to "C" and "D" and finally deadending at "F". A simple trip to the market is a ride on a Moebius strip.
After swearing off the Mall of the Dead, I found myself having to go after all for a last minute gift. It was such a complete nightmare I finally gave up. Not by choice. I battled gridlock to the entrance of the parking lot, and after crawling along for 30 minutes, merging, converging and doubling back through pedestrian crossings, one of the helpful parking attendants directed me to... the exit. Suddenly I was back out on the street.
Fuck it. I'm giving gift cards.
And God help you if you need to turn left. Evidently this place is so rightwing they've banned left turns. Every street has a huge concrete median, with few, if any, opportunities to make a left. So you drive down the street, staring longingly at your destination on the left, knowing you have to drive a mile or two down the road in order to double back. If you even can. They don't do U-turns here either, so you usually have to turn into one of the Habitrail neighborhoods and hope you can find a way to turn around and backtrack.
And it's apparently all by design.
Maybe the Planning Department is staffed with people with Tourettes.
Or maybe they know that if they make it easy to find a way out, everyone would.
And leave for good.
I realize your city is boring beyond belief, but that's no excuse to turn every public space into a laboratory rat maze.
It doesn't make it "interesting".
Best Regards,
Eric In Bako
It isn't just the Byzantine housing developments. It's everything - parking lots, shopping centers, everything. In Bako, the shortest distance between point "A' and point "B" involves looping around to "G", doubling back to "C" and "D" and finally deadending at "F". A simple trip to the market is a ride on a Moebius strip.
After swearing off the Mall of the Dead, I found myself having to go after all for a last minute gift. It was such a complete nightmare I finally gave up. Not by choice. I battled gridlock to the entrance of the parking lot, and after crawling along for 30 minutes, merging, converging and doubling back through pedestrian crossings, one of the helpful parking attendants directed me to... the exit. Suddenly I was back out on the street.
Fuck it. I'm giving gift cards.
And God help you if you need to turn left. Evidently this place is so rightwing they've banned left turns. Every street has a huge concrete median, with few, if any, opportunities to make a left. So you drive down the street, staring longingly at your destination on the left, knowing you have to drive a mile or two down the road in order to double back. If you even can. They don't do U-turns here either, so you usually have to turn into one of the Habitrail neighborhoods and hope you can find a way to turn around and backtrack.
And it's apparently all by design.
Maybe the Planning Department is staffed with people with Tourettes.
Or maybe they know that if they make it easy to find a way out, everyone would.
And leave for good.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
D'oh Ja Vu
From the first day I lived here there was something oddly familiar about Bako. I couldn't put my finger on it, but the people, the places... I felt like I already knew this town. How is that possible? Where have I seen this all before?
Ah yes... "The Simpsons".
Bakersfield IS Springfield!
Of course! How didn't I get this before? The clueless citizens, the corrupt politicians, the venal corporate overlords... it's clear as the fog in your face. The local news anchors are all channeling Kent Brockman. My two next door neighbors are dead ringers for Marge's sisters, Patty and Selma. All the locals I've met are variations of Ned Flanders. We even have Apu around the corner at the local liquor store. The only thing missing is the nuclear power plant, and don't think they wouldn't jump at that chance if only Chevron would let them.
Driving around Bako, the neighborhoods are the same...Rats Nest, Bum Town, Crackton, Junkyville, Little Newark, Ethnictown, Pressboard Estates, Recluse Ranch Estates and the flammable district. Oh sure, the names are different, but that's probably just a legal formality.
It was slightly comforting, knowing someone, somewhere knew our pain and had escaped to chronicle it all for posterity. But that doesn't change the fact that we're still stuck here.
In the words of Bart Simpson, “I never thought it was humanly possible, but this both sucks and blows.”
Ah yes... "The Simpsons".
Bakersfield IS Springfield!
Of course! How didn't I get this before? The clueless citizens, the corrupt politicians, the venal corporate overlords... it's clear as the fog in your face. The local news anchors are all channeling Kent Brockman. My two next door neighbors are dead ringers for Marge's sisters, Patty and Selma. All the locals I've met are variations of Ned Flanders. We even have Apu around the corner at the local liquor store. The only thing missing is the nuclear power plant, and don't think they wouldn't jump at that chance if only Chevron would let them.
Driving around Bako, the neighborhoods are the same...Rats Nest, Bum Town, Crackton, Junkyville, Little Newark, Ethnictown, Pressboard Estates, Recluse Ranch Estates and the flammable district. Oh sure, the names are different, but that's probably just a legal formality.
It was slightly comforting, knowing someone, somewhere knew our pain and had escaped to chronicle it all for posterity. But that doesn't change the fact that we're still stuck here.
In the words of Bart Simpson, “I never thought it was humanly possible, but this both sucks and blows.”
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Circuit Party Santa
It took awhile, but the neighbors finally got with the program and festooned their houses for the holidays. I wish I could say I was surprised at how monotonously the same they all are, but then again if anyone had any personal stye they certainly wouldn't be living here. The "theme" this year is apparently "laziness". Seriously, if you're going to go to the expense of buying all this crap for your front yard, the least you could do is PLUG IT IN. But no, these people can't be bothered to run out an extension cord. So yard after yard is populated with those cheesy wire-frame snowmen and reindeer, covered in twinkly white lights that are never turned on. What's the point? Might as well just dump a pile of wire coat hangers on the lawn and call it a day. The most unfortunate part, at least with the reindeer, is that the unused plug dangles approximately where the genitals would fall.
And the inflatables aren't much better. For the first day or two they were gleefully pumped up and turned on at dusk. But now? Meh. Over it. So they blanket the lawns like abandoned parachutes. The whole neighborhood looks like they just did an emergency food drop. Nothing says "Merry Christmas" like a bunch of limp vinyl.
And then there's Jim. He's proven to be something of a disappointment. He started strong but then quickly faded. The Parisian theme went nowhere. And for days the only additions were "lollipops" - those small security company lawn signs, wrapped in cellophane. You could still read the company names - ADT, Brinks, Homeguard. Either Jim has a LOT of security, or he's been raiding the neighbor's lawns. But then he made one addition that was so awesome, so stupendous, it almost made up for the weak showing so far:
Circuit Party Santa.
Life size, "life-like", it looks demonic. With rubbery skin only an embalmer could love. His eyes are completely dilated like he's popped a couple of hits of X. Mechanically he twists, slowly back and forth, waving maniacally at nothing in particular. Currently he's on the roof and looks like a go-go boy.
God it reminds me of my club days.
Good times.
And the inflatables aren't much better. For the first day or two they were gleefully pumped up and turned on at dusk. But now? Meh. Over it. So they blanket the lawns like abandoned parachutes. The whole neighborhood looks like they just did an emergency food drop. Nothing says "Merry Christmas" like a bunch of limp vinyl.
And then there's Jim. He's proven to be something of a disappointment. He started strong but then quickly faded. The Parisian theme went nowhere. And for days the only additions were "lollipops" - those small security company lawn signs, wrapped in cellophane. You could still read the company names - ADT, Brinks, Homeguard. Either Jim has a LOT of security, or he's been raiding the neighbor's lawns. But then he made one addition that was so awesome, so stupendous, it almost made up for the weak showing so far:
Circuit Party Santa.
Life size, "life-like", it looks demonic. With rubbery skin only an embalmer could love. His eyes are completely dilated like he's popped a couple of hits of X. Mechanically he twists, slowly back and forth, waving maniacally at nothing in particular. Currently he's on the roof and looks like a go-go boy.
God it reminds me of my club days.
Good times.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
The Princess And The Fog
Coming from Hollywood I know a thing or two about hype - I used to help manufacture it. So all the dire warnings about the coming "fog" were easy to dismiss as overblown. I'd lived at the beach, I'd experienced dense fog, it wasn't such a big deal.
WRONG
On the news it was described as "mild" and "patchy".
Holy Mother of Pearl. I opened the front door to take the dogs out and couldn't see past the doormat. The dogs ran out... and vanished. Thank god they were on leashes otherwise they'd be gone for good. I ventured out as far as the front lawn... I think. Hard to tell. It was like having cataracts. Only one street light was visible and it looked like a distant star. The dogs freaked out and came rushing back in. Did they do their business? Who knows.
And this was "mild"?!?! Yikes.
I'll give Bako this - they don't do their plagues half-assed here. The more Biblical, the better.
Dust storms? Ours are toxic, spore-laden killer dust storms!
Cockroaches? The size of a pack of cigarettes!
Houseflies? In swarms that will black out the sun!
And now we can add fog so thick it could swallow your will to live.
WRONG
On the news it was described as "mild" and "patchy".
Holy Mother of Pearl. I opened the front door to take the dogs out and couldn't see past the doormat. The dogs ran out... and vanished. Thank god they were on leashes otherwise they'd be gone for good. I ventured out as far as the front lawn... I think. Hard to tell. It was like having cataracts. Only one street light was visible and it looked like a distant star. The dogs freaked out and came rushing back in. Did they do their business? Who knows.
And this was "mild"?!?! Yikes.
I'll give Bako this - they don't do their plagues half-assed here. The more Biblical, the better.
Dust storms? Ours are toxic, spore-laden killer dust storms!
Cockroaches? The size of a pack of cigarettes!
Houseflies? In swarms that will black out the sun!
And now we can add fog so thick it could swallow your will to live.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Uranus
"So what do you think about Bakersfield?"
A local reporter had cornered one of the visiting Russians and she looked scared. Eyes darting around, you could almost see the gears turning in her head as she tried to come up with a polite answer.
"It is like a different planet."
And that was only after Day 1.
I feel for you honey, because it's only going to be downhill from here.
Trust me.
A local reporter had cornered one of the visiting Russians and she looked scared. Eyes darting around, you could almost see the gears turning in her head as she tried to come up with a polite answer.
"It is like a different planet."
And that was only after Day 1.
I feel for you honey, because it's only going to be downhill from here.
Trust me.
Random Good Things About Bako: #3
The Friendly Skies.
So my post yesterday about the visiting dignitaries got me to thinking. Not about the hapless Russians - they're on their own. But about the airport. It's existence was such a revelation because up until that moment it hadn't occurred to me that I haven't seen, or heard, an airplane in three months. The day I moved here, a crop duster buzzed the highway about 20 miles out of town (Bakersfield's version of the Welcome Wagon I suppose). But other than that... Nada.
Occasionally you can make out a jet, high above, cruising at 30,000 feet between better towns than this.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain. If you look out the left side of the aircraft you can see the city of Bakersfield... HAHAHAHAHA..."
So they have an airport here. How does that work? Departures I can understand - I wish I was on one everyday. But who in their right mind would fly here? Can you operate an airport on a "one-way" model? It must not get much use.
At any rate, there is no air traffic. None. Zero. The only thing man-made in the air here are the toxic pesticides.
In all my years in LA, I was always living on the approach to one airport or another. LAX, Burbank, Santa Monica, Van Nuys. Add in all the helicopters - police, fire, news and corporate and there was always a constant din overhead that you learn to just tune out like white noise. You really don't notice it until it's gone. Or in my case, until three months after your gone. I don't even think the police here have a helicopter, which is probably a good thing. If you watch the local news and see how often they crash, flip, wreck or plow their patrol cars into the local businesses I think we can agree it's best not to get them airborne.
So Bakersfield is deathly quiet, but I never made the airplane connection until now. And all in all I can't say that's a bad thing.
That's not to say I still wouldn't kill for a one-way ticket out of here.
So my post yesterday about the visiting dignitaries got me to thinking. Not about the hapless Russians - they're on their own. But about the airport. It's existence was such a revelation because up until that moment it hadn't occurred to me that I haven't seen, or heard, an airplane in three months. The day I moved here, a crop duster buzzed the highway about 20 miles out of town (Bakersfield's version of the Welcome Wagon I suppose). But other than that... Nada.
Occasionally you can make out a jet, high above, cruising at 30,000 feet between better towns than this.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain. If you look out the left side of the aircraft you can see the city of Bakersfield... HAHAHAHAHA..."
So they have an airport here. How does that work? Departures I can understand - I wish I was on one everyday. But who in their right mind would fly here? Can you operate an airport on a "one-way" model? It must not get much use.
At any rate, there is no air traffic. None. Zero. The only thing man-made in the air here are the toxic pesticides.
In all my years in LA, I was always living on the approach to one airport or another. LAX, Burbank, Santa Monica, Van Nuys. Add in all the helicopters - police, fire, news and corporate and there was always a constant din overhead that you learn to just tune out like white noise. You really don't notice it until it's gone. Or in my case, until three months after your gone. I don't even think the police here have a helicopter, which is probably a good thing. If you watch the local news and see how often they crash, flip, wreck or plow their patrol cars into the local businesses I think we can agree it's best not to get them airborne.
So Bakersfield is deathly quiet, but I never made the airplane connection until now. And all in all I can't say that's a bad thing.
That's not to say I still wouldn't kill for a one-way ticket out of here.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Reds
Lord help us. On the news this evening they announced that a delegation of Russians arrived this evening at the airport, here for a week to experience "real America".
I don't know which is more shocking - that any sane person would consider Bako "real America", or the fact that Bako has an airport. Who knew? And it looks like a real airport! Not just someone waving flags in a cornfield.
But back to the Russians. There is no way this will end well. Bako is like the crazy Aunt you keep up in the attic - an embarrassment to the family that you tolerate with kindness, but hide from the neighbors. You certainly don't introduce her to foreigners. This is bound to result in an international incident. Have they not seen all the bumper stickers? "Obama is a Socialist!". "Better Dead Than Red!"
Yes, I know they aren't communist anymore, but I'm not sure they got the memo here. I don't even think the people here are aware the Cold War is over. They barely tolerate Democrats, and now they hosting Commies? I hope they steer clear of politics and just focus on the cultural highlights.
How do you say "Hooters" in Russian?
I don't know which is more shocking - that any sane person would consider Bako "real America", or the fact that Bako has an airport. Who knew? And it looks like a real airport! Not just someone waving flags in a cornfield.
But back to the Russians. There is no way this will end well. Bako is like the crazy Aunt you keep up in the attic - an embarrassment to the family that you tolerate with kindness, but hide from the neighbors. You certainly don't introduce her to foreigners. This is bound to result in an international incident. Have they not seen all the bumper stickers? "Obama is a Socialist!". "Better Dead Than Red!"
Yes, I know they aren't communist anymore, but I'm not sure they got the memo here. I don't even think the people here are aware the Cold War is over. They barely tolerate Democrats, and now they hosting Commies? I hope they steer clear of politics and just focus on the cultural highlights.
How do you say "Hooters" in Russian?
My Give A Damn's Busted
"I really wanna care,
I wanna feel somethin'
Let me dig a little deeper...
Nope...
Sorry...
Nothin..."
Amen. Sing it sister. We were driving in the car and the boyfriend turned the dial to KUZZ, "Bakersfield's Country and News Station." "Country" and "News" aren't two words I picture in the same sentence, but, whatever.
Casseroles, country music... I'm still holding out hope that he hasn't crossed over and it's just a phase, like the unfortunate vegan thing of a few years back. But here we were, tooling down the 99 listening to some woman singing about her busted Give A Damn.
I feel her pain.
Maybe it's just the depressing circumstances we find ourselves in right around the holidays. More likely it's just Bako. Probably a combination of both. But whatever the reason it's just become hard to give a damn about almost anything these days.
I just don't care.
I hope this is just a phase for me too.
"My give a damn's busted
My give a damn's busted
Honey trust me
My give a damn's busted yeahhh ..."
I wanna feel somethin'
Let me dig a little deeper...
Nope...
Sorry...
Nothin..."
Amen. Sing it sister. We were driving in the car and the boyfriend turned the dial to KUZZ, "Bakersfield's Country and News Station." "Country" and "News" aren't two words I picture in the same sentence, but, whatever.
Casseroles, country music... I'm still holding out hope that he hasn't crossed over and it's just a phase, like the unfortunate vegan thing of a few years back. But here we were, tooling down the 99 listening to some woman singing about her busted Give A Damn.
I feel her pain.
Maybe it's just the depressing circumstances we find ourselves in right around the holidays. More likely it's just Bako. Probably a combination of both. But whatever the reason it's just become hard to give a damn about almost anything these days.
I just don't care.
I hope this is just a phase for me too.
"My give a damn's busted
My give a damn's busted
Honey trust me
My give a damn's busted yeahhh ..."
Thursday, December 10, 2009
The Buck Stops Here
Paris has the Eiffel Tower. London has Big Ben. All great cities have an iconic landmark.
So too, Bakersfield.
BUCK OWENS' CRYSTAL PALACE
Buck Owens is revered here, even three years after his death. He hosted "Hee-Haw". He pioneered "The Bakersfield Sound" in country music. I have no idea what that is, but it probably involves big rig air horns and rhythmic oil pumping. He lived here for probably the last 40 years and built himself a shrine. The Crystal Palace. On Buck Owens Blvd.
I've heard about it for months. It's the center of civic life here. Quite the big deal. I couldn't believe it's taken this long to check it out.
"Crystal Palace". It sounded so grand. I pictured Versailles. But if I've learned anything in our three months here, I've learned you can never set your bar too low. So I quickly ratcheted down my expectations and pictured something along the lines of an Indian casino. It probably had some sort of glass atrium or entrance that gave it it's "Crystal" name.
So off we went. We turned in the driveway, off Buck Owens' Blvd, or BOB, as I like to call it. To the right was a cheesy "Western" town - fakes storefronts and "saloons", with threadbare mannequins hanging out on fake balconies. I looked beyond it for a glimpse of the "Palace".
Nothing.
And then it hit me... that was no cheesy Western town...
"Welcome to Buck Owens' Crystal Palace".
Crystal my ass. There wasn't a pane of glass anywhere. It was a super-sized honky tonk, done up like Calico Ghost Town at Knott's Berry Farm. This was the center of the Bakersfield universe?
Inside was more of the same, Frontierland turned inside out. A smallish stage and a huge mezzanine level. That must be where they stage the fake gunfights, gunslingers tumbling over the balcony railing. Oh right, we weren't at a theme park. The pièce de résistance was Buck's "Nudiemobile", a Pontiac convertible blinged out Elvis style, mounted sideways on the wall behind the bar, roadkill style.
This was going to be a short night out.
There was no live music the night we were there. Be grateful for small favors. We ordered some drinks and checked out the scene. My original assessment of it being a honky tonk was incorrect. It was a wildlife preserve. The species on display?
Cougars.
Now all the cosmetic surgery ads on the radio made sense.
The ladies, if I may use that term, have probably not been exposed to gay men, and never thought to make that assumption. To them we were just new. New meat. My partner took most of the attention - he's the pretty one. We ordered more drinks. And more. It wasn't helping.
The uncomfortable attention, the feeling of eyes drilling through you, hushed whispers and pointing was too much. And the car mounted on the wall became disorienting after a few drinks - you felt like you were standing on the walls. We decided to throw in the towel.
As we walked out someone shouted "Ya'll come back now!"
Hmmm....... No.
So too, Bakersfield.
BUCK OWENS' CRYSTAL PALACE
Buck Owens is revered here, even three years after his death. He hosted "Hee-Haw". He pioneered "The Bakersfield Sound" in country music. I have no idea what that is, but it probably involves big rig air horns and rhythmic oil pumping. He lived here for probably the last 40 years and built himself a shrine. The Crystal Palace. On Buck Owens Blvd.
I've heard about it for months. It's the center of civic life here. Quite the big deal. I couldn't believe it's taken this long to check it out.
"Crystal Palace". It sounded so grand. I pictured Versailles. But if I've learned anything in our three months here, I've learned you can never set your bar too low. So I quickly ratcheted down my expectations and pictured something along the lines of an Indian casino. It probably had some sort of glass atrium or entrance that gave it it's "Crystal" name.
So off we went. We turned in the driveway, off Buck Owens' Blvd, or BOB, as I like to call it. To the right was a cheesy "Western" town - fakes storefronts and "saloons", with threadbare mannequins hanging out on fake balconies. I looked beyond it for a glimpse of the "Palace".
Nothing.
And then it hit me... that was no cheesy Western town...
"Welcome to Buck Owens' Crystal Palace".
Crystal my ass. There wasn't a pane of glass anywhere. It was a super-sized honky tonk, done up like Calico Ghost Town at Knott's Berry Farm. This was the center of the Bakersfield universe?
Inside was more of the same, Frontierland turned inside out. A smallish stage and a huge mezzanine level. That must be where they stage the fake gunfights, gunslingers tumbling over the balcony railing. Oh right, we weren't at a theme park. The pièce de résistance was Buck's "Nudiemobile", a Pontiac convertible blinged out Elvis style, mounted sideways on the wall behind the bar, roadkill style.
This was going to be a short night out.
There was no live music the night we were there. Be grateful for small favors. We ordered some drinks and checked out the scene. My original assessment of it being a honky tonk was incorrect. It was a wildlife preserve. The species on display?
Cougars.
Now all the cosmetic surgery ads on the radio made sense.
The ladies, if I may use that term, have probably not been exposed to gay men, and never thought to make that assumption. To them we were just new. New meat. My partner took most of the attention - he's the pretty one. We ordered more drinks. And more. It wasn't helping.
The uncomfortable attention, the feeling of eyes drilling through you, hushed whispers and pointing was too much. And the car mounted on the wall became disorienting after a few drinks - you felt like you were standing on the walls. We decided to throw in the towel.
As we walked out someone shouted "Ya'll come back now!"
Hmmm....... No.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Weather Or Not
I was not aware it got this cold in California. At least not without a chair lift involved.
I tried to do laundry this morning, but the detergent had frozen.
And my moron neighbors aren't going to let a little sub freezing weather deter them from their appointed rounds... watering their goddamn lawns. The lawns are dead of course, turned brown weeks ago. But still they water, for hours before dawn. It saturates the sponge-like dead lawns and flows in a sheet over the sidewalk. And freezes. It's turned all the sidewalks into a luge run.
I almost ate shit multiple times trying to walk the dogs. Black ice. We tried walking in the street, which was suicidal - the drivers here are bad enough in warm weather, but now their windshields are frosted and they're in too big a rush to bother to clear them. So now they're dangerous and blind.
Helen Keller does NASCAR.
If this keeps up the dogs are going to have to learn to use Depends.
I tried to do laundry this morning, but the detergent had frozen.
And my moron neighbors aren't going to let a little sub freezing weather deter them from their appointed rounds... watering their goddamn lawns. The lawns are dead of course, turned brown weeks ago. But still they water, for hours before dawn. It saturates the sponge-like dead lawns and flows in a sheet over the sidewalk. And freezes. It's turned all the sidewalks into a luge run.
I almost ate shit multiple times trying to walk the dogs. Black ice. We tried walking in the street, which was suicidal - the drivers here are bad enough in warm weather, but now their windshields are frosted and they're in too big a rush to bother to clear them. So now they're dangerous and blind.
Helen Keller does NASCAR.
If this keeps up the dogs are going to have to learn to use Depends.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Sticker Shock
The bumper stickers were amusing at first, but quickly grew tiresome. Part of it was the novelty - in LA, other than an election year, you don't see many stickers, probably because most of the cars are leased and no one wants to be dinged when they're turned back in.
But here, they're everywhere. They must hand them out when you register your car at the DMV.
They break down roughly 70/30 "I'm going to Heaven, you're going to Hell/ You're a Traitor".
The Christian ones are just tedious. Yes, I know, I know - You're going to heaven and your car will be driverless/your life was saved by "body-piercing" (hint hint - nails on the cross). Anything else? NEXT.
Actually, everyone but me is apparently "saved". (The "gay" thing). I'm picturing God, sitting in Heaven at His Mac (the computer created in HIs image) hitting "command-S" billions of times. I don't know what you PC people do, but I'm guessing it involves about 6 more steps and a blue screen.
And then there are the True Patriots.
"Freedom Isn't Free". How true - and neither was that sticker, sucker.
And I hate to break it to you, but no one is prying anything from your hands- cold, dead, or otherwise.
So I thought I had grown pretty immune to them, but then this morning, one caught my eye...
"DAIRYING IS NOT A CRIME"
Whaaaa?........ When did this happen? How did I miss this? They're trying to make "Dairying" a crime ?!?!?! When did it become a verb?
It was on a white truck, and the license plate read "BY MILK". Hmmm.. I'm guessing they mean "BUY MILK" - Hooked On Phonics has done this country no favors.
Buy milk? Why? Are they outlawing it? Will it soon be scarce? Will buying it support "the cause"?
It must be a new front in the Wingnut conspiracy war. Where it falls on the Birther/TeaBagger Scale of the Absurd, I don't know. Below "Obama is a Muslim Ferriner" I'm sure, but above "Obama is oulawing lightbulbs".
At any rate, we now have a new crusade. SAVE MILK! JOIN THE CAUSE!
We'll call it the "MILK LIBERATION FRONT".
Or "MiLF" for short.
But here, they're everywhere. They must hand them out when you register your car at the DMV.
They break down roughly 70/30 "I'm going to Heaven, you're going to Hell/ You're a Traitor".
The Christian ones are just tedious. Yes, I know, I know - You're going to heaven and your car will be driverless/your life was saved by "body-piercing" (hint hint - nails on the cross). Anything else? NEXT.
Actually, everyone but me is apparently "saved". (The "gay" thing). I'm picturing God, sitting in Heaven at His Mac (the computer created in HIs image) hitting "command-S" billions of times. I don't know what you PC people do, but I'm guessing it involves about 6 more steps and a blue screen.
And then there are the True Patriots.
"Freedom Isn't Free". How true - and neither was that sticker, sucker.
And I hate to break it to you, but no one is prying anything from your hands- cold, dead, or otherwise.
So I thought I had grown pretty immune to them, but then this morning, one caught my eye...
"DAIRYING IS NOT A CRIME"
Whaaaa?........ When did this happen? How did I miss this? They're trying to make "Dairying" a crime ?!?!?! When did it become a verb?
It was on a white truck, and the license plate read "BY MILK". Hmmm.. I'm guessing they mean "BUY MILK" - Hooked On Phonics has done this country no favors.
Buy milk? Why? Are they outlawing it? Will it soon be scarce? Will buying it support "the cause"?
It must be a new front in the Wingnut conspiracy war. Where it falls on the Birther/TeaBagger Scale of the Absurd, I don't know. Below "Obama is a Muslim Ferriner" I'm sure, but above "Obama is oulawing lightbulbs".
At any rate, we now have a new crusade. SAVE MILK! JOIN THE CAUSE!
We'll call it the "MILK LIBERATION FRONT".
Or "MiLF" for short.
A Cold Day In Hell
So hell does freeze over.
It was 31 degrees this morning, and my car was covered in ice. Ice! No one said anything about ice. There's evidently no end to the hidden charms of this hellhole.
It rained off and on all day yesterday and this morning everything outside was covered with a light layer of mud. Only in Bako could the rain make things dirtier. There's a certain twisted logic to it all - there's so much dirt in the "air" on any given day it was inevitable the rain would bring it back down to earth. There's a word for that... FALLOUT.
At least the air would be breathable today, I thought. In fact the sky this morning was almost electric blue. Then I drove down the street to see workman in a vacant lot starting a trash fire. A trash fire! It's raging now, sending huge plumes of billowing grey smoke east over the entire town.
What the fuck is wrong with these people? Maybe the blue skies scared them. Like an eclipse in the Dark Ages.
And their first response was to get rid of it as quickly as possible.
Mission Accomplished.
It was 31 degrees this morning, and my car was covered in ice. Ice! No one said anything about ice. There's evidently no end to the hidden charms of this hellhole.
It rained off and on all day yesterday and this morning everything outside was covered with a light layer of mud. Only in Bako could the rain make things dirtier. There's a certain twisted logic to it all - there's so much dirt in the "air" on any given day it was inevitable the rain would bring it back down to earth. There's a word for that... FALLOUT.
At least the air would be breathable today, I thought. In fact the sky this morning was almost electric blue. Then I drove down the street to see workman in a vacant lot starting a trash fire. A trash fire! It's raging now, sending huge plumes of billowing grey smoke east over the entire town.
What the fuck is wrong with these people? Maybe the blue skies scared them. Like an eclipse in the Dark Ages.
And their first response was to get rid of it as quickly as possible.
Mission Accomplished.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Blue Plate Special
The boyfriend has snapped. Maybe it was our diminished circumstances, our dire financial straits. Maybe the three months living here have worn him down already. I may never know the reason, but the old boyfriend, the gourmet chef who could effortlessly put together a five course meal, who's cooking rivaled the best restaurants in LA, is gone.
He called me in to dinner last night, and there before me on the table was a casserole.
A Bakersfield Casserole.
Ground beef was involved. Cream of Mushroom soup. Lots of Cream of Mushroom soup. Cheddar cheese.
And crowning it all was a golden blanket of...
Tater tots.
The most frightening thing was it wasn't half bad.
Maybe it was just a one-off, a bad day, a momentary crack. Or maybe it was a glimpse into my new "tot" based future.
Or worse.
I think I spied Cheez-Whiz in the pantry.
He called me in to dinner last night, and there before me on the table was a casserole.
A Bakersfield Casserole.
Ground beef was involved. Cream of Mushroom soup. Lots of Cream of Mushroom soup. Cheddar cheese.
And crowning it all was a golden blanket of...
Tater tots.
The most frightening thing was it wasn't half bad.
Maybe it was just a one-off, a bad day, a momentary crack. Or maybe it was a glimpse into my new "tot" based future.
Or worse.
I think I spied Cheez-Whiz in the pantry.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Medieval Times
Bakersfield isn't so much a city as it is a crazy patchwork quilt of subdivisions and "master planned" communities. Starting in the 60's they started leapfrogging west and north, spreading like fungus. Designed as self contained little instant villages with absolutely no relationship to the neighboring tracts. Each one is surrounded by a high block wall with only a handful of access points, like a medieval fortress. Adding to the feudal feeling is the fact that quite a few back up onto irrigation ditches, so they even come eqipped with their own moats. The only thing missing are some turrets and a line of archers ready to do battle with the neighboring fiefdom. Maybe a few catapults hidden back among the trampolines and pool slides, weighted down with old cement yard decorations, ready to lob at the slightest provocation.
The walls also have the unfortunate side effect of turning almost every major street into a canyon-like no man's land. High walls on the left, high walls on the right, it's like driving through the DMZ.
What the fuck is up with the walls? Do these people not like each other? Are they afraid of each other?
You can see the progression of time in the architecture of the various subdivisions. The 60's and 70's yielded some fairly cool modernist ranch style homes. We live in one, and I love it. I'd actually consider buying it. If it wasn't in Bakersfield. My only complaint is that, like the street layout of our neighborhood, the house zigs and zags. So while we have a fair number of windows, they all look out onto... the house. I can look from one bedroom into the other. The net effect is we get almost no sunlight and the house is dark and Dick Cheney bunkerish.
Sometime in the 80's the tide turned against the modernist look and took a turn towards the architectural dark side - the dreaded "Cali-terranean" look. Part hacienda, part Tuscan villa, it's essentially a stucco box with corbels and columns and crown moldings tacked on. It proved to be an enormous hit, not just here, but seemingly everywhere, and the style is unfortunately here to stay.
And then there are the names. Oy vay, the names. Each subdivision has been christened with a name to evoke the lifestyle you'll live behind its block walls. The early ones are innocuous, pleasant sounding words mixed and matched like Garanimals - "Sagepointe". "Laurelglen. "Stonepine". No harm, no foul.
But as the architecture got grand, so did the names. Everything became an "estate". "Brimhall Estates". "Redwood Estates". "Shiloh Estates". Or vaguely Italian - "Belle Terra"/"Terra Bella".
Sometime in the 90's "at" was introduced. Maybe it was just the influence of the internet, or more likely elitist one-upmanship, but you now had "Seven Oaks at Grand Island" and "The Estates at Windemere". Right before the housing bubble burst the trend seemed to be headed towards the metaphysical with "The Springs" and "Artisan".
But that's all gone now. When it burst, it burst bad. Subdivisions sit abandoned or half finished, eroding away in the dust storms on the edge of town. Instant ghost towns.
Such a sad estate of affairs.
The walls also have the unfortunate side effect of turning almost every major street into a canyon-like no man's land. High walls on the left, high walls on the right, it's like driving through the DMZ.
What the fuck is up with the walls? Do these people not like each other? Are they afraid of each other?
You can see the progression of time in the architecture of the various subdivisions. The 60's and 70's yielded some fairly cool modernist ranch style homes. We live in one, and I love it. I'd actually consider buying it. If it wasn't in Bakersfield. My only complaint is that, like the street layout of our neighborhood, the house zigs and zags. So while we have a fair number of windows, they all look out onto... the house. I can look from one bedroom into the other. The net effect is we get almost no sunlight and the house is dark and Dick Cheney bunkerish.
Sometime in the 80's the tide turned against the modernist look and took a turn towards the architectural dark side - the dreaded "Cali-terranean" look. Part hacienda, part Tuscan villa, it's essentially a stucco box with corbels and columns and crown moldings tacked on. It proved to be an enormous hit, not just here, but seemingly everywhere, and the style is unfortunately here to stay.
And then there are the names. Oy vay, the names. Each subdivision has been christened with a name to evoke the lifestyle you'll live behind its block walls. The early ones are innocuous, pleasant sounding words mixed and matched like Garanimals - "Sagepointe". "Laurelglen. "Stonepine". No harm, no foul.
But as the architecture got grand, so did the names. Everything became an "estate". "Brimhall Estates". "Redwood Estates". "Shiloh Estates". Or vaguely Italian - "Belle Terra"/"Terra Bella".
Sometime in the 90's "at" was introduced. Maybe it was just the influence of the internet, or more likely elitist one-upmanship, but you now had "Seven Oaks at Grand Island" and "The Estates at Windemere". Right before the housing bubble burst the trend seemed to be headed towards the metaphysical with "The Springs" and "Artisan".
But that's all gone now. When it burst, it burst bad. Subdivisions sit abandoned or half finished, eroding away in the dust storms on the edge of town. Instant ghost towns.
Such a sad estate of affairs.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Lunacy On Parade
Last night was the annual Bakersfield Christmas Parade, the biggest thing to hit town since the Super WalMart opened a few weeks back. We didn't go, we didn't have to - the whole extravaganza was broadcast Live! on my favorite spastic local station.
All two hours of it!
Geez, that's longer than the frickin' Rose Parade.
The parade itself was unremarkable small town stuff - high school marching bands, local officials, flatbed trucks done up as "floats".
But the TV coverage of it was surreal. Complete with anchors up in the "sky booth", and reporters down on the street, they clearly thought they were covering a much bigger parade than the one they were broadcasting. And I swear to God everyone was on speed. There was a wild-eyed frenzy to the reporting...
"IS THAT WHO I THINK IT IS....IT IS... IT IS.... IT'S THE WATER COMMISSIONER!....."
I had to change the channel after about 20 minutes because my facial muscles were starting to spasm from all the cringing.
All two hours of it!
Geez, that's longer than the frickin' Rose Parade.
The parade itself was unremarkable small town stuff - high school marching bands, local officials, flatbed trucks done up as "floats".
But the TV coverage of it was surreal. Complete with anchors up in the "sky booth", and reporters down on the street, they clearly thought they were covering a much bigger parade than the one they were broadcasting. And I swear to God everyone was on speed. There was a wild-eyed frenzy to the reporting...
"IS THAT WHO I THINK IT IS....IT IS... IT IS.... IT'S THE WATER COMMISSIONER!....."
I had to change the channel after about 20 minutes because my facial muscles were starting to spasm from all the cringing.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Walk-In Closets
I finally discovered where they keep the Gay Men Of Bakersfield...
California Pizza Kitchen.
I was meeting a client for lunch, my first time at the Bako CPK. My gaydar had been offline for months, as useless as analog TV. But the minute I walked through the door, off it went. And sure enough, there they were. Three or 4, all servers. Granted, it wasn't much, but it was still 3 or 4 more than I'd seen since I moved here. It was like spotting a condor - a rare, elusive creature, near extinction, seldom seen in the wild.
Our server ended up being the best of the bunch, the cream of the crop. An out, proud, unashamed Nancy Boy. He minced. He pranced. He recited the ssspecials with more S's than he knew what to do with. It made me happy.
My people.
I know there are gay men here, but for the most part they appear deeply closeted. It's obvious by the postings on craigslist...."Girlfriend out of town......Wife and kids away for the weekend.....on my way home from choir practice....." There's no gay community to speak of here. No bars, or restaurants or coffeehouses to meet fellow travelers. As far as I can tell, the closest thing to a meeting place is one of the bike trails along the banks of the dead river, and I'm fairly certain no one is meeting their to talk.
In my previous life I would have nothing but disdain for gay men in the closet, the harm they ultimately do their wives and families, the lies they have to live. But living here now I find I have a little bit of sympathy for them, only because my partner and I have been shoved back in the closet ourselves. His employer and co-workers would be shocked to find out he was gay, and he's convinced it would definitely be an issue. So as far as they're concerned, he's straight and single. I'm never to meet them, I don't exist. I'm not even allowed to answer the house phone for fear it might be work related. It isn't as bad for me, since I work from home and have limited exposure to people I work with, but all the same I find I unconsciously flash my "wedding" band to deflect any speculation. We're both convinced the neighbors are afraid of us.
Oh the other hand, lesbians abound. They're evidently allowed to roam free. Maybe it's because they blend in so well with the oilfield workers - same truck, same flannel, same mullet. Maybe it's because they pose no threat to the menfolk of Bako (unless it comes to arm wrestling). For whatever reason, they seem to get a pass.
I envy them. I used to know what that was like.
California Pizza Kitchen.
I was meeting a client for lunch, my first time at the Bako CPK. My gaydar had been offline for months, as useless as analog TV. But the minute I walked through the door, off it went. And sure enough, there they were. Three or 4, all servers. Granted, it wasn't much, but it was still 3 or 4 more than I'd seen since I moved here. It was like spotting a condor - a rare, elusive creature, near extinction, seldom seen in the wild.
Our server ended up being the best of the bunch, the cream of the crop. An out, proud, unashamed Nancy Boy. He minced. He pranced. He recited the ssspecials with more S's than he knew what to do with. It made me happy.
My people.
I know there are gay men here, but for the most part they appear deeply closeted. It's obvious by the postings on craigslist...."Girlfriend out of town......Wife and kids away for the weekend.....on my way home from choir practice....." There's no gay community to speak of here. No bars, or restaurants or coffeehouses to meet fellow travelers. As far as I can tell, the closest thing to a meeting place is one of the bike trails along the banks of the dead river, and I'm fairly certain no one is meeting their to talk.
In my previous life I would have nothing but disdain for gay men in the closet, the harm they ultimately do their wives and families, the lies they have to live. But living here now I find I have a little bit of sympathy for them, only because my partner and I have been shoved back in the closet ourselves. His employer and co-workers would be shocked to find out he was gay, and he's convinced it would definitely be an issue. So as far as they're concerned, he's straight and single. I'm never to meet them, I don't exist. I'm not even allowed to answer the house phone for fear it might be work related. It isn't as bad for me, since I work from home and have limited exposure to people I work with, but all the same I find I unconsciously flash my "wedding" band to deflect any speculation. We're both convinced the neighbors are afraid of us.
Oh the other hand, lesbians abound. They're evidently allowed to roam free. Maybe it's because they blend in so well with the oilfield workers - same truck, same flannel, same mullet. Maybe it's because they pose no threat to the menfolk of Bako (unless it comes to arm wrestling). For whatever reason, they seem to get a pass.
I envy them. I used to know what that was like.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Switched At Birth
I think a big part of the reason I so dislike this place is it reminds me of Texas.
I hate Texas.
It isn't just some knee-jerk, liberal hatred of the state that spawned George W. Bush. It comes from experience. I've traveled across the state. I even briefly dated someone from Dallas, and know that city well enough to know I never want to go back, not even to change planes.
The only exception is Austin. I love Austin. Been several times, and I could happily live there.
If it wasn't in Texas.
Austin is a hip, cool island of sanity in a huge sea of YeeHaw stupidity. It seems so out of place. It seems like it should belong... here. Conversely, Bako has "Lone Star" stamped all over it. It's as if there was some cosmic screw-up and each city landed where they are by mistake.
They say it's never too late to right a wrong, so perhaps we can initiate some sort of prisoner swap.
I hate Texas.
It isn't just some knee-jerk, liberal hatred of the state that spawned George W. Bush. It comes from experience. I've traveled across the state. I even briefly dated someone from Dallas, and know that city well enough to know I never want to go back, not even to change planes.
The only exception is Austin. I love Austin. Been several times, and I could happily live there.
If it wasn't in Texas.
Austin is a hip, cool island of sanity in a huge sea of YeeHaw stupidity. It seems so out of place. It seems like it should belong... here. Conversely, Bako has "Lone Star" stamped all over it. It's as if there was some cosmic screw-up and each city landed where they are by mistake.
They say it's never too late to right a wrong, so perhaps we can initiate some sort of prisoner swap.
Leave The Driving To Us
I really owe a huge shout out to my dogs, without whom this blog would not be possible. It through them, and our walks, that I'm exposed to most of the weirdness. And this morning was no exception.
We've been here almost 3 months and I still can't navigate our rat's maze neighborhood without getting lost. I can find my way out, thank God, only because we're a block from an exit and I can see it from my driveway. And thanks to Google maps and trial and error I have two somewhat circuitous routes to walk the dogs. I mix and match them because the dogs are easily bored. We set out this morning as usual, but my mind somewhat drifted and I wasn't paying attention when the dogs went rouge and decided to go off the map. A few wrong turns later, there we were...
In the LAND OF THE GIANT RV's.
Many of the homes in the neighborhood have boats and trailers and Winnebagos parked out front. Sure it's an eyesore and makes the neighborhood look like a trailer park, but I have nothing against them. I grew up with a trailer and have fond memories of summer trips with the family Nomad towed behind the Vista Cruiser station wagon. Of course we had the common sense and courtesy to park it elsewhere. But whatever.
But now I found myself in a neighborhood that looked like backstage at Lalapalooza. Calling these "RV's" doesn't really do them justice, because these were buses. Huge tour buses usually associated with rock bands and Korean tourists. Not just that, but they had various tents and enclosures that towered over the homes where they were parked. These were deluxe buses that probably cost more than the homes. And with the additional pullouts, they were probably bigger too. And it seemed every other house had one.
I'm curious how this came about - did the first one on the block set off a wildfire of desire and soon everyone had to have one? Or were these existing bus owners who found themselves in a chat room and decided to set up their own enclave?
One thing is certain - if I had that kind of money floating around, I certainly wouldn't use it to buy a bus. Although leaving Bako in the lap of luxury has obvious appeal, returning has absolutely zero. If I had the money to buy one of these monsters, I would use it instead to MOVE THE HELL SOMEWHERE ELSE.
We've been here almost 3 months and I still can't navigate our rat's maze neighborhood without getting lost. I can find my way out, thank God, only because we're a block from an exit and I can see it from my driveway. And thanks to Google maps and trial and error I have two somewhat circuitous routes to walk the dogs. I mix and match them because the dogs are easily bored. We set out this morning as usual, but my mind somewhat drifted and I wasn't paying attention when the dogs went rouge and decided to go off the map. A few wrong turns later, there we were...
In the LAND OF THE GIANT RV's.
Many of the homes in the neighborhood have boats and trailers and Winnebagos parked out front. Sure it's an eyesore and makes the neighborhood look like a trailer park, but I have nothing against them. I grew up with a trailer and have fond memories of summer trips with the family Nomad towed behind the Vista Cruiser station wagon. Of course we had the common sense and courtesy to park it elsewhere. But whatever.
But now I found myself in a neighborhood that looked like backstage at Lalapalooza. Calling these "RV's" doesn't really do them justice, because these were buses. Huge tour buses usually associated with rock bands and Korean tourists. Not just that, but they had various tents and enclosures that towered over the homes where they were parked. These were deluxe buses that probably cost more than the homes. And with the additional pullouts, they were probably bigger too. And it seemed every other house had one.
I'm curious how this came about - did the first one on the block set off a wildfire of desire and soon everyone had to have one? Or were these existing bus owners who found themselves in a chat room and decided to set up their own enclave?
One thing is certain - if I had that kind of money floating around, I certainly wouldn't use it to buy a bus. Although leaving Bako in the lap of luxury has obvious appeal, returning has absolutely zero. If I had the money to buy one of these monsters, I would use it instead to MOVE THE HELL SOMEWHERE ELSE.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Life:Fail
There are bad days here. And then there are worse. For a variety of reasons this one has proven to be one of the worse ones. I was already in a melancholy mood on my way to the market when I flipped on NPR and there was a discussion going on regarding our strange obsession with The End of The World. The study of Eschatology. I found it oddly fascinating, and sadly appropriate for my mood, so I drove straight past the market not wanting to miss the rest of the segment. I drove on aimlessly listening to various beliefs about the End Times. And then the road... just. ended.
I've never lived anywhere that just... ended.
So while they're talking about the End of The World, I'm sitting there staring at it. A barricade, and then miles of fallow fields, as far as the eye could see until they vanished in the haze.
So much about this place seems not just like the End of The World, but the end of the line. Punishment for a failed life. I lie awake at night wondering what I did wrong, how I ended up here. I've tried to look at the glass half full. Bright thoughts about "new beginnings" and "fresh starts". Life/lemonade, all that crap. I just don't have the faith to pull it off.
Bako: Where dreams go to die.
I've never lived anywhere that just... ended.
So while they're talking about the End of The World, I'm sitting there staring at it. A barricade, and then miles of fallow fields, as far as the eye could see until they vanished in the haze.
So much about this place seems not just like the End of The World, but the end of the line. Punishment for a failed life. I lie awake at night wondering what I did wrong, how I ended up here. I've tried to look at the glass half full. Bright thoughts about "new beginnings" and "fresh starts". Life/lemonade, all that crap. I just don't have the faith to pull it off.
Bako: Where dreams go to die.
We're Number One!
So the headline on the local news this morning is how Bakersfield tops the state in cases of Chlamydia. Evidently it wasn't even close. Way to go Bako - shoot for the moon!
Just goes to show what you can accomplish when you put your...ah, mind, to it.
Just goes to show what you can accomplish when you put your...ah, mind, to it.
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