It's The Little Things

The boyfriend isn't really a fan of the blog. He hasn't said as much, but I know he rarely reads it. I believe he views it as being too negative and harsh, a valid point I suppose. He generally takes a more fatalistic view of our situation - however the hell we ended up here, we're here now and we might as well try and make the best of it.

But that may have changed over the weekend.

The boyfriend has one great passion... classic cars.

From the day I met him he's always driven an older, stylish import. He'd buy them, restore them, drive them a while, sell them and start all over again. He absolutely loved it. Mostly Mercedes and Jaguars and the like. When times were good, he also bought a '77 Corvette and '84 Cadillac, which he was lovingly restoring on the side. They're both gone now, sadly.

When things started going bad and he sold his last car, he realized that we could no longer afford the cost and unpredictability of an older car. So for the first time in his life, he leased a new one. Lost amid all the chaos of the new house, the move and my unstable career was the fact that the lease was running out.

Soon.

Like in a matter of weeks.

So over the weekend he went out car shopping.

He went out solo. He's the car authority and all I can really offer is moral support, and eight hours of that gets a little tedious. He was gone several hours and I heard him return.

"Hey, come out and look at something" he said.

Sitting in the driveway was a VW Golf. Cute, stylish, not his usual taste, but then again, we can no longer afford that. I have to say I was impressed. I couldn't help but notice it was a stick shift.

I never learned to drive a stick.

I guess I won't be driving it. Then again, perhaps that's the plan, since I'm the one who rear-ended his last car.

"It was between this and a Jetta, but I really think this is the car for me" he said. "All the same, I'd still like you to come down to the dealer and check out the other car just to get your opinion."

It was the least I could do.

Once at the dealer I checked out both cars, heard his pitch and agreed with him that, knowing him, the Golf was the way to go. I left him to haggle out the money and went home.

About an hour later, he returned home.

With the Jetta.

THAT'S why I've learned not to tag along when he shops for cars.

At any rate, he walked in the door and looked pissed. He just got a new car, what could he be pissed about?

"My car smells like a cow!" he said

Huh?

"One of the simple joys in life is buying a new car and getting to smell that 'New Car' smell for the first week or so. But my car doesn't smell like that, it smells like a cow. It has 'New Cow' smell! Fucking Bakersfield!"

I felt his pain. That's the thing about this place, it's "death by a thousand paper cuts", robbed of even the little things in life.

Later that evening we were sitting on the couch, watching TV and he turned to me, still obviously perturbed.

"You need to write about that in your blog..."

So honey, this one's for you. I love you. We'll get you an air freshener.

Sunday Inspiration

Megamind

Last night we watched "Mega Python vs. Gatoroid" and this morning I'm feeling noticeably... dumber.

I think I may have actually killed off part of my brain.

The Battle Of The Berry

My sister and I used to be quite close. We aren't now.

If I had to blame one thing for the fall out it would have to be George W. Bush.

That my sister and her husband were Republican wasn't an issue. It's a free country and they were never obstinate about it. In fact they seemed pretty moderate. But with the election of Bush and the ensuing 8 years, they made a hard right turn that left the rest of us mortified. They became disciples of Fox News, believers of every Glenn Beck conspiracy theory, rabid dittoheads for Rush Limbaugh. The election of Obama sent them over the edge and even a discussion of the weather, the seemingly only still safe dinner topic, could get twisted in a diatribe about 'SOCIALISM!".

And then last year, a thaw in the relationship.

What caused this blossoming rapprochement?

A small dark berry, grown in the Amazon, high in antioxidants, or so they say. The miraculous... ACAI.

In the form of... MonaVie, the nectar of the Gods.

I can't say I'm surprised my sister and her husband have been duped into this cult. They've been conditioned to believe Obama is massing black helicopters to round up Republicans and herd them into concentration camps in the desert because of their belief in gun rights and incandescent bulbs. A multilevel marketing pyramid scheme selling berry flavored snake oil isn't such a stretch.

It started last Easter when my sister sidled up to me while I was sneaking a smoke in the back yard of my parents. She wanted to talk and acted like we were friends. That was my first clue that something was up. And truth be told, selling isn't her forté and she lacks for subtlety, so when the pitch came, it came hard and fast.

She didn't even bother pimping the product. She was blunt in the fact that they needed to sign up more people. They'd already hooked 9 suckers and with a 10th they reached some magic level that allowed them to start cashing in. She wanted me to be the 10th. Because we're family.

I batted it aside and tried to be polite. Not interested I said. We just moved, new jobs, yadda, yadda, yadda. And over the past year, at every single family event, she's tried again and again, and every single time I nicely and diplomatically told her we aren't interested.

But about a week ago, the pressure started to be ramped up. It started with calls to my cell phone - it's the only number she has for me. She's never bother to ask for our address or home phone, and she certainly isn't going to get it now. She wanted to know the next time we would be down so that she could plan a proper "presentation". I told her I wasn't interested. Undeterred, she called a few days later to tell me she was emailing me "important information". I told her I wasn't interested, but 20 minutes later this showed up in my inbox. Along with half a dozen links to frighteningly cult-like websites which I won't provide since I'd hate for anyone to fall under their spell.

Over the next couple of days, she'd call to check on my "progress", to see if I had been converted. I let them all go to voicemail because I was busy with work and didn't have time for this stupidity. But I figured at some point this weekend I'd have to deal with it and it wasn't going to be pretty.

And then last night I was speaking with my mother, and at some point I mentioned I'd have to talk my sister this weekend.

"About what?" my mother asked.

I didn't want to say. My sister had asked repeatedly that I not mention anything about it to my parents, which to me would mean that she's well aware there isn't anything kosher about it. But to be honest, I just don't care anymore so I said "She's involved with some multi-level marketing scheme and she's trying to rope us in".

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

"You mean MonaVie?" asked my mother.

WTF?

I asked my mother how she knew about it and she said that my sister and brother-in-law came over last weekend and forced them to sit through the whole indoctrination process.

"You didn't agree to sell it?!?" I asked.

"No, no, no. We're too old for that. But we did buy two bottles. It's not that bad".

I was speechless. Preying on me is one thing since we don't much like each other. But going after our parents? That is just a bridge too far. I told my mom I was calling my sister and going to read her the riot act.

"But you can't dear, they aren't home this weekend."

I asked where they were.

OHIO!

FOR A MONAVIE CONVENTION!

Learning the latest mind control tricks, no doubt.

I can hardly wait to see what we're going to be hit with next.

Time to fasten the seatbelts - it's going to be a berry bumpy flight.

Wish Me Luck

I am moments away from uploading my big make or break job.

Working for a new client is always so nerve wracking. It's not enough to solve the problem. You don't know the high strung personalities involved, their pet peeves and peccadilloes, their taste or lack thereof. And the stakes on this job seemed so much higher because of the off-handed remark about a possible job and the income, insurance and peace of mind that comes with it.

I hadn't done this particular type of work in over a year and I was shocked to see how rusty my skills had gotten when I first sat down to work Tuesday night. By Wednesday morning the pressure to perform had gotten so great I ended up giving myself the mother of all tension headaches.

But after laying down with the dogs for a bit, I finally decided to just... let it go.

If there's one thing I've learned over the past three years is the higher you get your hopes, the farther the fall and the bigger the crash.

Back in 2008 I was up for a big position with Miramax Films in New York. I had applied for another job with Disney, who owned Miramax at the time. I didn't get that job, but my resumé had caught the attention of a Disney recruiter and one day, out of the blue, she called and asked if I'd be interested in the Miramax position. It would have meant selling the house and moving to New York, but it all seemed so pie-in-the-sky that I said "of course". No one was more surprised than I as I aced interview after interview and finally found myself meeting the Miramax honchos at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills. The meeting was scheduled for an hour and ran two. By then end I was told that I was their man. There was just one more hurdle, a meeting with the Big Cheese back in New York. It was merely a formality I was assured, and I was told they'd contact me with dates and flight information later in the week. The boyfriend was already looking for apartments.

And then two days later I read online that Disney was shuttering Miramax, absorbing its functions and putting it up for sale. It mentioned the man I was supposed to meet with was getting a lovely severance package. When I tried to contact the people I had just met with, I discovered they had all been let go.

Now that I think of it, we actually dodged a bullet. Can you imagine moving to a strange town where you have no friends or contacts and then finding out you're out of a job?

Oh wait... I can.

Another time I thought I was all but hired for a job. We had hashed out all money and titles and the only matter to be resolved was my start date. I would be replacing someone they were terminating, and I was told it was a delicate matter and to be patient. So I was waiting patiently by the phone later in the week when a former colleague announced on Facebook that he had just gotten the job.

I guess it wasn't that delicate after all.

So, you'll forgive my caution and pessimism when people start bandying about offers of jobs. Especially when the person doing the offering has a history of being a little erratic.

Once I put those thoughts out of mind, I was actually able to get down to the work at hand and I have to say I'm extremely happy with what I produced. And they appear to be as well - I sent them work-in-progress and they seemed really pleased.

So fingers crossed, and all that. Say a little prayer for me as I hit "send".

Animal Kingdom

I've referred to this place many times as The Land of Misfit Toys, but I was thinking of the people. Evidently it refers to the animals too.

I was watching the local news, half awake, this morning and the screeching weather girl was doing remotes promoting the local zoo, called the "California Living Museum", or C.A.L.M. for short.

She'd pop up every ten minutes or so, interviewing the director of the zoo who'd feature a different animal in each segment.

The first one I saw featured and albino snake, which the director mentioned had been donated to the zoo. "Without it's camouflage" she said, "it wouldn't survive in the wild".

A few minutes later, they were back, this time with a red-tailed hawk. There was clearly something wrong with one of it's eyes and even the dim bulb weather girl picked up on it. The hawk, it turns out, had a cornea problem and had been donated to the zoo. "Without it's eyesight" she said, "it wouldn't survive in the wild".

I'm beginning to wonder if there's something wrong with ALL of their animals when the director offhandedly said "As you know, most of our animals are maimed or injured..."

Well doesn't THAT sound like a fun-filled afternoon. "C'mon kids, let's go check out the freakish, half dead animals!" It sounds like they find them all by the side of the road barely clinging to life.

As if to drive home the point, the weather girl closed with a reminder to come down and check out the new kit fox exhibit...

"They're all so cute, even if some of them are missing legs."

Perhaps the zoo would better be called the "California Barely Living Museum".

Name That Street

As if navigating around Hooterville wasn't difficult enough, what with it's rat's maze city planning and labyrinth-like neighborhoods, the city has yet another trick up it's sleeve - street names change arbitrarily mid-block.

Why? Who knows. Maybe they looked at the city and realized how boring it was and decided this might spice things up.

They were wrong.

I came across this (see above) yesterday when I was walking the dogs on a new route.

The house on the left is #2601. The house on the right it is #6808.

"How can that be?" you may ask. "They're sitting side by side. That can't be right..."

Au contrair, mon ami. This is Bako.

Yes, they are sitting side by side, but they are on different streets!

The house on the left is 2601 Toxic Drive*. The house on the right is #6808 Landfill Lane*. And never the two shall meet, except at the hedge in the middle of the photo.

This happens everywhere here. What would look like a relatively normal street to you and I, albeit with some twists and turns, maybe some slight zigs and zags, is, to the city of Bakersfield, five different streets. Every time a street zigs, the name zags. And because that must not be confusing enough, each one has a completely different numbering scheme.

It's the stupidest thing I've ever seen, and living here, that's saying something.

No wonder so many people seem like they're trapped here. They probably are.

*Street names changed to protect the innocent.

Foggy Bako Town

The fog this week has been unreal. Like something out of a movie, or Underwear Night at Studio One.

It's one thing to walk the dogs in it; I'm pretty certain they're at the end of their leashes even if I can't see them. It's an entirely different thing to drive in it.

Leaving town Monday and Tuesday was a white knuckle experience. Visibility on the highway was about 100 feet at best. I thought I was pressing my luck driving 60, but the locals all blithely zip around you doing 90. I'm really surprised you don't hear of more fatalities in the fog.

On a clear day, returning to the valley can actually be kind of awe inspiring, like descending into a Thomas Hart Benton painting. Yesterday was not one of those days. Right around Fort Tejon the view ahead, down the Grapevine, ended abruptly in a wall of haze the color of wet newspaper.

They can call if "fog" (or "fogg") all they want. Where I come from fog is white.

May You Live In Interesting Times

Truth be told, the drive back to LA isn't actually all that bad, other than the time invested, which is considerable - it's usually around 3 hours each way, depending on traffic. I've learned to schedule my meetings between 11 and 1 so as to beat the worst of the city's rush hours, which isn't saying much - mid-day traffic in LA is pretty horrible, especially if you aren't used to it anymore. It took me almost an hour this morning just to drive the 5 miles over the Sepulveda Pass.

But the first hundred or so miles, and the last coming back, are actually kind of blissful. I get on the highway and set the cruise control at 74 - I've been told by reliable sources that that is the limit of the CHP's beneficence and I can't afford another speeding ticket. I scoot into the second lane and let others blitz by me in the fast lane if they feel so inclined... or lucky. The thing I hate most is people who cut me off and make me actually, ya know, drive. Hit the brakes and have to actually pay attention. Don't fuck with my cruise control or I will tailgate you. If I time it right, I can be in NPR nirvana on both sides of the mountains.

Both meetings went well and resulted in work. For the first time in my life I actually wish meetings went longer. Three hours in, 20 minute meeting, three hours back. At least someone could offer me a coffee.

Today's meeting turned out to be something different and unexpected.

Years ago I worked with a woman I considered a good friend. We traveled around quite a bit, doing various photo shoots in interesting places and getting into too much trouble. She left the agency on not good terms and after bouncing around a bit, she called one day looking for leads. Another friend had recently opened a small agency, and although it wasn't much, I hooked her up.

Flash forward 10 years, and now the small agency had turned into a big deal, and so had she. As she had moved up the food chain, we had kind of lost touch, although I still considered her a friend. When I found myself suddenly unemployed, she was the first person I thought to turn to. I called her up and she graciously scheduled an interview.

It was one of the most humiliating moments of my life.

Not only had the agency grown large, but so had her head.

She was condescending and rude, cruel and mocking. There was never any intention of hiring me for anything. I felt like a fucking cat toy at she batted around the work in my portfolio. That was 2007, and I never heard from her again.

She was still on my e-mail list for promotions. When I sent one out last week, I almost deleted her since it seemed so futile. But what the hell. And guess who called yesterday as I walked in the door?

I met with her today, and she greeted me effusively, like the old friend I once believed we were. I've worked in "the business" too long to take wild mood changes seriously. You can usually chalk it up to meds, legal or otherwise. But for the first few minutes we chatted and caught up, everything about what I had been doing, minus the part about living in Bakersfield.

"So, it ends up one of my senior people just left. Would you be interested in a full-time position?"

You shittin' me?

YES! Didn't even think about it. When you've reached this level of destitution, you don't blink when someone dangles a six figure job in front of you. Did I mention we now drink box wine? Can't afford the stuff in bottles, not even the screw tops.

Is she serious? Who knows. In Hollywood, people mindfuck you for sport. And the meds will wear off eventually. But there's a... possibility? The job I picked up today is obviously a test. If I do well on it (and I always do) and play nice with others, there may actually be a pot at the end of the rainbow.

At least that's what I was thinking.

On the long drive back, the euphoria started to give way to the stark realities of our current life. How the hell would this happen? We just bought a house! In Bakersfield! We just moved in, and actually unpacked! The ramifications and emotional and physical jujitsu involved is giving me a headache.

I suppose there are much worse problems to be had, but this one's going to be a doozey if it comes to pass.

Keep On Truckin’

There has got to be an easier way to make a living.

No sooner had I returned from LA when my cell phone rang with another job. It's from an agency in LA I've been trying to get a foot in the door with for over three years. And NOW they have a job for me?

"Can we meet tomorrow morning?"

So I have to do that miserable 3 hour drive again bright and early tomorrow morning.

Not that I'm complaining; I'm grateful people are hiring me again. But seriously, I need to check out Debbie Dootson and see what she pays per mile. See what's more cost effective - advertising, or long haul trucking.

By Design

Today's post will be illustrated by examples of egregiously bad logo design.



Later this morning I'm off to LA to potentially pick up a freelance job. Even with my new, positive attitude, it's becoming increasingly difficult to work up much enthusiasm for my chosen profession. A hundred bucks here, a hundred bucks there, it's not so much a career anymore as it is a hobby.



The point was driven home a few months ago when I was working in-house for a local Bako agency. One day the receptionist came in and asked me if I could show her how to arrange type around a circle. I said sure and followed her back to her desk where up on her screen were the makings of an absolutely atrocious logo.

It was for "Western Pools, Inc." She had all the expected cliché icons - the curly, sky blue waves, a silhouette of a diver and... a cowboy hat (It said "western", after all). Everything was downloaded for free off the web. She had them placed randomly in a group and she was now going to encircle them all with swirly cursive type that looked like it came off Barbie packaging.

It was awful.



I assumed it must be for a relative or a friend, but when I asked her she said "No, it's for a client".

"It's just something I do on the side. You know, a hobby."

Like scrapbooking or canning peaches.

It was then the realization hit me. This girl isn't a wannabe graphic designer. She's my competition! And she has more clients than me!

I keep thinking that ultimately quality will win out, that my experience and skill have to count for something. A few weeks later she told me the pool client was thrilled and she'd actually gotten more work because of it. I wanted to go home and throw up.



But still I plug away, swimming upstream against the current. I really don't know what else to do.

(The logo at the top is generally considered one of the worst logos of all time. It's for an institute specializing in Asian studies, but it would appear to be... something else.)

Sunday Inspiration

I occasionally try and drop in a "Random Good Thing About Bako" post just so the blog isn't so relentlessly negative. And that was the plan today, but I'm drawing a blank.

So instead I decided to start a new feature, something that conveys my new, positive, can-do, anything is possible 2011 attitude. Every Sunday I'm dropping in a little piece of inspiration to start the week off on the right foot.

So here's the first...

The Good Wife

Well, that was fast.

Predictable, but fast.

Mr. Back-Up Plan called yesterday to informed me that his first choice, Golden Child in Santa Barbara had backed out of his job. It seems the "scope" of the job proved to be more than he signed on for. Imagine that. The job was now mine if I wanted it. I didn't take the call, he left a message. Which I promptly deleted. It ends up I'm not quite that desperate. Yet.

And besides, when it comes right down to it, I'm just not that good at living life in the closet. I've now lived more years of my life openly gay as not and it's been 25 years since I felt the need to try and cover it up. Truth be told, I'm a little rusty at it.

Now, Bakersfield may in fact not be as conservative and narrow minded as it appears, but you don't get a "do over" if you make that assumption and you're wrong. I've told a handful of people I've worked with here and the reaction has been decidedly mixed. Only one appeared to be genuinely unfazed by the news. There is absolutely no gay community here, and the local boards on Craigslist are chock full of married men "on the down low" looking to trade BJ's out on the bike trail. So I'm guessing, openness here is not a virtue.

At any rate, back on Monday this potential client called to tell me he was in the neighborhood and thought he would drop by a sample of what he was looking to create. As I was on the phone with him I looked over our living room, the tasteful furniture, the abstract art, the fresh cut flowers, and I decided it was all just too... gay. I'd meet him out in the driveway.

He pulled up in a late model Taurus with a "NOTW" sticker on the back window - "Not Of This World"... Bible Thumper code. He gave me the sample and we exchanged a little small talk. I said "I'm sorry not to invite you in, but the house is a mess because we just moved in..."

SHIT! I said "we".

Which he sadly picked up on.

"So, where does your wife work?" he shot back almost immediately.

Now, in hindsight this could have been a teachable moment. A lesson in acceptance and tolerance.

Or not.

Bottom line was, he was Born Again and I needed the work. So without hesitation I said...

"The hospital."



"OK great" he replied. "Which one?"

And then there was this awful pregnant silence. I know how things work here and no matter which hospital I mentioned he would have a sister/cousin/aunt working there who would immediately try to track down the Phantom Wife. I stammered for a bit and finally said...

"Y'know, she just started and I'm actually blanking on the name..."

Lame, I know, but that actually works here. There are SO many hospitals here. For a population of around 350K there are at least 20 that I know of, which is why it wouldn't surprise me to find out Bako is the center of the universe when it comes to insurance fraud. They advertise on TV so relentlessly it's unseemly; they're worse than car dealers. I honestly don't get it - if I'm having a massive coronary do you really think I'm going to be comparison shopping? Looking for a deal?

At any rate, he seemed confused for a moment and then nodded as if he understood. He climbed back in his car and was on his way.

So, had I accepted the job, there would come a time in the very near future where I was either going to have to cough up a wife or come clean. And I didn't see that going very well. It was best to just walk away.

I did learn something valuable out the whole experience. From now on I'm just going to be upfront and let the chips fall where they may. I'm certainly not going to volunteer any information, but if anyone asks, I'm telling the truth. It's just much less stressful even if it may ultimately limit my opportunities.

And besides, I really doubt at my age anyone believes "I just haven't met the right girl".

Then again, it's Bako.

Things That Go Bump In The Night

It appears I may have jumped the gun on the whole "ghost" thing.

Sure, the slamming/locked door was never really explained, but I'm willing to chalk that up to my vivid imagination. The flickering lights and radio static proved to be nothing more than Bako's notoriously shaky power grid. The skittering sounds I'd hear in the attic are more than likely rats - we had them at the rental and the cable installer said there was evidence of them when he was up there. The only really unexplained phenomenon was what sounded like heavy footsteps in the attic. They were to loud and heavy to be rats.

But after having lived here a week, it seems that Josephine isn't actually the dead spirit of the former owner.

It seems Josephine is an opossum.

I was still convinced we had a ghost. I'm an insomniac and would be lying awake while the rest of the family slept. And occasionally I'd swear I hear someone tromping around the attic like the Ghost of Christmas Past.

But earlier this week the boyfriend came home for lunch and was looking out the living room window.

"Isn't that cute..." he said.

"What?" I replied.

"There's the cutest oppossum sitting in our tangerine tree eating tangerines."

I thought they were nocturnal. Whatever.

I went to look, but it fled before I got a glimpse.

"They're really cute" the boyfriend said. "I bet it would make a good pet".

Not fucking likely. Have you ever seen one when it's been cornered? I have.

That night I was once again lying there, wide awake at midnight. The boyfriend was sound asleep and both dogs were heavily snoring at my side. And then I heard what sounded like the exterior air vent, the one over our bedroom that leads to the attic, ever so slightly squeak open. Followed by a dull thud as something hit the ceiling. The opossum has landed.

And sure enough, I listened as it gallumphed its way over the bedroom and down the hall, then back again, now over the bathroom. "Thank God the dogs aren't awake" I thought, when something must have spooked it and it suddenly jumped and landed with a bang directly over our heads.

The dogs... noticed.

The ensuing pandemonium seemed to have scared it away. It's not used to this house being occupied and is probably pissed.

It looks like this morning I'll be calling Billy the Exterminator. I'm sure that will prove to be interesting.

Spelchek

It looks like we're in for another day of fogg.

Yes, "fogg".

That's how it was spelled on this morning's weather map.

Mysteries Of Bako: Solved

Well, one of them at least. Potentially. It seems a pretty clear cut case of connecting the dots if you ask me.

One of the first, and lasting, impressions you get of Bakersfield is the smell. It's like nothing you've ever experienced before. People try and blame it on the Ag industry, but my grandparents used to own a farm and it smelled nothing like this. Others blame it on the two days a month the farmers and ranchers are allowed to torch their livestock. But that doesn't explain the other 28 days of the month.

So riddle me this, what could possibly be giving this poor maligned town such a bad odor?

I'm no rocket scientist, but perhaps this has something to do with it...

Back in 2008, they passed an ordinance here banning the importation of sludge. Sludge! It seems that for decades LA has been trucking their sludge up to Kern County and disposing of it. And not just LA, but just about every other county in the state. Kern County finally said "Enough!" and passed the ordinance, which LA promptly fought in court - they don't want their sludge and now what are they going to do with it? This week the case was settled in court and LA lost, so no more sludge for Bakersfield.

What exactly is "sludge"?

TREATED. HUMAN. WASTE.

i.e... shit!

Now, I'm watching this report on the local news and during most of the story they're showing footage of tractors out tilling the fields. It must be a mistake, right? The wrong footage from another story? They can't be implying that that human shit from LA has been dumped on the miles of farm land that ring the city, can they?

Yes they can! And it's no implication, it's the truth!

Every time someone takes a dump in LA, it ends up on the fields of Bakersfield!

"BAKERSFIELD, AMERICA'S TOILET©"

They went to great pains to say that it was never dumped on fields producing food for human consumption. Of course not. I'm sure all the big Ag concerns had crack staff insuring that that never happened. Just the same, I don't know that I'll ever buy bagged lettuce again.

But's that's all in the past now. No more shit for Bakersfield. In theory.

I notice that in all the articles they hedge a bit and say Bako "may" no longer be a sludge dumping ground. Obviously someone is making money off this and they certainly aren't going to give it up without a fight. And already the "sludge isn't all that bad" contrarian Wurlitzer has started.

There will probably be one of Kern County's notoriously corrupt back room deals and nothing will change. But at least for today, there's a hope that we'll all be able to breathe a little easier. Literally.

And if you live in Arizona, consider this a "heads up". Looks like LA has now cast it's gaze east...

Sleazy Come, Sleazy Go

Well, that will teach me to snark about working for minimum wage.

The joker who had posted the job on Craigslist had actually dropped by a copy of his publication Monday afternoon. That's what he called it, "his" publication. He happened to have copies in his car and was in the neighborhood. Or so he said.

Monday night and yesterday morning I worked up a reasonable budget for "his" publication. After playing phone tag in the morning, we finally connected. I gave him my proposal and he balked at first but quickly agreed to it.

That was too easy, I thought.

And sure enough, it was. Now that we had a deal in place, he proceeded to give a more in-depth description of his vision and it quickly became apparent that it didn't bear any resemblance to the catalog he had given me to price out.

"Excuse me, I hate to interrupt" I said, even though anyone who knows me knows I always interrupt. "This project you're describing isn't even remotely similar to your catalog, the one you gave me yesterday".

"Oh, that isn't 'my' catalog. It's a competitor's. Mine isn't going to be like that; it will be much bigger and more elaborate. You must have gotten confused."

Oh course, I must have gotten confused. When you said you would drop by a copy of "my" catalog, which you happened to have a stack of in your car. I could see how that would be confusing. Not.

"Well" I said, "this is a much different matter and the quote I gave you wouldn't even begin to cover what you're now expecting". I told him I would get back to him with a new budget. He sounded wounded and sad, but ultimately said OK.

When I got off the phone I did a quick recalculation of this new, grand project. Had I gone ahead with it for the original budget and not found out it had morphed until too late, I figured I would've ended up working for $3.00 an hour. We haggled back and forth all afternoon, each giving a little here, a little there. Finally around 7pm, we reached agreement. And then he said...

"Great. Well, I already gave to project to the designer in Santa Barbara. He started working on it yesterday. So I'll consider you a back-up, kay?"

Are you fucking kidding me? I wasted a whole day dicking around with this asshole and now I'm a "back-up" plan? He can take his catalog and blow it out his ass as far as I care.

This isn't my first time at the rodeo and I've fallen for that "back-up" crap before. Do you know what "back-up" means? It means "when the original designer realizes what a relentless, unrealistic asshole I am and figures out I have no intention of paying him and he bails and I need someone to swoop in at the last minute and save my ass even though I no longer have any money because I blew it all on coke and hookers".

At least that's how it worked in Hollywood.

Speaking of which, in my many years working in the entertainment industry, I certainly dealt with my fair share of lying, deceitful sleazebags. It's to be expected, it's part of the alleged charm. But I have to say that in my year of dealing with the locals here in Bako, any one of them could give your average Hollywood douchebag a run for his money.

I don't know why I just assumed the dealings here would be more honest. Maybe it's because everyone coats everything with an "aw shucks" cornpone schtick. Maybe I should just give up on the locals and pursue work in a more reputable business back in LA...

Porn.

Sign O’ The Times

So yesterday was the first day back pounding the pavement looking for work. In a moment of fortuitous coincidence, escrow on the new house closed right when the advertising industry entered its traditional end-of-year holiday dead zone. So rather than spending my days panicking about work, I could focus my time being productive with all the painting and prepping and moving.

But that's all behind us now. New year, new attitude. Back to the grindstone. Trawling the job boards yesterday something popped up on Craigslist. It was the rarest of things - a graphic design job here in Bakersfield. I immediately responded and sent a link to my website and was pleasantly surprised to get a call later that afternoon from the poster.

It's the most basic of jobs, some tedious catalog work. It's entry level work you'd pawn off at an intern at an agency. But these days, in this economy, beggars can't be choosers. He liked my work and and I liked his money and we agreed to talk again today to discuss fees.

"Things must be really rough for you designers" he said.

I tried to put the best spin on it I could and then asked he why he mentioned that. Turns out he'd advertised a similar project in the past and had gotten almost no interest. But this time, within hours, he was inundated with responses, from as far north as San Francisco and as far south as Orange County. In fact he was almost about to go with someone from Santa Barbara, but he was really hoping for someone local.

And then I responded.

It ends up it wasn't my work he liked so much as it was the fact I was across town.

So I'm just about to call him and now I'm suddenly concerned. With so much desperate competition out there it's going to be a race to the bottom on price. I doubt I could get what I used to charge just last year. And no matter what I charge, I'm sure someone will beat it. But at some point you have to draw a line in the sand, and with that said I've decided I will not work for minimum wage...

...less than...

... I will not work for less than minimum wage...

...maybe.

Lady And The Tramp

To live in Bakersfield is to be transported back to a simpler time where men are men and woman are ladies. And nowhere is that more apparent than watching the local sports report. They may not be happy with Title IX here, but darn it, that's no reason to lose your manners. That's why here we have "Ladies Sports".

Cal State Bakersfield is Home of the Roadrunners, or Runners for short. And also Home of the "Lady Runners."

We also have the Bakersfield College Renegades, which all the local sportscasters irritatingly insist on referring to as "The Gades". So of course you end up with the "Lady Gades", which sounds like a hygiene issue.

And it all carries over into High School sports, so we have "Lady Hawks" and "Lady Gauchos" and "Lady Vikings"... you get the point.

But pity the poor girls who play sports for Bakersfield High...

"Home of the Drillers".

Yes, it's also home of the "Lady Drillers".

Again, another missed merchandising opportunity. Do you have any idea how much money you could make off "Lady Driller" gear? Especially around Spring Break? Or the Jersey Shore? I think I may just try and pimp myself out as their marketing director.

And on a totally unrelated sports note, I noticed last week that it had been ages since I'd seen a little Mandick.

Not that. Get your mind out of the gutter. I'm talking about my favorite local sportscaster, the brash, bombastic, never subtle Karl Mandick...



It occurred to me I hadn't seen him in awhile, so I went to the website of his station and he was gone! Turns out, he left...

Back in July.

I guess I didn't miss him as much as I thought since it took me six months to notice he was gone. At any rate, it looks like he landed in Wichita! And somewhere along the way he lost his Dick - he's just "Karl Man" now. I suppose from a branding standpoint, it's a good move. But if you ever saw him in action, you'd know "once a Dick, always a Dick", no matter how you spell it.

Small Town Crooks

Today we turned the keys in on the rental. We allowed a couple of days between the move and the end of the lease so there would be time to clean and pick up all the odds and ends that hadn't made the move.

That was the plan.

Oh, the cleaning part happened.

But when we went back to pick up a bunch of miscellaneous left behinds, they were gone.

I'd moved them out onto the back patio while the carpets were being cleaned yesterday. I meant to pick it all up later in the day but as it got dark I decided to just get it this morning. I obviously didn't factor in the whole "robbing" option.

So it would appear Nick was right - these people are just a bunch of petty thieves.

What’s In A Name...

With the move completed, there's really only one question that remains...

Where do we live?

More specifically, what street do we live on?

That sounds like a stupid question, but then again, you don't live here. Here, it's turned into an issue.

Now, I'm not so foolish as to give out my street address on the blog, so to illustrate today's story we'll have to substitute another street name to get the point across. A plausibly Bako-ish, reasonably stupid street name. Say...

"Weedpatch Drive"

So, to the best of our knowledge, the boyfriend and I just moved into a home on "Weedpatch Dr." That's what it's listed as in all the escrow and bank documents. That's how the street shows up on Google Maps. "Weedpatch" it is.

"Now, hold on there just a gol darned moment" says the Post Office. "There's no such street in Bakersfield as 'Weedpatch Dr.' It doesn't exist. You're mistaken."

Huh?

According to the Post Office, our street doesn't exist. That's because, according to the Post Office, our street is...

"Weed Patch Dr."

BIG difference. See the little space? Two words, not one. According to the Post Office. It's a major issue for them. Confuses them. So much so we may not get any mail. Address something to "Weedpatch Dr." and it may just be sent back as "Return To Sender: Address Unknown".

Well surely someone can sort this out. How about the city?

Well, if you think that then you clearly don't read this blog. Because do you know how the city spells our street?

Both ways!

I'm looking at the street signs as I walk the dogs, and one block is "Weedpatch" and the next is "Weed Patch". Back and forth, alternating for blocks.

It would be humorous if it weren't for the fact that we haven't received any mail here and the address was changed weeks ago.

It reminds me of the Seinfeld episode where Kramer tried to opt out of the Postal system and ended up getting kidnapped by the Postmaster General.

Let's hope it doesn't come to that.

It’s A Miracle!

Will wonders never cease. All moved in AND we have internet access!

I have to say everything went remarkably well. The movers were smooth and efficient. I watched them from the backyard where I was casually blowing smoke over Mary's fence. She was pretending not to be home but I knew I had her pinned inside. It took them two hours to pack everything up and I went through most of a pack. I probably took two weeks off my life, but it was worth it.

There was only one odd moment throughout the move. It's Bakersfield, so I guess I should be grateful there was only one. We were about halfway moved into the new place and the boyfriend and I were taking a little break in the backyard, when in sauntered a not unattractive kid. He looked to be mid 20's, dirty blond surfer looks. He introduced himself as one of our new neighbors, Nick.

I once lived in West Hollywood, and if a handsome young buck took the trouble to come and introduce himself to you as you moved in it would open up a world of interesting possibilities. I'm pretty sure that's not how things work here.

Nick introduced himself and welcomed us to the neighborhood. There was something a little shifty about him, but I couldn't tell you what it was. Maybe the fact he avoided eye contact at all costs. He seemed a little uncomfortable and I began to wonder if he was doing recon for the neighbors, checking out the story of the two "confirmed bachelors" who'd just moved in next door.

"It's a really great neighborhood" Nick said. "You just have to be careful. There's been a lot of robberies lately". He then proceeded to list all the recent victims. Mostly things stolen out of open garages, but he did mention an elderly lady who's entire house was cleaned out while she was at church. It all seemed kind of strange. We'd lived right around the corner for over a year and I never heard anything about a crime wave.

And then, just like that, he was off.

"What was that all about? I asked the boyfriend. "It all seemed weird. He wouldn't look at me."

"That's because he's stoned" my boyfriend replied.

Oh. I hadn't noticed.

I went to the front yard and looked down the block and saw Nick aimlessly weaving his way back home.

OK, sure, maybe he was stoned. I still think he was casing the joint.

Lewd In Public

So... the boyfriend and I spent the weekend moving stuff into the new house. Just about all that's left is the furniture at this point, and that gets moved on Wednesday.

There was one slight casualty of the move, a single champagne flute. The boyfriend was upset, but then I pointed out to him that as long as we live in Bakersfield there's little chance we'll have anything to celebrate so who would know?

And there was also one slight awkward moment with the neighbors.

We have quite a few framed prints and photos and we thought it best to move those over by hand lest the movers crack the glass on anything. I had made several trips and was removing the last print from my car. It's a large, lovely photo by renowned photographer Greg Gorman. Many years ago I had had the privilege and pleasure of doing a shoot with Greg. We had hit it off and he had given me the print as a gift.

It's a male nude.

A bulging, glistening, well endowed male nude.

Did I mention it's lovely? I never thought twice about hanging it when we lived in LA and I had it prominently on display in my home office. But when we moved to Bako it suddenly seemed a bit... much. So, into a closet it went, just like me. And it was now headed back into a closet in the new house.

I pulled it out of the car and was about to spirit it away into the house when suddenly behind me I heard...

"Helloooooo....."

I spun around and there was an elderly woman walking a snickerdoodle or whatever. I instinctively spun the print around so the back was facing her.

"I just love what you've done to the house. Why, we've lived her since '78..."

And off she went on an unsolicited history of the neighborhood. The only problem was that we now live on a corner, and while the back of the print was safely facing her, the naughty bits were all on display to the side street.

And I heard a car coming.

I did a quick pivette, dodging the oncoming car but now flashing our neighbors across the street. If only I could pin myself against the car, but the old lady had advanced a few steps up the drive and she cut me off.

Normally there isn't much traffic on either street, but of course, now, in this situation, it was Grand Central Station. I tried to politely cut the woman off and end the conversation, but she was lost in the past and unstoppable. So there I was, dancing around like one of those intersection sign twirlers. A sign twirler with a bladder problem - I had stupidly decided that as long as I was in motion, no one could focus on the print. I was rocking back and forth, shaking the print, spinning around as traffic warranted.

Finally in desperation I fixed my attention on the dog. I stared at it with pleading eyes. Please, please, please, just move along. And God bless dogs, even the small scary hybrid kind. He got it. He figured it out. And in an instant he was jerking Grandma, almost off her feet. She apologized for having to move along, and not a moment too soon. I finally dashed the print into the house, and the sad little closet where it will probably spend eternity.

So there you go.

This will more than likely be the last post until sometime after the move. And by "sometime", I may mean "never". Not that I'm not so inclined. It's just that we decided to save money we would "bundle" our services with a new provider. And so far it's shaping up as a monumental digital clusterfuck. The boyfriend spent hours yesterday on the phone to Bangalore or Hyderabad or RamaLamaDingDong, India and I have to say I'm not optimistic. Ok, well, I never am, but I'm even less so now.

So our old service will be cut tonight, and in theory, we'll have internet service on Thursday. At least that's what Panesh promised.

So until then, adios.

Hopefully greetings from Neuvo Casa de Bako on Thursday.

Ish.

Thursday-ish.

Those Who Can, Do. Those Who Can’t...

After midday, the fog lifted and the dogs signaled they needed to go out. I saddled them up and off we went. I ignored Mary in her front yard, pruning a shrub that was dead and brittle, like her heart. Across the street, the gangbangers were mowing their dirt. We rounded the corner, past the low-riders who were arc welding probably stolen car parts in their makeshift garage chop shop. Crossed the street by The Old Man Who Washes His Car. We must have just missed him because there were still suds in the drive. Rounded yet another corner and there was Jim, highball in one hand, garden hose in the other.

"How 'ya doing Eric?" he asked.

"Im fine Jim, and you?" I replied.

"Higher than a Georgia pine!" he replied "Thanks for asking."

He's not just an alcoholic, but a pothead too.

He raised his glass in a mock toast and I could hear the ice tinkle from across the street.

Just another lazy afternoon here in beautiful...

"Disability Acres".

That's what I've nicknamed our neighborhood, because no one here appears to work.

In fact, a large percentage of the population is on "disability". Our former neighbor Cindy was; she told me as much herself. Mary is too - I heard her bitching on the phone one month when her check was late. Jim's disabled - "back problems" he says. His father too, same thing. Must be genetic. I think it's a safe bet that the gangbangers and low-riders and others are too. Walk around our neighborhood on any afternoon and the one thought you have is... "People sure do seem to have a lot of free time here."

At first, I gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. "They must all work the late shift" I thought. But day after day you see them. Seemingly able-bodied men in their 30's or 40's, slouched in worn recliners at the edge of an open garage, propped between the billiard table and an open cooler of Bud Light, watching the world go by. By mid-afternoon they seem pretty blotto, so I think any type of night work is probably out of the question.

It's made me realize I'm approaching everything all wrong. Beating myself up for having no work, the sleepless nights wondering how the bills are going to be paid. Rather than looking for a job, what I really need to find is a shady doctor.

Shouldn't be too hard.

Cognitive Dissonance

Everyone is quite excited about the guest appearance tomorrow night at the Condors hockey game.

It's billed as the first ever visit by one of the top competitors of our times, an unchallenged champion known all 'round the world.

Kobayashi!

World Champion... Eater.

WTF?

There's really such a thing? Oy vey.

One of the local stations even has a contest for free tickets and the prizes include a special individual consultation with the champ himself.

Trust me, if there's one thing the locals don't need it's tips on competitive eating.

That was all weird enough, but then they segued into a segment about how to lose all those holiday pounds, featuring something called the "Caveman Diet".

Oh Lord, where to start.

It was all about eating meat and vegetables raw.

But... but... just yesterday they had a story, picked up from the network, about new findings that showed Neanderthals cooked their meat.

Do these people not even watch what they put on the air? Or do they just not care?

I read somewhere that dogs only have about a ten minute memory loop. You can leave them for 15 minutes or 10 hours and they don't know the difference. I guess that applies to the locals too.

Move It Or Lose It

Well, it would appear I spoke too soon.

That seems to happen a lot around here.

I'm referring to the post I wrote last week about our impending move, how it was going to be so easy. From our point of view, it still is. Most everything has been packed and a lot has already been moved over to the new house. But I neglected to factor in the local side of the equation, and that's where things have suddenly become complicated.

We need to be out of the rental by the 15th, so last week I started calling around to get quotes on moving. There are around 20 movers listed for Bakersfield, so I just started down the list. It began rather ominously when I received the exact same curt, robotic message on the first 8 businesses I called...

"No one is available to take your call. Good bye." *click*

Wait a minute... where had I heard that message before?

Oh, right... that's the message the phone company puts on your number when you haven't paid your bill and they're about to disconnect you. NEXT.

I had better luck with the rest of the list, either being referred to a website where I could detail our move or actually getting a real live human on the phone to go over the requirements. On Monday the quotes started to roll in.

And they were all from companies based in LA!

They were Potemkin Movers! They had the facade of a local business, with a Bako mailing address and phone number, but the crew and equipment were all back in Van Nuys. Why on earth would an LA moving company bother with Bakersfield? They must think there's money to be made, just not enough to go to the trouble of maintaining a staff here. What do the natives know that I don't? Why would they prefer to hire a big city company over the local talent?

I guess we'll find out.

Because while the LA quotes were all decent, there were other considerations to be made. I know from experience that moving trucks aren't the best maintained machinery in the world. When we moved into our hillside house in LA, the movers had to place cinderblocks behind the wheels because, as they informed us AFTER they had packed up the truck, "the brakes are bad". These were the same Cirque du Soleil movers who decided that, to save time, rather than carry our belongs up the stairs and into the house they would just toss them from the truck up to their buddies on our front deck. I was appalled, but I have to admit, a little impressed. Some of those boxes weighed 50 lbs. and they were tossing them up 20 feet like softballs. But I digress.

So, this option would involve...
Hiring some rattle trap moving truck from LA.
Hoping it can make the two and a half hour, 150 mile journey to Bako.
Up over a mountain pass at 4000 feet.
A pass that was closed this Sunday and Monday because of ice and snow.

What could possibly go wrong with this plan? NEXT.

So after the LA movers were taken out of consideration, it left only six local companies, and only two of those bothered to call me back or send me a quote. The quotes were nearly identical and it really just came down to picking one. Made no difference to me, so I picked one and as I was on the phone with the cheerful scheduler I noticed something about the quotes...

The both had the exact same address.

"Um..." I stuttered. "I just noticed that you have the exact same address of another mover I'm considering. What's the deal with that?" I asked.

Her tone grew dark.

"That's the OTHER side of the family..."

Turns out they are the Capulets and the Montagues of the Bakersfield moving community. Two sides of the same family that hate each other and yet share the same equipment and facilities. And they are both vying for my attention.

So this doesn't bode well for the move. I ultimately picked the Capulets and the Montagues are none too pleased. Let's just hope a duel doesn't break out on the front lawn next week.

F*****g Fog

Oh good.

The Tule fog is back.

The frigid, damp, soul-sucking Tule fog.

I'd actually forgotten about it.

Until this morning.

At least I think it was morning.

Hard to tell what time of day it is with... THE FOG.

The River Wild

An unexpected and delightful side effect of the recent heavy rains has been that the Kern River actually now has water in it...

Like a river!

With water!

Here's what the "river" normally looks like...




A trash filled gutter running right through the center of town.

And here's what it looks like this week...




You can almost hear the steamboats, can't you?!?

I had to steal the "after" images from the web. If you think texting while driving is dangerous you should try framing an iPhone photo through your passenger window going 45mph.

The experts tell us not to get used to it. It will be dry again soon enough. But for a few days or weeks everyone will get a tantalizing look at what once was and could've been.

Which brings us to a first for this blog... an apology to the City of Bakersfield!

Don't get used to it - I don't see many more of these in the future, if ever.

In looking for the photos yesterday I came across a fairly succinct history of the tragic end of the Kern River. I had just assumed that the City of Bakersfield had somehow fucked it up. If you lived here you'd know that isn't a stretch of the imagination. But it turns out poor little ole' Bako is a victim.

A victim of (*dum*dum*DUM*)... Powerful Ag Interests.

If it's not the Evil Oil Companies, it's the Powerful Ag Interests. They're like the Bond Super Villains of the Central Valley.

At any rate, Bako had it's water stolen right out from under it's nose. Not hard to do I would imagine, but sad nonetheless.

If you want to read the sordid details they can be found here.

So, to Bakersfield, "mea culpa, mea máxima culpa."

Bako Ink

Personally, I don't have any tattoos. Not that I have anything against them. Truth be told, even though I was raised in an era when only longshoremen and felons had them, and even though my mother would disown me if I had gotten one, for years I actually planned on getting one.

My problem was that, as a graphic designer, I couldn't simply pick one off the shelf. It would have to be personally designed to show off my skills. Something cool, stylish, clever, striking. Something unique, like a fingerprint. It couldn't be something generic, a Chinese character that the tattoo artist swears says "long life and prosperity" but that you find out later really says "big mama hair wagon".

So for years I designed tattoos, but wisely I imposed a two week waiting period. From the time I finished I design I swore I loved, there was a two week moratorium before I could actually have it done. And with every single thing I came up with, by the time two weeks had passed, I hated it.

During that time I also saw the pitfalls of tattoos. I had a friend, a big, buff guy, get a striking band tattooed around his bulging bicep. It was a tight Greek key design and was unbelievably sexy. Of course, shortly thereafter he met someone and fell in love. Stopped going to the gym and packed on 50 pounds. The ink spread with his waistline and the last time I saw he he looked like he was wearing a blood pressure cuff. Another friend decided to get the name of his one true love tattooed on his shoulder. His boyfriend was none too pleased when he came home with the name of the dog on his back. They broke up.

And before you knew it, I hit 40. Getting a tattoo after 40 just seemed so desperate. I don't mean to sound ageist, but there are just some things that are unseemly once you hit your 40's. Tattoos and low-rise jeans are at the top of the list.

Which brings us to Bakersfield. This has got to be the epicenter of bad tattoos. I don't know what it is. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that the San Joaquin Valley is home to most of the state's prisons, because most of what you see has that amateurish, "Lock Up: Raw" quality about it. Like they were done with a modified Bic pen. Rather than looking sexy, most of them look kind of gruesome.

Yesterday I stopped to pick up something to eat and my eye was drawn to the forearm of the guy in front of me. There, from wrist to elbow, in gangbanger Blackletter he had tattooed...

B A K E R S F I E L D

He obviously wasn't the civic booster type. More a wannabe gangster. Maybe he thought the word "BAKERSFIELD" would convey the same macho threat of "COMPTON".

I hate to break it to him, but to me it was the tattoo equivalent of a "I'm with stupid" T-shirt.

The Journey Of A Thousand Miles Must Begin With A Single Step

New day.

New year.

Same ole' Bako.

Eh... two out of three aint bad.

Because in 2011, I'm approaching life with a new attitude. A can-do, endless possibilities, glass-is-half-full outlook on life.

Take for instance, cockroaches.

I haven't written about them in a long while because it was getting tedious and boring. That doesn't mean they've gone anywhere. Far from it. In fact, over the weekend we found our first cockroaches in the new house.

Now, normally, in the past, say in, oh, 2010, that would have resulted in a caustic and snarky post.

But not now. Not in sunny, anything-can-go 2011. This year, I'm taking a new approach.

A Zen approach.

Literally.

So here's my thinking - many people also consider crickets to be pests. But not in China. In China, they're considered fortuitous and a sign of good luck. So now, with my new positive outlook on life, I consider cockroaches nothing more than Bako crickets. Signs of good luck. Good fortune. An auspicious omen of the new year.

Of course, using that logic, we should've won the lotto many times over last year. But I'm not going to go there. That would be negative, 2010, defeatist thinking. And I'm done with that.

So welcome roaches! May your good fortune smile on our new home and the year to come!