Eat. Pray. Score.

One of the many things I wasn't prepared for when we first moved here was people praying in restaurants.

It's not as if it's something I had never seen before. Back in LA, at the trendiest restaurants, I'd see people praying all the time... praying that they could get a reservation, praying that they could get seated if they had one, praying that they were on "the list".

But it's different here.

Here, people clasp hands around the table, bow their heads in reverence and ask the Baby Jesus to bless their fried sampler platters and loaded potato skins. Probably not a bad idea, considering.

"Dear Lord, watch over us and deliver us from E.Coli..."

One of my parents' favorite restaurants is Mimi's Cafe, a chain of faux French bistros that just so happens to have an outlet here in Bako. Before we left on Sunday, my mother pressed a couple of gift cards into the boyfriend's hand as we said our good-byes. Last night, once he got home from work, we quickly decided neither of us were in the mood to cook, so we decided to have a rare dinner out courtesy of my parents' largesse.

When we arrived at Mimi's, it was deserted, probably because we were dining late, European-style, at 7. We were escorted to a booth in an empty dining room and we quickly made our choices and placed our order. I had a glass of wine. Because it was French and all.

Around the time our salads showed up, another party arrived and was seated at a large round table in the center of the room. It was a party of eight, an older couple and their three adult children and their significant others. Other than the bad hair, they were pretty unremarkable and I didn't really pay them much attention. Until their food was served.

Once everyone had been served, they all clasped hands and bowed their heads and the matriarch mumbled a blessing I couldn't make out. When she was done, everyone at the table offered a hearty "Amen".

And then everyone started high-fiving each other. And whooping and hollering.

It was as if the Baby Jesus had scored a touchdown.

Or, considering our French surroundings, a GOOALLLLLLLL!

Creepy doesn't even begin to describe it.

Luckily, it was around this time our bill arrived.

I was raised with the belief that religion was personal, private matter, not something you wore on your sleeve or clubbed other people over the head with. I'm guessing that idea is now considered "un-American".

In fact, it's down right French.

Crossing The Rubicon

A job listing popped up in my inbox.

Nothing special about that. I get dozens of them every day from the countless job sites and placement agencies I've signed up with over the years. A lot of them are for entry level positions or unpaid internships. Most of the rest are now beyond my capabilities. While technically "design" positions, they're really computer programming jobs, writing code for all kinds of online and phone apps, often in programs I've never even heard of before. I was surprised to discover that Drupal and Joomla are vital online design tools and not the names of Smurfs.

On very rare occasions a job shows up that actually looks like it's right up my alley and even after all these years and 1000+ applications, hope springs eternal. I jump through all the hoops of the online application process, tweak my resume and compile a sample package of all my best work. It hasn't resulted in as much as a phone call, but there's always tomorrow. That's what I've always told myself.

Bu this job listing was different and it actually made my heart skip a beat.

It was perfect.

The expected experience looked like it was lifted directly off my resume. It was an art position, not a programming one, and I had expert level proficiency in all the listed programs. Not only that, but in the "wish list" they always tack on at the end ( "Experience with XXXXX a HUGE PLUS"), I had all that too. They asked for examples of specific types of work, which I have in spades on my website. I looked up the company on the web and the more I navigated around the site, the more I became convinced that this was the perfect company for me.

It was a dream job.

Now, the issue with these dream jobs in the past has always been timing. After my hopes have been raised, I check the date that the listing was first posted and often it was days or weeks earlier. You have to figure if the job hasn't already been filled, they've already received thousands of applications and it honestly isn't much of surprise when you never hear back. But that's where this job was magically different. It was posted... "four minutes ago".

I didn't even have to tweak my resume. I crafted a heartfelt cover letter highlighting my perfect credentials and talking about the company to show that I had done my homework and knew what they did and who they were. I went to my website and re-orderd the work, so all the most relevant pieces showed up first. I lowballed my salary expectations, rounding up slightly from my current borderline poverty income. I packaged it all together and then with a hope and a prayer I hit "send".

And then that's when I did it. I drew a line in the sand.

If I didn't get an interview out of this application, or even a phone call, I was done.

Done looking for a job.

Done dreaming of a real job. One with steady, fulfilling work. Not to mention benefits and sick days.

I'd resign myself to a life of panhandling for freelance work, which is how I've supported myself for three years. If this application didn't open a door, it would be the last one I'd submit.

***crickets***

Well, that was three weeks ago.

So this morning I'm busying myself deleting all my job search accounts. I'm throwing in the towel. I'm done.

And The Bad News Is, We’re Back

What a wonderful escape, however brief. It was so nice to be out of here and with family for four days. Never thought I'd write that about the family, but things mellow with age. The only sour note over the whole long weekend was the needless slaughter of my beloved, yet hapless Bruins at the hands of the demon spawn of USC. As a longtime UCLA fan, it's to be expected, although this year proved to be particularly gruesome.

Family time isn't the only thing that mellows with age. It's amazing how time and circumstances can alter your perspective. When the time came for me to leave my rinky-dink hometown for the bright lights of big city college life, it couldn't have come a moment too soon. I found my city to be so backwards and provincial, so conservative and narrow minded, stuck in time and culturally stilted. Now, having lived in Bakersfield for two years, it feels like the fucking Hamptons. I'd move back in a heartbeat if I could.

I'm embarrassed and ashamed to admit this, but every time we leave town, both the boyfriend and I hope for some natural calamity to wipe Bako off the map, like a meteor strike. Ashamed because, sadly, that's unlikely to happen. The odds are greater on winning the lottery, which would also work for our purposes. Still, if you don't have hope, what do you have?

We left a little early to avoid the traffic back and the drive was relatively easy. I found myself dozing off the last half hour of the drive, both dogs asleep in my lap. I didn't even have to open my eyes to know we were nearly home. The air grew ripe with the stench of a thousand Port-A-Potties and I knew we were back in Bako.

Sunday Inspiration

Giving Thanks

There are many Thanksgiving traditions and when it comes to local news, that means sending a reporter out to the airport to cover the chaos of this, the busiest travel day of the year. Images of traffic backed up for miles, packed concourses, long lines to check luggage and move through security, a close-up shot of the departure boards with weather cancellations... you know the drill.

I have to give the locals credit, they gave it the ole' college try.

After a brief in-studio intro with images of teeming masses of people at the airports back East, they threw it over to one of their reporters out at Meadows Field, the local airport.

There she stood, in a deserted concourse, framed against an empty security checkpoint, a lonely guard slowly pacing back and forth.

You could practically hear the crickets.

"It's quiet now" she said, stating the obvious. "Looks like everyone made their flights."

This is what happens when you have a shiny new airport and only four flights a day.

"But it was a much different story less than an hour ago. Let's roll the tape..."

And sure enough, they showed footage from earlier, the exact same security checkpoint inundated with passengers. Three of them.

Then they interviewed a woman who already looked exasperated.

"It's going to be a very long day" she sighed. "I have to make three connections."

Call it "Six Degrees of Bakersfield" - theoretically you can fly to anywhere in the world from Bakersfield, you'll just have to change planes six times to do it.

Which is why most people drive to get where they need to be. And which is what we'll be doing later this evening, making the three hour slog down to the OC to spend four, count 'em, FOUR glorious days away from this town. It'll mark our longest break from Bako since we moved here.

If that's not worth giving thanks for, I don't know what is.

Say Again?

I'm perplexed.

I'm sitting here working with the local NPR station on in the background.

As usual.

On Tuesday mornings they do a public affairs show, and this morning they just finished interviewing the head of local organization...

"Keep Bakersfield Beautiful".

Wouldn't it first have to be "beautiful" in order to "keep" it that way?

What am I missing here?

Can’t See For Shit

And so, the fog returns.

I don't know what it is about the fog here, but the cold cuts right through to the bone. I've been back from walking the dogs for over an hour and I still can't get warm.

I never considered myself someone who had a problem with cold weather. Easy to say, I know, for someone who's lived in California his whole life, but I used to ski extensively and I've shoveled my share of snow. I've spent February in Minneapolis and one memorable New Year's in Chicago where, with the wind chill, it was -39 degrees. OK, in that case, there was a lot of alcohol involved, which no doubt helped.

It must be age. Now I know why my parents insist on keeping their home a balmy 85 degrees all year long. Something to look forward to as we prepare to spend Thanksgiving with them. For the first time since we moved here, the boyfriend managed to get Friday off, so we'll actually be able to get away from here for four days, our longest break.

And not a moment too soon. This town just wears you down.

The Season Of Sharing

Just in time for Thanksgiving, the inflatable turkey arrived across the street at Jim's.

In a sign of these difficult times, in addition to the traditional case of Bud Light, this year he's also swigging some Canadian Club whiskey. I would think with all the flags they fly they would've gone with an American brand, but whatever.

I do think it's touching that this year the turkey is sharing his liquor with other less fortunates, the scarecrow girls.

Or maybe they're just hookers.

Sunday Inspiration

Random Good Things About Bakersfield #23

Your chances of running into a Kardashian are less than zero. And that's a good thing.

Yes, I know... the picture at the top is actually a Cardassian, a bitter,cunning, predatory alien race from "Star Trek"

Six of one, half a dozen of another.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

I think it's safe to say there is nothing "super" about Supercuts, but in these downmarket times you do what you have to do and yesterday I needed a haircut.

I suppose it could be worse - I could have the boyfriend cut my hair with a Flobee. It doesn't really matter. The shame and humiliation is usually fleeting since I've never spend more than ten minutes there and they usually get me out in around 5. It shows, of course, but I'm blessed with fast growing hair and within a week you won't even be able to make out all the nicks. Plus, the price is right.

The one I go to has a staff of mostly women, evenly split between thirty-something burnouts and younger rockabilly goth girls who'd rather not be there. There is one guy who works there who skews towards being queeny. In the two years I've lived here, he's the only obviously gay guy I've seen.

For a few bucks more, you can make an appointment with a particular "stylist", but I just go with the luck of the draw because, really, it doesn't matter.

I was assigned one of the goth girls and took my seat. We attempted some small talk for the first minute or so, but neither of us cared enough to keep it going and we soldiered on in silence for the rest of the cut.

About halfway through, at around the three minute mark, a large, hulking shape darkened the door and in walked a mean looking "Sons of Anarchy" biker wannabe. He announced to no one in particular he was there for a haircut and the receptionist took his name.

This was Darryl. Darryl was massive. And seemed a little angry.

It evidently wasn't the gay guy's day, since he was next up to bat and assigned Darryl. He looked scared.

He introduced himself to the biker as Bryan. I'm guessing it's with a "y"; gay Bryans are always with a "y".

He led Darryl back to the chair next to mine and as he dropped into the seat I thought I felt the floor shake. Darryl said this was his first time at Supercuts and Bryan gamely asked where he usually got his hair cut. Darryl mentioned a barbershop in a dodgy part of town and mentioned that his regular barber was unavailable...

"Doing 60 days for beating his old lady."

I noticed that Bryan had stopped making eye contact and was just staring at the floor. He asked Darryl how he wanted his haircut and Darryl said he wanted it short.

"As short as you can get it without showing my Bosley scars... if you can see the scars after your done, I'm going to be really pissed off. REALLY pissed off..."

A biker with hair plugs. There's something you don't see every day.

Mean, vain and stupid is no way to go through life, especially for those of us who will be described as "innocent bystanders" on the local news when the inevitable happens. Just in the nick (no pun intended) of time, Goth Girl announced that I was done. I hustled to pay and get the hell out of there. Just as I was leaving, I heard Bryan say "...oops"

I didn't look back. I've said it before, but in Bako you never look back.

I hope Bryan's OK. He seemed nice enough.

Bakersfield Roulette

It hasn't happened in a long time, but yesterday I was stuck at a train crossing.

It's an occupational hazard, living in Bako. The city is boxed in and crossed by countless tracks and there are only a handful of over crossings to avoid delays. The only reason it hadn't happened in awhile is the fact that I'm such a shut-in and even when I do go out, I don't venture far.

At any rate, getting stopped at a crossing wouldn't be such a big deal if the trains were, you know... moving. Often they just roll across the intersection and stop. The first time it happened to me, I waited 40 minutes to finally get on my way. If you think you can just divert down a side street and skirt around the end of the train further down the track, think again. The trains are so long you'll be halfway to the coast before you find either end.

Even worse, and more frequent, are situations like yesterday, when the crossing arms come down and then there is... nothing. What happens is a train far down the line has rolled to a stop over the sensors that lower the gate. Maybe it's just waiting for another train to pass, maybe it's parked for good, you'll have plenty of time to ponder which. Usually after 20 or 30 minutes, the gates finally rise and it's almost as if you can hear the engineer saying "My Bad". Or not. I doubt they care.

By the time I rolled up on the intersection, there were already two or three blocks worth of cars waiting which meant that the gates had already been down for quite awhile and there wasn't a train for as far as the eye could see. I just resigned myself to the wait, since I had no other route to get home. Just then, I noticed the gate on our side of the road started to rise. It stopped at about half staff, at a 45 degree angle. Soon, the cars in front of me started to ever so slowly inch forward.

I assumed the gate had risen mechanically, but when I finally worked my way up to the tracks I saw that the gate was being held aloft by a strapping young buck, like Atlas. He'd pulled his truck over, and probably out of frustration, he had clamored out and was now hoisting the gate up to let traffic pass.

"How nice is that?" I thought as my car crawled onto the tracks. And stopped.

The light on the other side had turned red and traffic had stopped and I was now sitting directly on the train tracks.

It suddenly occurred to me that just because I had never seen a train barreling down the tracks at 80mph, it didn't mean that they didn't exist. You do occasionally hear about them on the news, when they derail. And they probably derail because idiots like me get tired of waiting and sneak around the gates, which had obviously come down for a reason. I was now a sitting duck.

With my luck I figured this was how it was going to end, killed in Bako.

By a train.

Poetic payback for writing this blog.

"Here Lies Eric, Killed By A Train.
Moved To Bako And Went Insane".

Actually, I was trying to take my mind off my impending doom by thinking of something better to rhyme with "train" when the light turned green and traffic moved forward and I was spared my ironic death.

So, at least yesterday, I dodged a bullet. I suppose I should be thankful, and I guess I am. It's always such a tough decision when you wake up each morning in this town.

It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas

Looking over the past week's posts I see it's been nothing but doom and gloom around here lately. So, I figure it's time to lighten the mood, and what better way than to focus on... Christmas.

They say a single snow flake can trigger an avalanche, and evidently a single Christmas tune can open the holiday floodgates.

We were running some errands over the weekend and the boyfriend was trying to find some music on the limited local stations when suddenly he came across "Santa Baby".

Now... I know there's been a recent trend of certain "adult contemporary, easy listening" stations throwing themselves over to non-stop Christmas music during the holidays, but in my experience they have the decency to wait until Thanksgiving. But that couldn't be the case here... it was only November 12th.

But sure enough, the next song up was "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas". Well, sure... OK... I will... IN SIX WEEKS. Sheesh.

But then I looked at the boyfriend and he had... that gleam.

The boyfriend goes Cuckoo for Christmas. Odd, because he was raised Jewish. Actually, that may be the cause; denied the Christmas orgy in his youth, he's now making up for lost time as an adult. Whatever the cause, before we moved to Bakersfield, Christmas was an over-the-top, extreme sport at our house.

Our first Christmas here, we were really still too shellshocked to do much of anything, and last Christmas we were packing to move. In our diminished circumstances, I wasn't sure we'd do anything this year. What's the point of putting up a Christmas tree if there isn't going to be anything under it?

When we got home, I needed to focus on two small jobs, one of which was the damn Snickerdoodle flyer (never have an 11 year-old as a client, trust me on this). The boyfriend said he'd focus on housework since the house had turned into something of a wreck. A couple of hours later I emerged from my office and noticed there was precious little housework getting done. Actually... none. And the boyfriend was nowhere to be found.

And then I heard a "thump" in the garage, and there he was, with ten years worth of Christmas crap all out of its boxes and pulled down from the rafters, ready to go.

Suffice it to say, no housework ended up getting done but the house is well on it's way to being festooned for the holidays... two weeks before Thanksgiving.

Looks like we're going to give Jim a run for the money this year.

The Taxman Cometh

If I were to make a list of "Things I Pray I Never Have To Deal With In This Lifetime", I can pretty much guarantee that "an angry letter from the IRS" would make the top ten.

But that's what showed up in the mailbox on Saturday.

It would appear they are disputing my income, and therefore the taxes I paid, in 2009.

They are expecting me to send them a check for the difference by December 7th.

In the amount of $295,000.

And change.

It all stems from the short sale of our house in LA.

To the boyfriend and me, it was an unthinkable tragedy, the loss of our dream home and our life's savings, which we'd spent to restore the house to it's former glory. It was also the loss of an investment which we had planned to help cushion us in our Golden Years.

To the IRS, it was a lottery windfall and now they want their pound of flesh.

I'm sure my crack accountant will take care of it, although his degree of helpfulness has dropped almost exactly in line with my income. Both currently stand at around 20% what they once were.

Part of me wants to just cut them the check. How often do you get to write a personal check for six figures? Sure, it'll bounce, but what are they going to do? Send me to jail?

That doesn't scare me.

I live in Bakersfield.

Sunday Inspiration

Sadness On The Edge of Town

This must come as a surprise, I know

I've clearly camouflaged my feelings in a cleverly obtuse, yet well written way. I've put on a brave face, put my best foot forward. Smiled in adversary and fallen on my sword. And yet... still...

I hate my fucking life.

I HATE my fucking life.

I hate my FUCKING life.

HATE. With a capital "H".

And "F". Capital "F", as in "FUCKING".

'LIFE"... whatever that may have once been.

"HATE. FUCKING. LIFE."

***********

That's probably a bit too harsh.

There are positives, God knows.

I love the boyfriend more than he can comprehend.

And the dogs too.

And most of my family.

Eh.... "most" is probably too generous... let's say "half"?

That's all well and good, but sadly, it isn't enough.

Not enough to get through the last stretch of life, and let's be honest, that's where we're at.

That's the PowerPoint takeaway at any rate.

So why the sudden bout of melancholy?

Two words....

Pumpkin Loaf.

Actually, it's more than Pumpkin Loaf.

It's always more than Pumpkin Loaf, right?

It's... everything.

No sooner had I posted about the lack of work, than I received a project from an infrequent but local client...

"My Daughter is having a fundraiser... she's eleven... she's selling Christmas treats and... SHE HAS TO WIN! SHE HAS TO FUCKING WIN!!! AT ALL COSTS! IT IS CRITICAL! MAKE IT WORK!"

Well, that's fun. She's a pathological liar. Trust me, I know.

And obviously it's genetic.

Ultimately, I had no choice. I did it. I'm not proud. I designed a completely deceptive ad campaign for a pre-teen con artist. Selling probably tainted home-schooled food. I'm probably legally culpable now.

I showered twice afterword, if that counts.

Looking on the positive, as a professional designer, how often do you get a chance to typeset "SNICKERDOODLE"?

Not fucking often, let me tell you.

…I want to kill myself.

Flash In The Pan

Work slowed to a crawl this week. It's not entirely unexpected; work usually comes to a screeching halt once we hit Thanksgiving and won't pick up again until after the New Year. That's just how it is, although it's a little worrying that it's starting so early this year.

The first day, Monday, wasn't bad. I'd been working non-stop for months and actually welcomed the break. It gave me a chance to catch up on billing and update some woefully out of date websites.

Then, on Tuesday, I panicked.

That's usually what happens when the pipeline runs dry and it happens every six months or so. And every time it does, I hit the internet looking for freelance work and what I'm noticing is there is vanishingly little call for the type of work I do anymore.

I believe I am officially a dinosaur.

I didn't reach this state intentionally. Back when I and many of my colleagues were unceremoniously dumped back in 2007, we all rushed to stay ahead of the digital tsunami and notch our resumes with the latest software. The end result was one of two things.

First, the already shrinking market was swamped with people with only a passable knowledge of the software. Having been burned by hiring a bunch of novices, employers started requiring two to five years of practical experience with each program. That created a Catch 22 - you couldn't be hired without extensive real-world experience, but you couldn't get extensive real-world experience if no one would hire you.

Second, the software you'd spent thousands of dollars and every waking night and weekend learning, would be suddenly rendered obsolete.

Which brings us to... Flash.

F L A S H

Flash is the software that makes possible a lot of the interactive qualities of the web, not to mention all the annoying animation. Those little chickens that hop around in the mortgage banner ads? Flash.

When I first found myself out of work, every headhunter and placement firm was unanimous... I had to learn Flash. The ad world had moved beyond static images and if I was to survive, I had to learn Flash. At the time, good Flash artists were earning around $100 an hour, so who was I to say no?

It just so happens I had Flash. I hadn't learned it only because it's so daunting and everyone I know who uses it hates it. But a girl has to do what a girl has to do and one of the employment firms was hosting a free weekend seminar in the basics.

The seminar was held in an overly pretentious loft in Venice and it started somewhat ominously... the instructor said he had a lot to cover in two days and that he would be moving fast and it was up to us to keep up.

Flash isn't like most design programs. It's actually closer to trying to fly a 747. Or pilot the Space Shuttle...



See that little white square near the middle? That's your work space.

At first, I was doing OK. By the time we took our first break, after two hours, I had been able to draw a square.

Once we returned, things went downhill fast...

I made a mistake.

By the time I had fixed it, the instructor was two steps ahead. We had been warned there would be no time for questions or for going back and for the next few minutes I tried to muddle through but it was obvious to me and my little square that we were now deeply in the weeds. Not long after that, I quietly stopped working, accepting my failure. I closed my laptop and when we broke for lunch, I left.

But I didn't give up. I bought "Flash For Dummies". Turns out I don't even qualify as a Dummy. Eventually I scraped together enough money to sign up for a weeklong seminar, one where the instructors would actually take questions and be helpful but by then the house had sold and we had to move and I abandoned my dreams of ever learning fucking Flash.

Which, it turns out, wasn't such a bad idea, because on Tuesday of this week, the makers of Flash announced they were abandoning it instead.

See, back in the summer of 2007, Apple launched the iPhone. And it wouldn't run Flash. Apple claimed it was horribly buggy (which it is) and that it was such a processor whore it drained batteries to the point they were nearly useless. "Oh just wait" everyone said. "Apple will include it in version 2.0. Flash was simply everywhere, they couldn't just ignore it."

But they did. Version 2.0 came out without it. And the so did the iPad. And that's when the death watch started.

The other phone makers saw Apple suffered no repercussions and many of them bailed on Flash too.

You could see it in the job listings. Flash designers were now making $50 an hour, then $25. Lately it seems to be around $15.

So finally this week, Adobe, the makers of Flash, threw in the towel. The mobile web is moving on and Flash is dead, long live Flash.

I hear the next big thing is HTML5 and CSS. Whatever those are. I figure by the time I were to learn either or both, and get my years of "practical experience", they'll be dead too.

And so it goes. It's nothing but a hamster wheel anymore and I'm just too old for this shit.

Such A Deal

Jim seems to be a little unclear on the concept of a yard sale. The part about hauling all your worthless crap out into the drive and onto the lawn, that part he understands. He's been doing it all morning. There's currently a dishwasher, a stove, a washer and dryer, and sundry other trash artfully displayed out in front of his house. And tires. Two sets of tires. I really don't understand what it is with these people and used tires.

The crucial missing part of the equation is the part where you do it all on a weekend. When people are home. And free to come by and do a little window shopping. Or yard shopping. That part, Jim hasn't quite processed yet.

This isn't the first time he's done this. The last time was on a Tuesday and he was bitching about it for days, didn't have a single soul stop by to look. I tried to politely point out at the time that perhaps the problem was the timing, but he waved me off saying...

"If there's good shit, people will stop. And I got good shit."

Perhaps.

He's out there right now in a lawn chair with a cocktail, waiting for business I fear will never materialize.

It's going to be a long day for Jim

Today’s Forecast: Sad

Well that's a bummer. They fired my favorite weather girl, Melissa Dignan. Sure, her voice was like a metal rake dragged down a concrete sidewalk, but over time you got used to it. And she used to bring her little dog, Shelby, on the set, which was kind of endearing.

They sure do burn through weather people down at KERO. She's like the fourth one to be kicked to the curb since we've lived here. My favorite was Lloyd Lindsay Young, who used to have viewers send in strange objects for him to use as pointers with the weather map. Once, it was a mannequin leg, another time it was a dildo. Come to think of it, the dildo is probably why Lloyd isn't with us anymore.

At any rate, I'm going to miss her. I hope she lands on her feet somewhere. When they fired the sports guy, he ended up in Wichita. I think we can all agree, that's a step up.

Day Off

Well this is a first... I'm just not feeling the love today. I've started a couple of half-baked posts but I just can't work up the enthusiasm to flesh them out. So I'm not going to even bother to try. But I'd hate to leave anyone high and dry, so I'm posting a selection of my collected TV highlights. I'll be back rested and ready tomorrow. Promise.

The Lay Of The Land

It occurs to me that anyone who reads this blog is probably not a resident of the Greater Bakersfield Metroplex. If they were, there would be death threats.

The locals are touchy that way.

Perhaps some people have had the misfortune to pass through or, god forbid, stay a spell, but more likely than not the memory has been blocked out as a coping mechanism.

So that means that anyone reading this blog is probably experiencing a vicarious Bako existence based only on the posts, without any guides or a map or wayfinding mechanism to make sense of where in the hell you are and what it all means.

So I'm here to remedy that, based on my limited knowledge having lived here two years . Using the map found on the local news.

First off, the city is almost perfectly bisected by Highway 99, running north to south. South leads back to civilization, north to that beacon of Valley sophistication, Fresno.

But for the city at large, let's go back to the map. Starting in the middle, in the area labeled...

CENTRAL

This is where you find the sun dried bones and crumbling facades of what was once known as "downtown". It's a No Man's Land. What passes for "local government" is still based here, but unless you have to deal with those charlatans, there's no reason to go here. Other than to buy porn.

Moving somewhat clockwise, we come to...

EAST

Otherwise known as "the bad part of town". That seems a little limited, based on my experience. It's primarily low income and minority and where you'll find most of the police shootings and meth labs, although not all. The worse of the worst if Bakersfield's ghetto, Cottonwood. Makes Compton look like Club Med.

MOUNTAIN

Seems self evident, although it only refers to the southern Sierras. There are vibrant mountain communities south of town in the Tehachapis and San Emigdio mountains, but they're so ignored by the powers that be that they might as well be in Nepal. The mountains do serve a purpose as a natural barrier to contain Bako and prevent it's special brand of lifestyle from escaping south and west. Basically this only covers the limited area around Lake Isabella and the shoddy dam that will one day flood the city.

Then there is a vast grey wedge with no designation. This is the Mojave Desert and of no concern to anyone here. Which is why it doesn't even get a label.

SOUTH COUNTY

A wasteland of farms and oil fields. Where the dead bodies turn up, either buried in shallow graves or floating in irrigation canals.

SOUTHWEST

This appears to be Bakersfield's first major residential expansion/land grab. As you head west from the 99, you can see the architecture transition from the 60's, to the 70's, to the 80's. Nice suburban homes on large lots, where we live. At the far west is Bako's answer to Beverly Hills, "Seven Oaks", a Nouveau Riche gated community of pretend mansions. To service it is the "upscale" shopping area known as "The Marketplace". It's as upscale as you can get and still have an Applebee's. Also home to Cal State Bakersfield, a junior college.

NORTH OF THE RIVER

The "river" is what remains of the Kern River and is normally a trash filled dry gulch, but lately, with last year's record rains, it actually has water in it. Not for long, but is has it for now. This area is a hive-like cluster of gated neighborhoods filled with mini-McMansions. Builders obviously hoped that you'd focus on the corbels and columns and crown moldings and not notice that your roof touches your neighbor's, you can't fit a ping pong table in the "backyard" and good luck with anything bigger than a twin bed. And people obviously did, since it's "the" area to live in. Bonus annoying points for the locals referring to it as "NOR", trying desperately to be "The OC". The people who live here are insufferable, even more so than the snobs of Seven Oaks.

And finally...

NORTH COUNTY

This is Tatooine. You have to pass through here to get to San Francisco.

Granted, this is only a broad brush picture of the town. There's a much more nuanced portrait to be painted, but I'll leave that to someone who cares.

Sunday Inspiration

Draining

Well, that was money well spent.

I'm talking, of course, about the water tank out back, what we once happily referred to as "the pool".

We ended up using it all of three times.

The first miscalculation came in the "refreshing" department. We got the pool in mid July and it took the better part of a day to assemble it and fill it. The next day we went in for our first dip, and it was, in fact, cooly refreshing, water temperature around 80.

But we're talking summer in Bakersfield with constant triple digit temps, and the next weekend when we went climbed in the water was around 96 degrees. As I floated around on a raft at roof level, staring at our air conditioner which was working overtime, it occurred to me that I'd much rather be inside where it was cool rather than sweating on a raft in water that was at body temperature. The next day, we tried again, but ended up spending even less time in the water.

We took a break from the pool for a week or so, but by then the figs had started falling and dissolving into a gelatinous goo and the pool had the consistency of warm spit.

It took several weeks of the boyfriend's best efforts at modern pool chemistry to finally return the water to something that looked non-toxic, but by then the weather had started to turn and so did our attention.

To be honest, I hadn't really given it much thought since then. It had always been the boyfriend's little obsession. I had tried to put the brakes on the whole pool crazy train, and failing that, I made it clear I wanted nothing to do with the maintenance and upkeep.

The other day I was on the floor of the bedroom giving the dogs some quality time, as I do each morning. But this day I noticed something was missing... the low hum of the circulating pump for the pool. It was one of those sounds that just fades into background white noise and you fail to notice it until it isn't there anymore. Come to think of it, I hadn't heard it in days.

Upon inspection, I discovered the filter was not in fact running. And wouldn't run. It was broken. And then I looked at the pool.

The water was a lovely, vibrant shade of green. Not unlike my eyes, which I'm told is my best feature.

The boyfriend came home for lunch and I drilled him about the pool... what are we going to do about it? Rather, what was HE going to do about it? It was now nothing but a mosquito hatchery.

So, that's the task at hand for the weekend... draining the pool. How? I haven't a clue. Not my problem.

Trouble at the OK Corral

Yesterday was the Grand Opening of the new Golden Corral.

Yesterday was also the Grand Closing of the new Golden Corral.

They opened yesterday morning to overflow crowds and it looked like they were on pace to set a record for number of people at a Golden Corral on an opening day. That says more about Bako than it does about the restaurant I think.

Then, around 2pm, the lights and kitchen equipment started to suddenly shut down.

It would appear that someone miscalculated just how much electricity 140 warming trays suck down.

As more of the restaurant started to go dark, they started turning people away and evacuated the people already enjoying their re-heated cuisine. And then they closed.

Leave it to Bakersfield to fuck up a Golden Corral.

The finger pointing has already begun. The builder is blaming the local utility, PG&E (Pathetic Gas & Electric) for not running enough juice into the building. PG&E is blaming the builder for an inadequate, poorly designed building. In the meantime they've moved in a mammoth potable generator truck and they vow to reopen later today. Even as they showed hundreds of pounds of spoiled meat being wheeled into a dumpster on the morning news.

Yeah... we'll be eating there reeeal soon. Not.

"TODAY'S SPECIAL: GRILLED SALMONELLA IN A LIGHT E.COLI SAUCE!"

If It Aint Broke...

Well, actually, it is.

Bakersfield..."Top Ten Brokest Cities".

That Golden Day

I haven't been this excited since that time we got the free onion loaf at Applebee's.

Today is the Grand Opening of Golden Corral!

Anticipation has been building ever since they erected the giant marquee out front a couple of weeks ago. Nothing says "fine dining" like a giant fluorescent backlit marquee. They've been counting down the days ever since it went up...

"GRAND OPENING IN TWO WEEKS...... ONE WEEK... THREE DAYS...TOMORROW!"

"Diners hungry to heap their plates with unlimited grub can stampede to the Golden Corral starting later this week.

The Raleigh, N.C.-based eatery's Bakersfield location opens at 10:45 a.m. Thursday.

The restaurant at 5001 Ming Ave. will offer Italian, Asian, Mexican and American cuisine at six stations, a news release said. The restaurant's fare ranges from cooked-to-order steak to a chocolate fountain dubbed the "Chocolate Wonderfall."

Golden Corral District Manager Dale Maxfield said the restaurant's "pavilion" design covers 14,000 square feet and can seat 525 people.

The eatery is an all-you-can-eat lunch and dinner buffet with more than 140 hot and cold foods seven days a week and a breakfast buffet on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays."

They had me at "Chocolate Wonderfall"

I've been trying to convince the boyfriend we need to go for dinner tonight, but he's been a little cool to the idea. I believe his exact words were "Not a fucking chance in Hell".

I suppose I see his point. We should probably give them a few days to work out the kinks. You know there'll be kinks. You can't have that many warming trays and not have kinks. Besides, it'll probably take them a few days to get the knack of cooking huge vats of institutional grade food.

Better to wait for the weekend. You know... "Date Night".

Random Good Things About Bakersfield #22

Seven digit dialing.

In Bakersfield, or all of Kern County for that matter, you can dial a phone call with only seven digits and the call actually goes through! It's like magic.

I can't remember how long it's been since you could do that in LA. Sometime in the 80's I think.

It's a throwback to a simpler time. I always bely my big city roots when someone asks for our number and I start with the area code...

"It's six, six, one..."

They screw up their noses and look at you like you're stupid. Of course it's 661. Everything is 661. What else would it be? It's 661 as far as the eye can see and much further beyond. In fact, the 661 area code is so vast it even bleeds into northern LA County. I wonder if the Nouveau Riche of the Santa Clarita Valley are aware they share an area code with Bako. That can't sit well.

It's quite the change from our former lives. We lived in the 310, but they were quickly running out of numbers so they gave it a 424 overlay, meaning your next door neighbor could have a different area code, and even if they didn't you'd still have to dial 310 to reach them. Both of our cell phones were 323, as was my office. The boyfriend worked over the hill and was 818. My parents in Orange County were 714, but my sister, a few miles further south, was 949. The boyfriend's family near the coast was 562. Add in friends in the 951, clients in the 213, and vendors in the 626 and it was all just too much.

But no such worries here. We don't need no stinking area codes.

The only thing that would be even better is if they reverted to the old named exchanges, like "Butterfield 8" or "Murray Hill".

How great would it be if your number was "WeedPatch5-1234"?

In Search Of...

Yesterday I started my day as I do every day... looking for a job.

It's been that way just about each day since I was downsized out of my last full-time job back in 2007.

I know it must seem delusional. After four years I've applied for over a thousand jobs. I used to keep track but I gave up back in the 700's when we moved to Bako. That was two years ago. And through all of that, I've only ever been contacted twice and gotten one interview out of the ordeal. At this point I have a greater chance of finding a sasquatch than I do a full-time job.

When I first found myself out on the street, I signed up for email alerts from Indeed.com. It's a great little service. You enter the parameters of your job search and it scours every online job listing site for positions that meet your criteria and every morning you receive email lists of every potential job. Back in 2008, every morning there would be page after page of listings, dozens of job opportunities that could take hours to sort through. At the depth of the recession, the listings dropped down to a handful. A lot of days nothing showed up at all.

Things seemed to be picking up last year and the number of listings seemed to grow. But something had changed and the requirements and qualifications had undergone a paradigm shift. Traditional ad skills were passé and everyone was looking for people who could program for Facebook pages and iPhone apps, neither of which even existed when I was laid off.

But still I look. I've thought many times about just canceling the email alerts but in the back of my mind that would be to admit failure. And it's become my morning ritual and I think would completely throw me off. Besides, it's like playing the lottery. You convince yourself that the one day you don't look will be the day your dream job shows up and you miss the winning numbers. And that's what it felt like yesterday.

Scouring the list, the perfect job immediately popped out. It was for one of the major networks back in LA. The skills and qualifications seemed to perfectly align with my resume, and even better, it asked for at least ten years experience. That would mean I wouldn't be competing with the low cost youngsters.

The listing directed me to apply on the company website, and once there it required me to register. I entered my email address and created a password and hit submit.

"This email address is already registered with the system."

Really? That's weird. I don't remember ever applying for a job with this company, but after 1000 applications it all gets a little blurry.

Clearly I didn't know the password, so I jumped through the hoops to recover it and once I did I discovered something fascinating...

I had applied for the exact same job in September of 2010.

And October of 2009.

And September of 2008.

The disappointment and shame of realizing I had applied for this job and been passed over three times was tempered somewhat by the knowledge that no one who'd gotten the job in the last four years had lasted 12 months. It hardly seemed worth the effort to continue, so I didn't.

Applying repeatedly for the same job happens more often than you would think and it's happened so often to me that's it's developed a certain pattern.

It's not unlike the Kubler-Ross Grief Cycle.

STAGE ONE: JOY
The stars align and you find a job that's perfectly matched to your skills and experience. You craft the perfect cover letter and polish your resumé and upload it all and wait for the phone call. Which never comes. Two weeks later, the same job listing appears.

STAGE TWO: DENIAL
There must be some mistake. My application must have somehow been overlooked. Perhaps the system went down and it was never uploaded. Must be a technical issue. Once again, you upload everything and wait for a call.

Nothing. A few weeks later, the same job listing appears.

STAGE THREE: BARGAINING
By now, you realize someone probably has looked at your resumé and cover letter and passed on you. You can fix it. You craft a new cover letter, perhaps dropping some names that you think may be relevant. You redo your resumé, fluffing yourself even further. You drop the oldest references and fudge the year you graduated college, trying to shave years off your age. You upload the new and improved you to the server and wait for the call.

Which never comes. When the job listing shows up for a fourth time, you aren't even surprised.

STAGE FOUR: ANGER
You apply again, just out of spite. Fuck them.

Which leads to...

STAGE FIVE: ACCEPTANCE
When the job listing shows up a fifth time, you just keep on walking.

I find myself doing a lot of "walking" these days.

One of these days, I'll just give up, but yesterday wasn't that day.

It's coming soon, though. I can tell.