Episode 4: A New Hope

The Worst Year Of My Life.

I have never been so happy to see a year end in my life. I know it's purely symbolic - for all I know, the awfulness will just bleed over and continue into 2010. But I'm shockingly hopeful. And it's not just the liquor.

I've finally worked through, somewhat, the five stages of grief over the death of my career. Occasionally a job pops up that sends me back to #3, bargaining, but it's a mirage. It's over.

So... what's next?

I've been doing a lot of soul searching. I've had to do an honest evaluation of my strengths and skills. And a diligent assessment of the Bako job market and it's growth industries. And after many weeks, I've finally settled on two possible career paths.

Prison guard. Or WalMart.

Prison guard is actually a lot more appealing than you may think. It's HUGE here. There are quite a few CCF's and MCCF's. I don't know what those are, but there are a LOT of them. The pay and benefits are terrific. And the union is all powerful - it's nearly impossible to be fired.

What a pleasant change of pace THAT would be.

The only fly in the ointment is I'm not sure how wise it would be to give someone like me, in my state of mind, a firearm. I'm not sure it's even legal. Especially since I'm easily intimidated.

Something to explore.

And then there's WalMart. Sure, the pay is minimum wage and there are no benefits, including insurance. But they just opened a "Supercenter" - it's as big as Delaware and employs 12,000 people. And they're opening ANOTHER one, less than five miles away, this spring. Honestly, you can't swing a dead cat in this town without hitting a WalMart or Home Depot.

The hours would suck - it's open 24 hours. As far as I know, it's the only establishment in Shitsville open past 10pm.

Typically Bako - good luck getting a pizza delivered past 9pm, but you need a pair of husky boy overalls? Sure, come on in and browse at 3am.

But on the plus side, based on my observations of the local talent pool, I could probably work my way up to management fairly quickly. Maybe $12 an hour!

So I'm hopeful for a fresh start, a new beginning. Leaving all the unpleasantness of the soon passed year in the dustbin of history.

So to anyone who reads this blog, Happy New Year!

And welcome to WalMart!

Feeling Blue

So it's a Blue Moon on New Year's Eve.

I don't know if that's good news or bad, but I'll take whatever I can get at this point.

It hasn't happened since 1990, and that year for me ended up being a decidedly mixed bag. But it started out great, so I'll hope for the best.

Where's My Lovely Parting Gift?

They say 40 is the new 30. That may well be true, socially. But in advertising, 40 is what it has always been... retirement age. The day before you turn 40, you may be on top of the world, with your finger on the pulse of the nation. The day after, you're just a bitter old man yelling at the kids to get off the lawn. It's all because the day you turn 40 you fall out of the Golden Demographic, the Holy Grail of advertising, ages 25 - 39. You're now worthless. I blew past that milestone several years ago but thought my innate good taste and talent would carry the day. We all did. We were wrong. Which explains why all my contemporaries and former colleagues are all unemployed or underemployed. Or have given up all together and taken up knitting. As a career.

I thought my career had completely hit bottom early this year when out of complete desperation I answered a Craigslist ad from an adult film company. They were looking for someone to design box covers and I hadn't worked in weeks and losing the house had become a very real possibility. And it paid ridicuously well.

A few days later I received an email from "Marco" expressing an interest in my work. A meeting was set up for the following day at 10.

10pm.

Which, it turns out, is the start of the business day in the porn biz. It's like working with vampires. So the next night, I swallowed my pride, and a Xanax, and set off for the big meeting.

Every cliche about the porn business is true. The address I was given was an unmarked, rundown warehouse across from the Van Nuys airport. Instead of a receptionist, there was an armed bouncer. After being kept waiting for almost an hour, I was finally led back through half-built sets (doctor's office, locker room, jail, etc.) and introduced to the owner, "Nick". An athletic version of Tony Soprano, he shook my hand and invited me to sit in a tiny chair set before his massive desk. There were five other men in the room who were never introduced and never spoke. I wasn't sure whether they were his henchmen or his entourage. After exchanging some pleasantries he asked to see my portfolio. I handed it over and he proceeded to leaf through it, slowly, silently. The goons just stared at me and I started to sweat uncontrollably. If he didn't like the work, my lifeless body would be found in a dumpster the next day.

But it turned out he liked the work and now it was time to meet his "VP of Marketing". It was now close to midnight. He made a call and within a minute in walked "Christiana". Mid 30's, quite pretty, in a slutty kind of way. She was formerly one of the stars, but was now schtupping "Nick" on the side and he'd promoted her. She'd obviously had work done, with the type of anti-gravity tits only found in porn.

She would be my boss.

Porn is a lot like baseball - you have your majors and then a farm system of minor league players that catch talent on the way up, or on the way down. In this case it was mostly down. This was definitely D-league. Their stable of "stars" was mostly 40-something skanks that looked pulled off the street. My first assignment featured a haggard woman who looked like my Jr. High lunch lady after a hard night. "Nick" had delusions of respectability and had said he wanted it "classy", but "Cristiana" had other thoughts and wanted it "DIRTY,DIRTY,DIRTY".

"Christiana" was insane. One minute she's be talking in a sex kitten purr, the next cussing like a rapper. She was either a crackhead or had multiple personalities. Or both. She'd already admitted she was "Marco", and her increasingly unhinged e-mails, always sent around 3am, came under a variety of names... "Destiny", "Lola", "Misty". My first artistic attempt was deemed too "soft", the second, (which featured the "star", bent over grabbing her boobs, taking it up the ass) was too "sophisticated". The third wasn't "dirty enough" and the fourth was dismissed with a curt "WHERE'S THE FUCKING PUSSY????". Throwing caution and taste to the wind, I made one final attempt. A tight crop on a beaver shot with an angry vagina that looked like the gaping entrance to the Holland tunnel. "I don't get it" she wrote back.

It was clear we weren't seeing eye to eye. Or eye to vagina. So I bailed. Never even billed them for all the work that had been done for fear of finding the goon squad on my doorstep. I'd finally reached rock bottom - I'd failed at porn. There's no way things could get worse.

And then we moved to Bako.

I've been scraping along for months with bottom-feeder local clients and the occasional bone tossed over the hill from LA. But I recently picked up a job that's done what porn couldn't... make me want to throw in the towel.

Port-A-Potties. An ad for Port-A-Potties. Granted, it's the deluxe, "executive" model, but it's still just a shitter on wheels.

Stick a fork in me. I'm done.

Same Time, Next Year

"Cheer up" my friend said. "The year is almost gone and next year will be better".

Please.

I fell for that crap last year this week, and at the time I had a savings account, a 401k, stocks, collectables and a house in the Hollywood Hills.

It's all gone.

Yes, next year may in fact be better.

But that isn't saying much.

Hello Dali

One of the first roads you cross after you exit the freeway en route to our house is South Real Road. The day I moved here I left the freeway still shellshocked by the move and completely disoriented. I looked up at the street sign that said "S. REAL" and misread it as "SURREAL".

Aint that the truth.

It's hard to explain just how strange this place is. People drive around with giant crucifixes in the back of their trucks. Teams in haz mat outfits patrol vacant lots and no one takes notice. Working oils wells sprout like mushrooms in unlikely places, turning parking lots into obstacle courses. There's one steps from the entrance to a nearby hotel and there's even one grafted onto an El Torito restaurant. Add in the pestilence and plagues. In three short months I've grown immune to the weirdness.

So I didn't bat an eye this morning when, while walking the dogs in the chowder-like fog, a gothic figure emerged and started walking towards me. It was a pear shaped woman in a velour track suit, complete with a hood. She looked like a medieval monk from the Brotherhood of Pierre Cardin.

"Did you hear about the cat burglar?"

Who was this woman? I couldn't make out her face in the fog, just her breath as she spoke. As far as I know I'd never seen her before because I definitely would've remembered the outfit.

And... "Cat Burglar"?! I'd only ever heard the term used on an episode of "I Love Lucy".

I told her I hadn't heard about it.

"Yeah, robbery, right around the corner."

Really, I asked. What did they take?

"Nothing".

And with that she was gone, vanished back into the fog in a few short steps.

Stink Different

"Well, time to head back to Shitsville..."

I laughed out loud and it punctured the gloom that had descended on us as the hours ticked down to the end of our weekend furlough. I guess we wouldn't be running off to Mexico after all.

There was a certain relief though. Not with returning to Bakersfield. God no. But with that one sentence all fears that the boyfriend had crossed over and Gone Bako on me were laid to rest. We were on the same page.

And headed back to Shitsville.

Shitsville! What an awesome name. I wish I had thought of it. It has the benefit of being both figuratively and literally spot on.

Figuratively in the sense of, well, just read this blog. A worse place you'd be hard pressed to find.

But also literally, in the sense that... Bakersfield smells.

You smell Bakersfield before you ever catch sight of it. At Thanksgiving, as we descended down the Grapevine, I had half-dozed off in the passenger seat with the dogs in my lap. Twenty miles later, with the windows rolled up, and my eyes shut, I knew we were nearly there. Eau de Bako.

I can't really quantify the scent. A mixture of toxic air, manure and pesticides, but I'm just guessing. You know it when you smell it.

So off we go. As I type this post they're playing "Road to Nowhere" by the Talking Heads in the background.

Sounds about right.

A Very Bako Christmas

On the twelfth week in Bako,
cruel fortune sent to me...

Twelve toxic dust storms,
Eleven flies a-swarming,
Ten kilt-ers tilting,
Nine waiters prancing,
Eight neighbors glaring,
Seven lawns a-swimming,
Six freaks a praying,
Five Hooot-ers Grrrls,
Four pious scolds,
Three dense fogs,
Two witless hicks,
And a cockroach in bed beside me.

So we're bailing on Hooterville later today. Not a moment too soon.

I didn't ask for much this Christmas. Just to
N O T
C O M E
B A C K.

I'm not holding my breath on that one.

Christmas Past

From Day One it's been obvious that I didn't just move 100 miles north, but also an indeterminate number of years into the past. While LA prides itself on being on the bleeding edge of just about everything, it's painfully obvious that Bako is more than content to hang out on the dull, trailing edge of all that and more.

So the question remains, how far in the Wayback Machine have we traveled? Ten years? Twenty?

That isn't as easy to answer as it may seem. Rather quickly I had pegged this place as mid-80's "Morning In America" Reagan Country. But something about that just didn't quite jibe. Whatever your opinion of Reagan, no one can dispute his stupidly sunny fake optimism. And that aint here. It doesn't quite capture the pinched, paranoid, resentful quality of life.

And then I saw something today that suddenly cemented this place in it's appropriate time. It was a TV commercial for a local business, with last minute Christmas suggestions.

"Why not give the gift of art?"

Original lithographs. Signed and numbered.

By..... LeRoy Neiman!

That's it!

It's 1973!

And you know what? It's spot on. There is something SO Nixonian about this place. I hate to admit it by I'm old enough to have lived through it, so I know of what I speak.

It's also the year our all time favorite movie was released...

"The Poseidon Adventure"

Which gives me a tiny bit of hope, in an otherwise hopeless holiday season.

"There's got to be a morning after
If we can hold on through the night
We have a chance to find the sunshine
Let's keep on lookin' for the light..."

Maybe, just maybe, we'll manage to crawl out of this hellhole.

Here's to hoping I'm Nonnie and not Mrs. Rosen.

Not A Creature Was Stirring, Not Even A Roach...

Well, that's not entirely true. Because out in the kitchen there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the couch to see what was the matter.

Roach.

Big one. Size of a pack of smokes. It must be their king.

The dogs were trying to play with it, so I made quick work of it.

Flush away! Flush away! Flush away all!

But I suddenly realized the roaches have been making themselves scarce lately. It must be the cold.

Do roaches hibernate? I'm still kind of new to the whole "biblical pestilence" thing.

Off Kilter

"It's like Hooters, but the girls aren't as pretty..."

What an awesome Zagat review THAT would make! But it wasn't a review, it was a recommendation - I had asked a woman I'd worked with in Bako, one whom I'd become friendly with, where would be a good place to experience a Bako night out.

And she suggested "The Tilted Kilt".

Not at first... originally she's suggested Outback Steakhouse and Applebee's. I'm really beginning to believe the locals never cross the city limits and actually believe all these chain restaurants are Bako originals. But when I pressed her for something a little more authentically Bako, she offered up the Kilt. But not without a warning...

"The big difference is that at Hooters they make the girls wear pantyhose, but not at the Kilt, so you end up seeing all the cellulite. But the food is better!"

Well, with a recommendation like that...

I swear these people are beyond clueless. This particular woman knew I was gay (and had met the boyfriend and me out for drinks) and yet she thought our idea of a night out would involve skanks and wings.

But ya' know...I didn't dismiss it out of hand - you never know, it could be campy good fun, like Jumbo's Clown Room in LA.

So I Googled it.

First of all, it's another frickin' chain! Based in the South - there's a shocker. Bakersfield is it's only California outlet I think, which makes twisted sense and explains why no one has heard of it. It's not so much "kilts" as it it "slutty Catholic schoolgirl".

Britney Spears in tartan with potato skins.

I wanted to bleach my eyes.

I appreciated the suggestion, but ultimately we decided to go another direction.

We did drive-thru at Long John Silver's. The boyfriend got the pirate hat.

No, Virginia, There Is No Santa Claus....

... because he's gone! Circuit Party Santa is gone! I'm so bummed because he had recently been moved down to street level and I was going to get him some glow sticks.

I hope no one stole him.

Maybe he's just taking a well deserved break inside in the chill room. Or maybe he split early to join the Circuit down in Miami or PV.

But I have an idea of where you might find him...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mT1nDUy-eNI

A Spray In The Manger

Here's a thought - if you're going to put a life-size Nativity scene on the front lawn, turn off the damn sprinklers. For such overtly religious people, you would think that nailing the Baby Jesus in the head with the RainBird would border on the sacrilegious. But not here. They have their priorities, and nothing, absolutely nothing, is going to pry their sprinklers from their cold, dead lawns. If the Lord and Savior has to take one for the team, so be it.

It was dispiriting to see nonetheless, even for a lapsed Christian like myself. But it pretty much sums up my mood this cheerless holiday season.

I can't wait for this week to be over.

Or this year.

An Open Letter to the Bakersfield Planning Department

Dear Fucktards,

I realize your city is boring beyond belief, but that's no excuse to turn every public space into a laboratory rat maze.

It doesn't make it "interesting".

Best Regards,

Eric In Bako

It isn't just the Byzantine housing developments. It's everything - parking lots, shopping centers, everything. In Bako, the shortest distance between point "A' and point "B" involves looping around to "G", doubling back to "C" and "D" and finally deadending at "F". A simple trip to the market is a ride on a Moebius strip.

After swearing off the Mall of the Dead, I found myself having to go after all for a last minute gift. It was such a complete nightmare I finally gave up. Not by choice. I battled gridlock to the entrance of the parking lot, and after crawling along for 30 minutes, merging, converging and doubling back through pedestrian crossings, one of the helpful parking attendants directed me to... the exit. Suddenly I was back out on the street.

Fuck it. I'm giving gift cards.

And God help you if you need to turn left. Evidently this place is so rightwing they've banned left turns. Every street has a huge concrete median, with few, if any, opportunities to make a left. So you drive down the street, staring longingly at your destination on the left, knowing you have to drive a mile or two down the road in order to double back. If you even can. They don't do U-turns here either, so you usually have to turn into one of the Habitrail neighborhoods and hope you can find a way to turn around and backtrack.

And it's apparently all by design.

Maybe the Planning Department is staffed with people with Tourettes.

Or maybe they know that if they make it easy to find a way out, everyone would.

And leave for good.

D'oh Ja Vu

From the first day I lived here there was something oddly familiar about Bako. I couldn't put my finger on it, but the people, the places... I felt like I already knew this town. How is that possible? Where have I seen this all before?

Ah yes... "The Simpsons".

Bakersfield IS Springfield!

Of course! How didn't I get this before? The clueless citizens, the corrupt politicians, the venal corporate overlords... it's clear as the fog in your face. The local news anchors are all channeling Kent Brockman. My two next door neighbors are dead ringers for Marge's sisters, Patty and Selma. All the locals I've met are variations of Ned Flanders. We even have Apu around the corner at the local liquor store. The only thing missing is the nuclear power plant, and don't think they wouldn't jump at that chance if only Chevron would let them.

Driving around Bako, the neighborhoods are the same...Rats Nest, Bum Town, Crackton, Junkyville, Little Newark, Ethnictown, Pressboard Estates, Recluse Ranch Estates and the flammable district. Oh sure, the names are different, but that's probably just a legal formality.

It was slightly comforting, knowing someone, somewhere knew our pain and had escaped to chronicle it all for posterity. But that doesn't change the fact that we're still stuck here.

In the words of Bart Simpson, “I never thought it was humanly possible, but this both sucks and blows.”

Circuit Party Santa

It took awhile, but the neighbors finally got with the program and festooned their houses for the holidays. I wish I could say I was surprised at how monotonously the same they all are, but then again if anyone had any personal stye they certainly wouldn't be living here. The "theme" this year is apparently "laziness". Seriously, if you're going to go to the expense of buying all this crap for your front yard, the least you could do is PLUG IT IN. But no, these people can't be bothered to run out an extension cord. So yard after yard is populated with those cheesy wire-frame snowmen and reindeer, covered in twinkly white lights that are never turned on. What's the point? Might as well just dump a pile of wire coat hangers on the lawn and call it a day. The most unfortunate part, at least with the reindeer, is that the unused plug dangles approximately where the genitals would fall.

And the inflatables aren't much better. For the first day or two they were gleefully pumped up and turned on at dusk. But now? Meh. Over it. So they blanket the lawns like abandoned parachutes. The whole neighborhood looks like they just did an emergency food drop. Nothing says "Merry Christmas" like a bunch of limp vinyl.

And then there's Jim. He's proven to be something of a disappointment. He started strong but then quickly faded. The Parisian theme went nowhere. And for days the only additions were "lollipops" - those small security company lawn signs, wrapped in cellophane. You could still read the company names - ADT, Brinks, Homeguard. Either Jim has a LOT of security, or he's been raiding the neighbor's lawns. But then he made one addition that was so awesome, so stupendous, it almost made up for the weak showing so far:

Circuit Party Santa.

Life size, "life-like", it looks demonic. With rubbery skin only an embalmer could love. His eyes are completely dilated like he's popped a couple of hits of X. Mechanically he twists, slowly back and forth, waving maniacally at nothing in particular. Currently he's on the roof and looks like a go-go boy.

God it reminds me of my club days.

Good times.

The Princess And The Fog

Coming from Hollywood I know a thing or two about hype - I used to help manufacture it. So all the dire warnings about the coming "fog" were easy to dismiss as overblown. I'd lived at the beach, I'd experienced dense fog, it wasn't such a big deal.

WRONG

On the news it was described as "mild" and "patchy".

Holy Mother of Pearl. I opened the front door to take the dogs out and couldn't see past the doormat. The dogs ran out... and vanished. Thank god they were on leashes otherwise they'd be gone for good. I ventured out as far as the front lawn... I think. Hard to tell. It was like having cataracts. Only one street light was visible and it looked like a distant star. The dogs freaked out and came rushing back in. Did they do their business? Who knows.

And this was "mild"?!?! Yikes.

I'll give Bako this - they don't do their plagues half-assed here. The more Biblical, the better.

Dust storms? Ours are toxic, spore-laden killer dust storms!

Cockroaches? The size of a pack of cigarettes!

Houseflies? In swarms that will black out the sun!

And now we can add fog so thick it could swallow your will to live.

Uranus

"So what do you think about Bakersfield?"

A local reporter had cornered one of the visiting Russians and she looked scared. Eyes darting around, you could almost see the gears turning in her head as she tried to come up with a polite answer.

"It is like a different planet."

And that was only after Day 1.

I feel for you honey, because it's only going to be downhill from here.

Trust me.

Random Good Things About Bako: #3

The Friendly Skies.

So my post yesterday about the visiting dignitaries got me to thinking. Not about the hapless Russians - they're on their own. But about the airport. It's existence was such a revelation because up until that moment it hadn't occurred to me that I haven't seen, or heard, an airplane in three months. The day I moved here, a crop duster buzzed the highway about 20 miles out of town (Bakersfield's version of the Welcome Wagon I suppose). But other than that... Nada.

Occasionally you can make out a jet, high above, cruising at 30,000 feet between better towns than this.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain. If you look out the left side of the aircraft you can see the city of Bakersfield... HAHAHAHAHA..."

So they have an airport here. How does that work? Departures I can understand - I wish I was on one everyday. But who in their right mind would fly here? Can you operate an airport on a "one-way" model? It must not get much use.

At any rate, there is no air traffic. None. Zero. The only thing man-made in the air here are the toxic pesticides.

In all my years in LA, I was always living on the approach to one airport or another. LAX, Burbank, Santa Monica, Van Nuys. Add in all the helicopters - police, fire, news and corporate and there was always a constant din overhead that you learn to just tune out like white noise. You really don't notice it until it's gone. Or in my case, until three months after your gone. I don't even think the police here have a helicopter, which is probably a good thing. If you watch the local news and see how often they crash, flip, wreck or plow their patrol cars into the local businesses I think we can agree it's best not to get them airborne.

So Bakersfield is deathly quiet, but I never made the airplane connection until now. And all in all I can't say that's a bad thing.

That's not to say I still wouldn't kill for a one-way ticket out of here.

Reds

Lord help us. On the news this evening they announced that a delegation of Russians arrived this evening at the airport, here for a week to experience "real America".

I don't know which is more shocking - that any sane person would consider Bako "real America", or the fact that Bako has an airport. Who knew? And it looks like a real airport! Not just someone waving flags in a cornfield.

But back to the Russians. There is no way this will end well. Bako is like the crazy Aunt you keep up in the attic - an embarrassment to the family that you tolerate with kindness, but hide from the neighbors. You certainly don't introduce her to foreigners. This is bound to result in an international incident. Have they not seen all the bumper stickers? "Obama is a Socialist!". "Better Dead Than Red!"

Yes, I know they aren't communist anymore, but I'm not sure they got the memo here. I don't even think the people here are aware the Cold War is over. They barely tolerate Democrats, and now they hosting Commies? I hope they steer clear of politics and just focus on the cultural highlights.

How do you say "Hooters" in Russian?

My Give A Damn's Busted

"I really wanna care,
I wanna feel somethin'
Let me dig a little deeper...
Nope...
Sorry...
Nothin..."

Amen. Sing it sister. We were driving in the car and the boyfriend turned the dial to KUZZ, "Bakersfield's Country and News Station." "Country" and "News" aren't two words I picture in the same sentence, but, whatever.

Casseroles, country music... I'm still holding out hope that he hasn't crossed over and it's just a phase, like the unfortunate vegan thing of a few years back. But here we were, tooling down the 99 listening to some woman singing about her busted Give A Damn.

I feel her pain.

Maybe it's just the depressing circumstances we find ourselves in right around the holidays. More likely it's just Bako. Probably a combination of both. But whatever the reason it's just become hard to give a damn about almost anything these days.

I just don't care.

I hope this is just a phase for me too.

"My give a damn's busted
My give a damn's busted
Honey trust me
My give a damn's busted yeahhh ..."

The Buck Stops Here

Paris has the Eiffel Tower. London has Big Ben. All great cities have an iconic landmark.

So too, Bakersfield.

BUCK OWENS' CRYSTAL PALACE

Buck Owens is revered here, even three years after his death. He hosted "Hee-Haw". He pioneered "The Bakersfield Sound" in country music. I have no idea what that is, but it probably involves big rig air horns and rhythmic oil pumping. He lived here for probably the last 40 years and built himself a shrine. The Crystal Palace. On Buck Owens Blvd.

I've heard about it for months. It's the center of civic life here. Quite the big deal. I couldn't believe it's taken this long to check it out.

"Crystal Palace". It sounded so grand. I pictured Versailles. But if I've learned anything in our three months here, I've learned you can never set your bar too low. So I quickly ratcheted down my expectations and pictured something along the lines of an Indian casino. It probably had some sort of glass atrium or entrance that gave it it's "Crystal" name.

So off we went. We turned in the driveway, off Buck Owens' Blvd, or BOB, as I like to call it. To the right was a cheesy "Western" town - fakes storefronts and "saloons", with threadbare mannequins hanging out on fake balconies. I looked beyond it for a glimpse of the "Palace".

Nothing.

And then it hit me... that was no cheesy Western town...

"Welcome to Buck Owens' Crystal Palace".

Crystal my ass. There wasn't a pane of glass anywhere. It was a super-sized honky tonk, done up like Calico Ghost Town at Knott's Berry Farm. This was the center of the Bakersfield universe?

Inside was more of the same, Frontierland turned inside out. A smallish stage and a huge mezzanine level. That must be where they stage the fake gunfights, gunslingers tumbling over the balcony railing. Oh right, we weren't at a theme park. The pièce de résistance was Buck's "Nudiemobile", a Pontiac convertible blinged out Elvis style, mounted sideways on the wall behind the bar, roadkill style.

This was going to be a short night out.

There was no live music the night we were there. Be grateful for small favors. We ordered some drinks and checked out the scene. My original assessment of it being a honky tonk was incorrect. It was a wildlife preserve. The species on display?

Cougars.

Now all the cosmetic surgery ads on the radio made sense.

The ladies, if I may use that term, have probably not been exposed to gay men, and never thought to make that assumption. To them we were just new. New meat. My partner took most of the attention - he's the pretty one. We ordered more drinks. And more. It wasn't helping.

The uncomfortable attention, the feeling of eyes drilling through you, hushed whispers and pointing was too much. And the car mounted on the wall became disorienting after a few drinks - you felt like you were standing on the walls. We decided to throw in the towel.

As we walked out someone shouted "Ya'll come back now!"

Hmmm....... No.

Weather Or Not

I was not aware it got this cold in California. At least not without a chair lift involved.

I tried to do laundry this morning, but the detergent had frozen.

And my moron neighbors aren't going to let a little sub freezing weather deter them from their appointed rounds... watering their goddamn lawns. The lawns are dead of course, turned brown weeks ago. But still they water, for hours before dawn. It saturates the sponge-like dead lawns and flows in a sheet over the sidewalk. And freezes. It's turned all the sidewalks into a luge run.

I almost ate shit multiple times trying to walk the dogs. Black ice. We tried walking in the street, which was suicidal - the drivers here are bad enough in warm weather, but now their windshields are frosted and they're in too big a rush to bother to clear them. So now they're dangerous and blind.

Helen Keller does NASCAR.

If this keeps up the dogs are going to have to learn to use Depends.

Sticker Shock

The bumper stickers were amusing at first, but quickly grew tiresome. Part of it was the novelty - in LA, other than an election year, you don't see many stickers, probably because most of the cars are leased and no one wants to be dinged when they're turned back in.

But here, they're everywhere. They must hand them out when you register your car at the DMV.

They break down roughly 70/30 "I'm going to Heaven, you're going to Hell/ You're a Traitor".

The Christian ones are just tedious. Yes, I know, I know - You're going to heaven and your car will be driverless/your life was saved by "body-piercing" (hint hint - nails on the cross). Anything else? NEXT.

Actually, everyone but me is apparently "saved". (The "gay" thing). I'm picturing God, sitting in Heaven at His Mac (the computer created in HIs image) hitting "command-S" billions of times. I don't know what you PC people do, but I'm guessing it involves about 6 more steps and a blue screen.

And then there are the True Patriots.

"Freedom Isn't Free". How true - and neither was that sticker, sucker.

And I hate to break it to you, but no one is prying anything from your hands- cold, dead, or otherwise.

So I thought I had grown pretty immune to them, but then this morning, one caught my eye...

"DAIRYING IS NOT A CRIME"

Whaaaa?........ When did this happen? How did I miss this? They're trying to make "Dairying" a crime ?!?!?! When did it become a verb?

It was on a white truck, and the license plate read "BY MILK". Hmmm.. I'm guessing they mean "BUY MILK" - Hooked On Phonics has done this country no favors.

Buy milk? Why? Are they outlawing it? Will it soon be scarce? Will buying it support "the cause"?

It must be a new front in the Wingnut conspiracy war. Where it falls on the Birther/TeaBagger Scale of the Absurd, I don't know. Below "Obama is a Muslim Ferriner" I'm sure, but above "Obama is oulawing lightbulbs".

At any rate, we now have a new crusade. SAVE MILK! JOIN THE CAUSE!

We'll call it the "MILK LIBERATION FRONT".

Or "MiLF" for short.

A Cold Day In Hell

So hell does freeze over.

It was 31 degrees this morning, and my car was covered in ice. Ice! No one said anything about ice. There's evidently no end to the hidden charms of this hellhole.

It rained off and on all day yesterday and this morning everything outside was covered with a light layer of mud. Only in Bako could the rain make things dirtier. There's a certain twisted logic to it all - there's so much dirt in the "air" on any given day it was inevitable the rain would bring it back down to earth. There's a word for that... FALLOUT.

At least the air would be breathable today, I thought. In fact the sky this morning was almost electric blue. Then I drove down the street to see workman in a vacant lot starting a trash fire. A trash fire! It's raging now, sending huge plumes of billowing grey smoke east over the entire town.

What the fuck is wrong with these people? Maybe the blue skies scared them. Like an eclipse in the Dark Ages.

And their first response was to get rid of it as quickly as possible.

Mission Accomplished.

Blue Plate Special

The boyfriend has snapped. Maybe it was our diminished circumstances, our dire financial straits. Maybe the three months living here have worn him down already. I may never know the reason, but the old boyfriend, the gourmet chef who could effortlessly put together a five course meal, who's cooking rivaled the best restaurants in LA, is gone.

He called me in to dinner last night, and there before me on the table was a casserole.

A Bakersfield Casserole.

Ground beef was involved. Cream of Mushroom soup. Lots of Cream of Mushroom soup. Cheddar cheese.

And crowning it all was a golden blanket of...

Tater tots.

The most frightening thing was it wasn't half bad.

Maybe it was just a one-off, a bad day, a momentary crack. Or maybe it was a glimpse into my new "tot" based future.

Or worse.

I think I spied Cheez-Whiz in the pantry.

Medieval Times

Bakersfield isn't so much a city as it is a crazy patchwork quilt of subdivisions and "master planned" communities. Starting in the 60's they started leapfrogging west and north, spreading like fungus. Designed as self contained little instant villages with absolutely no relationship to the neighboring tracts. Each one is surrounded by a high block wall with only a handful of access points, like a medieval fortress. Adding to the feudal feeling is the fact that quite a few back up onto irrigation ditches, so they even come eqipped with their own moats. The only thing missing are some turrets and a line of archers ready to do battle with the neighboring fiefdom. Maybe a few catapults hidden back among the trampolines and pool slides, weighted down with old cement yard decorations, ready to lob at the slightest provocation.

The walls also have the unfortunate side effect of turning almost every major street into a canyon-like no man's land. High walls on the left, high walls on the right, it's like driving through the DMZ.

What the fuck is up with the walls? Do these people not like each other? Are they afraid of each other?

You can see the progression of time in the architecture of the various subdivisions. The 60's and 70's yielded some fairly cool modernist ranch style homes. We live in one, and I love it. I'd actually consider buying it. If it wasn't in Bakersfield. My only complaint is that, like the street layout of our neighborhood, the house zigs and zags. So while we have a fair number of windows, they all look out onto... the house. I can look from one bedroom into the other. The net effect is we get almost no sunlight and the house is dark and Dick Cheney bunkerish.

Sometime in the 80's the tide turned against the modernist look and took a turn towards the architectural dark side - the dreaded "Cali-terranean" look. Part hacienda, part Tuscan villa, it's essentially a stucco box with corbels and columns and crown moldings tacked on. It proved to be an enormous hit, not just here, but seemingly everywhere, and the style is unfortunately here to stay.

And then there are the names. Oy vay, the names. Each subdivision has been christened with a name to evoke the lifestyle you'll live behind its block walls. The early ones are innocuous, pleasant sounding words mixed and matched like Garanimals - "Sagepointe". "Laurelglen. "Stonepine". No harm, no foul.

But as the architecture got grand, so did the names. Everything became an "estate". "Brimhall Estates". "Redwood Estates". "Shiloh Estates". Or vaguely Italian - "Belle Terra"/"Terra Bella".

Sometime in the 90's "at" was introduced. Maybe it was just the influence of the internet, or more likely elitist one-upmanship, but you now had "Seven Oaks at Grand Island" and "The Estates at Windemere". Right before the housing bubble burst the trend seemed to be headed towards the metaphysical with "The Springs" and "Artisan".

But that's all gone now. When it burst, it burst bad. Subdivisions sit abandoned or half finished, eroding away in the dust storms on the edge of town. Instant ghost towns.

Such a sad estate of affairs.

Lunacy On Parade

Last night was the annual Bakersfield Christmas Parade, the biggest thing to hit town since the Super WalMart opened a few weeks back. We didn't go, we didn't have to - the whole extravaganza was broadcast Live! on my favorite spastic local station.

All two hours of it!

Geez, that's longer than the frickin' Rose Parade.

The parade itself was unremarkable small town stuff - high school marching bands, local officials, flatbed trucks done up as "floats".

But the TV coverage of it was surreal. Complete with anchors up in the "sky booth", and reporters down on the street, they clearly thought they were covering a much bigger parade than the one they were broadcasting. And I swear to God everyone was on speed. There was a wild-eyed frenzy to the reporting...

"IS THAT WHO I THINK IT IS....IT IS... IT IS.... IT'S THE WATER COMMISSIONER!....."

I had to change the channel after about 20 minutes because my facial muscles were starting to spasm from all the cringing.

Walk-In Closets

I finally discovered where they keep the Gay Men Of Bakersfield...

California Pizza Kitchen.

I was meeting a client for lunch, my first time at the Bako CPK. My gaydar had been offline for months, as useless as analog TV. But the minute I walked through the door, off it went. And sure enough, there they were. Three or 4, all servers. Granted, it wasn't much, but it was still 3 or 4 more than I'd seen since I moved here. It was like spotting a condor - a rare, elusive creature, near extinction, seldom seen in the wild.

Our server ended up being the best of the bunch, the cream of the crop. An out, proud, unashamed Nancy Boy. He minced. He pranced. He recited the ssspecials with more S's than he knew what to do with. It made me happy.

My people.

I know there are gay men here, but for the most part they appear deeply closeted. It's obvious by the postings on craigslist...."Girlfriend out of town......Wife and kids away for the weekend.....on my way home from choir practice....." There's no gay community to speak of here. No bars, or restaurants or coffeehouses to meet fellow travelers. As far as I can tell, the closest thing to a meeting place is one of the bike trails along the banks of the dead river, and I'm fairly certain no one is meeting their to talk.

In my previous life I would have nothing but disdain for gay men in the closet, the harm they ultimately do their wives and families, the lies they have to live. But living here now I find I have a little bit of sympathy for them, only because my partner and I have been shoved back in the closet ourselves. His employer and co-workers would be shocked to find out he was gay, and he's convinced it would definitely be an issue. So as far as they're concerned, he's straight and single. I'm never to meet them, I don't exist. I'm not even allowed to answer the house phone for fear it might be work related. It isn't as bad for me, since I work from home and have limited exposure to people I work with, but all the same I find I unconsciously flash my "wedding" band to deflect any speculation. We're both convinced the neighbors are afraid of us.

Oh the other hand, lesbians abound. They're evidently allowed to roam free. Maybe it's because they blend in so well with the oilfield workers - same truck, same flannel, same mullet. Maybe it's because they pose no threat to the menfolk of Bako (unless it comes to arm wrestling). For whatever reason, they seem to get a pass.

I envy them. I used to know what that was like.

Switched At Birth

I think a big part of the reason I so dislike this place is it reminds me of Texas.

I hate Texas.

It isn't just some knee-jerk, liberal hatred of the state that spawned George W. Bush. It comes from experience. I've traveled across the state. I even briefly dated someone from Dallas, and know that city well enough to know I never want to go back, not even to change planes.

The only exception is Austin. I love Austin. Been several times, and I could happily live there.

If it wasn't in Texas.

Austin is a hip, cool island of sanity in a huge sea of YeeHaw stupidity. It seems so out of place. It seems like it should belong... here. Conversely, Bako has "Lone Star" stamped all over it. It's as if there was some cosmic screw-up and each city landed where they are by mistake.

They say it's never too late to right a wrong, so perhaps we can initiate some sort of prisoner swap.

Leave The Driving To Us

I really owe a huge shout out to my dogs, without whom this blog would not be possible. It through them, and our walks, that I'm exposed to most of the weirdness. And this morning was no exception.

We've been here almost 3 months and I still can't navigate our rat's maze neighborhood without getting lost. I can find my way out, thank God, only because we're a block from an exit and I can see it from my driveway. And thanks to Google maps and trial and error I have two somewhat circuitous routes to walk the dogs. I mix and match them because the dogs are easily bored. We set out this morning as usual, but my mind somewhat drifted and I wasn't paying attention when the dogs went rouge and decided to go off the map. A few wrong turns later, there we were...

In the LAND OF THE GIANT RV's.

Many of the homes in the neighborhood have boats and trailers and Winnebagos parked out front. Sure it's an eyesore and makes the neighborhood look like a trailer park, but I have nothing against them. I grew up with a trailer and have fond memories of summer trips with the family Nomad towed behind the Vista Cruiser station wagon. Of course we had the common sense and courtesy to park it elsewhere. But whatever.

But now I found myself in a neighborhood that looked like backstage at Lalapalooza. Calling these "RV's" doesn't really do them justice, because these were buses. Huge tour buses usually associated with rock bands and Korean tourists. Not just that, but they had various tents and enclosures that towered over the homes where they were parked. These were deluxe buses that probably cost more than the homes. And with the additional pullouts, they were probably bigger too. And it seemed every other house had one.

I'm curious how this came about - did the first one on the block set off a wildfire of desire and soon everyone had to have one? Or were these existing bus owners who found themselves in a chat room and decided to set up their own enclave?

One thing is certain - if I had that kind of money floating around, I certainly wouldn't use it to buy a bus. Although leaving Bako in the lap of luxury has obvious appeal, returning has absolutely zero. If I had the money to buy one of these monsters, I would use it instead to MOVE THE HELL SOMEWHERE ELSE.

Life:Fail

There are bad days here. And then there are worse. For a variety of reasons this one has proven to be one of the worse ones. I was already in a melancholy mood on my way to the market when I flipped on NPR and there was a discussion going on regarding our strange obsession with The End of The World. The study of Eschatology. I found it oddly fascinating, and sadly appropriate for my mood, so I drove straight past the market not wanting to miss the rest of the segment. I drove on aimlessly listening to various beliefs about the End Times. And then the road... just. ended.

I've never lived anywhere that just... ended.

So while they're talking about the End of The World, I'm sitting there staring at it. A barricade, and then miles of fallow fields, as far as the eye could see until they vanished in the haze.

So much about this place seems not just like the End of The World, but the end of the line. Punishment for a failed life. I lie awake at night wondering what I did wrong, how I ended up here. I've tried to look at the glass half full. Bright thoughts about "new beginnings" and "fresh starts". Life/lemonade, all that crap. I just don't have the faith to pull it off.

Bako: Where dreams go to die.

We're Number One!

So the headline on the local news this morning is how Bakersfield tops the state in cases of Chlamydia. Evidently it wasn't even close. Way to go Bako - shoot for the moon!

Just goes to show what you can accomplish when you put your...ah, mind, to it.

A River Runs Through It

Downtown Bako, such as it is, is actually a pretty short drive from our neighborhood. Actually, everything is a short drive from our neighborhood. Everything except my sanity.

To get downtown, you cross a bridge over a wide, shallow, trash filled drainage ditch which I only recently discovered was the Kern River. Or rather, the remains of it. Back in the 50's, when they built the shoddy, soon-to-fail dam at Lake Isabella, the water supply was cut off and it became the civic gulch that it is today. They've added some bike paths along the "banks", if pedaling along a landfill is your thing.

Even though the "river" is but a misty watercolor memory, it hasn't stopped the hucksters and charlatans of this town from coloring it blue on the map like it's a viable body of water. The nearby housing developments sport names such as "River Oaks", "River Run Blvd." and "Roaring River Drive". I don't know if it's an act of brazen deception or delusion, but I pity anyone who buys a house there. Sold on the gauzy image of watching sailboats drift lazily by, they're going to quickly discover that the only thing that floats down the Kern River are shopping bags and Slurpee cups.

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like...

Colossal disappointment. That's my reaction to the dismal showing this weekend on the Christmas decorating front. I was expecting an orgy of lights and plastic. Instead? An anemic showing of random wreaths, some bows, that's about it. A handful of houses went all out with the lights. But in every single case it was only white "icicle" lights, which leads me to believe it must have been a doorbuster special at WalMart on Friday. One house was obviously unclear on the concept of "icicles" and had stretched them out like fish nets across the front of the house, making it look like a trussed up electric ham. Points for subtlety go to the house that hung a huge electric cross from their personal flagpole.

The one bright spot, as always, was Jim. The Thanksgiving turkey was long gone by the time we returned on Friday. The last time I saw him he had been surrounded by giant candy canes and was staring forlornly out from his peppermint jail. Snowmen now hang from the cast iron turtles in the trees. Not much movement on the Parisian theme, but the massive pile of deflated plastic on the roof has been revealed to be a ginormous inflatable carousel. Twenty feet square and 15 feet high, it features inflatable elves riding inflatable reindeer, all rotating silently to the whir of the air compressor. He really needs to consider some music. The lights have started to go up, and several huge boxes labeled "Christmas" await unpacking in the driveway. I have a feeling he's just getting started.

The biggest surprise came next door. We came home a while ago to discover the Wicked Witch had hung colored lights all over her shrubs.

I'm not buying it - I think it's some sort of trap.

When It Rains, It Pours

So it does rain in Bako. Color me surprised. Of course, for the neighbors, that can mean only one thing... time to water the lawn.

I don't understand these people at all.

Back To Square One

Leaving is so exhilarating. Returning, not. Had to get up before dawn to head back to Dogpatch. The boyfriend couldn't get the day off, sadly. Two days away is definitely not enough time to heal the psychic scars of living here.

The trip out was pretty uneventful. About 20 miles out, near Mettler, we discovered we had stowaways... flies.

Stupid flies.

If only they'd lay low they'd be living the good life in Orange County right about now. But instead they had to start buzzing about the car. A quick touch of the window button sucked them out into the oblivion that is Mettler. They're going to wish they'd stayed in Bako. Still, I felt a little bad about it - they obviously worked pretty hard to get into the car and must have wanted to escape this place as much as we do. You know it's bad when even the flies are staging prison breaks.

Thanksgiving was lovely, up to a point. That point was when the Republican wing of the family showed up. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with those people? Evidently the only skill they still possess is clearing a room. Twenty minutes after arriving the conversation went something like this:

"Boy, this sure is unseasonably warm weather we're having..."

"Yeah, and Obama's a Socialist..."

Then somebody brought up Sarah Palin, and it was as if a giant fart had been ripped in the center of the room. After a few moments of awkward silence everyone self-sorted themselves into opposite rooms. In one, the sane, rational, festive people. In the other, the bitter, angry Dittoheads. Thanksgiving dinner was declared non-partisan and went off without a hitch. The Republican malcontents ate and ran. Figures. Probably had to rush home to watch "Red Dawn" on TBS. The rest of the stay was wonderful, but all too brief.

So now I'm all alone with the dogs, here in Bako on Black Friday. Every Friday here is black, trust me. Saturday through Thursday too. Maybe we'll go take a walk and see how the Christmas decorations in the neighborhood are proceeding.

Time Off For Good Behavior

I've said it before, and I'll say it again - the best thing about Bako is seeing it in your rearview mirror. And that's the distinct pleasure I look forward to in the morning as we head out of Hooterville and back to civilization for Thanksgiving. So much to look forward to.... Family, friends, breathable air. Of course, my excitement is tempered with the knowledge we'll have to come back. Unless we win the lottery, or as I call it, "my retirement plan". But I'll worry about that later. For now I'm just blissfully looking forward to leaving.

Happy Thanksgiving

Joyeux Noel!

So just got in from walking the dogs, and I'm afraid Jim has lost his focus with the decorating. Yes, Christmas is slowly overtaking the poor turkey with a 12 pack, which he doesn't even bother to inflate anymore. There's an enormous inflatable now on the roof - I don't know what it is yet because it was flaccid, but it's red and green so obviously Christmas related. He'd better be careful though because it's awful close to the American flags and I'm afraid in a stiff breeze it'll be punctured.

But it's with the tree in front where I think he's taken a wrong turn. There are a bunch of new ornaments, sure, but now there's also ceramic roosters and hanging cast iron frogs. And capping it off, there's now a two foot replica of the Arc de Triomphe in the crux of the biggest limbs. WTF? The concept is a little lost on me.

He may be pressing his luck if he's planning on a Parisian theme, because he lives just a few doors down from the people who want to Boycott France. I wouldn't want anything to mar the holiday season here in the neighborhood.

A Mall and the Night Visitor

So, I made my first foray to the local mall. Man, what a dreary experience THAT was. If you're prone to depression, I suggest steering clear, because a visit could just send you over the edge. From the street it looks like a minimum security prison - a low slung pile of concrete and cinder block. No windows that I could see. Inside, it is what it is and has always been - a 70's era enclosed mall. It doesn't appear that there's been much effort to change with the times and spruce it up over the years. And really, why should they bother? There isn't another mall for 100 miles in any direction. When you're the only hooker in town you can afford to let yourself go.

If anything, the Christmas decorations made the experience worse. A smattering of limp, dingy wreathes and a couple of oversized, ratty teddy bears that have seen better days. It had all the charm of Christmas at an animal shelter. I made it about halfway through and then was overcome with the desire to leave.

I believe this year I'll be doing my holiday shopping online.

Thanksmas Hits Home

"Hey, I have an idea... maybe we could put up the tree?"

Oh God. The tree.

We were having a lovely, lazy Sunday afternoon and had just opened a nice bottle of cheap wine. And now this. A shiver went down my spine. The tree. Although it had been phrased as a suggestion, it was clear this was a done deal.... the Christmas Tree was going up.

I had a sudden pang of guilt. Here I had been mocking the neighbors for jumping the gun on Christmas decorations, and now we were going to do the same. Pot. Kettle. Black. We always decorate, but always after Thanksgiving. There was a certain logic to it all - we're going to be away for Thanksgiving, and with the boyfriend's schedule it could be weeks before we could do anything, and then by then half the season would be gone. But still.

Christmas is my partner's favorite holiday, which is only worth noting because he was raised Jewish. As long as we've been together we've always pulled out all the stops. But unlike our new neighbors, we always do it tastefully, sophisticated and chic. (There was one notable exception - the year I overruled my partner and decided the "theme color" for that year would be orange. Don't ask me why. We spent the better part of the Saturday after Thanksgiving scouring Greater LA for every available orange Christmas light, and then another couple of hours stringing them all up. As the sun set it was time to check out our handiwork, and with a flip of the switch, the house... went SUPERNOVA. The entire neighborhood looked as if it was under a heat lamp, or on fire. Once your eyes adjusted it wasn't as bad - the house merely looked like a Taco Bell. Within 10 minutes the lights were off, and the next day they came down. And I've been relieved of all decorating decisions since.) At any rate, we always do a stylish job. Nothing inflatable.

Which brings us to the Christmas tree.

It's aluminum.

Our house in LA was a Mid Century Modern, built in the 50's by a name architect. The living room was all glass, and the tree was always the focal point of the decorations. For several years we bought a fresh tree and did it up all Martha Stewart-ish. But one year my partner decided we should really decorate "of the era". Vintage. Think Jet Set, Rat Pack. And that could only mean one thing.... an aluminum tree. Unfortunately, they no longer make them, at least nothing of quality. Which left only one choice: Ebay.

My partner is a master Ebay-er. Over the years I've watched him buy and sell countless items, swooping in like a Ninja in the final three seconds to snatch a prize away from some poor schmuck who'd been bidding for a week. And sure enough, within a day, he found our tree - a genuine 1968 Alcoa Aluminum Tree! And it revolved! And even had separate spotlights with color wheels! Only used once!

And now the bad news.... he'd bid $400. $400? For a fucking Christmas Tree? Was he out of his mind? Evidently, not just yet, because someone started bidding against him and it started creeping up in $10 increments. This was madness. It had to stop. I told him in no uncertain terms that if it hit $500, we were out.

But here's the thing... there's CRAZY, and then there's EBAY CRAZY. I'm not sure what happened, it's still kind of a blur. The bids quickly blew past $500. Somewhere around $750 even my boyfriend started to get cold feet. But I was possessed. It was our tree, and I didn't care if I had to sell a kidney to pay for it.

Ultimately we prevailed. For only $1000.

The tree arrived as advertised - pristine condition, only used once. We knew this because it was delicately packed in the December 26th, 1968 edition of the Colorado Springs Gazette Telegraph. Who knows what family psychodrama played out that had the tree packed up so quickly, never to be seen again. It was ours now.

I'm not sure exactly what we were expecting. I guess we somehow thought it would just open up like an umbrella. But spread out before us were 300 individually wrapped and color coded tree branches of the best American aluminum 1968 had to offer. It took hours to assemble, and I quickly grew bored and started reading the old newspaper ("Chugwater man saved from drowning... record albums for $1.26!... women's dresses starting at $4.00!...) Feelings were hurt, nerves were frayed and by the time the thing was assembled there wasn't much Christmas cheer left in the room. But it did look AMAZING.

So here we were, ready to do it all over again. I wondered if we'd be speaking to each other by the time it went up, but to my immense relief our prior experience paid off and it went up fairly quickly.

I have extremely mixed emotions about the tree. It actually makes me really sad to look at it, because it so reminds me of our old house and the life that once went with it.

On the other hand, it cost a fucking thousand dollars and we're damn well going to get our money's worth out of it.

Resistance Is Futile

So I think the boyfriend has come down with Stockholm Syndrome. Either that, or he's starting to cross over. This morning he put on Country music. On purpose. I put a quick stop to that, but it has me concerned. Maybe that's how it starts, that's how the hook you. They suck you in with a catchy little song about how your man's done you wrong, and the next thing you know you're buying a gun and voting Republican. We're being assimilated. Like the Borg on Star Trek.

Damn you Carrie Underwood.

Pedal To The Metal

So a report came out last week ranking Bako as THE most dangerous city in the state, possibly the nation, for pedestrians.

And my first thought was "They must be joking... what pedestrians?" I've never seen 'em. Maybe there used to be some, but they were all run down before we moved here. I rather doubt it - in my neighborhood people drive to the curb to pick up the mail. In this town, walking is for pussies.

The "dangerous" part I totally understand. These people drive crazy fast. Going 60mph on surface streets is pretty common. At first I just chalked it up to watching too much NASCAR. But you don't have to live here long before you begin to see the method to the madness. The stoplights here are ridiculously long. I mean L O N G. I've listened to entire stories on NPR at one stop light. (Yes, they get NPR here, but it's broadcast out of Fresno - beamed down to us lost souls behind the Alfalfa Curtain like Voice of America during the Cold War.) And the stoplights aren't timed either, even on the major thoroughfares. So the only way to go more than a half a mile without hitting a stoplight is to FLOOR IT. Why they aren't timed is a mystery. Maybe they've never heard about the concept. Or maybe they did and just dismissed it as another sign of creeping Socialist mind control.

And we'll be having none of THAT here, thank you very much.

Time Flies

So Juan's handiwork is starting to deliver results - our front lawn now looks like it has hair plugs. Flies are still here, at least the ones that managed to get inside before the weather changed. I've stopped caring. I just consider them part of the extended family. I opened the dishwasher this morning and two of them flew out. I guess that's their day spa now.

Happy Thanksmas

So just came in from walking the dogs and I couldn't help but notice Jim has jumped the gun and started putting up Christmas decorations. I don't know whether he couldn't control his enthusiasm or if he just got bored with the limited possibilities Thanksgiving offered, but in either case, all the hanging crap in his tree has come down and been replaced with large plastic ornaments. They hover over the poor turkey with the 12 pack like a giant mushroom cloud. It's a very mixed message - I hope the children aren't confused.

And Jim isn't alone. Christmas wreaths and lights have been popping up all over. Christmas is going to be much bigger than I imagined. I thought once Jim started decorating for Halloween that perhaps the entire neighborhood might go All-Hallows-Crazy, but it quickly fizzled, leaving Jim as a lone wolf. But that was the Devil's holiday, and now we're talking about the Baby Jesus, so I think it's going to be HUGE.

I Can See Russia From My House

So I caught the Sarah Palin interview on Oprah yesterday. Meh. I used to think it would be awesome if she got the nomination and ran for President in 2012. The combination of her militant ignorance, beauty pageant vapidness and the rabid, mouth-breathing fringe she inspires promised to be an epic flaming train wreck, one that would hopefully doom the GOP to irrelevance for a generation or more.

But then I moved here.

The interview led into the local news, and the breaking headline was a breathless, live report from one of Bakersfield's two bookstores about the imminent breakout of Palin-mania! The reporter was overcome with excitement, detailing how many copies would be on hand and what time the stores were planning to open (in case you wanted to camp out). One of the store owners opened a box of the books (which were embargoed until today) and let the reporter hold it. I thought she might faint. You'd think she just touched the Holy Grail. I suppose for the deranged people who worship her, it probably is. She proceeded to interview random passersby about the Second Coming of Caribou Barbie, and their plans for buying the book, and in Bako's defense, a few of them offered a fairly blunt "not a chance in hell". But the rest were rapturous. Palin had "important things to say" and "we wouldn't be in this mess right now if she were running the show..." ("John who? McCain you say? Never heard of him...). And to think I used to believe there was no possible way 51% of this country could be so gullible and brain dead as to elect an imbecile President. Again.

Never, ever, underestimate the aggressive stupidity of the American people.

But the good news, such as it is, is that I don't believe she's going to make a run for it. Oh, she's going to milk the speculation for all it's worth for the next year. But at the end of the day, I think she'll pass. She wants the fame and celebrity, maybe a talk show. And more than that, she wants the cash. But she doesn't want to work for any of it. She wants it bestowed on her, like a sash at a pageant. I think it's really all about the money to her, and for the foreseeable future she can make big bucks traveling around to all the fringe groups and delivering her stock Hockey Mom schtick. She may be dumber than a post on most issues, but when it comes to fleecing the rubes, I think she's got it all figured out. If she runs, and loses (and loses badly), it's going to drastically slash her speaking fees. Better for her to remain the what-could-have-been Wingnut wet dream and ride it all the way to the bank.

Be Seeing You

So I watched the AMC re-make of "The Prisoner" last night. Boy, did that hit close to home. I too wake up every morning wondering how the hell I ended up here and trying to plot some form of escape. They could've filmed it here too - a provincial backwater in the middle of nowhere. It'll be interesting to see where it goes. I hope at least one of us gets out.

(A) Home For The Holidays

So I finally met Jim, the Exterior Decorator. He lives around the corner and I see him every morning between 7:30 and 8:00 when I walk the dogs. We hadn't met until today because I've never caught him between sets - Jim has weights in his garage, and every morning as we pass by, there he is, grunting loudly through presses and squats. Garage door wide open. Whitesnake blaring from a boombox. No need for an alarm clock if you live near Jim.

Only the left side of the garage is set up for working out. The right side is reserved for afternoons and evenings, with recliners and lawn chairs facing the street and coolers as foot rests. It reminds me of his mullet - business on the left, party on the right. I see him almost every afternoon too, but usually by then Jim and his buddies are too blotto to offer up more than a wave.

As near as I can tell, the only job Jim has is decorating his house. The walls are hung with everything from wrought iron sunbursts and signs of positive affirmation to numerous San Francisco 49er pennants. A sign over the entryway proclaims "Happy Hour 24/7", as if you hadn't already figured that out. Every flat surface, along the walls and roofline, is crowded with potted plants and other ornaments. And then there's the tree. Smack dab in the center of the yard is a large tree which Jim has accessorized. Dozens of hanging plants, in macrame hangers, bird houses, feeders and lanterns. Not stopping there, he's nailed up wooden platforms in the crux of the limbs to display ever more potted plants. "Overkill" does not appear to be a word in Jim's vocabulary.

But it's the holidays where Jim truly shines. His was the house that sprouted Halloween inflatables promptly on October 1st. A huge inflatable Grim Reaper and witch to start. And every single day throughout October brought a new addition. Bats, ghosts, spiderwebs, zombies, Frankenstein, cauldrons, severed heads, more witches, more bats, more, more, more. By the time Halloween rolled around you could barely make out the house. Whatever wasn't inflatable was motion activated, which scared the shit out of the dogs. Literally.

And then, just like that.... gone. The morning after Halloween, the dogs and I were making the rounds around 7:30am (they don't believe in sleeping in, ever) and as we rounded the corner you were hit with.... nothing. Not a trace. Not so much as cobweb remained. Why on earth would he go out in the dead of the night, or the crack of dawn, and remove it all?

To make way for Thanksgiving! By the afternoon walk, his front yard was sporting an 8 foot inflatable turkey in a pilgrim hat. His pace has been much less frenetic over the past two weeks. So far he's only added some smily face scarecrows, a smattering of pilgrims and tiki torches. I'm really not getting the torches, but whatever. Oh, and the turkey is now holding a case of Bud light. I'm still hoping for some indians, or maybe even a Mayflower, but I realize he's working with a much more limited palette.

But the thing that has me really excited is that I believe all of this has just been a dress rehearsal, a warm up to the big kahuna.... Christmas! I have a feeling Christmas is going to be S P E C T A C U L A R!

Sending Us A Message

So it's Friday the 13th. They say today is unlucky, but living in Bako, that's all relative. The last 61 days have seemed pretty damn unlucky, so God knows what else today holds.

It certainly isn't starting out well. Wednesday was trash day, and I had absent-mindedly left our trash bin out at the curb. One of the neighbors evidently took exception to that. And threw it up against our entryway in the middle of the night. Wouldn't want to mar the lovely aesthetics of the street, block the view of the vacant dirt lot across the street with the decaying squirrel carcasses littering it.

The Prime Suspect would, of course, be Mary, the harpy who lives next door. But she appears to have been out of town the past few days. Maybe the smoke drove her away, or there's a Bitter Old Scold convention going on somewhere. At any rate, she's been blissfully MIA for days. Plus I doubt she has the upper body strength to fling a trash bin 20 feet. No, it's someone else. Someone new. And they hate us. And they want us to know it.

And to think I had been ever so slightly warming up to this place. I won't be making that mistake again.

Doing Time

So here we are at Day 60. Two months. My how time doesn't fly. It seems like it's been so much longer. I don't even know why I still count the days. Maybe it's a sign I haven't completely abandoned hope - people facing the possibility of parole probably count the days, people on death row probably don't.

When we first moved here I kept picturing myself as Meryl Streep in "Out of Africa". Gay, I know. Bako was playing the part of Africa, minus the charm, but with indoor plumbing. I related to the story of a woman moved against her will to a strange and primitive place, facing hostile colonials and scary natives, utterly lost. But she picked herself up, dusted herself off, grew a little coffee and ultimately got to go home. Of course the analogy fell apart once we got to the supporting cast. The boyfriend would end up in the Robert Redford role, and things didn't really end well for him. But I kept searching for the perfect film to mirror my own predicament. "Too Wong Foo". "Midnight Express". "Aliens". I went through quite a few.

But I finally settled on Tom Hanks in "Cast Away". Marooned on a deserted island, presumed dead to all who knew him. Fighting for survival and his own sanity. He builds a raft to try and escape, but without any means to sail it he's constantly met with failure. Until one day, after a storm, a plastic Port-a-Potty washes ashore. He fashions the flimsy plastic into a makeshift sail and is finally able to escape and is ultimately rescued. He finally makes it home. Sure, he's lost everything, but he's alive. And he's lost an amazing amount of weight. I should be so lucky.

But the thing that sealed the deal for me?

That Port-a-Potty that washes ashore?

It had a name printed on the side.

The name of a city.

B A K E R S F I E L D

Random Good Things About Bako: #2

Fall.

I've never lived anywhere previous to here when I was able to experience Fall. LA doesn't have seasons in the traditional sense - "Fall" means wildfires, "Winter", mudslides. "Spring" is basically what we called "June Gloom", the cold, clammy weather that moves in in late April and lingers oftentimes into August, pissing off the tourists. The best way to tell what season it was in the rest of the country was to drive down Sunset and check out the background on the Marlboro billboards. Cowboy in snow? Must be winter. When the PC police had those taken down, you were basically on your own.

We had "Faux Fall" at our house in the hills owing to the huge number of sycamores and oaks. But lacking the hard freeze necessary to get the color ball rolling, the leaves usually just went from green to dead and bypassed the pretty part. So we got all the leaf cleanup, without any of the magic.

But here in Bako they have the real deal. About two weeks ago the temps briefly dipped below freezing at night, and it's as if someone fired a starter's pistol - all the trees seem to be racing through the full color spectrum. Most of them are still in the golden orange phase, but quite a few have moved on into brilliant reds.

I'm pretty sure it all natural, and not the trees rusting in the toxic air, but either way, it's beautiful.

Eric and the F Word

That would make a great children's book title.

Actually, I was looking over the blog and grew a little alarmed at how often I drop the F-bomb. My mother, the school teacher, would be mortified if she read this. I really have no excuse. It's just a sloppy, lazy habit picked up during my years in the entertainment biz. In Hollywood, the F-word is used so casually and so often it doesn't even raise an eyebrow. It's become kind of the go-to, catchall word suitable for all occasions. Spoken in anger or in joy, frustration or despair, it's a noun, a verb, an adjective, whatever you want. It has 101 uses, like baking soda.

But I need to clean up my act, especially now that I live in Bako. People here don't cuss, as far as I know. The harshest thing I've heard was SWEET MOTHER OF PEARL, and that was by a grown man. A grown straight man. I accidentally dropped the bomb in a meeting with a new client, and if it were a movie, it's where everyone would freeze and the music would cut out with the sound of a needle scratching across the vinyl. Which come to think of it is another sloppy and lazy Hollywood habit - how many times have you heard that in movie trailers? Anyhow, I still got the job, but I think they're keeping an eye on me. So from this point on, I vow never to use vulgar language unless it's absolutely fucking necessary.

There's Something About Mary

So we both started smoking again. There's a shocker. This particular effort to quit was doomed from the start. When my partner announced in early August "we" would be quitting that week, my first reaction was "Are you out of your fucking mind? NOW?"

He was on unemployment, with absolutely zero prospects. I hadn't worked in months, nor been paid for the work I did prior to that. The house was about to enter escrow as a short sale, in an effort to stave off foreclosure. We were in the process of packing up our things with no idea where in the world we were going. What a simply fantastic time to sneak up behind me and kick out the last crutch I had. "But we need to think about our health" he said. No shit. I thought about my health everyday, wondering if the constant chest pains were merely from stress or the warning signs of a major coronary. I didn't have time to worry about my health sometime in the mythical future. But he was undeterred, and just to maintain peace in the family I went along with it.

And the first few weeks were actually OK. Didn't miss it at all. It looked for awhile like this time would finally be IT, the final triumphant attempt to kick the habit. And then we found out we'd be moving to Bako.

I started cheating immediately. Sneaking them when he was at work or when I walked the dogs. I thought it was curious he didn't smell it, but it ends up that's because he was cheating too. He denies it to this day, but when you do a load of laundry and out fall a half a dozen lighters, and they aren't yours, then I think it's safe to say he's being a bit disingenuous. But no matter - it is what it is.

So we're out on the patio having a smoke last week (we don't smoke in the house), and all of a sudden, from over the fence we hear a horrible hacking cough, followed quickly by a door slamming. And it was a fake cough, the kind you do when you're calling in sick, but you really aren't. The type of over-production that isn't fooling anyone.

It's Mary. The neighbor. And she's sending us a signal.

My boyfriend thought I was being paranoid. Maybe she was sick. Maybe she just accidentally slammed the door. Why did I always have to think the worst of people? ( I just do.)

Anyhow, the next day it happened again...

Cough, cough, HACK, cough... SLAM

Oy vay. OK, we get it. We decide to do the considerate thing and if we must smoke, we'll just go to the opposite side of the yard, at the edge of the dead lawn, next to the fence we share with Cindy, the nice neighbor. And Cindy's a smoker too, so it's cool. Forty feet from Mary's fence, I light up a smoke and...

Cough, cough, HACK, cough... SLAM

You have GOT to be kidding me. Doesn't she ever go inside? And how could she smell it two seconds after it's lit? Mary's a bitch. But neither one of us are in any mood to start a feud with someone we share a wall with. So we decide we just won't go outside if Mary is outside. You can usually tell when she is, because her yard is festooned with tiny white Christmas lights and she turns them on when she goes outside. Such a magical look for such a miserable person. So that becomes the drill - we poke our heads out the door and see if the coast is clear. And that worked exactly twice. The third time, we see no lights and step outside on the patio and light a smoke, and 10 seconds later we hear a window slide open and then hear

Cough, cough, HACK, cough... SLAM

Now I'm just pissed. At least have the decency to talk to us. But no, she always just scurries away whenever we run into each other in the front yard. Just like her little cockroach friends. I'm beginning to wonder where this is all headed. Well, yesterday, we found out.

We came home Sunday afternoon to discover Mary has shrunk-wrapped her patio. Hung heavy gauge plastic and turned it into an outside ICU. Never say Mary doesn't know how to make a point.

My boyfriend looks at me and says "Do you think that's because of us?" Um... exactly what other reason could there possibly be? That the City of Bakersfield has quarantined her with an infectious disease and neglected to mention it to us? No, I think it's safe to say it's because of us. God I hate her.

So the saddest thing about this whole episode is we were going to give quitting another shot around the holidays. With the house gone, and things starting to settle down in our lives (albeit in Bako) we figured we should give it a serious try. But not now. We're going to keep smoking to spite her. I'm on my way out to pick up a carton right now. Fuck her. And her little dog too.

Turkey Club

I have glimpsed the future. I stumbled across one of those corporate experiments, a "test concept". It was out of the way, incognito, with little or no signage.

It's a deli. It's a bakery. It's a gas station!

"Gimme pastrami on rye and ten bucks on #4..."

Who the hell comes up with this crap? Do they just throw darts at a wall full of options? Pull random businesses out of a hat and see if they can Frankenstein them together?

"Hey Phil - you got 'lube job/pedicure', see if you can make that work".

I don't know.... I'm not sure this thing is going to fly, but who knows - it certainly wouldn't be the first deli where I got gas. Ba Dum Bump.

And they cater! I sure hope the aren't counting on word of mouth -

"Betty, these canapes are divine, wherever did you get them?"

"The Shell station".

I don't see that happening, not even here in Dogpatch, where they worship the oil companies. And obviously Shell Oil (who I'm guessing is behind it since it's their product out front) figured that out too. That's why they've given it the focus grouped, market tested, blandly idyllic, yet utterly meaningless name of "Brookside". Sounds nice, right? Well this one is across the street from a vast, vacant dirt lot. The nearest "brook" is the fetid irrigation canal a block away.

It's obvious this aint no mom and pop operation - there is some serious money being thrown at this thing. Richly appointed, all dark wood and marble inside. And charging exorbitant prices that should defray the cost pretty quick. If people go for it, which I'm not sure they will.

Listen, I love people watching as I sip my latte as much as anyone - that's why God made Starbucks. I'm just not sure "watching people pump gas" is much of an incentive to switch to Brookside. Although there were quite a few people inside.

Ad therein lies a major problem, one I would think would be fairly obvious to the geniuses who thought this up - while every pump was occupied, no one was pumping gas. Not a soul around. They were all inside having nosh.

No, this one need to go back to the lab for a re-think. Start with "parking".

It's The Water, And So Much More

All these posts about the shitty air, and not a single one about the shitty water. I'm being remiss.

We get mineral water here. Oh no, not the fancy schmancy Pellegrino stuff. I'm talking real minerals. Probably lead and arsenic too. And God only knows what else. It comes out of the tap white as milk. If you let it sit for about 10 minutes, all the crap it in settles and it resembles "water". But it didn't go anywhere. It's still there... waiting for you. Nobody here drinks it. God no. Not even the locals. The first week we were here I asked a waiter for a glass of water and he looked at me like I just ordered blowfish. If you want to get rich in Bakersfield, go into bottled water.

Most of the houses in this neighborhood sport wooden fences between them, and walking the dogs through the 'hood, you can't help but notice that wherever the sprinklers hit the fences, they've become bleached bone white. And then you think... "I bathe in this crap!" Wash my clothes. Do the dishes. Maybe it's something that occurs naturally. I doubt it - nothing here appears to occur naturally. Maybe the people up north, watching us steal it and waste it have poisoned it out of spite. Can't say I'd blame them.

I tried to do some research online. I googled "Bakersfield's Shitty Water" and got the City's website, which made me laugh. And there I learned "Anyone who has lived in California knows that water is a precious commodity that has been a source of rivalry between northern and southern California since the early Gold Rush days..." No shit. That's why they steal it.

At any rate, I never found out the secret to our "White Gold". I did find out some other fun facts though. I discovered that the municipal reservoir, Lake Isabella, northeast of Bako, is held back by a dam considered the #1 risk of failure in the entire United States. It even showed a map of what the flood would look like when the dam fails (their word, not mine) and basically Bako will be under 3 or 4 feet of water. Something to look forward to.

So the moral of the story appears to be, if the air doesn't kill you, one way or another, the water will.

A Roz By Any Other Name

I'd begun to think perhaps I'd only imagined her, I hadn't seen her in weeks. Roz. Or rather "Wild Roz"... that's what it says on the vanity plates on her late model Vette - WLD ROZ. She's been elusive, the neighborhood sasquatch. I saw her twice in the first weeks we'd lived here, tooling around the neighborhood. But then since then, nothing. Until this morning.

I like Wild Roz. She's a magical glimpse into the past. 1985, to be specific. You can tell by the hair, bleached blonde and teased up like a standard poodle. She looks like Joan Cusack in "Working Girl". And the clothes. The first time I saw her, and then again today, she had shoulder pads on the size of an aircraft carrier. The second time I saw her it was a red "Thriller" leather jacket, although I'm guessing it was probably pleather. She's gotta be in her mid 50's, but I get the impression in Wild Roz's world, it's always Morning In America and We Are The World. She looks to be a former all-access kinda gal, a groupie. I can easily see her lolling about backstage at a Bon Jovi concert. Or more likely, Poison.

But what tips Wild Roz from being "mildly interesting" into the "fascinating" column is her doppleganger - we'll call her "Lil Roz". Perched on the edge of her dashboard, staring back at her, is a doll. Could be a Barbie, although it looked to be a little too plus -sized for that. A doll clutching a guitar.

Rock on Lil Roz.

Every time I've seen them, Lil Roz is decked out in exactly the same outfit as Wild Roz. Twins. They must dress each other every morning. Creepy, yes. But also kind of oddly sweet. I think Wild Roz's world is probably blissfully happy.

In fact the only thing that probably pisses Wild Roz off is the fact that someone else in California got the WILD ROZ plates first.

If A Tree Falls In The Forest...

So I'm seriously contemplating committing digital suicide - deleting my Facebook account. I never really understood the attraction of it, but since simply everyone was on it, and I was told it was a great way of generating work, I signed up. Well, the work part never really panned out, so what's the point?

It says I have 182 friends. Or rather "friends". I don't know half of them. Never met 'em. People would "friend" me and maybe I recognized the name from the agency biz, or I knew they were a friend of a friend, or I hadn't the slightest idea who they were, but they knew me, so what the hell, I hit "accept". But the fact of the matter is I couldn't pick most of these people out of a police line-up. It was fun for about a month, but then it just got tedious. Besides, I think almost all of them have "hidden" me. I don't take it personally because I've hidden almost all of my "friends" too, especially the people from High School. We weren't friends then, so why the hell would we be friends now? I stopped posting anything months ago because I never would get any response, not even a "like". When the cute photos of my dogs didn't even get a "thumbs up", I was pretty sure I'd been disappeared by everyone. Probably because I refused to join their "Mafia". Whatever. No great loss. I'm not going to miss "Lil Blue Cove" or the poking - if anyone poked me in real life they'd get slapped upside the head. And I'm pretty sure I'll survive without knowing my Leprechaun or Klingon name.

But the real reason I may pull the plug is it's just too depressing reading about home. Makes me feel like a ghost, looking down on the living.

Plus it's only a matter of time before someone from Bako "friends" me, and then my whole charade will collapse like a house of cards.

Lord of the Flies

So it's been with a sense of dread and sick anticipation that we awaited the next plague. We'd already been invaded by cockroaches and blasted by killer dust storms. And that was only in the first month. Surely there was going to be more, it was just a matter of time. I'd put my money on locusts. I was wrong.

It's FLIES.

In all fairness to Bako, this is not a naturally occurring phenomenon, it's entirely man-made.

And that man's name is Juan.

Our duplex comes with a stamp-sized front and back yard, and the rental deal includes a once a week gardener. That would be Juan. Clearly, he isn't very good. Both lawns are dead. All the shrubs too. The rest of the neighbors have lawns that look like lush, submerged rice paddies. Ours looks like a recently plowed alfalfa field. The shrubs, whatever they may have once been, are now nothing more than rooted balls of kindling. And yet he comes, dutifully each Thursday, to rake the dirt. God bless him.

While the shrubs are beyond hope, we were pretty sure the lawns could be salvaged, if only they were re-seeded. We proposed this to Juan, and he seemed genuinely excited. So imagine our surprise when we came home a few days later to a freshly seeded front lawn... covered with an inch and a half of manure. Real, honest to cow, manure.

The smell hit you first, and it hit you hard. But you were quickly distracted from that by the flies. Thousands and thousands of flies. They enveloped the house, and hid by the doors, just waiting for a chance to make it inside. Which they did. In droves.

It's been almost two weeks now, and the smell is long gone. The flies are not. In fact, I believe they've now taken up permanent residency, along with the cockroaches. They've taken a particular liking to my car, which they blanket as if it were a giant rotting melon. The boyfriend takes sadistic pleasure in killing as many as he can. The dogs eat them. I've just thrown in the towel and await what's next.

My money is still on the locusts.

Greetings from Wingnuttia

So this past Sunday I decided to do something I hadn't done in months - read the Sunday paper. With everything going on with the move I hadn't really had a chance to just kick back and catch up on the news. Running up the street, I reflexively went for the LA Times which, surprisingly, still distributes up here. But my heart sank at the thought of reading about the people and places I'd sadly left behind. Too soon. Maybe one day, but not today. So instead of the newspaper, I picked up the Bakersfield Californian.

Oh sure, it looks like a newspaper, but don't be fooled - it's a collection of press releases and talking points from the Kern County Republican Party. The front page headline was about the "rising tide for the GOP". Next to that was a photo of Darth Vader himself, Dick Cheney. Seems he's going to be coming to town to address the Bakersfield Business Forum. That should prove to be interesting - what on earth will he talk about? Boosting sales with electro-shock and rubber hoses? Inside there were profiles of 12 "up and coming Republicans", 10 of them pudgy white men. A glowing puff piece about the Teabagger "movement". Beneath that was a brief rundown of all the electoral races coming up in the county for 2010. In a nutshell, the choice in each race is between a stark raving mad conservative Republican, and a bat shit insane uber-conservative Republican. What news stories there were were presented through the Republican perspective. There was no crisis too large, no problem too small, that didn't present a tremendous opportunity for the GOP. And they had solutions for each problem! The fact that in most cases, the Republicans created the problems in the first place was conveniently omitted. Budget crisis in Sacramento? TAX CUTS! Healthcare? STICK IT TO THE TRIAL LAWYERS! Water shortage in Kern County? BUILD A MASSIVE CANAL AND STEAL THE WATER FROM UP NORTH! State Parks closed for budget reasons? VEND THEM OUT TO DEVELOPERS AND STRIP MINE THEM!

This comes on the heels of my first, and let's hope last, exposure to Glenn Beck. I had to take my dogs for a routine check-up at the vet last week, and there he was, on the waiting room plasma screen. It was an up close and personal view of the Bizarro World of the Wingnuts. He was railing on about secret plot of the UN to take over this country and subject us, against our will, to a NEW WORLD ORDER. For 20 minutes I watched him ramp up the paranoia, with a scary mix of fear and obvious glee. As with most conservative conspiracy theories, as much as they feign horror at the thought, they seem to actually be hoping for it to come true. He wound it up to a fever pitch - they were going to take away our rights! Our liberty! Our GUNS! And then he threw it out to his two guests -

"UN takeover..... imminent? Or ALREADY UNDERWAY!!!!"

Those were the only two choices. Both guests chuckled. They scoffed. I thought "Thank God - someone is going to be the voice of reason here.." Only to have them both suddenly glower....... " I M M I N E N T".

And more frightening than was what was happening onscreen was what was happening around me - everyone was sitting in absolute rapt attention, several of them bobbing their heads in you-tell-it-sister agreement. I now live with these people.

It would be easy to just kind of laugh all this off. Hope that in time, as none of these vast conspiracies bear any fruit, that people will come to their senses. But then that wouldn't be good news for the GOP, so they have a vested interest in constantly banging the gong and whipping people into a frenzy. These people have been turned into tightly wound springs just waiting for their "Red Dawn" moment.

There's a bumper sticker you see around town.... GOD BLESSS THE TROOPS - ESPECIALLY THE SNIPERS!"

No - God help us.

Home Sweet... Whatever

Aaaaand... I'm back. Just got home from LA awhile ago. And heralding my arrival was the creepy ice cream truck. Like clockwork! Even with Daylights Savings! Seriously, someone needs to check the back of that thing. Probably piled high with bones.

They say misery loves company, and on these trips back to LA, my company is my iPod. I usually just throw it on shuffle.

And the shuffle knows.

It's uncanny. I've made four trips back to civilization since the move, and this has happened EVERY SINGLE TIME. Headed out of town, about the time I hit Mettler, the shuffle shifts to happy music - mostly dance music from my decadent past and Madonna. Coming back from LA, once I pass Ft. Tejon and head down the Grapevine, the shuffle switches to mostly "Les Miserables" and classical dirges. (I mentioned I was gay, right?) The shuffle knows my pain.

Anyway, the trip was mostly painless. It wasn't technically to LA, but rather Burbank, which has it's own charm issues. Could be a Bako sister city. The "sophisticated" sister.

And as I made the decent down the Grapevine I was shocked to see Bako, and in fact the whole San Joaquin Valley, had been wiped off the map! Oh happy day! But who's kidding who - I knew it had just been swallowed up by the bad air. The air is grey, the sky, such as it is, is grey, it all just blends together and gives you the impression you're just descending into a void. And sure enough, the outlines of Hooterville appeared through the haze soon enough.