Thanks For Playing

So yesterday I had to drive back to LA to tie up some loose ends. And swing by my former home for the last time. Technically it's still mine for another week, but this would be the last time I'd see it. And it was immensely sad. It didn't really hit me until I peeled off my house key and gently placed it on top of the escrow docs. I had a good cry and just sat in the living room for a bit, watching the clouds roll by. And then I left. As the front door closed and locked behind me, there was a certain finality to it all. Not only wouldn't I ever set foot in in again, I couldn't.

And the County of LA saw fit to give me a lovely parting gift. A speeding ticket.

Don't let the door hit ya on the way out.

A Break in the Weather

We've been here almost three weeks, and today will be the first day when it isn't going to be over 100 degrees. Praise Jesus. They say in real estate it's location, location, location, and it's not until you live here that you realize Bakersfield is Death Valley Adjacent. Of course, the cooler weather comes with a price - the local "news" is warning of blowing dust storms later this afternoon. Great. Next week it will be raining frogs.

The heat doesn't seem to faze the locals. Nothing seems to faze the locals. Except Obama. And if the subject of the weather comes up at all, it's usually an ominous warning about the coming fog... The Fog.

Lovely. My life is now a John Carpenter horror film.

A Spring in Her Step

So....... you're driving around Bako, minding your own business, taking in all the assbackward awfulness, when you hear it. On the radio. The ad. The ad for vaginal rejuvenation.

WTF?!? On radio? Really? In all my years in body-obsessed LA, I've never heard anything like that. At first you think you just imagined it, or hoped you had. But it pops up two or three times an hour. And the creepiest thing is, they seem to play it a lot on the station that features tweener music (when your choices are limited to that, country, or ranchero music, you sadly opt for Miley). One minute we're singing about disco sticks, and then the next thing you know, we're talking labia. Lady Gaga indeed. (The same station also runs Ryan Secrest's vapid syndicated show, so I'm guessing that's about as close as he's ever going to get to a vagina).

The rationale, such as it is, is that there are two rival cosmetic surgery clinics here, the Hatfields and McCoys of lipo. One has been running ads for discount boob jobs and "mommie makeovers", and the other evidently felt the need to throw down the gauntlet and match their boob job, and raise them a vagina.

And who is the intended audience? The soccer moms of Bako? Stuck in traffic with a minivan full of screaming kids, shuttling them between practice and Young Republican meetings? I just can't imagine them hearing this commercial and thinking..."You know, my vagina does feel a little tired and rundown".

I think more likely than not, the intended audience is the husbands. Sitting in the cabs of their F150's, this ad comes on and their ears prick up and images of finely tuned vice grips dance in their heads. Dream on.

The sad thing for me is now, after nearly 30 years of not giving the old VeeJayJay a second thought, it's all I can think of. Rejuvenated ones. Who's had it done? I want to know. Can you tell? Are there signs? A sly, knowing smile perhaps? A twinkled in the eye? A certain glow? And then I think back on our encounter the other night with Bobette, and it suddenly makes sense. I thought she was a little too perky.

Love Thy Neighbor

So I finally met the neighbors. So to speak. To the south, we have Cindy. I have no idea what she looks like because we "met" through the backyard fence. She seems nice enough, and when I picture her, I picture Reba McEntire. Don't ask me why. Maybe the slight twang in her voice. She owns two beagles that howl like banshees. Under ordinary circumstances, this would be a problem, but one of my dogs is a barker and it takes very little to set her off. Being surrounded by other dogs, one of my initial fears was that the neighbors would quickly grow to hate us with my little one yapping in the backyard. But problem solved - the minute mine starts barking it sets off the beagles like an air raid siren and she's quickly drowned out. I think we can safely deflect any neighborhood wrath next door for the forseeable future. And I could see us becoming friends with Cindy one day. I hope she drinks.

The other side is another story. Her name is Mary. At least I think that's what she grunted when I tried to introduce myself. She turned tail and scurried away. If they ever decide to do a local production of "Doubt", they have their Sister Aloysius. She has the vicious, busy body nun thing down pat. I think the jig is up with Mary. I think she k n o w s. I wasn't there when the furniture was delivered, but I picture her milling about on the sidewalk, checking to see how many mattresses move in. And then running for her pitchfork. If you're looking for someone to organize a neighborhood book burning, I think Mary's your gal.

Mary is going to be a problem.

A Night on the Town

"Bakersfield gets a bad rap." These wise words were spoken by Bobette, the manager of the steak house we treated ourselves to last night. A fifty-something woman in a hideous purple and white print dress, the pattern of which formed an unfortunate target on her crotch, we'd drawn her attention because we were "new". My partner over-shared the information that we'd just moved here from LA. "Moved" wouldn't have been the word I'd chosen... "banished" or "exiled" came to mind. Even she surprised by the news. Her beehive swayed as she said "It's not as bad as people say."

Because Bako isn't the place you move to, it's a place you flee. Or more likely, pass through, which is probably most people's only experience with the place. I know it was mine, prior to our unfortunate move. I'd stopped for gas and smokes on the way to Yosemite. They say you only get one chance to make an first impression, and mine was "hellhole". As near as I can tell, the best thing about Bako is seeing it in your rear-view mirror.

Even the locals are hard pressed to name it's virtues. Almost everyone cites it's proximity to other, better places. "Oh it's only an hour to the mountains, or an hour and a half to LA. The coast is only two hours away, and you can be in San Francisco in three or four hours." If the best thing you can think of about your little hometown is how quickly you can escape it in any direction, you've got problems.

The Lawn King 2

Just finishing up my post on the lawns.... It isn't just that. I've never lived anywhere with such disregard for any and all things related to the environment. I don't know if it's the inbred Republican belief that anything related to the environment is a "MSM/Liberal conspiracy", or the fundamentalist biblical mindset that God provided all these wonderful resources for us to waste as we see fit. Probably a toxic mixture of both. Maybe they believe the faster we use it all up, the quicker we'll arrive at their cherished "End Times". Whatever. With toilets that use about 8 gallons a flush, we're gonna get there pretty quick.

The city does offer recycling, surprisingly. But as far as I can tell, it's just a convenient way to identify all the liberals in the neighborhood. For the neighbors. You know... "just in case". I've only ever seen two houses in this entire "development" that use them. And now us. That's gotta be strike number 2....... "They're gay, and.......THEY RECYCLE!"

Irony Free Zone

You really can't make this shit up. The local news just came on (THAT'S another story) and the headline story is the opening of the Kern County Fair tomorrow. And the new attraction this year? Carnival attractions from Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch!

Next story?

"Kern County will be setting up a 'Pedophile Free Zone' around the kiddie area..."

Oy vay.

The Lawn King

My new neighborhood is a rat's maze of impossibly green, manicured lawns. They're all so perfect, at first I thought they were fake. And from what I've been able to discern about the neighbors, that wouldn't have been a bad guess. But no, they're real. Astoundingly real. How on earth, you may ask, does a place that gets only 4 inches of rain a year, and where the average temperature (based on a week's observations) is roughly 120 degrees, manage to have such lush greenery?

Water, my friends.

Oh, not THEIR water. OTHER people's water. Water here is imported, or about 99.9% of it is. This is a desert. AND.... we're in a drought. But no one here is going to let those little facts get in the way of having putting green front lawns. And the key to having a putting green front lawn is to water it... Bako style. Essentially, what you do is turn on your sprinklers, preferably in the middle of the day (so that most of it evaporates) and... walk away. For hours. Just leave it on. Only once your lawn takes on the consistency of a kelp bed, and languid waves of water wash across the sidewalk, over the curb and down the gutter, only then do you turn them off. And every does it! Oh sure, there are rebels...... people who do it in the morning or evening. But they all do it.

Coming from a city that restricted turning on you hose to only two days a week, before 9 and after 4, I was gobsmacked. Drought? Overdevelopment? Importing water? Global warming?Who cares! I can putt from my front door!

But there is a bright side...

Bako Bits

So, let me say at the outset, I have nothing against this place and these people. My dismay and despair are directed at the circumstances that brought me here. It's one thing to pick your exile, to find a place on the map of your choice to try and start over. It's another to have it forced on you by fate and circumstance. I have to appreciate that I'm a stranger in their land, a fish out of water. That being said...

So as my correspondence over the last several months, with the handful of people who were aware of my predicament, degenerated from "Hey, things could be worse, we could have to move to Bakersfield..." to "Oh my fucking God, we have to move to Bakersfield...", my references to the city went from "Bakersfield" to "Bako". A lot of it was just plain laziness - Bakersfield is a chore to type and Bako was quick and text-y. But I also appreciated that it sounded vaguely vulgar and derogatory. I imagined it set the locals teeth on edge the way "Frisco" does up north.

No such luck. They embrace their inner Bako. Bako-this. Bako-that. So, the best of both worlds I guess - I get the inner satisfaction of a snarky dis, and yet no harm is done. Or so I hope. It's only day 9 after all.

And the only other alternative, according to Wikipedia, was "B-Town". Seriously? I doubt anyone refers to it as that... that isn't a city, it's a failed Boy Band.

It's a Twister, it's a Twister....

Slow posting. Spending the weekend running back to LA to clear out the last remaining bits of my former life. Our movers were Russia mafia, and seemed in an awful hurry to hit the road. So lots of little stuff was left behind. It felt like one of those cliche news images, after a tornado has wiped out a trailer park somewhere.... the lone woman tearfully looking through the remains for something of value. Photos... a wedding ring.... Hummels.

And here we are.

So, it's come to this...... a gay man, of a certain age, exiled to the wasteland that is Bakersfield. In my darkest hours, in my deepest despair, when I imagined "what's the worst that could happen", this scenario never even occurred to me. But here we are.

How we got here is a tedious tale and I post here only the briefest of summaries, just so it's on the record : Lost my high paying, high flying, advertising position almost two years ago and limped along with freelance work, waiting "for things to recover". Might as well have been waiting to spot a unicorn. In the meantime, we depleted the savings, cashed out the 401k, and tried to hunker down. But then then my partner was let go, and the death spiral to Bako began. Treading water became drowning, and we sadly had to put the lovely mid-century modern home in the Hollywood Hills, which we'd spent years renovating, on the market. As a short sale. Which is a misnomer, 'cuz there's nothing short about it.

We had always figured, when the time came, we'd just rent a nice apartment in the Westside, store what we couldn't use, and wait out the Great Recession.

But as the months dragged on, with unemployment for him, and meager, pity, freelance jobs for me, things were starting to get scary. Very scary. Like, "what is the going price for a kidney on the blackmarket" kinda scary. So when he was unexpectedly offered the job in Bako, we took it. And by "we", I mean "he". I see the rationale - any income is better than nothing. But really....... Bako?

Anyhow, I've rambled, after promising to be brief. My apologies.

So this blog is nothing but therapy for me. Oh I know, everyone who starts one of these things says that, but they all secretly hope it'll be discovered and turned into the next "Sex in the City". But seriously, I highly doubt you'll be seeing Sarah Jessica Parker on Truxtun Avenue anytime soon. And besides, nobody knows I'm here, and I'd like to keep it that way. I kept my LA pre-fixed cell phone, so everyone thinks I'm still there. My goal is to wait out the storm and quietly return before anyone has even missed me. But in the meantime, the boyfriend has tired of my despair, and "real" therapy isn't an option - I've done enough therapy to know those people are REALLY fucked up.... I wouldn't trust them to water the lawn, let alone hear my thoughts. And other than that.... what? Ending it all, dramatically, Madame Butterfly style, has crossed my mind. Slitting my wrists in the custom designed master bath I waited four years to complete (and will never enjoy) has a certain... drama to it. But the truth is, I could never leave my beloved dogs as orphans. True, they have another "daddy", and there's always the chance he could rise to the occasion and raise them. But knowing him, there's an even likelier chance the side gate will "accidentally" be left open, if you know what I mean. He has the amazing capacity to "disappear" the unpleasantries of his life. He'd make a GREAT South American dictator. I guess that fact that I'm still here is a testament to his love. Right? At any rate, the "concept" of pet ownership has, over the years, been trumped by the poop-scooping reality, and the dog-rearing responsibilities are now solely mine. Not that I mind - I love them to death. Honestly, they've been the only thing to get me through this crap.

So there 'ya go, and here I am. Day 6 in Bako. Nowhere to go but up.