Baku #8: Summer

Triple digit heat.
Air so thick you can chew it.
Summer in Bako.

Helter Swelter

The temperature has been flirting with triple digits for weeks now and finally crossed over on Sunday. And yesterday?

108 degrees.

Just when you think life here can't get any worse.

I stayed inside. Even the dogs wouldn't venture out. The air was classified as "unhealthy for everyone" and when you stepped outside it smelled like the toxic stew of Bako was fermenting. And pity my poor boyfriend. He had to work outside yesterday and by the time he came home he wanted to commit hari kari. It was so hot yesterday you couldn't even get cold water out of the tap - the underground pipes were baked. I took a shower without even turning on the hot water.

And the humidity! How the hell is it that this place is humid? It gets nearly zero rain and there hasn't been a drop in months, and yet yesterday it was like Miami in August. What the hell is up with that?

The return of the heat has also brought the return of one of my pet peeves about this place, the first of many. I'm talking about the obscene waste of water. It's absolutely criminal.

I've ragged on Bako for stealing water from up north, but truth be told all of Southern California imports it's water. The difference is that everyone else seems to be abundantly aware of how precarious their position is. The good people of Palm Springs realize they live in a desert and make do with front yards made of rocks and cactus. In LA the water restrictions are so draconian you can only water your yard a handful of hours a week. But here everyone seems to believe they have the God given right to turn their front yards into an Amazonian jungle, and if it means leaving the sprinklers on for 5 hours, so be it.

And they do.


I've taken the dogs out for a walk at 7:30 in the morning and all the neighbors have their sprinklers going full blast. When I've left to run errands hours later, they're still going strong. More people still choose to water in the early afternoon when the heat is so intense the water never even hits the ground, instantly evaporating into the blast furnace air. The end result is that though the lawns all appear lush and green, it's all for show. They're usually so waterlogged they're more kelp bed than lawn - step on it and you're likely to sink in up to your ankles.

Now that I think about, I believe I've discovered the source of the humidity.

“Ich Bin Ein Fucktard”

Why, you may ask, is he posting a photo of the Berlin Wall?

Surprise! I'm not!

It's the wall that surrounds the neighborhood of "Amberton".


Or is it "Westwood Estates"?

"Sagepointe"?

Beats the hell out of me - they all look the same. And they're all walled off from each other.


I've written about the feudal nature of this place. Why surround each neighborhood with an oppressive concrete wall? To keep out the marauding hordes from neighboring 'Laurelglen"?

"TO THE RAMPARTS!!!!"


I guess it just goes with the territory. These have got to be some of the unfriendliest people I've ever met. Maybe it's just us, maybe they sense that we're "different". Maybe if we slap a NRA or Jesus sticker on the car we'll end up hosting weekend BBQ's.

Or not.


It poses an interesting "chicken v. egg" conundrum... do all the walls make the people unfriendly? Or did the unfriendly people throw up the walls?


I'm gonna go with "B".

Friday Night Lite

We rarely go out in the evenings, especially after the unfortunate Applebee's outing. But I was on a roll yesterday, having already left the house once to venture to Sears, and so we decided to have a little "Date Night".

We couldn't really afford it, but then we found a gift card for Mimi's Cafe that my parents had given us the last time we were down. My mother loooves Mimi's Cafe. It's a chain of faux French cafés.

*Fun Fact! The original restaurant is actually a major gay watering hole in West Hollywood called The French Market. Equal parts La Cage Aux Folles and Victor/Victoria, it's campy good fun. It even has a little gift store named "Dorothy's Surrender" selling all things gay. Including porn. The story is the owner's family saw what a gold mine it was and thought it would have mass appeal if only it was "straightened out" a bit. So they kept the phony French overlay and the menu, dropped the gay parts (the fun and irony... and the porn) and voila!, a whole new casual dining concept. If only the locals knew.*

I agreed to meet the boyfriend when he got off work at 6:00pm, the height of the dinner rush here. I was surprised to see the restaurant fairly empty. The hostess looked like F. Murray Abraham in drag and she clearly had a thing for me. For the rest of the evening she would swing by the table to see if we were "O.K." with a wink and sly smile.

We were shown to a back room where the bulk of the diners had been herded. There were a couple of large boisterous groups and a smattering a screaming babies. Perfect for a quiet dinner out. We were seated across from a table of 10, a loud group of people who clearly worked together. Salespeople of some sort. If I were to guess I'd say they were from the nearby Mattressland. We ordered our fake French food and cheap wine. Conversation was pointless since we were just drowned out. Our food arrived and it was cooked. In Bako you just learn to lower the bar. Around 6:45 the group of shysters left and suddenly the place was completely dead.

On the drive home at 7:00 I couldn't help but notice the streets were practically deserted. The first Friday night of Summer, with the sun still high in the sky, and it looked like they were already rolling up the streets.

There must be something that passes for night life here, but honestly, I've seen no signs of it. Not that I really care. I have a sneaking suspicion this may have been our last "night on the town" before we move on. Which can't come a moment too soon.

Where America Shops©

Well that was depressing. Don't believe me?

Here's Sears...


Hurry up! Don't dawdle window shopping!


Only in Bakersfield could manual doors be "out of order". Morons.
I had to enter through the auto department.


But as a lovely parting gift I saw this in the parking lot... Mona Vie!

And it had the most awesome bumper sticker:
"FRIENDS DON'T LET FRIENDS JOIN THE SIERRA CLUB"

I couldn't get a picture because the owner appeared. He seemed pretty miserable. For a Mona Vie drinker.

God I hate it here.

A Summer Outing

So it looks like I'm going to leave the house today. Ever since the local work dried up weeks ago I've been a veritable shut-in. By choice. Other than quick little forays to the market for Mexican produce, I rarely leave anymore. It helps maintain the illusion I don't really live here. Once you leave the house, the fact that you live in Bakersfield becomes inescapable and my little emotional house of cards starts to collapse.

It's just as well. I'm going a little stir crazy. I used to have the TV to keep me company, but it died a horrible death. The boyfriend made one last valiant effort to revive it. It didn't work, but we did learn something valuable about flat screen TV's... they don't bend. Not even a little. The boyfriend had laid it face down on the carpet to tinker with it in back and we heard the slightest little "crack". When we lifted it back up, the screen was one big shattered spiderweb. We haven't bothered to get rid of it yet. It just sits in the center of the living room, a 42 inch slab of broken glass. If anyone were to ask I'd just say it's a piece of "conceptual art". I have an art degree - I've seen worse.

I tried radio, but in Bako you're pretty much limited to country or bubblegum pop. There is one station that plays classical. There's one that broadcasts NPR. They're the same station, so it's half and half. Since there are probably only twelve people in Bakersfield who would listen to either format, it's broadcast out of Fresno, the urbane center of sophistication in the Central Valley. The reception wasn't great, and then they entered their pledge drive, so I abandoned that too. So I'm left with my iPod, but after the past several days I've come to the conclusion that I have horrible taste in music.

So it's out into the wild today, to the prison-like mall. To Sears, "Where America Shops"... if America speaks Spanish. And the most shameful part of the experience is, I'm going to return some clothes.

We bought clothes at Sears.

It's hard to believe I once shopped at Fred Segal. Now we can't even afford Macy's. We had gotten to the point where we really had no choice but to swallow our pride and go to Sears. When we moved here we had to buy some appliances - a fridge and washer & dryer. Our old, nice appliances ended up being part of the short sale of the house. It wasn't the plan, but we really had no choice. So when we moved here we bought the cheapest appliances we could find and we ended up with a dryer that has only one heat setting - nuclear. Over the past several months both our wardrobes have been slowly reduced to doll clothing.

We went to Sears and bought a bunch of staples. We didn't try everything on because we (and by "we", I really me "I" - the boyfriend was surprisingly unfazed by the whole experience) really just wanted to get the hell out of there. The fitting rooms were scary and reminded me of some of the seedier bars I've been in in my day. I half expected there to be glory holes cut in the room dividers.

So shock of shock, some of the clothes don't fit and I get to go back. The highlight of my day is going to be getting store credit at Sears.

Dare to dream!

Bubblicious

There's something decidedly shady about this town, and I'm not talking about the rampant corruption that's just part of everyday life here.

Talk to any Bako booster and they'll tell you this city is built firmly on the twin pillars of oil and agriculture. That was certainly once true, and a cursory look around town would seem to bear it out. I mean, you have to drive through miles of farmland and oil fields to get here. But if you live here any length of time, both claims start looking a little dubious.

The oil claim seems obvious - this city is dotted with oil wells, many springing up in unlikely places. Every park and parking lot seems to have one smack dab in the middle of it. Parts of the city resemble a bumper pool table with office buildings and restaurants awkwardly configured to avoid them.

But few of them are working.

Most appear rusted solid.

Even more telling is the massive oil refinery that sits idle out of the Rosedale Highway (across from the Home Depot... everything here is across from a Home Depot. I think there's one Home Depot for every three residents). It was shut down years ago. The reason? Not enough oil to bother refining.

I think Bako's "peak oil" years happened sometime in the Truman administration.

But what about agriculture? Good question. Unless dirt is now considered a cash crop. We've lived here almost a year (yikes!), so I'm pretty sure we've experienced almost all the growing seasons. And yet much of the farmland around town hasn't seen so much as a tumbleweed. Must be those evil Socialist Farm Subsidies at work. There are economies that are supported by ag, but it would appear they're all in Mexico and Chile. That's where all the produce in the local stores comes from.

So what's keeping this whole city afloat?

As near as I can figure out, the only keeping this place going for the past 30 years was the housing bubble. The population has doubled in that time, yet there isn't any industry her to attract anyone. There isn't anything here to attract anyone. Most of it can be chalked up to inbreeding I suppose. But the rest was probably luring people in from the sticks with the bait of a cheap home.

Really cheap homes.

Thanks to Liar's Loans and lot of looking the other way, people on minimum wage here could live like Carringtons. Who cares if you couldn't really afford the house? In a year you'd just sell in for more than you "paid", and use the "profit" to buy a bigger home in the newer subdivision just a little further out in the hinterlands.

Well, so much for that.

People always refer to the bubble "bursting", but that isn't the case here. It's an avalanche. And it seems to be picking up steam.

The reason I mention all this is a call I received yesterday. One of my occasional, sporadic clients is a local home builder. There's precious little building going on anymore. It's all about burning off the excess inventory that built up like cordwood in the years leading up to the bust. Trying to unload it all before it rots into the dust.

The very first assignment I had from them, before we'd actually even moved here in September, was an ad for one of their premier subdivisions...

"HOMES FROM THE LOW 300's..."

Around the holidays a call came in. Just a minor revision...

"HOMES FROM THE MID 200's..."

Didn't hear from them for months, but at the start of June they were back with a change...

"HOMES FROM THE MID 100's..."

And then yesterday's call, short but sweet...

"Take out 'MID'..."

These are the same homes! They've dropped 67% in less than a year! Down $50,00 in two weeks!

I don't know about you, but if the house next door sold for A THIRD what I paid nine months ago, I'd be on suicide watch.

I have no idea what their plan is to get out of this mess. It's Bakersfield, so I doubt there is a plan. People are walking away from their homes in droves, so in a few years this place is going to look like Calico Ghost Town. Maybe that's the ticket - claim it's a theme park and charge admission.

It worked for Knott's Berry Farm.

Dreams Are Like Rainbows. Only Idiots Chase Them.

I often tell people that we knew we'd made a huge mistake before the moving truck had even left, but that isn't really true. Truth be told, there was a brief window of maybe three or four weeks when we really thought we'd be able to make a go of it. That perhaps we had landed here for a reason. That we could make a fresh start, live like kings for a fraction of the cost of LA. I even had delusions of making a splash in the parochial ad business, of being a big fish in a little pond.

But that was before the heat, and the bugs, the toxic air and the killer dust storms. Before the realization set in that not only was the pond little, it was an oxygen starved dead zone.

Probably because of the runoff from all the fertilizer and dead cows.

So the decision to reverse course wasn't immediate, but it was quick. Unfortunately, we realized we'd just have to do our time. We were locked in a lease we couldn't afford to break. And we'd exhausted our resources moving here. Just wait until September, we said. Just hang on until September and then we'd be gone.

But as we edge up on that month, things are looking increasingly frightening.

I'd bought into the Brave New World hype. I'd have a "virtual" job in a "virtual" office. I could work for anyone, anywhere. But the end result is I'm "virtually" unemployed. It seemed to work out well at first. I had clients in LA who still thought I was there. I had clients in Canada and Australia (who taught me the valuable lesson of negotiating my rates in "U.S." dollars, not the Monopoly play "dollars" they use). And I had steady work from the yahoo agencies here in Bakersfield to fill in the gaps. It wasn't perfect, but it worked.

For awhile.

When we moved here there were really only six ad agencies of note. There are four now. One of the ones that went under was my major source of local work. Two others are hanging on for dear life and don't appear long for this world. The final two are skating by without need of any help from me, thank you very much.

And the virtual work has become sporadic at best. You would think that advertising agencies would be on the cutting edge of technology, and to a certain extant, they are. But not when it comes to "telecommuting". By and large ad agencies are run by passive aggressive anal retentives. Their "comfort zone" is usually limited to the area over your shoulder telling you what to do. They aren't very trusting. So I find myself in a Catch 22 - agencies in LA would be happy to use me, if I can work onsite. I can't work onsite because I live 115 miles away. If I move back to LA, I can work. But I can't move back to LA until I get some work. Which I can't do, because I can't work onsite. Because I don't live in LA.

And the situation with the boyfriend is just heartbreaking. He's hated what he does for a living for years. The people he deals with are spiteful and the hours are onerous. It used to be quite lucrative, which made up for a lot, but not all, of the grief. But those days are long gone and the job is now just hateful. As he's started to look for opportunities back in LA, the prospects are bleak. He actually had an interview in LA yesterday, concocted some flimsy excuse to take half a day off, made the lonely three hour drive into to city only to discover the job sucks, the pay wasn't any better than he makes here and the hours were even worse. He was inconsolable when he called from the long road back to Bako. And I don't blame him.

The hidden casualty of this long Great Recession would appear to be mobility, both upwards and sideways. It was long considered an American birthright, but it appears to have vanished. Millions of people are now stuck, like us. Rats in a maze with no visible exits.

I just got back in from walking the dogs. The second I opened the front door the smell hit me like a 2x4. Today must be one of the days they burn the dead cows.

Along with our hopes and dreams.

McDawn of a New Age

There's a McDonalds not far from us, across the street from my bank. A couple of weeks ago, when I was depositing on of my increasingly infrequent paychecks, I noticed a "CLOSED FOR REMODELING" banner draped over the sign and workmen starting to assemble a chain link fence around the property.

Here it was yesterday...


Obviously "remodeling" means something different here, something that involves bulldozers.

Why raze a perfectly good and relatively new McDonalds to the ground?

Because my friends, I believe we are about to enter a New Age.

A Revloution.

An Evolution.

And that Evolution is going to be deep fried.

I'd written before about Bakersfield being the national petri dish for the casual dining industrial complex. A Frankenstein lab where with a crack of lightning breakfast churros could be born from who knows what. Where complex gene slicing could result in a dimly lit Jack in the Box Cabaret. Where even the Colonel could secretly go to have a little work done, emerging from his nip and tuck with a rakish youthful look. And an apron.

“This change gives us a chance not only to make sure we stay relevant but also communicates to customers the realness of Colonel Sanders and the fact that he was a chef,” said Gregg Dedrick, president of KFC’s U.S. division.

But back to Mickey D's. McDonalds has made no secret of their frontal assault on Starbucks. It started a couple of years ago with the introduction of new "coffee drinks" (which the locals have been drinking here for years, during the "test phase"). Even before we moved here I'd noticed the McDonalds in LA were all starting to get a Starbucks-ish makeover, with a slate veneer and earth tones and stylish pendant lights hanging over the cheap molded plastic furniture bolted to the floor.

But that was just a stop gap. Baby steps. I'd read somewhere that there was a wholesale "re-invention" in the works. Could it be that Bako was going to be the birthplace of a radically re-envisioned McDonalds? I'd read that the new look would be "Danish Modern" in styling. How very forward thinking, adapting a style first popularized 50 years ago. That's corporate America for you, proudly behind the times and "Lovin' It!". I guess in 10 years we can look forward to everything getting a psychedelic makeover.

It's all very exciting, this New McEra. But I'm afraid we'll have to wait quite awhile to see the reveal someplace else. Rome wasn't built in a day, and there's no way they'll have this puppy up and running before we leave. Then again, it's Kern County and they aren't all that picky when it comes to building codes. I've seen entire subdivisions go up in a month. So we'll see.

I would be thrilled to be able to say I have seen the future.

And it comes with fries.

A Musical Interlude

Most great cities have a signature song... "New York, New York", "My Kind of Town (Chicago Is)", "I Left My Heart In San Francisco".

Los Angeles didn't have one per se, probably because there are so few words that rhyme with "Angeles"...

"Jealous"?

"Zealous"?

"Cialis"?




Back in the 80's, after the smashing success of "New York, New York", Frank Sinatra decided he was going to make lightning strike twice. He and Quincy Jones would create the song that would become synonymous with Los Angeles. And the result was "LA Is My Lady"...

'Cause L.A. is my lady
She's always there for me
L.A. is my lady
She knows how to care for me
No lady's sweeter - you know it the moment you meet her.

Holy crap. It was jaw-droppingly cringe inducing and thankfully has been lost to the sands of time. No matter. I think most people associate "Hooray for Hollywood" or Randy' Newman's "I Love LA" with the City of Angels.



But what about Bako? Surely it must have a signature song. It is after all the birthplace of the "Bakersfield Sound", a sub-genre of country music that surprisingly doesn't involve big rig air horns. And sure enough, favorite son Buck Owens recorded the ever memorable "The Streets of Bakersfield"...

"You don't know me but you don't like me,
You say you care less how I feel
How many of you that sit and judge me
Ever walked the streets of Bakersfield..."

Yeah, that probably burned a hole through the charts. Although I wouldn't be surprised if everyone in this town knows the lyrics by heart.

No, there has to be a better choice. Something that truly captures the essence of this town.

Ah yes! Something from one of my favorite films from the 80's...

"Hell Hole" by Spinal Tap

"The window's dirty, the mattress stinks
This ain't no place to be a man
I ain't got no future, I ain't got no past
And I don't think I ever can

The floor is filthy, the walls are thin
The wind is howling in my face
The rats are peeling, I'm losing ground
Can't seem to join the human race

Yeah!
I'm living in a hell hole
Don't want to stay in this hell hole
Don't want to die in this hell hole
Girl get me out of this hell hole"


Perfect.

Random Good Things About Bako #8

"Safe and Sane" Fireworks!

That's a blast from the past. Literally.

Fireworks stands started going up over the past few days in Bako. I hadn't seen those in years! Decades! I had assumed all civilized parts of California had banned fireworks. And I was right - that's why you can still get them in Bakersfield.

That brings back memories. It was always such a rite of passage as a kid, the official opening of summer. The stands always went up a week or two after school let out, and we used to ride our bikes up and drool over the rainbow array of sparklers, ground flowers, fountains, cones and pinwheels.

Piccolo Petes!

Roman candles!

You had to be 16 to buy them. If you had older siblings, in theory they could buy them for you. But that rarely happened. No, you were at the mercy of your parents, and the parents always went for one of the boxed sets displayed against the back wall. At one end was the "Family Pack", which was small, wimpy and lame. And cheap, so that was always the parent's first choice. With a minimal amount of whining you could usually upgrade to something more substantial, and we usually settled on the "Let Freedom Ring" assortment. At the other extreme was the motherlode, the Holy Grail, a monstrous box the size of a coffee table... "THE COLOSSUS"!

No one ever got The Colossus.

The Greek family across the street had a son around my age. Every year his father would make a quick trip to Tijuana in the weeks before the Fourth of July and return with an illegal arms cache of ladyfingers, firecrackers and M-80's, which he dispersed generously to the neighborhood boys. It pissed off the other parents and traumatized the girls because by far our favorite target for explosive destruction was... Barbie.

Skipper too.

Everyone raided their sister's Barbie collections and in the days leading up to the Fourth the street looked like a scene out of "Platoon"; singed Barbie limbs littering the gutters. And the occasional head. The heads usually flew the farthest and were gone for good.

The highlight of every Fourth was a fireworks extravaganza put on by a scary man who lived down the street. He was a colleague of my father's and taught chemistry. He was a "confirmed bachelor" and lived with his mother. Years later when I saw "Psycho" for the first time, I thought of him. He'd converted his garage into an industrial workshop, like a serial killer. He had an unhealthy obsession with fireworks and spent the entire year building elaborate Rube Goldberg contraptions to display them.

On the morning of the Fourth he'd wheel out his creations and spend the entire day maniacally rigging them with explosives. As night fell, the neighbors all gathered, the kids with uncontained excitement, the parents with a good deal of trepidation. As showtime approached, he'd emerge from his house with his mother. This would be the only time you saw her all year.

Finally, with a flourish, he'd light the first pinwheel. It would set off a chain reaction, like a game of Mousetrap, each firework triggering the next for 20 or 30 minutes. It was ingenious. It was a beyond spectacular.

Everyone went home happy and reeking of sulfur.

I understand the safety concerns that have led to so many places banning fireworks, but I have to admit the Fourth just isn't quite the same without them. I'm actually happy there are still places like Bakersfield, where True Patriots still cherish their God given right to put out an eye, blow off a finger or torch a neighbor's house in the name of American Freedom.

Sadly, we won't be here for the pyromania. We plan to be away that weekend looking for a new place to live.

Someplace a little safer. And saner.

Good Fences Make Good Neighbors

I haven't written much about Cindy, the "good" neighbor to the south, primarily because there's nothing to write about. Like all things Bako, the relationship went nowhere and went nowhere fast.

It wasn't always so. When we first moved in she was warm and sunny and very welcoming. She was also clearly a lush and she smoked, two big plusses in my book. I could see us becoming friends

She's either separated or divorced; the story constantly changed. She relies on the kindness and handouts from her (ex?)husband because she doesn't work. She was briefly employed by the Fastrip down the street, the local chain of gas stations/convenience stores that serve as neighborhood degenerate magnets. Part 7-Eleven, part head shop, they attract an unsavory crowd with their massive wall of cheap booze. The wisdom of selling both gas and airline mini-bottles of liquor is, I think, at best debatable. They offer an wide array of services including wire transfers and possibly posting bail. They smell like urine. Cindy only lasted three weeks there, fired in a dispute over cleaning up vomit. Or so she says. If you've ever been in a Fastrip that certainly doesn't seem far fetched.

She makes ends meet by running a flop house, renting out one of her rooms to a rotating cast of grifters. They never last long, driven away by either the ear piercing howls of her two beagles or her incessant phlegm saturated hacking cough. She evidently is also unclear on the concept of "personal space", at least according to one of her fleeing ex-tenants. Did I mention, she also collects stray dogs?

Our relationship turned frosty one early winter morning. Her beagles went off like an air raid siren around 3am. For an hour they howled, driving the boyfriend over the edge. Around 4am he snapped and marched into the backyard in the fog and at the top of his lungs yelled "SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!" That evidently rousted Cindy from her box wine stupor and the dogs were brought in and silenced.

We haven't spoken since. I think it's for the best.

Bumbershoots

Back in 1991 the artist Christo unveiled a massive art installation south of here on the land of Tejon Ranch. It consisted of over 1700 bright yellow umbrellas stretching across the mountain passes of the Grapevine. There was a corresponding installation along the coast of Japan, an equal number of blue umbrellas stretching into the sea.


What did it all mean? Who knows. But it was deemed a rousing success despite the fact that a woman died when one of the umbrellas became unmoored in a sudden gust of wind and struck and killed her.

No one ever said art was painless.

The reason I mention this is because our wacky, mentally unhinged neighbor Mary seems to be channelling her inner Christo. She's created her own umbrella installation, and thrown in a few random Christmas decorations just for the hell of it.


What does it all mean? Who knows. Although if I had to hazard a guess I would have to say that, like all her previous art installations, it has something to do with second hand smoke.

I'm not an art critic, but I think even the casual observer can see that this particular subject matter has grown tiresome.

A Word From Our Sponsors...

I just watched "Hot in Cleveland" online... don't believe it for a second.

We fell for that too.

And then the bugs came.

It’s A Third World After All, It’s A Third World After All, It’s A Third World After All, It’s A Third, Third, World

I did quite a bit of traveling when I was younger, and I've done my share of camping. I'm not a prima donna when it comes to bugs. But nothing prepared me for the pestilence of Bako. Given the choice between Botswana or Bakersfield, I'd have to go with the former. While the bug count would probably be comparable, I'm guessing Botswana at least has some native culture and charm.

We've resorted to doing a nightly bed check, shaking out the sheets to try and find the roaches before they find us. It's pointless. Almost daily someone is jolted awake in the dead of the night by little disease laden feet skittering across bare arm and legs. Even the dogs aren't immune and my oldest has deserted the bed and now sleeps in relative safety on the floor.

And our old friends the flies are back. I'd almost forgotten about them, or blocked them out of my memory to try and maintain my sanity. But there back and now they come super-sized, horseflies the size of bees.

We're under siege from the land and air; what the hell could possibly come next?

"Bakersfield bed bugs gain national attention."

"Man Says Motel Bed Bugs Eating Him Alive"

"Bed Bugs Biting Bakersfield RV Park Residents."

And to think people live here by choice.

Oh Come All Ye Faithful

I was catching up on the local news online and I see that the Presbyterian Church of Bako (described as "the most liberal church in Bakersfield") has voted to secede from the national church body. The reason? Because of the national church's acceptance of homosexuals.

Or rather, "practicing" homosexuals.

I'm not sure I even know what that means. As I recall, there wasn't a whole lot of practice involved.

There were some post-vote interviews...

"We're a very welcoming church. We welcome everyone, even the impure and depraved..."

That's mighty big of you, but I'm gonna pass. Thanks.

Someone needs to tell these people that attending church doesn't make you a good Christian anymore than standing in your garage makes you a car.

But It’s A Dry Heat

Another lovely day in Bako. It was a balmy 75 degrees... at 5am.

One of the most deceiving things about moving to Bako, and trust me, there are plenty to choose from, is the unbelievably cheap housing costs. We were able to rent a three bedroom house in a nice part of town for less than the cost of a storage facility, which was our other option when the house in LA sold so quickly. In LA, this same house would probably rent for four times what we pay.

But they never tell you about the air conditioning. See, for basically a third of the year, Bakersfield is hotter than the surface of Mercury. For four months out of the year, your air conditioning will be running 24/7.

And it aint cheap.

To be honest, I'd never before seen an electric bill that was higher than my car payment. Or cable bill. Combined.


But the people here don't seem to mind in the least. They actually seem to be quite proud of their air conditioners. Why else would they display them so prominently? Plopped down on the most conspicuous part of the roof for everyone to see.


They're all the size of a minivan. Bigger is definitely better when it comes to the AC.


It must be a status thing here. Screw the Mercedes in the driveway, I got a Luxaire 8900 on the roof and it can make snow.


Makes the neighbors blue with envy.

Workin’ On The Railroad

Everyone here is very excited about the prospect of High Speed Rail! After nearly 50 years of talking about it and 31 years after one of my all time favorite shows, "SUPERTRAIN", (it even had a pool!)...


... it looks like California is finally getting serious about a bullet train. It would link Sacramento and the Bay Area with L.A. and San Diego, and if it moves forward the very first segment that gets built will run right through little ole' Bako.

People here seem to think the reason they would be first is because they're somehow special. I hate to break it to them, but the reason they'd be up first is because they're easy - clearing a right of way through miles of dead farmland and tapped out oil fields is going to be a snap compared with threading it through dense, urban, civilized territory. Plus, there's little danger of opposition for disturbing anything scenic, cultural or historically important because they have none of those thing here. And even if they did, I don't think it would be a problem - The City of Bako already helpfully (and a little too eagerly, if you ask me) offered to bulldoze Bakersfield High School to make way for the train. The school's been around since 1893 and was one of the few downtown buildings to survive the '52 earthquake, but hey, can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.

There are other advantages too, I'm sure. There's probably a certain level of danger to it all, and inevitably some accidents and kinks to work out. Best to do it somewhere where the population is expendable.

It's probably still years away, if it happens at all. The way things are going in this state, that's a big "if". But when it's all said and done you'll be able to go from Bakersfield to Fresno in only 30 minutes!

Can't wait!

Bling Time

I must admit it never occurred to me to accessorize a tree. If a tree could shop at Forever 21 it would probably look like this.

For such God-fearing people it seems a little presumptuous to think you could improve on His handiwork. I mean, if God had intended a tree to come with a rooster, I'm pretty sure that's what we would've gotten.

But what do I know?

It’s Off To Work We Go

"You know what your problem is? You're TOO PROFESSIONAL!" People here aren't used to that!"

I can vouch for that - professionalism here simply isn't tolerated.

But it wasn't me who was being dressed down, it was the boyfriend. Cornered by his boss, in front of his co-workers, he was being ripped a new asshole for the unpardonable sin of being professional. I give him a lot of credit, he didn't quit. I would have. That being said, it's only midweek, and if I was a betting man I'd wager by the end of the week we will both be unemployed in Bakersfield. That's right... both.

Don't get me wrong - I still have work. It's just that it all comes from LA now, which makes our situation here all the more ridiculous. Day in and day out I sit here, melting in Bako, pretending to be toiling away at our former home in the LA, tap dancing around the fact that I can't just "drop by" or "come for lunch" because I'm 3 hours away in Hooterville.

I was getting quite a bit of work here initially, but it all came from two sources. The first was an ad agency that was in a long, slow death spiral long before I came on the scene. It probably could've survived these trying economic times with competent leadership, but that's a quality in short supply here. When the bobble-headed owner abruptly drove it into a ditch last month, no one was really surprised. I just received notice of her bankruptcy and was warned, as a creditor, that there were no longer any assets to file a claim against.

"You're one of the lucky ones - you were paid in full".

This was true, but only because I held computer files hostage. But how the fuck did this woman know it? I was meeting on Monday with the owner of another agency, a complete stranger, and she apparently knew what my billings were and that I was paid. And that's the thing about Bako... it's just like Petticoat Junction. Everybody knows everyone else's business. It's small town Gossip Girl, writ large. According to this woman, whom I'm just met, the owner of the defunct agency owes half the town over a quarter million dollars. There's dark talk of criminal charges... or so she says.

"I don't know how she can show her face around town. If it was me, I would've packed up and moved. She will be S H U N N E D!"

And she wasn't kidding. It's a good thing they've outlawed witch burning. At least I think they have. You never know here. They still talk of burning books, and witches wouldn't be that far a stretch. Especially for a quarter million dollars.

The second source of income was from a large real estate firm, staffed by morons and with a stable of petty, preening, pompous agents. They were all under the delusion that they were selling palatial estates in Beverly Hills, not the claptrap, foreclosed McMansions that litter this city. The work was tedious, but steady, until they hired an effeminate doofus as "Marketing Director" a couple of months ago. As we used to say, the minute he opened his mouth, the pearls dropped out. "Married, father of four" my ass. Just another down-low livin' Bako closet case.

For the first few weeks, his only concern was decorating his office. That, and his business cards. He selected the most ornate, floral script for his cards, and by the time they went to the printer they looked like they belonged on bath salts or scented candles. Soon after, the steady stream of work started to slow to a trickle and I figured the jig was up. He informed me this week that my services were no longer needed; the work I did will now be handled by an unpaid intern from Cal State Bakersfield ("Home of the Cockroaches!"). And with the money he saves he can finally get that fainting couch for the office he had his eye on.

So the bottom line is, we may be moving a lot sooner than we expected. It all really hinges on just how much bullshit the boyfriend can take from the hicks he's surround by.

With that in mind, I think I'll head out and pick up some boxes. Looks like I need to start packing.

BREAKING NEWS... BREAKING NEWS... BREAKING NEWS...

Bob was returned.

That shoots my theory - I assumed he just fled this shithole like any sane person.

Pretty. Creepy.

Back in December I wrote a post about the air traffic over Bako, or lack thereof. But that doesn't apply to the military. To the east lie Edwards Air Force Base and the Super Secret China Lake Naval Air Weapons Station. To the west, Super Secret Vandenberg Air Force Base. And threading them all together is a constant stream of military jets, day and night, 24/7. They fly at such a high altitude you never hear them. But you can't avoid them. Not a moment goes by in this town where there isn't at least one contrail slicing the sky. It's like living in a spider web.

There's Got To Be A Morning After

Ninety eight days and counting...

It's actually more like 68 days - once that last rent check is written, the move is on in earnest. I thought I'd be feeling a sense of relief, but in reality I find myself increasingly anxious. And I think that's because I have this fear that leaving this place isn't going to be as easy as we had hoped.

When the decision was made months ago to just do our time and beat a hasty retreat, I pictured "The End" as more along the lines of "To Wong Foo..." - two queens riding off into the sunset after an unfortunate detour in life; important life lessons learned from the simple folk of Hooterville; leaving Bako a little better off than when they found it.

Fat chance.

You want a life lesson? Don't eat at Applebee's. That's about all I'm taking away from this experience. That, and I now know more about cockroaches than I care to admit.

No, I think our exit from Dogpatch is going to end up being a little more harrowing.

More like "The Poseidon Adventure".

Both of us clawing our way out for survival.

Here's to hoping I don't end up like poor Shelley Winters...