All Aboard

One of the few things I found charming about Bakersfield when we moved here (and by "few" I mean "only") were the trains. They crosshatch the town everywhere you look. Oh sure, they could be a pain in the ass if you got stuck behind one at a crossing since they are usually miles long and tend to move glacially when they block major arteries. But on quiet sleepless nights there's been something comforting about the moanful wail of the horns.

I was a train geek from an early age; I can't remember a time from childhood when I didn't have one. When I was about 12 my father determined that I was old enough and responsible enough to move up, or down as the case may be, to N gauge. N gauge was very small and very expensive and it was a responsibility I took very seriously. Truth be told my father was just as into it as I was and the resulting tableau was the size of a pool table. As an added bonus, my father was a physics professor and an engineering whiz and the track layout he created was as complex as a celtic knot. There were dozens of switches which he wired into a control panel that looked like it was out of the Starship Enterprise. Unfortunately, the planned alpine village never materialized. By the time I'd accumulated the necessary chalets and fake pine trees, foam mountains and plastic cows, I was a freshman in high school and on to other pursuits. I think my father still has a soft spot for it. While my parents wasted no time unloading my stuff when I left for college, much to my dismay, I can't help but notice the old train set is still up in the garage rafters.

My first apartment after I graduated from college was in South Pasadena. The Amtrak right of way passed at the base of the hill, and every night at 8:30 the Southwest Chief pulled out of Downtown LA on it's way to Chicago. I used to time my nightly walk for smokes and booze so I could stand by the track and watch it pass.

My love of trains has endured all these years.

Until last Friday.

That was when a freight train derailed across the street from my office.

While it was always great fun causing derailments as a kid, it's an entirely different matter with real trains a few feet away. Luckily the train wasn't moving that fast and no one was hurt, but I've seen trains whiz past here going 80. The local news assured everyone it was no big deal, happens all the time. If that was meant to be calming, it didn't work. Because the most frightening thing wasn't the sight of derailed boxcars, but the fact that they came within feet of one of these Death Star black, unmarked tanker cars...



They are everywhere here, parked on every side spur, linked up for miles, shooting through crossings at freeway speeds. What's in them? Who knows. I doubt seriously the crack staff at Bako City Hall has a clue. But odds are with all the oil companies and refineries around here, it probably something flammable or explosive. Or worse.

So I don't look on the trains with any sense of wonder and romance anymore, instead seeing them now as rolling agents of death. This city has already crushed my hopes and dreams; now it seems to be going after my memories too.

Ripped From Today’s Headlines...

"Doctor Found Trapped In Chimney"

Bakersfield is a Darwin Award goldmine.

One Small Step For Man...

The things you notice when you choose to pay attention. I just noticed, after being here for over a month, that the obligatory "Employees Must Wash Hands" sign in the restroom has eight steps. EIGHT!

With diagrams!

Is it me, or does that seem a little OCD? I mean, the "lather" section has three steps alone and involves a brush.

The longer I live here the more these people scare me.

Blue Skies, Smilin’ At Me...

The weather turned unnaturally pleasant over the weekend - highs in the low 80's, light breeze, blue skies. It was quite the shock to me because all I've ever known here are the extremes. Last October we went from triple digit heat to cold, clammy fog seemingly overnight. And last Spring we did the same, in reverse.

It's forecast to last only another day, so I'll try and enjoy it while I can. Days like this make Bakersfield seem almost livable.

Almost, but not quite.

The Big Lazy

For the past few days, leading up to tomorrow, the airwaves have been filled with 5 year commemorations of Hurricane Katrina. As it should be. It was a national catastrophe and a historic black eye for a once great nation. It was the first time in modern history the United States looked utterly helpless and had to go hat in hand asking for help. I think people will look back in time and see it as the first major sign that America was trending backwards to becoming a banana republic. And it look like come November we'll actually be led by Banana Republicans. But I digress.

One of things that jumped out at me in all the reporting in recent days was that the current population of New Orleans is roughly estimated at 330,000.

That can't be right. That's the same population as Bakersfield!

Even before Katrina, New Orleans population was about the same as Fresno. How can that be? New Orleans has culture. Music and restaurants. Nightlife. Bakersfield has none of those things. I'd always assumed it was so backwards because it was so small. That it lacked the critical mass to achieve the finer things in life. I had no idea a lot of great cities aren't much bigger. I mean, Pittsburgh has even FEWER people. Not that Pittsburgh is any great shakes, but it beats the hell out of Bakersfield.

So why the hell can't this city BE something? It's obviously big enough to achieve something, anything, and lord knows there's plenty of oil and ag money flowing around town. There's only one reason I can think of...

Laziness.

These people just can't be bothered. It's as if once the Outback Steakhouse opened, their cultural mission was complete. Dreaming "big" here doesn't extend much past opening another Target or Walmart. What a waste.

It just confirms my opinion that this isn't so much as city as it is a super sized truck stop.

Stay classy Bako!

Where No Man Has Gone Before...

Ever since we arrived here I've been searching for the perfect metaphor or analogy to describe life in Bako. The closest thing I was able to settle on was an episode of the original Star Trek series, the one in which Kirk, Scotty and Uhura are accidentally beamed into an alternate universe, an evil mirror image of reality as we know it, a place ruled by cutthroat barbarians. And Spock has a goatee. (The episode is "Mirror, Mirror", for all you Trekkers.) But although the barbarian part still seems accurate, Bakersfield is more inept than evil (at least if you ignore the politics) so overall it didn't seem quite right.

But since I've started this job a new metaphor has emerged, one that seems a little more spot on.

A terrarium.

An isolated, artificial ecosystem completely walled off from reality. And while people certainly leave (or flee), the bulk of the population has been here for generations and are completely happy as clams. It's unimaginable to them to live anywhere else. The flip side of that is that no one ever moves here of their own free will, so the locals are never exposed to outside influences. They've mutated to the point where the seem incapable of dealing with change.

Or with outsiders.

Like me.

I bring this up because I deal with this every day at work. Everyone knows I'm not from here and yet it just doesn't seem to compute.

I needed to get specs for an ad I was designing, so I went to the traffic manager to see if she had them.

"Just call Carol at the paper."

Um... Carol who?

"Carol. At the paper."

I'm sorry, I'm not from here.... Carol who? At what paper?

"You know...Carol. At the paper. She's married to Gene at the High School. Used to be on the Chamber of Commerce. Carol."

Listen lady, don't you people use last names? I don't know Carol. I don't know where she works. I don't know who the fuck she is. Give me a name, a number.

*crickets chirping*

Blank stares.

"C A R O L. She used to have her own business, that antique shop down on 19th. Remember?"

How the fuck can I remember? I haven't even lived here a year. And I never leave the house. Because of people like you.

It was like dealing with Coco the talking gorilla..."CAROL. PHONE. PAPER."

Eventually I got a phone number, which is about as good as it was going to get. I called Carol and finally got the specs I needed. And then I asked her what format I should submit the ad in.

"Just call Jim."

Oy vey. Again? Fucking Petticoat Junction. OK, Jim who?

"Jim. His wife works at Mercy. Daughter's on the cheer squad. Jim."

I go through this every single day. They just can't wrap there minds around the idea that someone may not be from here and doesn't know everyone. Or is related to everyone. Probably in more ways than one.

"This here's Bobbie Jo, She's my sister AND my aunt..."

Maybe it's just standard small town provincialism. Maybe it's inbred Darwinism. All I know is years of isolation has left the gene pool here very shallow.

And it appears to be shrinking by the day.

Serenity Now

I'm afraid it's come to this. I think I may have to stage an intervention with the boyfriend. I've put up with this for quite awhile, but in the past couple of weeks I believe he's finally crossed the line and it's time to step in.

Drugs?

Alcohol?

No.

Reality TV.

Don't get me wrong, I'm just as addicted as he is. In fact, if it wasn't for Big Brother and Project Runway I'm not sure we would have made it through the summer. It's just that I have standards, and I thought he did too. But in recent weeks he's proved me wrong. He's sunk lower than low. He has a new addiction and it simply must stop...

"Bad Girls Club".

It's vile. There's absolutely nothing about reality TV that's enlightening, I know, but I've never seen a show where I can actually feel my brain cells dying the longer I watch.

The premise is simple. Take 7 white trash, tatted up, pierced skank-whores and plop them in a mansion in Miami that's stocked with more alcohol than a BevMo. Start filming. Hilarity ensues.

The typical episode goes something like this:

"YOU DISRESPECTED ME YOU F***ING WHORE!"

"F*** YOU, YOU SKANKY BITCH!"

"YOU DISRESPECTED ME YOU F***ING WHORE!"

"F*** YOU, YOU SKANKY BITCH!"

"YOU DISRESPECTED ME YOU F***ING WHORE!"

"F*** YOU, YOU SKANKY BITCH!"

"YOU DISRESPECTED ME YOU F***ING WHORE!"

"F*** YOU, YOU SKANKY BITCH!"

Then a catfight ensues. Things get thrown and smashed. Furniture gets upended

In the morning they sober up and hug it out.

Rinse and repeat.

There's no competitions. No one gets voted out. There is no prize.

And he looooves it.

I can't even be in the same room when it's on. It's cringe inducing. It's embarrassing. And he has a timer set to record each episode. It's Season Two and now he's jonesing to find Season One in repeats.

So it has to stop. Time to put the foot down. Time to intervene.

The only real problem I foresee is that he might pick up on the clues. He may see it coming.

One of his other addictions is the show "Intervention".

Greetings From Mercury!

One hundred fourteen fucking degrees.

114!

That's double the average IQ here.

This isn't a city, it's a kiln. I'm surprised there isn't a thriving pottery industry here. Throw a pot, set it outside, twenty minutes later... porcelain.

I don't know how much more of this I can take.

Overheard In Bako

"My sister moved to New York, and she just loves it. I don't get it. Why would anyone live there when you can get everything here?

Why indeed. Especially since you can get the same cockroaches, bedbugs and oppressive August heat here without any of that annoying culture and excitement.

Hot Shit

"So everybody just stay inside and do nothing."

THAT was this morning's weather report. Today is predicted to be the hottest day of the year.

So far... I don't doubt things will still get worse before they get better.

They were uncharacteristically vague about the temperature, somewhere between 107 and 110. Not that it matters. Once you pass 103 you're really just splitting hairs. The end result is the same - you just want to slit your wrists. I have nothing against the heat; I LOVE Palm Springs. But here the heat comes with a festering stench that triggers your gag reflex.

And speaking of the air, or what passes for it here, today they also predict the air quality to be "HAZARDOUS". We've moved past "red" on the color coded air chart into the "violet burgundy" range, the color of oxygen depleted blood. Whatever that means was left unsaid.

Will we be gasping for air like fish out of water?

Will the air just spontaneously combust?

Having lived here almost a year, I wouldn't rule either of those scenarios out.

This Too Shall Pass

Truth be told we're both a little shellshocked from the latest turn of events. Don't get me wrong, we're both grateful to be working. It's the first time in three years I've had a steady paycheck. Not to mention insurance. And the first time in I don't know how long we have two reliable incomes.

But... Bakersfield?

From the moment we got here we've been planning to escape. It was just a matter of waiting out the lease. It would only be a year, we kept telling ourselves, we could do a year. It wouldn't be easy, but we'd survive. By the time the lease was up, the recession would be over, the economy would be humming again and there'd be plenty of opportunities for us back in LA.

And exactly none of that came true. Except for the lease expiring in a couple of weeks.

We'd both been hunting for jobs in LA for months, long before the boyfriend was unceremoniously dumped. He had some nibbles, but nothing more. I didn't even have that. The economy, far from getting better, seems actually to be getting worse. There's dark talk of a "double dip" recession.

So I guess we should be thankful, and to a certain point we are.

But still... Bakersfield?

As we sat in front of the TV last night in dead silence, both trying to fully absorb what now appears to be our fate, there was really only one thing that could snap us out of our funk.

The Miss Universe Pageant.

Brought to you by that scumbag Donald Trump. He's turned into the white Don King, bad hair and all.

The boyfriend was thrilled; this is really his milieu. Me, not so much. I found this year's crop of world beauties to be less than inspiring. They all looked as if they had been pressed out of the same mold. Seriously, the women on "RuPaul's Drag Race" were much more beautiful, and they're men.

All the same, you have to work with what you got, a lesson we're now learning dearly. At the end of the day, Miss Mexico won.

I do think Miss Australia was robbed, but I admire how she took the loss with poise and grace, never once letting on that all her hopes and dreams came crashing down last night. Perhaps this something I can learn from, an example for how to soldier on through adversity.

Eh... maybe not.

It Was The Best Of Times, It Was The Worst Of Times...

It's the best of times if you read this blog, because it looks like we aren't going anywhere anytime soon.

It's the worst of times for us because it looks like we aren't going anywhere anytime soon.

The boyfriend reluctantly accepted a new job... in Bakersfield.


I have to give him a lot of credit, because in his one month of unemployment he managed to line up more job interviews than I did in an entire year. Most of the jobs were back in LA and some weeks he was making that 300 mile round trip every other day. Just to cover his bases he also interviewed for a few positions in Bako, if for no other reason than we couldn't afford to move.

His previous employer, out of spite and not much else, had decided to fight him over unemployment benefits. That's just the Bako way. This is after all a Republican Free Enterprise paradise, where businessmen rule and employees are just a means to an end, a necessary evil. And once you're a former employee, than you're nothing more than a socialist welfare queen. I got a taste of that when I was cut loose from my part time real estate position. My boss came in and announced with great sadness that my services were no longer needed, and then thoughtfully added "But because we like you so much, I just wanted to let you know we aren't going to fight you over unemployment," as if he was showing me great mercy and not simply following the law.

It's been an emotional seesaw for weeks. One week we'd think he'd landed great a job in LA and anxiously started looking at westside apartment listings, only to have it fall apart. The next week he'd get a call back in Bako and we resigned ourselves to staying stuck here. When that fell apart we'd breath a sigh of relief. And so it went, back and forth, for weeks. Two weeks ago we thought he had a lock on a job in Santa Monica. We'd learned by then not to hope, for fear of jinxing it. But then there was radio silence, no phone calls or e-mail returned. We still didn't count it out, although we knew in our hearts it was probably gone. All the same, he attempted a little job ju jitsu this morning, trying to use the Bako job offer as leverage to at least get an answer out of Santa Monica. To no avail. So, with a heavy heart, he went in this morning and signed the papers.

Our pardon has been denied. Better luck next year.

Aztec Gods Work In Mysterious Ways

Yesterday I wrote somewhat derisively (OK, a lot derisively) about the boyfriend's belief in the mystical voodoo power of a certain plaster Aztec princess that had been bestowed on us. That we had somehow angered her by stowing her under the couch and we had been forever cursed to live in Bakersfield because of it. And only after restoring her to a place of honor would the spell be lifted.

I thought he was on crack.

And then two hours after posting it, he received a job offer.

I'm not sure what to make of it but one thing is clear - Hiawatha, or rather the Princess Iztaccihuatl (so sorry Your Highness) now officially scares the hell out of me.

The details of the job are yet to be worked out and it will directly impact the fate of this blog, so stayed tuned for further details.

I must say the display of raw Aztec power is humbling to see. If I remember correctly, there's a roadside stand down in Mettler that is chock full of this plaster crap. We may just have to stock up. If a lowly Aztec princess can rock your world, can you imagine what a plaster Huitzilopochtli could do?

The possibilities are endless.

Cursed

I returned home last night to discover Hiawatha was back. At least that's what we call her. That's her above. We won her as a white elephant gift at a party a couple of years ago. She's made out of plaster and painted in metallic tones. There's glitter too. She's lovely.

After doing a little Googling I discovered it's actually the warrior Popocatépetl and the princess Iztaccihuatl from Aztec mythology...



I can't even pronounce that, so I'm gonna stick with Hiawatha.

At any rate, we initially hung her up just for shits and giggles, but after a few months the joke wore thin and it didn't really go with anything. Obviously. So down she came, to be replaced with something more tasteful.

But she's back. The boyfriend, with entirely too much free time on his hands, came to the conclusion that she's cursed. According to his logic, everything bad that's happened to us in the past couple of years happened after we took her down and slid her under the couch. She was mad and vengeful and took out her wrath on us by banishing us to Bakersfield and ruining us financially. He feels that by hanging her back up it will appease her and perhaps the curse will be lifted.

I think he's gone mad, but what the hell. I'll try anything at this point.

Bright Lights, Big City

There are days I pine for big city living. The excitement, the culture you can only find in a world class city.

You know, like Fresno.

Fresno fancies themselves the "San Francisco of the Central Valley", the urbane center of sophistication. And they're probably right, all things being relative. Not only that, but they have Yosemite right out the back door too.

And they hate Bakersfield.

All I listen to anymore in the car on the radio is public radio. It's broadcast out of Fresno since Bakersfield is too provincial to be able to support one of their own. Besides news from the outside world, care of NPR, and a decent selection of classical music I also get the Fresno calendar of events. Wine tastings and gallery openings. Symphony and theater performances. I can only listen in with envy.

The Bakersfield calendar of events? Funny car races and monster trucks. World wrestling just passed through town, their version of a night at the opera. The county fair's coming up, and with it the lawnmower races.

And we can't forget the Fall poultry show.

What a sorry state of affairs it is when you find yourself thinking a move to Fresno would be a move up in the world.

Dumb And Dumber

Even the crooks here are morons.

I went home for lunch and the always entertaining local news was on. Three men attempted to rob a check cashing establishment not far from our house but didn't manage to pull it off. Their mistake? Pausing out front in full view of the tellers and passing traffic to put on and adjust their ski masks.

I guess the only surprising part of the whole story is that the locals were able to put 2 and 2 together and call the cops.

Although I'm not sure who was dumber, the crooks or the cops.

The men got away.

City Of Angles

I was running late this morning and only caught the briefest of news headlines, but I heard that a famous plastic surgeon-to-the-stars died yesterday when he flipped his car on PCH in Malibu while he was Twittering.

God I miss LA.

The More Things Change...

I was just catching up on the local TeeVee news, never something for the faint of heart. And a spot came on for one of the multiple Bako hospitals and it featured a 100 year old local woman. She was quite spritely and feisty - I never would have pegged her for a Centenarian. She looked 70, if she was a day.

She chronicled the time she thought she was having a heart attack and she knew there was only one place she wanted to be treated...San Joaquin Community Hospital. She closed with...

"In my 100 years, a lot has changed. But I know that nothing has changed at San Joaquin Community Hospital..."

And why should it? They have the best leeches and bloodletting around!

Bows And Flow Of Angel Hair...

I stepped outside for a smoke this morning and was taken aback to see this...

Clouds!

I haven't seen clouds in months. That's what happens when you're "Death Valley Adjacent".

Seriously, it's probably been since April since I've seen clouds overhead.

Just another sign of how awful this place is - even the clouds avoid it.

Have You Driven A Ford... Lately?

The American auto industry should thank their lucky stars a place like Bakersfield exists. It's all anyone here drives... 'Murkin made and proud of it. I wouldn't be surprised if Bako accounts for a quarter of all Ford sales. I didn't even know they still made Buicks until we moved here. It's quite the 180 from LA where no one would be caught dead driving an American car.

You do see a smattering of Japanese and German cars, but I get the distinct impression they've never fully been forgiven for World War II.

A Sight For Sore Eyes

Do you know what I miss?

Eyecandy.

Random, fleeting encounters with stunningly good looking men. The strapping college jock pumping gas. The sexy business man at the next table. The fireman out shopping for groceries. It was an everyday occurrence back in LA, primarily because you can't swing a dead cat in that town without hitting an actor/model/wannabe.

But here? Fuggedaboutit.

And it isn't a gay thing - if you're a straight man hoping to cross paths with a lovely lady, you're shit out of luck too.

I don't mean to be mean, really I don't, but these people are not pretty.

This all became painfully obvious when one of my Bako clients called and asked if I'd be interested in helping her out with a local charity event...

A bachelor auction.

She wanted me to design the calendar.

It's an annual event and quite the hit with all the cougars in town, or so I've been told. It didn't pay much money but at least I'd be able to ogle cute guys. I accepted the job and she told me to go ahead and start laying it out, the photos of the bachelors would be coming in a week or so.

So I started on the project and settled on a Western theme - the locals love that shit. Each page had a large blank frame for the photos to come and I started to imagine the hot, sexy, Bako bachelors that would soon grace each month. Would it be a sweaty oil field worker in a wife beater with strategically smeared grease? A shirtless farmhand hoisting a bale of hay? A rancher in chaps?

And then the photos arrived.

I know this place is Hooterville, but really, this was the best they could do? Oy vey.

It just confirms my theory that all the smart and cute ones flee this place once they hit 18.

It'll probably all work out for organizers. I've seen the cougars in action in this town and they don't appear to be that picky. How could they be?

But still, the whole thing is laughable. Embarrassing even. Man, I feel sorry for these guys...

Let Us Spray

"Would you like me to spray you?"

There was a huge hulking man standing at my office door. He must have been 6'5", 300 pounds. He had dark features and pasty white skin and looked like an ex-con. And he had a large industrial pump sprayer.

I was totally startled. We had watched "Hostel:Part II" the night before (the boyfriend loves his slasher films) and the sight of a large Slavic man in a jumpsuit filling the door frame was unsettling. It was only then I noticed the "Terminex" logo on his breast pocket. He was here to spray for bugs and wanted to know if I wanted him to spray my office.

About fucking time.

The cockroach carcasses had been piling up all week and everyone in the office seemed to willfully ignore them. The dead roaches were everywhere - the offices, the lobby, the kitchen. They had turned the main hallway into a minefield. And yet no one did a damn thing about it or even acknowledged they existed. I wasn't going to say anything (When in Rome...). And I sure as hell wasn't going to pick them up and dispose of them; I do enough of that at home and they don't pay me enough to deal with it. It was strange behavior, even for Bakersfield.

But then it turned even stranger Friday morning.

I have no idea what happened, what magic threshold had been reached, but first thing yesterday morning some sort of Roach Rubicon had been crossed and the office was in a full blown cockroach panic. Women, who just the day before were casually sidestepping all the dead bodies without a care in the world, were now acting as if this was the first they'd seen of them. And they were terrified.

I swear these people are certifiable.

There was a frenzy of aggressive vacuuming. Of course the machine's settings were wrong and all they did was grind the little bodies into the carpet, but whatever. And finally an exterminator was called and now Lurch was standing in my doorway wanting to spray me.

"Would you like me to spray you?"

I stupidly said yes and for the rest of the day my office smelled like a car air freshener and I thought I was going to throw up. I probably just shaved a year off my life.

Someone really should look into the people of Bakersfield and their bizarre relationship with their cockroaches. There's something deeply unhealthy and/or symbiotic about it.

Then again, maybe not. I'd be afraid of what they'd find.

I already know more than I care to.

The Land of Unfortunate Acronyms

I notice a lot of the locals have a habit of abbreviating "Bakersfield" as "B.F.D."

Could they really be that clueless?

That's just sad.

The Truth Is Out There

This week is the annual Perseid meteor shower and supposedly you can see dozens of shooting stars an hour. On the news last night they said that last night was the peak, the best night to view it. So before we went to bed I headed out to the backyard for a smoke and to see if I could see anything.

And I did!

Not a shooting star... a U.F.O.!!!

Or rather, a "U.B.O."... "Unidentified Bako Object". Seriously.

I was kicked back in a lounge chair, staring at the sky, when suddenly I saw a single bright blue light making a beeline east to west. It was traveling faster than any plane I've ever seen, it made not a sound and left no trail. It wasn't on any flight path I was aware of - planes going over Bako travel north to south, hugging the coast.

The most surprising thing about it was how utterly unsurprising it seemed. Bakersfield is home to all kinds of weirdness and freakish anomalies. What's one more? U.F.O.'s? Sure, why not. For all I know, the miles of farmland surrounding this town probably hide dozens of crop circles.

If you think about it, it makes a certain amount of sense. Bakersfield is ringed by all manner of military bases. And it's a straight shot east to Area 51 in Nevada. Which just so happened to be the direction the thing was traveling from. If I was the military and I was testing alien spacecraft, I know I'd choose Bako as my flightpath. Taking off and landing over a bunch of clueless hicks who'd never in a million years question the military. Sounds perfect! And on the off chance one crashed and irradiated the whole town or wiped it off the map, I doubt anyone would notice or care.

"Didn't there used to be a town between Los Angeles and Fresno? Huh? Never mind..."

So I'll keep an eye on the news and see if anyone mentions it. Probably not. These people never seem to look up.

This morning when I got up the air was funky and foul, which we've learned can only mean one thing... must be one of the days they burn the cows.

Coincidence?

I think not.

The Princess And The Frog

In many of the posts I've written about the cockroaches, the flies, the maggots, I've made snarky allusions to Biblical Plagues. It was all in good fun, a joke. Really.

Or so I thought.

Last night I was taking the dogs our for one last little walk before we went to bed. As we walked back up to the house in the darkness the dogs both stopped to examine a big leaf on the lawn. My older dog nudged it with his nose.

And it hopped.

It wasn't a leaf. It was a frog.

What fun for the dogs! Something new to play with! Or eat!

It took me a second to process what was going on and then I quickly yanked the dogs away before they could rip it apart. But not before my little dog got in one big sloppy lick. I hustled the dogs inside and then called out the boyfriend and we both went outside to investigate.

Sure enough, a frog. It appeared there were a couple more lurking out on the lawn. I have absolutely no experience with frogs, but my understanding is they usually aren't found in the desert in the middle of summer.

We went back inside, and my poor little dog seemed to be in some distress. I can't imagine the frog tasted very good, but then we grew concerned that perhaps the frog was toxic, like the toads kids allegedly lick to get high. Or worse. This is Bakersfield after all, and there isn't a chemical or pesticide these people won't spray over the whole damn city. Maybe it was mutant?

So the boyfriend Googled "frogs in Bakersfield" and found this.

I don't claim to be a Biblical scholar, but taken together with the pests and the dust storms, it certainly seems like Someone is trying to tell them Something. For such pious people they sure can be clueless.

My little dog seemed to recover and we gave her some ice cream just to help get the taste out of her mouth. We started joking about her kissing the frog in hopes of finding her prince.

Sorry honey, but that's never going to happen, not here. This town is nothing but frog.

Uniformity

Day five of marching in the corporate uniform marching band. As uniforms go, this one isn't horrible. Of course, that's speaking as someone who's last uniform was a pirate costume at Disneyland.

At first I was pretty demoralized. Picking out my wardrobe each day was just about the last creative decision I was allowed anymore. But then I realized I could sleep later and it wasn't such an issue.

There are, however, some unforeseen hazards. I discovered that the first day I wore it. I had gone home for lunch and on the way back to the office I stopped at the corner gas station for some smokes. It was over 100 and I decided to treat myself to a gargantuan soft drink. As I was at the counter paying for it all, a disapproving voice piped up behind me.

"You should be ashamed of yourself! You work at XXXXXX and you're drinking soft drinks! And cigarettes!

My company is in a health care related field and the insignia is on my shirt. Evidently I was now supposed to be an ambassador of healthy living. I can tell you right now this isn't going to work for me.

I turned around and was confronted by an enormously pear shaped woman. I was about to say "Fuck off you fat sow and mind your own business..." when she added

"...XXX XXXXXXX (my boss) would be sick if he saw that. You need to put that back and get some fruit juice or water!"

Lovely. She knows my boss. Probably from church. Luckily for me I wasn't able to get a word out, because if I had she'd be showing up at the office with a pitchfork demanding I be run out of town on a rail. Such is life in a small town full of vindictive little vigilantes.

The ironic thing wasn't so much being lectured about my unhealthy habits by a woman the size of a hot tub, although that was pretty amusing. What I found more ironic is I'm probably the healthiest person in this office. My 2XL shirts hang like a circus tent on me, but my male co-workers in the same shirt look like they're wearing spandex. They don't carry "Larges", but they do carry XXXXL. Most of the men here barely fit through the doorways.

Lesson #1 going forward is not to stop anywhere on the way to or from work, lest anyone else feel the need to badger me about where I work.

Lesson #2? Only use the drive-up window at Jack-in-the-Box from now on.

And always supersize it!

This And That

It's been a remarkably boring summer in the neighborhood. The neighbors used to provide me some small measure of amusement, but for the past several months they've completely let me down.

Cindy, the neighbor to the south, has been missing in action. Her last batch of illegal sub-tenants fled over a month ago and we've anxiously awaited the next round of grifters to arrive. But so far, nada. The word must be out on Craigslist about Cindy, word that she's a little... off.

And then there's Mary. She continued her sonic assault for several weeks. What had started as daytime offensive soon started running 24 hours a day. She ratcheted up the country music a little each day until it was so loud you could hear it in our house even with all the doors and windows closed. It was looking as if we might have to get the authorities involved and then suddenly it stopped. Maybe another neighbor complained. At any rate, after that she seemed to vanish. We've heard not a peep from her in weeks. At one point I grew concerned she may be dead. Perhaps "concerned" isn't the right word. "Amused"? I pictured the probable scenario - Mary had powered through an entire box of wine and as she stumbled into her living room she tripped over a stack of Home Shopping Network boxes and fell and cracked her head on her Hummel display case. But then we noticed her car was coming and going, so she's obviously still alive and kicking. She thankfully seems to have given up on harassing us. All the same, I still let my dogs shit on her lawn. Wouldn't want her to think we've let our guard down.

Jim, the Exterior Decorator has likewise been M.I.A. I was surprised to see the Fourth of July pass without so much as an inflatable Statue of Liberty. I chalked it up to his hernia operation back a few months. But then the other day I noticed he's been at work on his tree again, changing out the accessories. Go big or go home, they say, and Jim has clearly decided to supersize it. He's always had an assortment of potted plants hanging from the limbs, but now he's decided to swap them out for 30 gallon monsters. They're so big and heavy he's devised a complicated winch and hoist system to keep them aloft. There's so much rope and rigging in the tree now it looks like a three masted schooner.

And then there's Roz. Haven't seen hide 'nor big hair of her in months. That isn't to say there's no news. Disturbing news. It turns out Roz has a roommate...

The Lesbian!

I have to admit I didn't see that coming. Although in hindsight the cats we're probably a dead giveaway. I wouldn't presume to go so far as to imply they are.... lovers... mostly because that's a thought I just can't wrap my mind around. That would mean Roz would have to be a lipstick lesbian, albeit an aging, white trash lipstick lesbian circa 1986. And where I come from they just don't mesh with bulldykes. You'd be as likely to see those two co-habiting as you would a Blood and a Crip. But what do I know. It's not like there are a lot of choices for gay folk here. Maybe Bakersfield just makes for strange bedfellows.

Excuse me while I go try and scrub that image out of my brain.

D.I.Y.

Back in 2005, the boyfriend and I were happily living in a relatively new three story townhouse in West Hollywood. It was the height of the housing bubble, but we were content to sit it out.

Until the unit next door sold for three times what we'd paid.

There was no way we were letting the gravy train pass us by, so soon the house was on the market and we went in search of a new home. And it was then that we discovered that we as a people had become a nation of do-it-yourselfers.

Bad ones.

Flipping houses was all the rage and the charlatans at Home Depot had convinced everyone that after a brief half hour class in the parking lot everyone could tile a roman bath. The atrocities we saw during the house search were not for the faint of heart. Defenseless mid century homes "plussed" with plastic corinthian columns and crown moldings. Ill fitting vinyl windows and french doors leading to nowhere. Kitchens and baths crushed under the weight of bad marble and granite.

And that was but the tip of the iceberg.

Technology and software have now made it possible for absolutely everyone to "do-it-yourself"... with everything. Badly.

Now everyone is a photographer! A filmmaker! A musician! A DJ! A writer! An artist! A... *shudder*... "graphic designer"!

I ran into this unfortunate development last week. Wasn't the first time. But it may have been the straw that broke the camel's back and made me really start questioning the point of continuing in my chosen profession. I picked up a freelance job in Bako and it was the rarest of birds... a job with a big budget and the time to execute it. There had to be a catch - there always is -and soon I was staring it in the face.

"And we'd like to feature our new logo prominently in everything..." the client said as he slid a printout across his desk.

The "logo".

What. The. Fuck.

I hadn't a clue what to say. The type had been stretched and pulled in so many directions I could barely read what it said, let alone tell what poor font it originally was. It was accompanied by an abstract shape that was all sharp angles and spikes and looked like a medieval mace.

"Do you like it?" he asked. "My daughter designed it!"

She's 14.

And she has PhotoShop.

I have a art degree from a prestigious school and twenty years of experience as a designer and my competition is now a tweener with an iMac.

The digital revolution, despite all it's benefits, is spelling the doom for any number of creative professions. Photographers, illustrators, filmmakers and editors, designers, all being buried under a tidal wave of homemade crap. The market is so flooded with bad work of all stripes that no one can even tell the difference anymore when they encounter something genuinely good. It all looks the same, it's all just reduced to visual noise.

Once I realized I was going to be shackled with the little princess's logo I had half a mind to turn the job down. But I need the money. Once it's done, I'll reassess. See if it's worth trying to swim against the tide anymore. See what other job options I may have.

Maybe Home Depot is hiring.

This Grim Day In History

Well sure, there's that too. But I was thinking about the fact that it was one year ago today that we accepted our fate and trudged over the Grapevine to begin looking for a new place to live. We had just accepted a lowball offer on our home in LA. The boyfriend had just reluctantly accepted a position in Bako. He'd been out of work for months and it was the only offer on the table and we were desperate. It was our first trip to Bako and 106 that day. It became quickly apparent we would be moving to Hell.

It occurs to me that just about every milestone in our Grand Bako Adventure coincides with the anniversary of a major tragedy or catastrophe. This one falls right between the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The last night we spent in our former home was September 11 -- we moved early the next morning. The agency in Bako that provided me steady income for months went under the day the Titanic sank.

I'll have to look and see what day the Hindenburg exploded.

You know, so I can plan ahead.

Dim Some

I suppose it's good that there's a place like Bakersfield for all the slow and dimwitted children to go once they've grown up. That doesn't make it any easier for the rest of us who have to live amongst them.

I received my first paycheck yesterday, for a fraction of what I used to make. (That fraction would be one quarter, if you must know.) I decided to swing by the bank on the way home. It was after hours and when I pulled up and saw the line at the ATM I knew it wasn't going to be good.

The people of Bako and technology just don't mesh. There were six people in front of me and each was dumber than the one before. What is their problem? Have they never seen an ATM before? Do they not have opposable thumbs? How hard could it be? It's like dialing a phone! I then realized there's no proof any of these people could do that either.

By the time we got to the gentlemen in front of me it was obvious he was unclear on the first rule of banking - there must be money in the account in order to withdraw it. I was close enough to see the "insufficient funds" screen pop up each time he plugged in his card. Did he think he was playing a slot machine? Did he hope that eventually the Pay Day Loan Fairy would appear and deposit some funds? Who knows. After the eighth attempt he finally gave up and harrumphed off to his Kia.

The same behavior used to frustrate me to no end when I had to go to the market. Until I devised the perfect passive aggressive solution.

I always make sure I have 14 items or less because the express lane has a limit of 15. I wait until my order is scanned and the smiling cashier gives me my total.

"And I'd like a pack of cigarettes" I say.

Her sunny disposition immediately melts into a frown as she turns to the sullen box boy and practically spits out "Cigarettes!" And off he lopes, like a three toed sloth, to the front service counter. Minutes pass as he fishes around for the key to the cigarette case and retrieves the smokes. He moves so slow it's like watching tai chi. Meanwhile a line has formed behind me, people in a hurry with a lone quart of milk or a single brick of Velveeta. You can feel their anger rising as they all watch the cigarette kabuki playing out in front of them.

How's it feel now morons? Now you know what I deal with with all you ATMtards and Sanskrit check writers.

Sure it adds five or ten minutes to the whole shopping experience and I could easily pick up the smokes in a few seconds at the service station down the street. But I find the satisfaction it gives me is therapeutic.

You take what you get here.

The Clothes Make The Man

Evidently God was looking down from Heaven, noticed I had one small shred of dignity left and decided in His Divine Wisdom that the time had come to snuff that out too.

I was sitting in my sweatbox "office" yesterday afternoon, minding my own business, surfing the web, when the burly office manager stopped by with an armful of company polo shirts.

"Boss wants you to wear these" he grunted as he dumped them on my desk.

When I was offered the job I was told I would be "management" and wouldn't have to wear the idiotic company "uniform". Now I've apparently been demoted without even receiving my first paycheck.

So here I sit this morning in my tent like polo. They aren't much for tailoring here and the closest they could find to my size was 2XL. That's considered a "large" for Bakersfield. I guess when I leave here, soon I hope, I can always use them for car covers.

I feel like an idiot.

My will has been crushed.

I look like I work at Jiffy Lube.

Or Lady Footlocker.

It's just as well this office is a sauna. I'm sweating so much nobody will notice the tears.

Baku #9: Dog Days

Stagnant leaden air.
Blistering blast furnace heat.
Dog days in Dogpatch.

No H8

So the California courts shot down Prop. 8, the hateful initiative passed in 2008 banning gay marriage.

Common decency rules the day.

This isn't going to go over well here in Bako.

Not. At. All.

While the original measure only narrowly won statewide, it passed here with a whopping 75% of the vote. This place is vehemently anti-gay. Hostile even.

Case in point: On the eve of the original vote there was a small "Anti - 8" rally on a Bako main drag which was dwarfed by a massive "Pro-8" rally across the street. The "Pro-8" rally brought out every Republican muckity muck, including a rabid wingnut from the local school board named Ken Mettler. At some point poor Ken took issue with the "Anti - 8" crowd and marched across the street and beat the shit out of one of the protestors. Knocked him down to the ground and kicked him in the head until he was unconscious.

It was all caught on film.

The protestor recovered and, quite rightly, sued Mr. Mettler for assault. The trial just ended a couple of weeks ago.

He was found innocent.

Even with film footage of him savagely attacking the protestor till he lay lifeless on the sidewalk.

In Bakersfield, if you're "for the gays", you get what you deserve.

And you know what? When it comes right down to it, that's the biggest problem with Bakersfield...

NO GAYS.

Don't get me wrong, there are some gay men here, but they're all deeply closeted or living "on the down low". They meet in secret on Craigslist or out on one of the bike trails by the dried up river. There is no "gay community", no bars or clubs. I've lived here almost a year and my Gaydar hasn't gone off once. I'm ready to trade it in for a toaster or something else useful.

And that, I believe, is why this town is such an ass backward armpit.

Without the gays, you have no charming older neighborhoods, tastefully gentrified.

No stylish restaurants or bars.

No boutiques, or galleries or day spas.

No Banana Republics or Crate & Barrels.

In short, you have no reason to live.

It's time these people realized we aren't the problem, we're the solution. Give us a hot glue gun and a bottle of vodka and stand back. Just look what we did for Laguna or Provincetown.

We're miracle workers, we gays.

And if there's one thing this place needs, it's a miracle.

Doo's And Don’ts

And now a word about the Ladies of Bakersfield.

It doesn't take long before you realize there is a signature "look" for the women of Bako. I'm not talking about fashion, because there's really not much to say about that. "Ready-to-Wear" Bako style usually involves a track suit. "Evening Wear" consists of a Brad Paisley concert tee that's been run through a Bedazzler©.

No, today we're talking about hairstyles. And while the hairstyles here run the gamut of everything you could possibly find at SuperCuts or Fantastic Sam's, there's one style that rises head and shoulders above the rest. One style that is so ubiquitous it is obviously the clear favorite among the Real Housewives of Bako.

I'm talking about the "BakerDoo".

At least that's what the boyfriend and I have named it.

You start with a bad bob, usually unintentionally asymmetrical. And then you pile up a huge dome of hair at the back, like an overcooked Jiffy Pop popper. Over process the whole mess and then top it off with prison stripe highlights. And Voila!, the BakerDoo.

Seriously, on what planet does anyone think this looks good?

And yet you see it here everywhere.

Truth be told, the highlight craze isn't limited to the Bakerdoo. There is absolutely no cut here that can't be embellished with a bold stripe or two. Or three. Go to the mall and it looks like a wild herd of zebras has been let loose.

I really just don't get it. It's not like they don't have access to the real world here. They have television. They have the internet. It's not like they can't see there are other options. But that's Bako... marching to a different drummer. And a badly coiffed one at that.

Makes you want to just curl up and dye.

Tell Me Something I Don’t Already Know

Another day, another list, another last place finish for poor little Bako. This time it's in The Atlantic. They rank all U.S. metropolitan areas in terms of "Human Capital". It's basically just a fancy way of pointing out that the people of Hooterville are dumb as a bag of rocks.

C'mon... haven't we already covered this? Just a couple of weeks ago? Now it just seems like everyone is piling on. Last place this, last place that. Why can't people focus on the things where Bako excels? Where it ranks Numero Uno?

Like teenage pregnancy and drop out rates.

Roaches, And Maggots, And Flies, Oh My

It's been quite awhile since I posted a vermin report. It's not that the situation has improved - far from it. But the bugs ultimately just wear you down and render you numb to the pestilence. Flies are just an unfortunate fact of life when your town is surrounded by millions of acres of cow shit. And the roaches? So common they aren't even worth noting anymore.

It's a Bako thing.

Up until recently I still harbored some suspicions that perhaps we just lived in a roach-y part of town, or just imagined our neighbor Mary was some slovenly hoarder and it was all her fault. But then I started this job and I've noticed every morning when I come it that the hall leading to my closet is littered with dead roaches. There's usually a few under my desk too. They aren't all dead mind you - just last week I was in a meeting with my boss when out of the corner of my eye I caught a gargantuan one making it's way to a corner of her office. It's all I could focus on and I ended up tuning her out. I nodded my head as she babbled on and I watched as it disappeared behind the polyester curtains. Now I don't know what I was supposed to be working on this week.

But as long as it's been since I've written a roach post, it's been even longer since I had a brand new plague to report. They were coming fast and furious in the first months we lived here, the roaches, and flies, and killer dust storms and the swine flu. But then things leveled off and the flaming rain and raining frogs never appeared and everything appeared status quo.

Until this morning.

We returned this morning from three days away for the birthday festivities to a whole new breed of house guests:

Maggots!

All over the kitchen floor and entryway. Where did they come from? No fucking clue. What were they there for? Ditto. The trash had been taken out before we left, so there was nothing there for them. They appeared to just be lazily sunning themselves on the "fine Italian marble tile©". It reminded us of that scene in "Poltergeist" with the steak. The boyfriend fled and left me to sort it out.

I ended up flushing the whole lot of them because I was pressed for time. If I hadn't been in a rush to get to work I would've figured out how to get them over the fence into Mary's yard. This being Bako I'm sure I'll have many more chances.

We, of course, had our plagues in LA too, but it was pretty much limited to the hoards of D-list celebrities and Eurotrash that descended like locusts on any newish club or restaurant. I guess it could be argued that there isn't much difference between a maggot and an Olsen Twin, but all things being equal I know which one I'd rather be scraping off a floor.

Party On

Well, the boyfriend's birthday party was a smashing success. Other than the itsy bitsy cake disaster and having to cut my mother off from the mango margaritas, the whole affair went off without a hitch. In hindsight the fourth bottle of tequila was probably unwise, but no one seemed the worse for wear the next day, other than the boyfriend himself. Luckily, everyone had a camera, so we'll be able to show him what he missed.

I owe a heartfelt thanks to everyone who helped pull it all together. The amount of love on display touched us both more than you can know.