Hicks On Ice

The neighbors got together and created a community ice rink! Isn't that nice? And just in time for the holidays.

Actually, it's strictly by accident. The first of many, I'm sure.

For the past week the overnight temperature in Bako has dropped below freezing, but a little sub-zero weather isn't going to deter the people of Bakersfield from their God-given right to water their lawns for 8 hours. In Bakersfield, a lawn isn't properly watered until you can scuba dive in it. Most people aren't satisfied until their front yard looks like a reflecting pool. The sprinklers usually kick in before dawn. Water sheets over the sidewalks. It pools in the driveways and gutters because the brain trust down at City Hall never quite understood proper drainage. And over the past week, early in the morning, it freezes.

It makes walking the dogs an adventure, I'll say that. I should pick the nicest home and slip in front of it. Mama needs a new pair of shoes.

During the just past election, everyone and their mother was bitching and moaning about getting more water, getting "our fair share". Yet they released a report earlier this year showing that 75% of all the water use in Bakersfield is for landscaping, and the way it's done here that means most of the water just flows into the gutter and down the drain.

Or it would, if they could figure it out.

All Hail The O

I'm a little late to the Oprah bandwagon, say... 25 years. But in my scant weeks of unemployment, I've come to believe that, were she so inclined, Oprah could change the magnetic field of Earth.

Change the poles with the snap of her fingers.

And don't think she wouldn't, so don't piss her off.

Back In Bako

And so we've returned, from the land of "cee-ment ponds and movie stars", as the locals refer to it.

The drive down wasn't so bad, but the drive back in holiday traffic was hateful, not the least because of our destination.

Two days is just too brief, but all in all it's probably for the best. The longer you're away from Bakersfield, the less likely you are to return. After about four days you'd probably just send in a change of address and take a loss on everything else. Lord knows I thought of it. Although I'd obviously miss the boyfriend, I did have the dogs with me. If I'd thought to take the laptop, returning would have been a tougher call. Sorry honey.

I did get a proper Bako sendoff when I left on Friday...

I got cropdusted!

I was driving south, about 20 miles out of town, when something caught my eye approaching from the west. A small single seat plane flying not more than 50 feet above the crops. It was trailing a white cloud behind it and as it passed overhead my windshield was misted with God knows what. No doubt a toxic witch's brew of banned pesticides.

None of that sissified "organic farming" here. Them's fightin' words.

We take our fruits and vegetables as God intended them.

With a double dose of DDT.

Guilty, By Reason Of Insanity

Thanksgiving proved to be a very lovely day. Just the two of us. Or rather, four. Can't leave out the dogs. Last year the boyfriend had to work the Friday after but we still wanted to spend Thanksgiving with the family. So we slogged down the night before in gridlocked traffic, and then left at 4am that Friday to make it back to Bako in time for him to go to work.

Darn near killed him.

So this year, when we discovered he had to work Friday again (and possibly Saturday), we took a pass. It didn't go over well with the family, so to try and make it up to them I'm headed down with the dogs to spend the rest of the weekend and have a belated, quasi-Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow night. The boyfriend will be flying solo. At least I can rest assured he won't get into any mischief. It's Bako after all - there's nothing to do here.

But before I leave, I'll share a little anecdote about our lives here in Bakersfield. The boyfriend has been begging me to write about this, because he thinks it's cute and charming. I promised I would, but I keep putting it off because I think it's pathetic. And despite the fact he never reads this blog and probably wouldn't be any the wiser, a promise is a promise, so here we go.

We have no friends here and we never go out. The boyfriend works such long hours that our weekday evenings usually consist of a couple of hours of TV and then early to bed. Boring doesn't even begin to describe it.

The boyfriend is a huge fan of "Judge Judy". For me, she's an acquired taste. Nevertheless, the DVR is set to record her and we play her back when there's nothing interesting to watch on TV, which is often.

Needless to say, we watch a lot of "Judge Judy".



One of my pet peeves about the show, which are many, is that they go to great lengths to imply that the show takes place in New York. The opening credits feature a montage of Manhattan and there's a New York state flag featured prominently behind the bench.

It's all a lie.

It's filmed in LA, a fact Judge Judy doesn't even really try to hide anymore. And the jig was really up a couple of years ago when a moderate earthquake hit during taping and video of Judge Judy diving under the bench went viral.

But whatever.

The aforementioned opening credits end as we zoom in on a statue of "Justice", a robed woman, blindfolded, holding the Scales of Justice. And right at the end, she reaches up and lifts her blindfold revealing... it's Judge Judy!

Kinda cute.

I pointed this out to the boyfriend and he didn't believe me so we rewound the tape and that's when we discovered...

The Flash.

For a millisecond, right before the end, there's a spark, a flash, a glimmer in Judge Judy's eye...



It's like the proverbial "green flash" at sunset. It's magical. And the boyfriend has now turned this into a parlor game, trying to freeze frame it at just the split second it happens to catch it. He thinks this is amusing, and interesting enough to write about.

And now I have.

Like I said, pathetic.

Livin’ La Vida Bako

Today is the day you wake up, count your blessings, recognize the good things and people in your life, even in these trying times, and offer up some heartfelt thanks.

And then you step outside, realize you live in Bakersfield, and say
"Ah, the hell with it".

But despite it all, there are people to thank. And chief among them is reader Jason M. who sent me the link to this awesome video.

Consider it my Thanksgiving Day gift to you.

So as you gather 'round the table today with family and friends, hold hands and give thanks... that you don't live here.

Eric in Mathmagic Land

We've already established that here in Bako, English is, at best, problematic.

But how about math?

There's a TV spot that runs fairly regularly for the Mish Funeral Home.

As a somber voiceover intones...

"A PROUD MEMBER OF THE COMMUNITY FOR 47 YEARS..."

this is what appears onscreen...

Rank & File

Another national ranking, another piss poor showing for poor little Bako. This time it was "crime" - Bako ranks 21st. This comes on the heels of having the worst air in the land and ranking dead last in the nation in education. And God knows what else. Bakersfield ranks "worst" in so many categories the locals seems to have gotten bit blasé about it. Or so I thought.

Actually, #21 doesn't seem all that bad if you take into account all the shootings and decomposing bodies found left in the fields. Not to mention the cockfighting.

All the other low rankings were met with a collective "Meh". No one seemed to care. But this crime statistic seems to have struck a nerve, although from the outraged reactions on the news I couldn't quite tell if they thought it should be higher or lower. Not to worry - I bet if you factor in all the police shootings we'd be #1.

But there was one brief, shining moment of self-awareness on the part of one reporter. Doing something no one here appears to have thought of, he began to connect the dots and made the astute observation that the only way to raise Bako's rankings was to, you know, improve things. What a novel idea!

They quickly cut to an interview with one of the city supervisors who quickly threw cold water on that wacky notion...

"All these rankings don't amount to a hill of beans!" he said. "It doesn't matter at all. All the people who are already here aren't goin' anywhere..."

I must admit I expected some kind of defense of the city, but I never saw the "You're all trapped here so just fuck off the whole lot you" excuse coming.

Well played, sir!

The Big O

I've seen "Shark Week" on the Discovery Channel, but that pales in comparison to the feeding frenzy that was "Oprah's Favorite Things" yesterday. How is it I've never known of this before? Oh, right - I used to have a job. Evidently she does it every year, and since this is her farewell season she blew out all the stops. People were sobbing uncontrollably, collapsing on the floor in hysterics, raising their hands in praise, basically losing their shit. It looked like a Benny Hinn revival. You would have thought it was the Second Coming, but it was better than that.... it was OPRAH.

She handed out all kinds of baubles and electronics and interspersed them with what I consider "filler gifts". But the audience didn't care. You know something is amiss when an apparently straight man is openly weeping after receiving a $500 bra makeover from Nordstrom. She ended it all by giving out the Mother of All Gifts, a 2012 Volkswagen Beetle. The couldn't even see it because they haven't finished it yet so she unveiled it in silhouette...



I'd forgotten how lonely working from home is. I tried working with music but my iPod is old and the shuffle has developed a mind of it's own and has decided the only thing it will play is Serge Gainsbourg. The freaky thing I don't remember ever putting any Serge on it. Oh well.

So I've fallen back into an old habit from college where I constantly have the TV on the background for company. I only half pay attention, unless it's the View, and I've become quite the Daytime TV connoisseur.

It's a little sad to see so few soap operas left, although my favorite All My Children is still on. I've found I can't watch it though because all the characters I grew up with look so damn old now. The men I had crushes on are all grandfathers on the show now. I feel bad enough, thanks.

The talk shows are a little better, although it pains me to say this but I can't stand Rachel Ray. The "cute, bubbly" thing has run it's course and her voice sounds like glass in the disposal now. And if I hear her say "E.V.O." one more time I may rip the cable out of the wall. I do like "Ellen", although she really needs to tone down the gay thing. And I say that as a gay man, and with love. And of course, there's Oprah. Even if I had anything bad to say about her I wouldn't for fear of being struck by lightning, such is her power.

But what fascinates me the most are the infomercials. I find them mesmerizing. I've seen more juicers than you can shake a carrot at, and who knew there were so many types of vacuums? I saw one the other day that sucked up a whole rack of billiard balls! And don't even get me started on George Foreman. It was a little sad seeing Wesley Snipes hawking Total Gym. My, how his star has fallen. I did a photo shoot with him back in the 90's in New York. It was at the height of his fame and he was in an "Asian" phase. All the catering had to be Chinese, including the masseuse he demanded to "work out the kinks" (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) before the shoot. And after.

But without a doubt, the most jawdroppingly stupid one is for "30 Second Smile". It's a toothbrush that seesaws back and forth in your mouth. It's like a Shake Weight for your teeth. It's not so much the product that's so disturbing, although it is, it's the testimonials...

"Brushing my teeth was so hard before..."

"It used to be so much work to brush my teeth.."

"Back and forth... it takes a lot out of you..."

Are you kidding me? Have we, as a nation, become such lazy asses that brushing our teeth is so strenuous we now need a machine to do it for us? Holy Cow. The best part is the Dr. who pops up to endorse it. He's from the "Tennessee Dental School". Because at the end of the day, we all want Hillbilly teeth.

But enough about that. I have to go. I hear Joy Behar in the background...

A Correction

Last night I mentioned to the boyfriend that I'd written about our little foray to Walmart.

"You didn't say that I shop at Walmart, did you?" he asked, mortified.

Oops. I guess that horse is out of the stable.

So I've been asked to clarify:

Only rarely does he go to Walmart, and only then if it's a dire emergency.

He also asked me to mention that the cheap Chinese dinnerware we "bought" at Walmart (and I use the word "bought" figuratively) is more than offset by the lovely flatware he purchased at Macy's, which I was unaware of because he did it while I was away.

Lost In Bako regrets the error.

China Girls

It has been, for me, "The Place That Shall Not Be Named".

A bridge too far. A place my pride and self respect wouldn't allow me to go. A sign of defeat, of hopes and dreams crushed forever. A final surrender to all things mediocre and the end in the belief of a better life in our future.

Walmart.

The boyfriend has no such problem; he goes all the time.

But me? Just couldn't do it. I'd only been to one once, back in LA. It was in a Third World section of the Valley and it was crowded, cluttered and filthy. Never again, I said. "But it's different here" the boyfriend would say. "It's not what you think..."

Even when they opened two mammoth stores recently, within spitting distance of each other, I refused to go. There were few fates worse than death, but becoming a "Walmart Shopper" was one of them.

But all that changed yesterday. I popped my Walmart cherry.

The boyfriend was doing well and in need of a little retail therapy and was off to Walmart. He was on a quest for cheap dinnerware. We have a lovely set of fancy china that we spent a fortune on years ago when we imagined ourselves doing all kinds of entertaining in our house in the hills. It's been used exactly twice. For everyday use we had used a set of vintage plates and bowls the boyfriend picked up ages ago, a beautiful 60's design from the pre-microwave era. That became a problem in time, and the fact they were probably made of asbestos and painted in lead made using them seem risky. So for years we've relied on a motley assortment of plastic plates we've accumulated. A lot of them have Christmas designs since we received them as a plate of holiday cookies from the old neighbors and never bothered to return them. It's always been a particular irritant for the boyfriend. But now he was off to Walmart in search of cheap Chinese dinnerware to solve the problem and he asked if I'd like to tag along.

And I said yes. Not sure why really. Maybe I've just lost the will to live.

We went to the newest one, nearest our house. As huge as it looks from the street, it's overwhelming once you pass through the doors. You could easily put 6 or 8 football fields in that building. And then you see all the... stuff. Oh my God! It has... everything! You could probably live your entire life under that roof without ever having to leave. And I wouldn't be surprised if people do. Who knew you could find a bag of lettuce and a big screen TV all in one place?

We went straight to the dinnerware section and quickly found a design we liked. A sixteen piece set for $40! We'll take two! And that's how it works at Walmart, they hook you with the prices. You come in for tube socks and leave with a 52" plasma screen. If you can just forget about all the Chinese slave labor and sweatshops and focus on the savings, you catch Walmart fever. And we weren't immune. Soon we were surfing the entire store, finding all sorts of things we didn't know we needed. Look! Coconuts! Who the hell eats coconuts in Bakersfield? Who cares! At these prices, stock up! Soon we had the oddest assortment of merchandise I'd ever seen in a shopping cart, underwear and frozen dinners and God knows what piled on top of the boxes of new china.

So overall I have to say I was pleasantly surprised. Almost all my preconceptions were proven wrong. All except the people. The people who shop there fit every stereotype of Walmart Shoppers. I've never seen so many fat people in scooters in my life - it was like a Tea Party convention.

And the staff aren't the brightest stars in the heavens. We were at checkout and a slack-jawed drone was mindlessly scanning our merchandise and dropping it into the carousel of bags. Neither of us we're paying much attention and the boyfriend had already swiped his card. She totaled the order and looked up with her dead Walmart eyes...

"That's $108. Thank you for shopping Walmart."

Imagine that! All that swag, and china too, for only $100!

Wait a minute. That made no sense. The china alone was $80. We were halfway to the car when the boyfriend whipped out the receipt to see what was up and noticed she had never scanned the two boxes of china. And now we found ourselves at a real moment of truth. Do we return to the store and point out the error? Or do we go to lunch?

Hmmm... that was a tough one.

The Truth Is Out There

So it isn't just me. I'd written back in June about the creepy jet contrails that seem to daily crosshatch the sky over Bako. Some days less, some days more, but every day you can look up and see white smoky lines over the city.

But the last two days have been out of control. So much so that it finally caught the attention of the locals and even made the local news. It didn't just bring out the concerned citizens. The "black helicopter" crowd was out in force, telling anyone who would listen that they weren't "contrails" but "chem trails"...

"I have researched this theory for several years and I realizes that some would call me a conspiracy theorist, but as far as I know, this is conspiracy fact," said Murphy.

"According to Murphy, there is a large group of people around the world who agree with the chemtrail conspiracy theory. Murphy added that they believe what most consider to be contrails are actually chemical or biological agents deliberately sprayed at high altitudes for clandestine programs directed by government officials. Other Proponents have said it is a top secret program to change weather patterns or fight global warming."

"This is absolutely not normal. If it were contrails, they would normally dissipate in about 20 minutes. This is a mess, we are being sprayed like a crop duster," said Murphy.

Could he be right?

Who knows. They certainly didn't make much of an effort to look into it or offer up any other plausible explanation.

Maybe the military is testing "stupid gas"?

If so, I have to say it appears to be working.

It would certainly go a long way towards explaining the goings-on around here.

Tally Ho!

I dump on the local news all the time for being so insipid, but this week the networks haven't been much better.

It's a Royal Wedding! For four days now it's led all the newscasts. I appreciate the spectacle of it all, but didn't we fight a war to be rid of all this nonsense?

I remember the hysteria of the last Royal Wedding, Charles and Diana. They wed back in the Dark Ages, before cable and the internet. I can only imagine this time will be much worse. Even then it was wall-to-wall coverage, with all three networks going live at midnight here on the West Coast. Everyone watched it; you had no choice. Yet what I remember most about that time isn't that wedding, it was the other wedding.

I worked with a girl who was obsessed with the Royal Family.

Her name was Tally.

Her father was British but he'd lived in the States for years and had married an American. Much to her dismay, Tally was born an American, although she insisted to anyone who would listen that she held dual citizenship, a claim we all found dubious at best. She secretly believed that somehow, she was really "to the manor born". She was already fixated on all things Royal, and the "Wedding of the Century" sent her over the edge.

She simply had to have one too.

Luckily she had a boyfriend, which was a start. They hadn't dated long and he didn't seem terribly interested in marrying, but no matter - she proposed to him. We were surprised when he accepted. Her family was decidedly middle class, lower middle class actually, but that wasn't about to stop her. She set out to break the bank and her parents had to take out a second mortgage on the house to pay for it all.

She had a knockoff made of Princess Di's dress. Unable to find a suitably grand venue in Orange County, where we all lived, she finally settled on relatively regal church in Palos Verdes, thirty miles away.

We all schlepped out there for the ceremony.

She arrived at the festivities in a carriage pulled by four white horses and entered the church to a fanfare of herald trumpets. There was a small orchestra and, if memory serves, a choir. It was the most lavish, over the top wedding I've ever been to. Absolutely no detail had been overlooked.

Well, maybe one.

Her husband was gay.

Not just "gay", but GAY.

Flaming gay.

Siegfried & Roy gay.

We all knew it of course, and several people had tried to take her aside and point out that he actually seemed a little more into the floral arrangements than he was into her. But she would have none of it. She was getting her Royal Wedding and she wasn't going to let a little thing like gay fiance stand in the way.

They pulled away from the church in a vintage Rolls Royce and we wished them well.

Six months later the marriage was quietly annulled.

The groom moved in with his best man.

I always wondered what became of her. I imagine her somewhere, surrounded by cats, working herself into another Royal frenzy.

#1 With A Bullet

The American Lung Association has named Bakersfield the "Dirtiest City in America".

I have a feeling it wasn't even close.

When You Wish Upon A Star…

"It's fog. And it isn't brown. It's fog."

Fine. Whatever.

It was Sunday afternoon and we were driving back into town. The road ahead vanished into a mocha haze. There was no horizon, only a wall of... "fog".

The air here has been horrible for days, but the boyfriend has been in denial about it. He has a vested interest in believing we don't live in a toxic sinkhole and I wasn't in the mood to argue about it.

He even stuck to his theory later in the evening when the local weather report labeled the air "hazardous". Days like this are designated "no burn days", meaning you're prohibited from burning wood.

Or books.

Or witches.

They also helpfully reminded us that we couldn't burn trash.

Really? Burning trash? Who does that anymore? Listen - I'm no Nancy Drew, but I think we may have stumbled on an important clue in "The Case of the Oxygen Depleted Dead Zone".

At any rate, later that evening I stepped out in to the backyard for a smoke, Mary be damned. I was gazing up at the stars - both of them - when suddenly the sky was slashed by a falling star!

At least I think it was a falling star. It might have been flaming space debris. Everyone else dumps their garbage here, so why not NASA? Although they clearly didn't get the memo about burning trash.

Whatever it was, it was pretty, and it occurred to me I should make a wish. And then I...

Just. Went. Blank.

Couldn't think of a thing.

It was several moments before I even thought of the standard fallback "to win the lottery", but by then I think the statute of limitations on wishes had passed.

So it's come to this. I no longer even have any wishes anymore.

How sad is that?

A Very Bad Day

Yesterday I just about reached my breaking point. Around midday I thought I might actually snap. I had a job go horribly, horribly awry.

It was Tevye. There's a shocker.

The boyfriend is always accusing me of being unable to read people, but I can read them just fine and I knew Tevye was bad news the minute I saw his office. But I didn't have the luxury of turning down work and I had to hope for the best. You'd think I'd know better by now.

It was a project for his ceiling tile client, my debut in Architectural Record. Tevye was the middleman between me and the client. Essentially he was nothing more than a waitress, delivering piping hot ad pages in a timely manner. And yet he managed to fuck that up. Over the weekend the nasty e-mails started to fly and when push came to shove, he shoved me right under the bus. Gave her my home e-mail address and washed his hands of it, leaving me to try and make sense of it all and clean up the mess.

I managed to push through it all and get the job done. This will be the very first time I actually lose money on a job, spending more on gas, time, supplies and messenger fees that I can hope to recoup. How much I lose depends on whether Tevye bothers to even pay the agreed amount. I'm sure he will; they always do. He wouldn't be the first to try and stiff me. In the end, they always pay up. That has nothing to do with the goodness in people's hearts and everything to do with my Mad PhotoShop Skilz and the ability to fabricate threatening letters from fake lawyers.

The whole experience made me question what the fuck I was actually doing anymore. I had chosen this career path, and I had chosen poorly. It's proving to be sad, bleak dead end. What other path could I have chosen? Where would I be if I had? Where did it all go wrong?

I thought back to my high school guidance counselor. Back then being a high school counselor wasn't the highly skilled and respected profession it is today. Back then it was for people who couldn't even teach P.E. I don't remember her name, only that she had really bad hair. I was still in my architecture phase and pretty much set on the path I was planning on taking. But still, I wanted to get her informed opinion, her astute evaluation, her wise advice.

She looked through my file, my straight A record, my interest in art and design, my involvement with band and drama club. She took it all in and gave it careful consideration. And after all was said and done, she came to a measured decision on what career was best suited for my strengths and skills...

Petroleum Engineering.

Seriously. How she figured I would go from a bit part in "The Sound of Music" to oil rig jockey wasn't explained. I told her that didn't interest me in the least, but she kept pushing it hard. So hard in fact I began to wonder if she had some ulterior motive. Was she getting a bounty from Exxon for each unsuspecting student she duped into a career in the oil industry? Sure seemed like it.

So on days like yesterday, when I start playing "shoulda/woulda/coulda" with the choices I've made in life, I think back on what would've happened had I taken her advice. Years of engineering school and a life spend as a corporate drone for Big Oil. I'd probably be a global warming denier too, if I knew what was good for me. Not to mention I'd probably be living in some backwater hellhole like Oklahoma or Louisiana or... Bakersfield.

Shit.

Hooked On Phonics

"The Senator said the comments were just a bunch of Hyper-Bull..."

I was watching the local news (of course). The word he was thinking of was "hyperbole", or so I'm guessing. There aren't a lot of professions where a great vocabulary is essential, but I would think "newscaster" would be one of them. Obviously, they didn't get that memo here.

I rag on the local news all the time, I know, but I only do it because I care. I certainly take no satisfaction in watching these poor people make fools of themselves.

OK, maybe just a little.

You get the common mistakes, the ones that would send my sainted mother, the former school teacher, right off the edge...

"Probly."
"Nucular."
"Libary."
"Irregardless."

A lot of people make those mistakes, but they aren't talking to you on the TeeVee. Last week we learned (twice!) of a hidden weapons "ka-shay" (cache), held my Mexican drug "cardles" (cartels). The weather girl was promoting a local restaurant and it's free meals for Veterans. It was an all-you-can-eat "buffit"! And around Halloween there was discussion of the best films from the horror "jen-ra" (genre). Words derived from French appear to be a particular deathtrap. There really should be a three-strikes law for the word "entrepreneur". But they're equal opportunity offenders and they aren't above slaughtering good 'ole American either. Ever hear of an "andiron back" chair? Neither have I - they meant Adirondack.

The seasons are another tough subject. Now that we've passed the Autumnal "equine ox", it's the perfect time to take in the Fall "foilage". We're looking at chilly weather, "probly" until "Valentimes" day.

And then there's world events. They should really just be banned from the local news. When Mt. Merapi, the volcano in Indonesia, erupted several weeks ago, the local anchorwoman was trying to describe the country. She took a running start at the word "archipelago" but crashed into the boards. She tried again and again but it was like watching a bad skater attempt a triple-axel. She finally just threw in the towel and went to commercial. Last week was particularly bad, what with the President's travels to India and Asia. By midweek they appear to have recognized their limitations and stopped even attempting the names, referring to everyone as the "President of This" and "Prime Minister of That". Country names they can handle. As long as it isn't Myanmar or Uzbekistan.

But they aren't beyond hope. A couple of weeks ago there was news out of Iran, and the morning anchorwoman gamely attempted "Ahmadinejad" and promptly face-planted the name. But when she was back at 11am with the midday news and did the same story, she nailed it! She actually turned into a bit of a showboat, dropping his name more times than was really necessary. I can't say I blame her. She was "probly" in the bathroom practicing for four hours.

So it just goes to show that they're teachable. And once we're done with the anchorpeople, perhaps we can work on the people who do the on-air graphics (see above) and teach them how to spell
C A L I F O R N I A.

(BTW - the correct answer is 'B", 22.20.)

High Treason

It's official... we're Bad Americans.

We were the only people on the block without a flag out for Veteran's Day.

Even Mary had a flag out, proving you can be a miserable fuck AND patriotic.

Veteran's Day is a HUGE deal here. Parades, ceremonies, breakfasts, luncheons and other commemorations. Most other holidays pass here with little notice...

"Martin Luther who?"

"Yom Ki-what?"

The weird thing is I don't recall this big a fuss last year. Then again, I don't recall much from the first few months here.

I would chalk it up to PTSD, but I think that would be an insult to all the vets who have bravely served.

So we'll just call it "BSD".

Season’s Greetings

I found myself this morning with downtime.

In between jobs, no one to call.

So I decided to finally get down to the task of designing our Christmas card.

Last year I didn't do anything Bako-specific because:

A. I was still in shock that we lived here.

B. I didn't want anyone to know we lived here.

C. It was supposed to be a temporary situation and I thought it best not to leave any evidence that we had in fact at one time lived here.

But, you know, shit happens.

So here's what I think we're going with this year...



I'm was thinking about adding a little cow and a tractor. You know, for kids.

But the more I look at it, the more I'm liking the spare, cold and cheerless quality about it. It says "Christmas".

But maybe that's just me.

You Say Tomato

"Who would want to move there?! It's in the middle of nowhere! There's nothing there! No shopping, no restaurants, no culture! Who in their right mind would live there?!?!"

That was Donna Sue, on the TeeVee.

I hear 'ya sister. Tell me something I don't know. I feel your pain.

But the amazing thing was that Donna Sue wasn't talking about moving TO Bakersfield. She was complaining about having to leave... for Barstow.

It seems that the Burlington Northern Sante Fe railroad, commonly referred to as B.N.S.F. and pronounced "Bieneseff" by the locals , has decided to move their substantial local operations to Barstow. And the Bako employees has been told to move it or lose it, as in their jobs.

They aren't happy.

There have been protests outside the local headquarters for the past two nights, not by the actual employees (who are prohibited from doing so by their union contract) but by their families and loved ones. Like Donna Sue.

She railed on about the injustice of the whole situation, basically calling poor little Barstow a hellhole.

Pot. Kettle. Black.

Donna Sue seems convinced Bakersfield is some sort of cosmopolitan utopia. Has she ever been on the other side of the mountains? It just goes to show you that one person's assbackward cow town is another's shining city on the hill. It's the metropolitan food chain.

When I lived in LA, all the transplanted New Yorkers bitched and moaned about how nothing in the City of Angels measured up to the infinitely higher standards of the Big Apple. And here I am, a transplanted Angleleno, bitching and moaning about the relative lack of sophistication of Bako. And now we have Donna Sue, having a cow about Barstow. It's a devolutionary death spiral.

At least we aren't at the bottom. Not yet, at any rate. As long as there are the Barstows of the world, we'll always be better than someone. That's something, I guess.

Howdy, Pilgrim

Right. On. Schedule.

That's our Jim. Of course the scene isn't complete - the turkey is missing the case of Bud Light he traditionally carries. I have no doubt it'll appear. Let's just hope it doesn't result in another visit from the cops.

Special Delivery

I've written endlessly about B.T.D. - "Bakersfield Transaction Disorder". The inability of the locals to navigate the simple transactions of every day life. But despite that, you would think there might be some tasks so simple, so mundane, that they would be immune from the disease.

But then you'd be wrong.

I'm talking about the mail.

Over the weekend I finally got my first unemployment forms, nearly a month after being laid off. I wanted to make sure they got in the mail yesterday and didn't trust our erratic local delivery person. I was running some errands and decided to just swing by the post office and use the drive-thru lane. How simple could that be?

Turns out, not very.

It would be if you could pull it off without encountering a local, but that's unlikely to happen. It certainly didn't happen yesterday. I pulled into the drive-thru, a separate curbed off lane with a row of mailboxes on the driver's side, each with a funnel like extender that brought the mail slot to within inches of the cars.

In front of me was a truck.

I had already mailed by forms and just needed the truck to finish it's business and move on. And then I saw a hand emerge from the driver's window.

Holding a box.

The box was probably 4 inches wide on it's smallest side. The mail slot is 2 inches tall. It hovered there for a moment while the driver probably sized up the dilemma. And then the driver did the Bakersfield thing. He shoved the box against the slot. Now, what, exactly, he imagined would happen is unknowable. Did he think the slot would open up, like a python unhinging it's jaws to devour his package? Did he think the package would magically shrink to slip on in? Clearly his mechanical knowledge was limited to what he'd seen in cartoons.

You'll be unsurprised to learn it didn't work. So he did the obvious thing... shoved it harder.

Again. And again. And again.

Traffic was building up behind me but everyone here is too polite to honk. I was hoping that was the end of it, that the driver would get a clue and drive on, circle back around to the post office proper and take care of his business inside.

But no.

I saw his parking lights flash as he put the truck in "park", the door opened and he ambled out with his box. He stood for a minute staring at the mailbox. He moved around the mailbox looking for a secret back door. He stood there a long moment. I thought that was it, that he'd give up.

But no.

He then got on his knees and began examining the bottom of the mailbox. Looking for what? A trapdoor? Who knows?

By now there were nearly a dozen cars behind me and five minutes had passed. For a moment I feared he'd just leave his truck parked there and head over to the post office, leaving us stranded. But head down, defeated, he finally climbed back into the cab and drove off.

Such is life in Bako.

And to think, people wonder why I never leave the house.

At Least They're Honest

The contradiction of our lives right now is that while my career is floundering, the boyfriend's is flourishing. So much so that we find ourselves able to indulge in the occasional evening out for dinner. And the other night we decided to try one of Bako's best Italian restaurants...

Ramano's Macaroni Grill.

Perhaps you've heard of them. They're in all the finest malls.

We were shown to our booth, the table covered with fresh white butcher paper. There was a jar of crayons on the table, for the kids. Seated nearby was one of the local anchormen - nobody mentioned this was a celebrity hangout.

Our waiter, Steve, arrived and introduced himself by gabbling a crayon and signing his name on the table with a grand flourish I found suspect. But what do I know - my gaydar has been offline for so long it was probably nothing. He asked for our drink order and we threw caution to the wind and ordered Stoli on the rocks. What the hell. The boyfriend asked if perhaps we could get onions instead of olives and the request seemed to throw Steve for a loop. After a very pregnant pause he said "sure" and said he could get them from the kitchen. Evidently he was unfamiliar with cocktail onions. Luckily the boyfriend realized where this was heading and stopped him and said that the olives would be fine after all.

He returned with our drinks and was ready to take our dinner order and it was then that the boyfriend asked perhaps the stupidest question I've ever heard...

"Is the ravioli made fresh?"

Are you kidding me? Do you know where we are? Look around!

The question seemed to stump Steve. I get the feeling Steve is stumped a lot of the time. But then he answered with a blast of refreshing honesty.

"The pasta comes frozen from corporate, like the sauces. We just thaw it here."

Good to know.

The boyfriend passed on the ravioli, choosing Fettuccine Alfredo instead. I went for the Penne "Rustica". The food arrived and looked delicious.

Looked.

It didn't take long to discover the flaws of corporate frozen cookery. Evidently "corporate's" idea of Alfredo sauce involved heavy use of Elmer's glue. Within a few minutes it had set up so hard the boyfriend couldn't even pry off a fork full. And I discovered that "Rustica" is Italian for "Thousand Island dressing". Luckily we had filled up on bread, which was probably frozen as well, and decided to throw in the towel and ask for the check.

Steve seemed disappointed. He brought us to-go containers without us asking, assuming I guess that we'd eat the leftovers later. That wasn't happening. I felt like we had let him down so we dutifully went through the motions of packing it up. We tossed it when we got home.

With our newfound disposable income, I think we're going to have to do a little more due diligence before choosing our dining destinations. A good rule of thumb is probably to avoid the restaurants that ring the Home Depot parking lot.

Sooner Or Later

I've written frequently about how Bakersfield seems to desperately want to move to Oklahoma. But I'm beginning to realize I may have misread the situation.

Readers of this blog know what a huge fan I am of the local news. Whether it's a live remote from the monster truck rally or the poultry fair, it's never less than entertaining. So imagine my excitement when I managed to score an interview at one of the local stations.

I don't want to mention the station for fear of shooting myself in the foot, so suffice it to say it's the one with the anchorwoman who looks like a Korean drag queen. I showed up at the nondescript building downtown, near the adult theater, for the interview at the appointed hour. The people were extremely nice and the interview went well. And then came time for the obligatory studio tour.

Years ago I had done work for the ABC and NBC stations in LA. Any visit to the studios always ended with a tour and it always seemed to be such a beehive of frenetic activity.

Here? Not so much.

The stations in LA were "O&O's" - "owned and operated" by the networks themselves. As such, they lacked for nothing when it came to talent or technology. Here in the hinterlands the stations are affiliates. They pay a license fee for the privilege of broadcasting "Dancing with the Stars" and the pretense that Brian Williams is part of "the team". They used to be mom and pop type operations, but over the years they've been gobbled up by companies hoping to form mini-media empires, cobbled together with fourth tier stations scattered across flyover country. And they don't have anywhere near the resources of the networks.

At any rate, we headed off on my tour of the facilities.

Or what there was of them.

I always thought their news set looked so dumpy and sad on TV. In person it was just tragic. More than anything else it reminded me of drama club in high school. There didn't appear to be much action, but then why would there be? There's an hour of local news in the morning and then they cut to the network morning shows. After that, it's infomercials. Watching the local channels, you may not get a sense of what's happening around town, but you'll end up knowing more than you care to about Yoshi Blade Ceramic Knives. Around 3 or 4 the syndicated talk shows kick in and then another hour of local news at 5. The network takes over for the evening and then it a light news wrap-up at 11. The end.

As the tour continued we passed what looked like an abandoned control room. Holes in the walls where monitors once were, banks of control panels that looked like they were being cannibalized for parts.

"This used to be the control room. We don't need it anymore. We used to do all the programming here, but now it's done remotely out of the home office."

"Where's that? I asked.

"Tulsa."

So I was wrong about Bako. It doesn't want to move to Oklahoma, it's becoming Oklahoma. It's nothing but a puppet, run remotely from Tulsa. That would explain the tornado fetish. I always assumed there were so many Sooners here because of the oil industry, but I'm beginning to think it's only the first wave of colonization. Maybe all the knife commercials are really secretly ninja training sessions. Stranger things have happened.

I guess that doesn't count as "breaking news" here, but even if it did it would just be quashed by "the home office".

By the time the rest of California figures it out, it'll be too late.

L’Chaim!

I had pretty much written Tevye off as nothing more than amusing anecdote. For two weeks I heard nothing from him. And then out of the blue he called yesterday with work! Unbeknownst to me I was in a bake-off with four other designers for an architectural client of his, and when the dust settled I was awarded the job. Unfortunately it meant another hike back into LA for a meeting this morning. Tevye is a man of few words, which ordinarily I find admirable in people. But driving 2 and a half hours for a ten minute meeting made me wish he was perhaps a bit more conversational. At least I had NPR all the way.

The job is actually perfect for me, a series of glossy ads that will run in Architectural Record. Ever since I was a child, my life's dream was to be an architect. Since the other kids on the block were vicious to me, I spent countless hours inside drawing fantastical skyscrapers and palatial homes. On my 13th birthday my parents gave me what every boy dreams of... coffee table books of the work of Frank Lloyd Wright, my idol. OK, maybe not every boy. In hindsight, that was pretty gay. It seemed my path was set and my senior year of high school I was accepted into a couple of prestigious architecture programs. I thought I'd give myself a leg up on the competition by interning afternoons in a local architect's office

And that's where the dream died.

First of all, nobody said anything about math. Not that I'm not good with math, but c'mon. The first assignment I was given was to calculate the total square cubic yards of cement that would be needed to pour all the curbs in a parking lot. What does that have to do with architecture? Where were the skyscrapers, the cathedrals, the cantilevered homes jutting out over the Hollywood Hills? Think again. Ninety eight percent of the work in architecture is total drudgery.

And then there are the architects themselves. A more depressed group of people you're unlikely to meet. Every afternoon when I came in it felt like someone was going to have to be talked in off a ledge. The most cheerless, morose group of Debbie Downers I've ever met. I took me awhile to figure it out. One day I walked into one of the architects offices and there on the wall was a stunning rendering of a church that looked vaguely familiar. "That's beautiful" I said. "Was it ever built?"

"Oh sure. Right down the street" he said.

I then made the connection to a drab, boxy church a block away. I could see a slight connection in the silhouette and some window details, but otherwise it was a mess.

"The Methodists. They ruined it".

He then added that every day he had to drive past it, and every day it was like a stab to the heart.

"Architecture is like that" he said. "Nothing but heartache."

I switched my major to graphic design.

I figured it was still very creative, the turnaround on jobs was weeks, not years, and I'd never have to drive past any of butchered designs. At least until I did movie billboards.

And years later I was able to get my Frank Lloyd Wright fix. Or at least Frank Lloyd Wright... Jr. We found a Lloyd Wright fixer up in the hills that was in horrible disrepair. The owner had inherited it from his father, the man who commissioned it, and he had rented it out for 25 years with no upkeep. Where other people wisely saw an endless money pit, I saw a jewel in the rough. We picked it up cheap and created what appeared to be a very generous budget for renovations.

The first thing you learn about owning an architectural home is they are usually beyond fucked up. Maybe it was built using unconventional or untested means. Maybe the budget ran out and sacrifices had to be made on the less showy parts like, oh, I don't, know, the ROOF. Or maybe the person who commissioned the house in the first place was a certifiable lunatic whose every erratic request had to be honored. In our case, it was all three.

Four years later, the house still wasn't done. The renovations had already cost twice our original budget and decimated our savings. When the economy tanked we were sitting ducks. And yet through it all, I still miss that house. Every screwy part of it. I guess I'll always be an architect at heart.

And at least now, one of my childhood dreams with be realized. My work will be featured on the pages of Architecture Record.

Selling ceiling tiles.

None Too Swiff

If, like me, you're quasi-unemployed, you often find yourselves with nothing but time on your hands.

Like today.

On days like this I usually resort to housework. It feels productive and helps ward off depression. And the house gets cleaned. It's a win-win. But when doing the housework I usually balk when it comes to the floors. Our lovely rental home came with exquisite white, "imported Italian" tile (from Casa Depot). And lots of it. It shows off every foot and paw print, and after the recent wet weather it's been getting particularly grody. But the thought of whipping out the old school bucket and mop was too much to contemplate.

If only there was an easier way...

I'd accidentally left the TV tuned to "Live with Regis and Kelly", because accidentally is the only way I'd ever watch that show. I'd rather listen to a rake being dragged down the sidewalk. And then, almost like divine intervention, I heard the answer to my prayers...

Swiffer!

Sure, I'd heard of it before but never really given it any thought. But now I was staring at my dingy floors and a solution miraculously appeared. I was headed to the market anyway, so why not join the Swiffer generation?

What a fucking ripoff.

I found it at the store and didn't really check the price. How much could a glorified mop be anyway? I'll tell you how much...$22. Found that out at the check-out stand. But it would make my life easier, right? How much was my time worth? It was worth $22, right?

I got home and immediately discovered it needed batteries. Batteries? For a mop? We didn't have any, so I ran out to the convenience store and picked up batteries for $8. I came home and assembled the thing. It came with a small bottle of cleaner and two pads. I got to work cleaning the kitchen floor. I have to admit, it did a great job. Halfway through, I noticed it wasn't doing as well and checked the pad. Dirty as hell. So I swapped it out and kept going. I was almost finished with the kitchen when suddenly it stopped working. I checked the little bottle... empty. I'd already exhausted my supplies and I'd only done one room.

As fate would have it I had forgotten a couple of things at the store, so since I was going back I decided to re-Swiffer myself. Another box of pads... $12. A two pack of cleaning fluid... $8. If I would have stopped to think about the expense I would've thrown in the towel then and there, but I had Swiffer Fever and couldn't be stopped.

But now that I've had a few hours to reflect, reflect in my nice clean floors, I realize I've been had. Using this Swiffer ponzi scheme it's going to cost me $20 every time I do my floors. I can pick someone up outside of Home Depot to do it for less. Or god forbid fill up a bucket with water and do it myself for free. What the hell was I thinking?

In hindsight I should've know better. Nothing good ever comes from "Live with Regis and Kelly".

Red Dawn

Watching our new Republican scolds this morning all I could do was laugh. The crazy train has pulled into town and the next two years will be a circus. Asshat Darrell Issa is already listing all the investigations he plans to open into the Obama administration, starting with his secret ties to the "New Black Panther Party". It's going to be the Clinton years, on steroids.

At least sanity prevailed in the rest of California and Meg and Carly were sent packing, $200 million poorer. I say "the rest" of California because here in Kern County they both won in a landslide.

I swear if this place could secede and move to Oklahoma they would do it in a heartbeat.

Yes We Can’t

So... today is finally election day.

It's also the Day of the Dead.

Seems sadly fitting.

I can't wait to meet our new Zombie Republican Overlords.

Random Good Things About Bako #10

As I live and breathe..... sushi!

And good sushi at that. I never thought I'd see that here. We'd been searching for decent sushi for the better part of a year. We'd ask just about everyone we'd meet, but most would screw up their faces in disgust. Not big sushi eaters here. The few, more cosmopolitan types would always mention "Toro Sushi", but then quickly add the caveat "... but it's really expensive".

So we passed.

But the boyfriend had a really good month and we decided on Saturday to splurge.

Turns out "expensive" is in the eye of the beholder - "Bakersfield expensive" isn't even remotely close to "L.A. Expensive". These people would have a coronary when they got the bill in West Hollywood. The check was really pretty reasonable, and if you were to subtract all the sake bombs (but really, why would you?) it was downright cheap. We will definitely be back.

I'm still a little wary about getting raw fish this far from the sea, but it's not like the fish in LA isn't imported too. I mean, would you eat anything caught off San Pedro? I don't think so.