Rubbed The Wrong Way

The boyfriend hit on the perfect idea to lift our spirits and chase the blues away... a massage.

Massages used to be an occasional indulgence for us back in the day. It used to mean an afternoon of pampering at Burke-Williams and then, as times got tough, we downsized to amazing $40 massages at the Massage Garage in Culver City (Highly recommended).

Eventually we had to give them up altogether and, to be honest, hadn't even really been raised as a possibility since we moved to Bako. But the boyfriend received a slick brochure in the mail. It was for a local "day spa" and looked elegant and chic, as did the website. They offered a wide variety of services at very reasonable prices so we decided to treat ourselves for no other reason than to try and raise ourselves out of the dumps.

And yet...

Something about it just wasn't right.

The address.

It was located on a busy highway in an industrial part of town, not far from a shuttered oil refinery. Not the poshest location for a day of serenity and relaxation. So the boyfriend decided to check it out on his lunch hour. And it's a good thing he did.

From the street it looked like a Jiffy Lube. Once inside it became apparent that their most popular service wasn't on the website... happy endings. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but still, not what we were looking for. Although now I know where to go if I ever want my "oil changed", if you know what I mean.

At any rate, now that the seed of an idea had been planted, I went online to see if we could find an actual massage. At first I Googled "Massage Bakersfield", which proved to be a poor word choice. Up came a list of similar establishments in dodgy parts of town. As a general rule of thumb, if it's open until 3am, it's probably less than reputable.

Next I tried "Day Spa Bakersfield" and got a handful of hits. Basically, they were all glorified nail salons. Although they offered "massages", you just knew it was on a table back in the supply closet, a scented candle balanced on a carton of paper towels from CostCo.

There was one place that looked promising. It had a very nice website with lots of (obviously stock) photos of a serene spa experience. But then I pulled down the menu for "services" and saw this:

MASSAGES
FACIALS
PAY DAY LOANS

It looked as if we struck out. Big surprise there.

And then I remembered the woman I used to work for. She and her cougar friends always looked well-kneaded. I'd stayed on friendly terms with her and emailed her for a suggestion. She replied with a half-hearted recommendation of her hair salon but basically conceded what we already knew... to get a decent massage in Bakersfield, you need to drive to LA.

So we'll just have to find some other way to cheer ourselves up. Although I have to admit I did get a kick reading some of the "day spa" reviews. My favorite was this...

"I'm always on the search for the next best thing in Bakersfield (if someone's found it, for the love of God let me know where the hell it is)..."

Amen sister.

Darkness On The Edge Of Town

Most days we're resigned to our life here in Bakersfield.

Other days... not so much.

We both go through bouts of severe depression, but luckily, until now, when one of us is down, the other is, relatively speaking, up. Somehow we're able to see-saw our way into some sort of balance. But not this week.

The boyfriend has shut down and won't even talk about it. It breaks my heart and I wish I could think of something to help. But I'm not in a great place either and can't find anything to comfort him.

Part of my problem this week is the dreams. In sleep I see vivid versions of our former life, with flashy jobs and nice things and money to burn. And then the alarm goes off and I wake up in Bakersfield.

I'm trying to look on the bright side. Back in 2008, when things really started to collapse but we were still relatively OK, I used to have horrible nightmares of worst case scenarios, of losing everything and being out on the street. But then I'd wake up in our comfortable home, relieved that it was just a dream.

Three years later, here we are.

So maybe the dreams I'm having now are a sign of a wonderful life to come.

Or maybe I'm just delusional.

An Offer I Could Refuse

I think it's safe to say that without the dogs there would be no blog. Most of the Bakersfield weirdness I experience is found on our daily walks.

Case in point, yesterday we were out on our afternoon stroll when a beat up rattletrap pickup truck pulled up alongside us. The passenger window rolled down and behind the wheel was a grizzled old yokel. He smiled a toothless grin and then said...

"I wanna buy your dogs."

Now, our dogs are adorable. Who wouldn't want to buy them? I assumed he was being cute and smiled and politely told him they weren't for sale.

His grin faded and he suddenly turned serious.

"No really... how much ya want for the dogs?"

Now I was creeped out.

I told him again they weren't for sale and turned away, doubling our speed and dragging the dogs along with me.

He finally pulled away, and as he passed I heard him say "Them sure is some good lookin' dogs."

The way he said it made it sound like he wanted to eat them. And if you saw him, you'd realize that, well, it's Bakersfield... not ruling anything out.

It's a shame we didn't encounter him a couple of weeks ago, when I had the opossum. I bet he would've really liked that. I hear it tastes like chicken.

Lawnmower Man

Some things never change - I hate mowing the lawn just as much as I did when I was twelve.

I've never regretted not having kids, but in situations like this I can see the utility of having a surly adolescent hanging around the house to take care of things.

I suppose it wouldn't be so bad if there was actual "lawn" to mow. This house sat vacant for so long that right now the "weed to lawn" ratio is probably about 80/20. I don't really have enough yard expertise to even know where to begin.

And then last week I saw a TV spot for RoundUp. Now, I'd heard of RoundUp before. My understanding is it's the most toxic substance you can legally buy over the counter. But the ad was for something new...

"RoundUp X-TREME"

It's like napalm.

That might work. And it comes in the patented "Pump 'N Go® Sprayer". That sounded fun.

So I bought some.

Over the weekend I finally attacked the weeds. I started on the side of the house, facing the side street. I was minding my own business, merrily pumpin' and goin', spraying liquid death on everything and anything.

And then suddenly behind me I heard a growl.

I turned around to see a pack of the chihuahuas from next door. Someone must have let them out, I thought, but after a few moments, nobody appeared to round them up. They must have escaped. I took a step toward them, but they scattered like flies. As soon as I turned my back, they reconvened, only now instead of only one of them growling, they all were. Growling and vibrating like only chihuahuas do.

I chose to ignore them and go back to work, and after a few moments the growling stopped. I didn't turn around and assumed they'd gone back from where they came. But several minutes later I caught something out of the corner of my eye and spun around. And there were all the chihuahuas, happily rolling back and forth through a patch of weeds I had dosed especially hard.

Now I have to admit, for a split second my first thought was "It looks like I inadvertently solved the chihuahua problem".

But I'm not that heartless, and I do love dogs, even though chihuahuas barely qualify. So I quickly shooed them away and they appeared to run home.

But then I had a dilemma. Should I go over and tell them what just happened, so they could be proactive and maybe wash the dogs? Or was I over reacting? If I went over there and told them and then it ends up nothing happened, would it just create more unnecessary bad blood? Or, if I told them and something bad did happen to the dogs, would I just put a huge old target on my back?

So I did the right thing.

Nothing.

I figured if I heard anguished screams from next door, I'd know what happened. And I didn't.

Which didn't bode well for the weeds. If RoundUp X-TREME can't take out a chihuahua, it wouldn't be any match for my weeds. Most of them were bigger than the chihuahuas.

But this morning I went out to check on the lawn, and damned if all the weeds aren't burned dead to a crisp.

And come to think of it, I haven't heard the chihuahuas in awhile...

Troubling Signs

Yesterday, the boyfriend crossed a line.

A big, fat, double yellow, gay line.

He violated a fundamental rule of common decency, good taste and basic homosexuality.

He bought fake plants!

And not little fake plants either, but big six foot fake palms!



I don't know what to say.

For years he's had a vision, and that vision included twin palms flanking our dining room table. In LA, we didn't have the space to pull it off. But that wasn't an issue when we first moved to Bako. No sooner had the movers left, than he ran out to Home Depot and picked up two lovely palm trees. What he didn't account for is the fact that our rental was a cave and didn't get even a single sliver of sunlight. Within weeks, the palms were dead.

So he got another pair.

And another.

After the third set died, he finally threw in the towel and for the last six months we lived there, the dining room table was flanked by empty pots.

But the new house would be different. The dining room faced south and got plenty of sun. Once again, before we'd even settled in, he was off to buy palms. The only problem this time is that, while the dining room gets sun, it doesn't get... quite enough. By yesterday morning they were in their final brown, brittle death throes.

But here's the thing... he had invited a co-worker and her husband over for dinner last night. This was to be our very first dinner party here in Bako and everything had to be perfect. And that didn't include dead palms. So first thing yesterday morning, he flew out of the house, ricochetting back and forth to every home improvement store and nursery he could find. And he came home in a panic. Due to a combination of the season and Bakersfield, where almost everything seems to be perpetually "out of stock", he couldn't find a single live palm.

And remember, he has a vision.

The next thing I know, he's gone to Michael's and picked out two fake, "silk" palms. I know it was done in desperation, but...

Now, I have to say, in his defense, they look pretty real. Fake plant technology has come a long way and you have to look pretty close to tell they're phony. They've even thrown in a couple of yellowing leaves so the tree doesn't look TOO perfect.



The Chinese, they think of everything.

I guess as long as you keep your guests liquored up, no one would notice. That was our plan.

But still, I'm mortified. Fake plants are like the gateway drug to bad, white trash interior design. It starts with a fake palm, and then the next thing you know you have La-Z-Boys and you're decorating the walls with commemorative plates from the Franklin Mint. Or Hummels. I don't think that's the case here. I think it's just a case of making do with the limited resources here in Dogpatch. All the same, it was a frightening turn of events.

The dinner party ended up being a fabulous good time.

All in all, it was a complete success. The boyfriend outdid himself with the dinner, as he always does. The couple was extremely nice and fun. A good time was had by all. I must admit I'm happy we're finally starting to make some friends here. And the one difference I've noticed is the people here seem very genuine. Quite a change from the crowd we hung out with back in LA, who all seemd so fake.

Like the palms.

Sunday Inspiration

White Line Fever

Once again, Spring is in the air.

And so are the mysteriously creepy contrails.

Or "secret military chemtrails".

Take you pick.

I haven't seen them in months. Maybe they were there and I just didn't care enough to notice anymore. But they were certainly hard to miss yesterday.



Now I'm not saying I believe the conspiracy theory that the government is conducting secret military experiments on the local population and spraying a chemical agent that dulls the senses and makes everyone compliant and dumb. But having lived here over a year, I'm not prepared to rule it out either.

Closing The Books

The post yesterday got me to thinking of all the things about my old life that I missed. The list is long and depressing and not worth posting, but there was one thing that stood out as a particular loss, to me at any rate...

Bookstores.

I have a huge library of art and design books that I've amassed over the past twenty years. I could happily spend hours shuffling through the stacks at Hennessey + Ingalls or Book Soup. Or any number of the great museum or gallery stores.

That's not really an option here.

Bakersfield isn't exactly what you would call a "book town".

As far as I knew, there were only really two choices, Borders and Barnes & Noble. Scratch that, one choice - the Borders closed a couple of months ago before I ever found it, a victim of corporate bankruptcy. I first discovered the Barnes & Noble when a client suggested we meet there for coffee. Only in Bakersfield would a Barnes & Noble be thought of first as just a really big Starbucks.

I have to say, I was impressed. The store was huge, and after my brief meeting I decided to stick around and check out the selection. I asked a clerk where I might find the art books. She shot me a look as if I'd just asked her where they kept the pornography. I suppose I could see her point; with fine art and photography books, you always run the risk of turning a page and being confronted by a wayward breast or worse. She pointed me to the back wall, and there it was... the "art/design/architecture/photography/fashion" section, all contained on one three foot wide bookshelf. An awful lot of the shelf space was actually dedicated to scrapbooking, which I wasn't aware had been elevated to a fine art. I left the store dejected.

And then awhile back I heard about an independent bookstore, the "best in Bakersfield" I was told. It turned out it wasn't far from the house, so one day when I found myself with time on my hands (a common occurrence) I decided to go check it out.

Oy vey.

The entire front third of the store was devoted to Wingnut Welfare, all the greatest hits from Sarah Palin, George Bush, Donald Rumsfeld, Newt Gingrich, Glenn Beck, Ann Coulter and on and on. All displayed on tables with more American flags than the Washington Monument. I quickly rushed past all that, being careful not to touch anything, to the back of the store where I assumed, from prior experience, they kept the degenerate books.

But the back third of the store was devoted to a slightly different genre of publications... Evangelical Christian comic books!

I had never seen anything like it and, quite frankly, never knew such a thing existed. I guess it's for people who find the actual Bible too confusing and hard to follow. It was odd, to say the least, to see familiar Bible scenes rendered as manga and Jesus pumped up like a Marvel superhero. Judging from the covers he's evidently developed quite a few new superpowers since I went through Confirmation classes.

I turned tail to leave, never bothering to discover what was sandwiched between the Republicans and SuperJesus. Just for fun I thought of maybe asking the clerk where their "gay sexuality" section was, but then I thought better of it and ran.

I saw on the news not long ago that the store had had to downsize. I'm guessing they just eliminated the non-Rightwing middle section of the store.

At the end of the day, I suppose it's not much use lamenting the loss of bookstores. This may be one instance where Bakersfield is actually ahead of the trend. I fear even the big city bookstores are no match for our new Amazonian e-book overlords. They say 25% of book sales are now for e-books and by the end of the decade many publishers may forego the hassle and expense of producing actual, physical books at all. I find that extremely sad. While there's really no substitution for viewing real art in person, running your hands over an oversized glossy print in a book wasn't half bad. Viewing it at 72dpi on a smartphone seems to me quite a loss and not much of a future.

Shrinkage

I miss dry cleaning.

It's not that you can't get it here, you can. Even this place isn't that backwards. It's just that dry cleaning was one of those little luxuries of life we had to give up when everything came crashing down.

I don't actually mind doing the laundry. I kind of find it slightly therapeutic. If I don't have any work at the time, it allows me to feel productive. And if I do, it gives me an excuse to take little breaks. It really wasn't much of an issue when we still lived in LA, except that I quickly learned that the "DRY CLEAN ONLY" label in clothing isn't so much a suggestion as it is a threat. I thought that if I just washed them gently everything would be OK. Well, it wasn't and those clothes are long gone, may they rest in peace.

The laundry didn't really become an issue until we moved to Bakersfield. When we lived in LA we had good appliances, but they were sadly part of the short sale on the house. When we moved to Bako, we were dead broke and ended up getting the cheapest refrigerator and washer & dryer we could find.

The fridge has done OK. Technically, it's a side by side, although everything freezes on the top shelf of the fridge, and everything thaws on the bottom shelves of the freezer. So it's really more a "zonal" arrangement.

And then there are the washer and dryer. The washer has four temperature settings which are all a slight variation of "luke warm". Screw the "gentle" cycle, this thing is aggressive and abusive. Like Charlie Sheen after a couple eight balls. But it appears to get the job done and will empty every pocket of all the spare change, which is an unexpected bonus. Some days I make more money off the wash than I do working.

The dryer, however, is another matter.

It has two settings - "low" and "regular", or as I refer to them, "mildew" and "atomic meltdown".

Put it on "low" and it doesn't matter how long you let it run, nothing will ever dry. It's not such a issue during the hot summer months when things can be hung to dry, but during the cold, clammy, Bako Fall, Winter and Spring, hanging the clothes has the same effect as drying on low: nada.

Which leaves "regular".

I keep thinking I can outwit it. That maybe I can just throw the clothes in for a couple of minutes at a time. But the dryer heats up faster than a rocket and after only a minute you need oven mitts to remove anything.

The end result is I now have a closet full of doll clothes. I looks like I have a Cabbage Patch doll collection, and these are their outfits. I don't know why I don't just throw them out. Probably because then I'd realize just how few wearable clothes I still have.

The boyfriend tries to be helpful...

"Why don't you wear this?"

Because it no longer fits.

"Well... you have put on a little weight..."

Riiiight... and my arms have each grown 12 inches. Thanks, honey.

As the wardrobe continues to dwindle I've had to contemplate what to do, and so far I can only think of one thing..

Mumus from WalMart.

It seems to work for everyone else here.

Sordid Lives

I'm over Judge Judy.

Part of it is because her judgements just seem so arbitrary and capricious, depending more on her mood than the letter of the law.

But more importantly, it's just so demoralizing watching the constant parade of dumbshit, low-life, white trash that appear on the show. It's hard enough watching them; I couldn't even imagine living among them. Take last night's episode, for example:



"Your Honor, I loaned the defendant $2000 to buy a car. She asked to borrow the money after she totaled her Honda. She also said she needed a bigger car for all her kids."

"While I was unfortunately incarcerated for being drunk in public, I received a $10,000 disability settlement. I used $4000 to buy myself a car and loaned the defendant $2000."



"How could you buy a car if you were incarcerated? Did your boyfriend buy the car?"



"No Ma'am. He's in prison."

"When I learned I was going to be unfortunately incarcerated, I opened a joint checking account with my boyfriend's mother so she could take care of my business. She bought the car"



"Your Honor, that isn't true. I never borrowed any money from her. After I unfortunately totaled my car, I used $1000 I borrowed from my mother's boyfriend and the $500 scrap fee for my Honda to buy a car at the 'U-Pick U-Save' salvage yard. Here's the receipt."





"That aint true."



"I personally took the money out of our account and gave it to the defendant at Arby's. I have a ATM receipt."



"Miss Defendant, why would this woman lie about something like that?"



"I honestly don't know Your Honor."

"I don't know why she's siding with Jessica even though she's eight months pregnant with someone else's baby. She got knocked up while her son was locked up."

"And she's turning against her own grandbabies... her son is the baby daddy of two of my kids!"



"Judgement for $2000 in favor of the Plaintiff."



"Thank you Your Honor..."

Missing In Action

Sharp-eyed readers of the blog may have noticed something conspicuously absent these past few months...

Cockroaches!

I know - it's a miracle!

It would appear we left the roaches behind when we moved. Since we moved into the new house, we've only spotted two of them and they were both outside. In Bakersfield, that's statistically insignificant.

Now, I'm not saying the city doesn't have a roach problem - it does. But it would appear that our particular infestation had less to do with the city and more to do with our slovenly ex-neighbor, Mary.

I always suspected she was Queen of the Roaches.

That being said, I'm not prepared to declare victory just yet. I'm no expert in these matters and for all I know the opossum was what was keeping things in check. Once the weather warms up, things could change. But I will go on record to say that we are cautiously optimistic.

Sunday Inspiration

Ladies Who Lunch

Yesterday I met up for lunch with several of the women I once worked with at the defunct Bako ad agency. They had adopted me after the agency folded and we get together every few months to catch up.

We met where we always do for a leisurely lunch... Red Robin. I had never had the pleasure of experiencing Red Robin before we moved here. They have unlimited fries.

At some point the conversation turned to Hooters. Don't ask me why, it just did. I was seated across from Karen, a fit and 40 Bako native with the textbook definition of a Bakerdoo, every hair lacquered in place.

"I've been to a lot of Hooters and the one here sucks" she said.

I believe her when she says she's been to a lot of Hooters. I also believe her when she says this one sucks. I wouldn't know.

"The one here just isn't as classy as the others."

I just about snorted my ice tea out my nose.

"If you're going to have the servers in shorts with bare midriffs, you need to hire accordingly" she said.

"I don't want to be looking at no cottage cheese thunder thighs or staring at a muffin top."

She sighed a heavy sigh.

"I guess that's what you get when you hire local girls."

Amen to that.

Long May She Wave

I saw Jim was out yesterday replacing his American flag.

With an even larger American flag.

"Go big or go home" Jim Said. So true.

It occurred to me that we are practically the only house on the block not flying an American flag 24/7. I hope we aren't breaking some law.

The only other house not flying Old Glory is the hoarders, but I'm betting they have one buried under all the boxes of empty milk cartons and rotting produce. A couple of houses opt to fly the flag of Kentucky instead, which I'm guessing is considered an acceptable alternative here. It beats the Confederate flag, which I suspect is what they'd be flying if they had their druthers.

But here's the thing... an awful lot of the flags have seen better days. Several are in tatters, the stripes separated and hanging like ribbons on a maypole. Even more have been bleached almost white by the sun. To me, that seems awful disrespectful, which I think is probably the last message these folks want to send.

So I think the least everyone could to for this great country is to make sure they're flying a bright, crisp, new flag. There's really no excuse not to. You can get Chinese-made ones dirt cheap down at WalMart.

Start Your Engines

Today isn't just St. Patrick's Day (Top 'O The Mornin' To 'Ya!). It's the unofficial kick-off to the Bakersfield social season, and that means Drag!

Sadly, not the good kind. I'm talking funny car drag races.



Tomorrow the "March Meet" starts in earnest at the Famoso Raceway, but the festivities start tonight. At Chuy's.

I guess it's like the Oscars for the drag race set. Can't wait to see who everyone is wearing.

Sociopathic Update

The fallout (bad word choice these days, I know... sorry) from my serial killer performance on the company personality test seems to be minimal.

They're still giving me work, two jobs today.

Although I can't help but notice they are choosing to only deal with me through e-mail.

My Tuesday afternoon meeting was "pushed back". Pushed back to "never" I'm guessing.

And I'm not even getting any phone calls anymore.

I guess they feel there's little chance of me being "Abrasive, Controlling, Arbitrary or Opinionated" in an email.

Clearly they don't know me.

Which just goes to show you how worthless that stupid test was.

Dinner For Eight

Sunday we were invited to an impromptu dinner party at Jim and his gay dad Erich's house. They boyfriend had experienced their hospitality on Super Bowl Sunday, but it would all be new to me.

I have to admit, I've been torn as to what to write about it.

On the one hand, their was the weirdness. How could there not be? But on the other hand, I was a little touched to be included. We've lived here over a year and these are the first people I'd consider "friends", so I'm a little reluctant to slag them off in a blog post. I'm sure the feeling will pass in time, but for now all I'll say is it was warmly bizarre. You can't pick your family, or your neighbors, so you just make do with what you've been dealt.

And if I'm being honest, our neighbors back in LA weren't exactly a box of chocolates either.

In particular, there was Monique.

Our house in LA was nothing but glass and we never quite got around to dealing with window coverings. At first it was simply because of aesthetic differences, but then it became a financial concern. We could barely hang on to the house and privacy wasn't our first concern. Luckily, the way the house was situated, only one other house could really look in, our across the street neighbors, Helen and Pierre. And even then, you couldn't really see into our house from their house proper because it was further up the hillside. The only view into our home really came from an apartment they'd built over their garage at street level.

Helen and Pierre were nice enough. It didn't take long before we realized there was a third person living there, a ghost-like waif we'd see slowly wafting up and down the stairs between the apartment and the house.

This would be Monique.

Nothing was ever said about her for the longest time, but then I came home one day and the boyfriend seemed stricken. He'd just been chatting with Pierre in the street and he'd discovered that the girl was his 29 year old daughter who'd moved home because she'd been stricken with a mysterious disease.

Several of them, evidently.

"We should be her friend" the boyfriend said.

I don't remember exactly what transpired next. I think we left a note for her at the apartment door inviting her over for dinner. At any rate, she came over one evening and we got to know each other. She seemed gaunt and frail and almost near death, but she was friendly and sweet and charming. In hindsight, the first warning sign was her choice of drinks - vodka on the rocks. Hey, if you have a terminal disease, why not live a little?

But here's the thing... she wasn't sick.

She was batshit insane.

I don't know what exactly caused her to move back home in the first place, but she now had her parents hoodwinked into thinking she had multiple rare and serious diseases. Her parents would spend there days carting her from one specialist to the next, and Monique spent her off-time trawling the internet for new diseases and symptoms. As soon as one group of doctors would close in on a diagnosis, she'd switch symptoms and leave everyone baffled. Except us. Once she grew comfortable with us, she basically let us in on the ruse. On the rare occasion her folks would go out for the night, she'd be at our door in minutes with a martini in hand, wearing enormous fur boots and smoking a Gitane. The only thing terminal about Monique is she was terminally pretentious.

"Want some coke?" she'd ask, pulling a vile from her purse.

We nicknamed her "Cookoo Bananas."

She began to scare us.

Things finally spun out of control on her 30th birthday. She said "friends" of hers were throwing her a big birthday dinner at Geisha House in Hollywood and she wanted us to come. We never thought to question how a shut-in could have friends. We reluctantly agreed to go. The day before the event, she called and asked if she could ride with us. Again, we reluctantly agreed.

And so the three of us show up at Geisha House at the appointed time to discover there are no friends. Just the three of us. She never even bothered to explain it. We were shown to our table and she immediately excused herself to go "powder" her nose. Again and again and again. Each time showing back up to the table with huge powder donuts of cocaine around her nose.

We didn't know what to do.

So we ordered dinner.

Monique, obviously, had no appetite. As we frantically tried to finish our dinner, Monique was bopping around the restaurant and club, annoying fellow diners and practically dry humping the DJ. Finally we had enough and told her we were leaving, but she would have none of it. She told us to leave and she'd find her own way home. Normally, with anyone else, we'd be concerned. But with Monique, we just didn't care anymore.

We went home and went to bed. Around 3am we heard a car race up the street and screech to a halt in front of her house. She'd evidently been thrown out of the club and some guy had picked her up hoping to get lucky. But the 20 minute drive with Monique had wised him up and he practically tossed her out of the car once he got her home. I'm actually surprised he bothered stopping at all.

After that, things spiraled downhill. We avoided her at all costs, but then the phone calls started.

"What was that TV show you were watching last night? It looked interesting."

"What did you have for dinner last night? It looked like lasagna?"

She could see in the house.

And she was watching us.

Soon we just avoided answering the phone, even though she could see we were home. The whole situation was turning into a horror movie. The phone would be ringing as the boyfriend and I would steal nervous glances out the window and see a frail silhouette, framed in Gitane smoke, phone to her ear... calling.

One day I went to get the mail and turned around and Monique was standing there, with an evil smile.

"I had a funny dream last night where your house burned to the ground..."

She turned and walked away.

We were growing genuinely alarmed. We feared leaving the dogs alone inside the house, thinking we'd return to them boiling in a pot on the stove ala "Fatal Attraction".

"I WILL NOT BE IGNORED!"

And then finally one night, there was a knock at the door. I answered it and there stood Monique with a shopping bag.

And she was irate.

She thrust the bag at me, which I could see was filled with CDs.

'THIS IS ALL OF MY FAVORITE MUSIC. LISTEN TO IT AND THEN YOU'LL UNDERSTAND ME!"

I tried to beg off and hand the bag back to her, but she screamed "LISTEN TO IT!" and stormed off.

The next day Monique was gone. Institutionalized.

She was gone for months and evidently moved back home shortly after we sold the house. I always wonder if she's terrorizing the new owner.

So, whenever I start contemplating the motley band of misfits we now find ourselves friends with here, I count my blessings. At least none of them have threatened to burn the house down.

Yet.

Duh! Winning!

I stand corrected. The people of bakersfield DO have a sense of humor.

To wit, last Saturday night was "Charlie Sheen Night" at the Bakersfield Condors hockey game.

Everyone got a "Sheen Head" (see above).

If you dressed like him you got in for "two and a half" bucks.

If you brought a clean drug test, you got in for free.

And they served "Tiger Blood" slushies.

Well done Bako!

Beware The Ides Of March

It's two steps forward, one step back. Or is that one step forward, two steps back? Hard to tell.

Things had been going so amazingly well with my new Bakersfield client that obviously it was time for a setback.

The woman I work for, Melissa, is president of the company and we had hit it off immediately. She's smart and funny and utterly out of place here, like me. I had already completed four projects for her and her marketing team and they were thrilled with the work. Better yet, they'd already paid me for them! They were so happy with the work that the floodgates opened and I found myself with over a dozen upcoming projects. We decided we should meet and hash out a schedule, so yesterday I dropped by the office. The meeting went well and we got all our ducks in a row and right at the end, almost as an afterthought, Melissa dropped a little bomb.

"By the way, we have all our employees take a personality test..."

Wha.......?

"You can do it online, I'll send you the link. They'll send me the results and I'll forward them to you."

What to think about that? Honestly, I didn't really see the point. We obviously had a good thing going. Why ruin it by getting to know me? As pleasant as she was about it, it was clear it wasn't a choice. I was taking the test.

And sure enough, when I got home and checked my e-mail, there was the link.

The test was deceptively simple, only 24 questions. Mostly about how you'd describe yourself and your attitudes. I grew a little concerned that several dealt with the concept of "optimism"...

"Are you an optimistic person?"

No.

"Do people say you have a 'sunny disposition'?"

Fuck no.

There were also a couple of questions dealing with faith, which made me wonder if this was some sort of evangelical litmus test.

I tried to throw it and put myself in the best light, but the questions were so random it was hard to tell what the expected answer would be. I decided I'd just tell the truth and hope that my candor would make up for obvious misanthropic qualities. It took about 10 minutes and then I hit "submit" and forgot about it.

About two hours later, I heard my e-mail chime, and there was a message from Melissa. The subject line said simply...

"WOW"

I opened it, but there was nothing else, just the attached test results.

And they weren't good.

Apparently I am an egotistical sociopath.

An incredibly creative egotistical sociopath. Not that that really softens it all that much.

The test results ran 48 pages. There were only 24 questions. That's two pages of "analysis" for each response! Obviously I'd just been reduced to some sort of algorithm, plugged into some software and it spit out page after page of boilerplate personality traits.

The report started off...

"This report was designed to increase the understanding of an individual's talents. The report provides insight to two distinct areas: behaviors and motivators. Understanding strengths and weaknesses in both of these areas will lead to personal and professional development and a higher level of satisfaction."

Yeah, right.

At the bottom of the cover page, they helpfully added this...

"This report analyzes behavioral style; that is, a person's manner of doing things. Is the report 100% true? Yes, no and maybe. We are only measuring behavior. We only report statements from areas of behavior in which tendencies are shown. To improve accuracy, feel free to make notes or edit the report regarding any statement from the report that may or may not apply, but only after checking with friends or colleagues to see if they agree."

WTF?

Why not just say "This report is an amusing novelty, like a fortune cookie."

I couldn't believe anyone would take this thing seriously, but evidently the company I worked for swore by it. I was fucked.

"Eric is goal-oriented and driven by results. He is the team member who will try to keep the others on task. He wants to be seen as a winner and has an inherent dislike for losing or failing. He tends to work hard and long to be successful. He is extremely results-oriented, with a sense of urgency to complete projects quickly. He is often considered daring, bold and gutsy. He is a risk taker who likes to be seen as an individualist. Eric establishes many standards for himself and others. His high ego strength demands that his standards will be met. He may be so self-confident that others see him as arrogant. This confidence may be something others wish they had. He is forward-looking, aggressive and competitive. His vision for results is one of his positive strengths. He may lose interest in a project once the challenge ceases. He may then be ready for another challenging project. Eric likes people, but can be seen occasionally as cold and blunt. He may have his mind on project results, and sometimes may not take the time to be empathetic toward others. He prefers being a team player, and wants each player to contribute along with him."

Eh, maybe it's not so bad after all...

"Eric may display a lack of empathy for others who cannot achieve his standards. He challenges people who volunteer their opinions. When communicating with others, Eric must carefully avoid being excessively critical or pushy. He tries to get on with the subject, while others may be trying to work through the details. He is not influenced by people who are overly enthusiastic. They rarely get his attention."

Then again, maybe it is...

"Eric usually sees himself as being:
Pioneering
Assertive
Competitive
Confident
Positive
Winner

OTHERS' PERCEPTION
Under moderate pressure, tension, stress or fatigue, others may see him as being:
Demanding
Nervy
Egotistical
Aggressive

And, under extreme pressure, stress or fatigue, others may see him as being:
Abrasive
Controlling
Arbitrary
Opinionated"

OK, I'm fucked.

And those were the GOOD points.

The boyfriend came home while I was reading through the report and saw I was upset. He stood behind me and read over my shoulder.

"This isn't me" I protested. "Please tell me this isn't me..."

I looked at him and he said nothing, just arched a single eyebrow.

"I'd better go get dinner on" he said as he left the room.

So today should prove to interesting. I have to drop back by the office later and I half expect to see the entire staff cowering under their desks. Maybe they'll just lock me out.

It's a shame. I really liked them

We Get Letters...

I've heard your cries and feel your pain, so I ditched the Brady Bunch palette for something a little more soothing. I still haven't given up on the wallpaper - I've grown oddly attached to it. But I toned it down so no one would get a migraine.

Let's see how this works.

Give ’Em An Inch, And They Take The Yard

The boyfriend and I came up with a novel idea:

Let's use the garage to park the cars.

Easier said than done. The garage was filled to the brim with boxes, just as it was at the rental.

The thing is, we never really intended on staying in Bakersfield long enough to unpack. Why go through all that hassle when we'd just be packing it up again in a few months? Oh sure, we'd signed a year lease, but that meant nothing.

At least, not to us.

We were so sure there'd be a white knight job offer any day now, and we'd be headed back over the hill to civilization, that we only unpacked what we immediately needed.

That was a year and a half ago.

So yesterday the task at hand was finally getting the cars into the garage. The garage has plenty of shelving, it just needed to be cleaned of all the accumulated cobwebs and dust.

So we started by moving everything out into the driveway where we could sort through everything and organize it.

That's when the crowd formed.

These people are like locusts at the slightest hint of a yard sale. Never mind that this wasn't a yard sale and there were no signs. Word had evidently spread of a "secret yard sale" and the next thing we knew, total strangers appeared out of nowhere and were rummaging through our stuff. And first in line was Jim and his gay dad.

"How much you want for the bikes?" one man asked.

Nothing! Nothing is for sale!

We were finally able to shoo everyone away, and quite a few left visibly angry. Jim showed back up a few minutes later with two large mimosas, a nice gesture which certainly made the job a little easier.

"If you do end up having a garage sale, just let us know first" he said.

You got it.

He came back later and invited us over for dinner. We hemmed and hawed and finally accepted.

That's a story for another day, trust me.

And, at the end of the day, the cars still haven't made it into the garage.

Design Update

I had to go back and adjust the blog... it was making my eyes bleed. Sorry.

I kept our wallpaper pattern, but toned it down. And I adjusted the palette so it better reflected our mid-70's suburban Bakersfield existence with subtle earth tones of avocado, harvest gold and burnt orange.

Some things just never go out of style.

Sunday Inspiration

Change Is Difficult

Obviously, I've made a few changes to the blog.

I don't know if you noticed, but there's a pattern in the background.

That was the wallpaper in this house.

I saved a sample and finally got around to scanning it.

And I wanted you to feel the pain.

Now... I can hardly look at it, so we'll see how long it lasts.

I'm waiting for someone else to cry "uncle".

Mi Arrendo!

Unicorns, leprechauns and a decent meal- three things you're unlikely to find in Bakersfield. But Lord knows we keep trying.

The boyfriend received a gift certificate for an Italian restaurant, allegedly one of the nicer ones in town. It wasn't a chain, so we'd be spared another Olive Garden experience. It was a family run operation in an upscale strip mall, which isn't an oxymoron here.

Our first impressions were reasonably good; it had the expected Italian theme park decor and even an older gentlemen playing an accordion off in the corner. They might want to re-think the amplifier.

We showed up around 7 and the place was packed. By the time we were seated it had started to thin out, and by the time the entrees came around 8 the place was empty. I still can't get used to living on "Farmer Time" - dinner time here is between 5 and 7. Dining at 8 is unthinkable and suspiciously European.

It didn't take long before the first warning sign cropped up. The boyfriend ordered a bruschetta appetizer and the waitress gently corrected him...

"It's pronounced 'brew-sketta'..."

What showed up was a pita bread with a lump of Prego in the center.

Next we ordered salads and I was already feeling I should just play it safe. I chose the generic dinner salad but the boyfriend went crazy and ordered a Cesar.

"I'd like to get that with anchovies" he asked.

***crickets***

She'd never heard of 'em.

The rest of the meal isn't worth re-living. Suffice it to say Italian cooking in Bakersfield requires only two things - freezer burned pasta and Elmer's glue.

The waitress seemed surprised when we passed on a doggy bag since we left most of the food on the plate. No really, you keep it. Perhaps there's a pothole out back you can fill with it.

Surf Bakersfield!

"A massive earthquake hits Japan, the largest in over a century. But first... Charlie Sheen appears to have reached a settlement with his estranged wife over custody..."

That was the headline on the morning news. Good to see they have their priorities straight.

I honestly just don't get it. When it comes to earthquakes, the people here seem to be willfully dense. It's all that more surprising since the town was almost wiped off the map by one in 1952.

Maybe it's because in the past 50 years most of the population seems to have immigrated from Oklahoma and they seem more concerned with tornados than quakes. Maybe they're just stupid. Or maybe it's because they've made so little investment in infrastructure that there's not much to lose. Nowhere is that more apparent than in the case of the scary dam at Lake Isabella, northeast of town.

The dam was constructed in 1957, five years after the big quake. By all accounts, corners were cut, which is just Standard Operating Procedure for Kern County. The Army Corp of Engineers rates it as probably the most dangerous dam in the country, but no one here seems to take it too seriously. Last year it was discovered that a major "inactive" fault that lies directly under the dam is, in fact, "active". The response here?

"Meh."

If you're looking for a possible investment you might want to look into "lakefront" property south of town because this is what Bako will look like if the dam fails...



This shows our neighborhood under 5 to 10 feet of water. And it's not from the sprinklers.

Big Mama’s House

It's official... meet Josephine.

It would appear the reason she's been so elusive is because she had babies.

A LOT of babies.

We counted at least six. You can kind of see them hiding in her pouch in the photo. Had this thing dragged out more than a month we'd be hunting a half a dozen opossums in the attic.

Jerry swung by to pick her up. He's releasing her out by the river where he says she'll be happy. I hope he's right.

While he was making room for her in his truck, Jim wandered over, drink in hand. It was 7:30. In the morning.

Jim bent down to check out Josephine and she didn't take kindly to that. She bared her teeth and hissed at him.

"Reminds me of my ex-wife" Jim said.

The Fugitive

Around 2am I was startled awake by what I thought was the sound of a trap snapping shut.

It couldn't be possible, I thought. There was no way I could hear that from all the way in our master bedroom. I must have imagined it.

And then this morning... Look who we have here! The elusive Josephine! Or Joseph... I'm not going to get close enough to try and figure that one out. I'll leave it to the experts.

I know it's stupid, but I feel kind of bad for the little critter. It seemed so scared.

Little does it know how lucky it is - it gets to leave Bakersfield.

I should be so lucky.

Last Call

This town has a drinking problem.

Now, Lord knows, I'm not one to judge. Some days it can take a whole box of wine just to dull the pain of living here.

But I saw something yesterday that leads me to believe it may be a little out of control.

At first I thought it was just a neighborhood thing. There's Jim, of course, with a cocktail perpetually glued to his hand. He's evolved to the point where he can accomplish all of the yard work and most of his day to day tasks one-handed, never setting the glass down. And I'd see things around the neighborhood when I walked the dogs, the empty Makers Mark bottles stuck in random bushes, the lawn scattered with empty airline size vodka bottles. "Kids!" I thought. "It's the damn kids." But who can really blame them; there's nothing for them to do here but raid mom and dad's well stocked liquor cabinet and go for a joyride.

But it didn't take long to realize the problem was more widespread. Watch the local news and you'll realize that most of the mayhem has an alcoholic component. In just the past year, an alarming number of people have been mowed down in crosswalks by drunk drivers. If you ever find yourself in Bako, and dear God let's hope that never happens, remember to never cross a street after dark.

There's also the local chain of gas station/convenience stores, Fastrip, which, in addition to a slurpee machine, have a fully stocked liquor store behind the counter...

"Give me $20 on #4 and a gallon of Smirnoff..."

And then there was the woman I first worked for who seemed to be out on the town almost every single night. Trawling the limited bar scene with her roving pack of cougar friends until last call. She'd roll in around 11am, if she showed up at all, never removing her oversized Jackie O sunglasses. Most mornings she was too hungover to drive her kids to Christian school.

And then yesterday I went to the bank to deposit the rarest of things... a paycheck.

Really, they're like unicorns.

I was walking up to the ATM at roughly the same moment as a kindly looking nurse. She was short and squat and sporting a neatly coiffed Bakerdoo. Judging by the childlike print on her smock I figured she must work in pediatrics. I graciously allowed her to go first, even though technically, I was first. She smiled warmly and thanked me and as she approached the machine she reached in her purse. I assumed it was to retrieve her wallet, but instead, out came an empty bottle of VO.

A big bottle.

Like a liter.

Without even looking, she smoothly and effortlessly tossed it into the nearby trashcan. It's almost as if she had done this before. Many times, I'm guessing. Now, as I said at the top, I'm not one to judge. There could be any number of reason why a nurse would be carrying around a liter of booze. Maybe to sterilize a wound? Having to give an emergency injection? Lots of reasons. Although I think the most likely one was that it was "lunch".

She withdrew some funds, no doubt for a stop at the liquor store on her way back to care for kids. And off she went. She gave me a wink and a sly smile as she passed.

I get it lady. I live here too.

The whole episode reminded me of the quiet desperation of living here.

It reminded me of the fragile nature of the heart and soul.

And it also reminded me why we still drive to LA for medical care.

Call Me Ishmael

I couldn't tell if our opossum was unusually savvy or just lazy. The traps had been set for a week and a half and other than a few neighborhood tabbies we'd caught nothing. In fact, the word must be out to the cats, because we haven't even had one of those in days.

We'd discovered the sole entry point, a gap in the eaves over our guest bedroom. A trellis joins the roofline there and abuts a tree in the yard, so it would appear he (or she, but somehow I'm sensing it's a "he") climbs the tree, traverses the trellis and enters the house. Several times we had heard it making a commotion in that vicinity as it shimmied it's way in or out, but of course now that the path was mined with traps, the opossum seemed to be laying low. Maybe he'd figured it out, I thought, but Jerry quickly disabused me of that notion...

"Nah. Opossums are dumber than a bag of toast..."

I hadn't heard that particular expression before.

"If he'd come out, he be in a trap. He hasn't come out."

This seemed to baffle Jerry, and Jerry doesn't like to be baffled. He had to come out to eat, Jerry said. I suggested maybe he had stocked up, like at WalMart. But once again Jerry said that was unlikely.

I like Jerry. We've bonded, somewhat, over the opossum. Jerry takes a lot of pride in his work, and this particular varmint has vexed him. To the point where he seems to be getting a little... obsessed. Shades of "Moby Dick". He comes by every other day and tries to come up with some new trick or configuration. As the days have passed without success, Jerry seems to be taking the whole thing a little personal.

Jerry is very devoted to his work, especially since he does the bulk of it in LA. He makes the 300 mile roundtrip every single day. Now that's dedication. Jerry's is a "no kill" operation, which was important to me. As much as I want the opossum out of the house, I didn't want any blood on my hands.

"I trap them and then I release them far from Bakersfield."

That sounds nice. I wish that would happen to me. That me be the only way I ever leave this godforsaken town.

Jerry thought perhaps the opossum had left, but I told him we still hear it every night. Through Jerry's detective work we've determined that the opossum now lives somewhere over the dining room. He uses the area over the family room as his toilet, mostly, although he doesn't seem to be a stickler about it since the whole attic is pooped. And the area over the master bedroom is apparently the disco, where the opossum parties down with the rats into the wee hours. Like last night.

I haven't actually, physically, been up in the attic. I'm a big guy, and "graceful" has never been a word used to describe me. The thought of crashing through the ceiling into a pile of opossum shit has kept me limited to peering into the abyss from the safety of a ladder at the crawlspace door.

But all that is going to change tomorrow. Jerry says tomorrow we're going to "kick it up a notch". He's going to move the traps into the attic and he wants me to come along...

"It'll be fun."

I'll bet.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler!

Happy Mardi Gras!

It's Fat Tuesday, or, as it's known here, "All You Can Eat Day" at Lorene's.

The Art Of Flattery

I finally got around to dealing with my taxes, gathered up all the necessary documents and mailed them off to Mathmagic Land and hoped for the best. Last year the bulk of my income, such as it was, still came from over the hill in LA, but it's becoming increasingly clear that that won't be the case this year.

Even before business hit the traditional holiday dead zone, you could tell that the terrain had shifted and it was going to be more difficult than ever to maintain my charade of still being in the LA loop. The clients needed more attention and handholding and they'd turned cool to the idea of people working from home. Fo a variety of passive/aggressive reasons they preferred people working in-house under their thumb, and that wasn't a viable option living over a hundred miles from the action.

But...

Things are surprisingly looking up here in Dogpatch.

I know, go figure.

I actually landed what could prove to be a very lucrative client about a week ago. There are a couple of other options brewing. And I decided to really buckle down and do a major promotional push. And to that end, I decided the very first step should be an image makeover.

For Bakersfield.

They say you catch more flies with honey and that flattery will get you everywhere, and what better way than playing to everyone's insecurities and portraying little 'ole Bako as... appealing.

So I made a little poster...



A little retro, which seemed on point. Appealed to their vanities with a nod to the oil business and agriculture and their aspirations to aerospace and green energy. A happy, bright vision of the place I now call home.

Sure, I took some liberties, like the blue sky. It's called "artistic license", and I probably pushed it right to the point where they revoke it. But overall, I have to say I like it. I actually wouldn't mind living there.

Too bad it doesn't exist.

Sunday Inspiration

No Holds Barred

I was watching the local news yesterday, the highlight of any day, and the sports report was devoted to this weekend's state wrestling championship, which is being held in Bakersfield. Again. It's been held here for the past eight years because Bakersfield is described as a "hotbed of wrestling".

Yikes! That sounds like a gay porno title.

But after watching the segment, it seems that may not be far off the mark.

They cut in footage of young high school boys pinning and groping each other with disturbing interviews with grown adult men who all seemed just a little to "eager" to watch them compete. One in particular, who looked frighteningly like John Wayne Gacy, seemed practically salivating for the start of the competition...

"I just can't wait for all the action to start" he said.

He was leering so broadly when he said it he might as well as said "I just can't wait for all the hot boy-on-boy action to start." It made my skin crawl.

But it's all clean, All American fun, I'm sure. I mean, who amongst us isn't up for watching half naked, high school man-children, sweating in skin tight lycra as they grab each other's crotches? I know I am.

I wish I could say I was surprised that such a homophobic, closeted city would also be a "hotbed" for male wrestling, but that's just how things work here. One day you're railing against homosexuals, and the next you're picked up for a D.U.I leaving a gay bar. That's just the Bako way.

So we know the guys will be busy this weekend, but what about the ladies? Don't worry gals! This weekend is also the start of the Roller Derby season!

American Gothic

It was a beautiful morning as I set out to walk the dogs. It was unusually warm and the tail end of a passing storm had filled the sky with billowing clouds lit pink by the rising sun. We rounded a corner and that's when I met some of our new neighbors, Kathy and Bob.

They looked to be in their mid to late 50's. Kathy was headed to work and Bob had come out to see her off. When she spotted my little dog she fell in love and started gushing over her. Ever the attention whore, my little dog ran over and ran through her whole "cute" routine. We exchanged introductions and engaged in dog small talk, or small dog talk, if you prefer. They have two dogs, Charley and Gus, both of who could be seen looking on from the living room window. They asked if I was new to the neighborhood, since they evidently knew all the neighborhood dogs. I said I was and we chatted about the that for a bit. Finally Kathy said she simply had to leave. What a charming couple, I thought.

And then Kathy hit the remote for the garage door.

As the door slowly rolled up it exposed an older Cadillac completely plastered in Right Wing bumper stickers.

"RUSH!"

"Glenn Beck Nation"

"Live Free And Die"

"SOCIALISM!" with the Obama "O"

And the ever popular "prying guns from cold dead hands".

They completely covered the bumper and back of the trunk and we're creeping about halfway up the back windshield.

The closer I looked, I realized it was a Time Machine...

"McCain/Palin"

"W'04"

"Bush/Cheney"

"Don't Blame Me, I Voted For Bush"

"Bush/Quayle"

Dear Lord, they should really trade that thing in; it must have 500,000 miles on it. Or maybe not. It's Bakersfield after all, and it isn't far between any two points. It's probably only a mile or two to Republican Headquarters, or the local militia, where Kathy undoubtably worked.

The dogs and I scurried along as Bob planted a peck on her cheek. A few moment later, Kathy passed us in the Wingnut Mobile, waving maniacally. How she can see out the back is beyond me.

I always wonder what these people would think if they discovered they not only have a bleeding heart liberal in the neighborhood, but a gay one to boot. I guess we'll never know because I'm not about to spill the beans. Even though a life lived in Bakersfield is barely worth living, it isn't worth dying for either.