The Police Blotter

The morning news here is remarkably consistent. Every single day, the headlines are usually a combination of three things:

Police shootings.

Hit and run fatalities.

Unexplained house fires.

This morning we're batting two for three.

The BPD's "shoot first, ask questions later" policy paid off with another victim... a man in a wheelchair. Allegedly he was suicidal, so the outcome was probably pre-ordained. Then again, they seem to say that about a lot of the people they shoot.

And the typical combination of drunk drivers and drunk pedestrians resulted in another round of what I like to call "Bako Frogger." This time the victim didn't even make it into the street and was mowed down on the sidewalk, so evidently the field of play has expanded. As a general rule of thumb it isn't safe to walk anywhere in this city, which is probably why few people do. Few sober people.

We haven't had a house fire yet, but the day is still young. Of course, there've been so many lately perhaps we've reached the month's quota already. They're always reported as some sort of freakish event even though they happen almost daily. "Authorities" are always "stumped" as to the cause.

Really? Here's a hint... "Eth-may Abs-lay".

Happy Memorial Day

Sunday Inspiration

Random Good Things About Bakersfield #16

Wool Growers.

Bakersfield has a long Basque heritage, but all that's left of it is a handful of Basque restaurants. Everyone says Wool Growers is the best.

The boyfriend had had a tough week and an even tougher Friday, so I decided to treat him to dinner out on the town. We drove around for awhile trying to figure out where to go and finally settled on Wool Growers. I eaten there once before, not long after we moved here. The people I was working for took me out to lunch and I remember at the time I was fascinated with it. To be honest, I was still a bit shellshocked from the move and happy to finally be eating somewhere that wasn't fast food or a chain restaurant. The lunch menu was limited and I was told at the time that to get the full monty I really needed to come back for dinner. And tonight was the night.

It's in a seedy part of town, and industrial area east of downtown. We passed a hooker along the way. I'm assuming it was a hooker. With the sequined magenta hot pants and impossibly high wedge heels she didn't look like she worked for any of the surrounding auto body shops, which were closed anyway.

The restaurant is in an unassuming block building with a lovely antique neon sign. We didn't have a reservation so we put our name in and took a seat at the old school bar for a couple of drinks.



It's been here forever, but looked like it got a makeover in the 70's with sculpted, curvalicious popcorn ceilings. How can you not love a restaurant with a sheep theme?




The way it works is you only get to choose your meat, so to speak. It's a three course meal and everyone gets the same first two courses and the same sides with your entree. The boyfriend chose lamb chops and I chose the veal.

The first course is a soup, which is served family style with a bowl of red beans and salsa. You dish it all up in a bowl and mix it all together. It's served with hard cheese and bread.



Course number two is a vinaigrette salad served with tomatoes and pickled tongue.



And finally, the main course is your entree, served with spaghetti marinara, french fries and corn.




All in all, it was an utterly charming evening.

But we'll never go back.

Truth be told, the food was kinda awful.

It may have been rich and authentic at one time, but at best it reminded us both of a Jr. High cafeteria. Almost everything was obviously straight out of a can. And like all Bako restaurants, whatever flavor there was fled town long ago. We couldn't even tell the difference between the lamb and the veal and how can pickled tongue have no taste? It was like eating cardboard.

So, I can't say I'd recommend it for the food, but it certainly wins hands down for atmosphere. And that appears to be enough. As bad as the meal was, we still left is surprisingly high spirits. And in Bakersfield, that qualifies as a good thing.

The Dullest Tool In The Shed

Stereotypes exist for a reason because there's usually at least a kernel of truth to the broad brush characterizations ascribed to various groups. But to every rule, there are exceptions. Not all gay men like show tunes. Not all lesbians wear Birkenstoocks. And not all Asians are brainiacs.

Take, for instance, our neighbor Margaret.

Margaret is the Korean lady who lives next door. I hadn't seen hide nor hair of her in the past six months, not since she awkwardly tried to introduce herself during a driving rainstorm. She seems to live somewhat like a hermit; I've never once seen any of her blinds open or seen her outside. Until yesterday.

I was taking the dogs our for their afternoon walk around 2 when I saw her standing in her driveway looking perplexed.

"Do you have power?" she asked.

Why yes, we did.

"The power is out on the block" she announced, ignoring me.

I mentioned again that we had power. I'd just left my computer and could still make out the sound of the stereo.

"Hmmm" Margaret said. "It must only be this half of the block" she said as she waved her arms indicating everything east of our house.

I pointed to the house across the street from her where the porch lights had been left on. "They appear to have power" I said.

"Hmm" said Margaret. "It must only be this side of the street".

As if on cue, her other neighbor's garage door started to open. The electric garage door.

This stumped Margaret.

"Hmm" said Margaret. "It must only be my house. There's only a power outage at my house. That's so weird. Don't you think that's weird? That the power would be out only at my house? That's so WEIRD!"

The obvious question was a little rude and none of my business, but still, I thought it should be asked.

"Did you pay your electric bill?"

*** crickets ****

After what seemed like an eternity Margaret said "No. I didn't. Do you think that could be it?"

Call it a hunch Margaret, but yes, I think that could be it. Whew! I though we were going to have to call in Nancy Drew.

I told her I'd check on that if I were her and started to hustle the dogs onto our walk. As we were leaving Margaret behind she added...

"We'll I better take care of that right away. I took the day off to watch the Oprah finale..."

The Oprah finale that aired the day before.

I didn't have the heart to tell her. Let her think PG&E ruined her plans and not that she's an imbecile.

Margaret's a nurse. I need to find out where she works and never go there.

A Night At The Oprah

"Our Oprah, which art on TeeVee,
hallowed be thy name;
thy kingdom come;
thy will be done,
on earth as it is in Chicago.
Give us this day our daily "Aha".
And forgive us our makeovers,
as we forgive them that makeover against us.
And lead us not into temptation;
but deliver us from Judge Judy.
For thine is the kingdom,
the power, and the glory,
for ever and EVAH!"

Amen.

I'm not sure what exactly I expected from Oprah's last show but I certainly didn't expect to be going to church. But that's exactly what it was, a one hour sermon from the High Priestess Herself, Pope Oprah the First... P'Oprah.

I was an infrequent Oprah viewer at best, but I had planned to watch her final shows this week. Then I discovered Monday's and Tuesday's shows were just pre-taped highlights from last week's Oprahpalooza in Chicago, most of which had already made their way online and on the news. So I passed on those, but I still planned on carving out an hour yesterday to watch the Grand Finale.

She was definitely preaching to the choir. When the show started and she quickly announced there would be no guests and nobody was getting anything, no cars, no vacations, no nothing, I thought "Then why the hell are we here?" Maybe it meant something to the True Believers, but to me it seemed like an hour of Oprah reading off Hallmark cards, broken up only by commercials for Sizzler and Mattressland. And there was something deeply unsettling about a Billionaire media mogul lecturing people to find "their bliss" and live a simple life of love and light. Or maybe I'm just terminally cynical.

At one point I accidentally leaned on the remote and the channel changed to the BBC World News, and even they were doing a report on her but they kept pronouncing her name "Opera", which made me laugh and gave me the title for the post.

I tried to stick with it but after about 20 minutes I threw in the towel and went back to work.

Don't get me wrong, I like Oprah. I think she's done a lot of good in the world and brought attention to a lot of worthy causes. But the orgy of Oprah these past few weeks and months has been overkill on steroids. By the time the show started yesterday I kept thinking "How can we miss you if you won't ever go away?"

But now she's gone. So she says. It'll be interesting to see how long that lasts.

Man’s Best Friends

My dogs hate me.

Despite my best efforts to educate them, they remain stubbornly unclear on the concept of "working from home".

Using their simple dog logic, if daddy is home he is here to play with me.

Sorry, doesn't work that way.

Not that they don't try. Every single morning we go through the same drill. As soon as I sit down at the computer, my older dog starts bringing in a parade of squeaky toys, one by one. He sits behind me and every so often lets out a sad, forlorn squeak. After a minute or two, he abandons that toy and goes off to try another one. He seems to think there's one magic squeaky toy that will do the trick and get me down on the floor to play. The end result is a massive pile of toys just behind my chair.

My little dog is even more pathetic. All day long, she carries a tiny tennis ball in her mouth, never dropping it, wanting to be ever ready if I decide it's time to play. It looks like she's ball-gagged.

By mid afternoon they both get sullen and moody. And occasionally, out of spite, my older dog will grab a rawhide chewy and plop himself between my feet and the wheels of my chair. I think he's secretly hoping I'll roll over his tail, for no other reason than to amp up the guilt.

It's not like I ignore them. We go out for a long walk when the boyfriend leaves for work around 6:30. And I usually block out a half hour to play, chasing one around the house while simultaneously flinging a tennis ball all over creation for the other. And around 1 or 2, we go out for another long walk, this one specifically to go looking for cats. Or to go rolling in the grass. Sometimes both. It's up to them.

But still, it's not enough.

The worst part is they make me feel so bad I've taken to overcompensating by feeding them treats and now they're getting fat.

I am such a bad parent.

My World And Welcome To It

Watch it and weep.

Psyclonic

I'm guessing it's because of this city's long history with the oil business, but an awful lot of the people here appear to be transplants from Texas and Oklahoma. And even if they aren't from there, that seems to be where they find their roots. During football and basketball season every other house in our neighborhood flies OU or Texas Tech flags. Having lived here now through two Spring seasons, one thing is clear...

These people have twister envy.

I first noticed it last year when a freakish Spring thunderstorm was bearing down on the town and the local TV weatherman was absolutely giddy at the prospect we might get a tornado. Evidently one struck the town back in the 30's or 40's and that fact is hopefully trotted out every time the weather changes in the Spring.

The tornadoes last month in Alabama and the ones this week in Missouri are covered on the news here as if they're local events, often trumping the local news. Quite frankly, it's a little weird. There's always this creepy, wistful quality to the coverage, an "if only that would happen here" yearning.

The footage out of Joplin has been heartbreaking to see. And frightening. I've only ever had one brush with a tornado, back when I was visiting my cousin in Minneapolis. Suddenly one afternoon the sirens went off and it was one of the more terrifying things I've experienced. The sickly pea soup skies, the lightning and thunder and hail, the screams of the neighbors as they threw open all their windows, huddling in the cobwebs in the basement not knowing what was coming next...

No thanks. I'll take an earthquake over a tornado any day of the week. At least with an earthquake there's no warning. By the time you realize what's happening it's probably half over. And you'll more than likely be able to dig out at least some of your things, assuming you survive, and not have them thrown 60 miles away. Earthquakes are also more egalitarian. If your house is destroyed, more than likely so are all your neighbors. They don't hopscotch around, flattening one house but sparing the others.

Then again, Bakersfield is probably about as prepared for an earthquake as it is for a tornado, so maybe I should just keep my big fat mouth shut.

Little White Lies

Friday I met with my biggest client here in Bako. I've done a ton of work for them over the past few months, but we hadn't actually met in quite awhile. I chalked it up to my sociopathic personality profile. Not that it mattered; my direction is usually handled over the phone or in e-mail and everything is up and downloaded online.

I met with Melissa, the president of the company, for almost an hour. Going over current projects and generally just chatting about life. Surprisingly, she didn't seem scared of me. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, she threw me a curveball...

"So what do you like most about Bakersfield?"

What was this? A trick question?

The honest answer is "nothing", but the one that popped first into my head was "leaving".

Neither seemed to be the smart thing to say. Not when she was paying most of my bills.

There followed a moment of awkward silence. I feared she could literally see the gears in my head move as I tried to formulate a proper response. And then, without even thinking, I blurted out... "The people."

Huh? Where the fuck did that come from?

But it didn't stop there. She smiled as I said it and leaned back in her chair, and something came over me and I just. kept. talking.

Babbling on about the kindness of the locals and their generosity and yadda, yadda yadda. It was like I was speaking in tongues and had no control over it. It was an out of body experience and it just kept going. I kept thinking of those Miss America contestants and their tightly rehearsed answers to random questions that always get twisted into a plea for world peace. It was verging on gibberish and I heard the voice in my head saying "Mommy, mommy, make it stop" and "quit while you're fucking ahead" and finally, mercifully, I did.

I really can't explain it. Must have been some "fight or flight" defense mechanism. Whatever the case, it worked. I left the office with enough work to last me the summer.

As I was driving home, I started experiencing some pangs of guilt. Not for lying; professionally I lie all the time. That's all advertising is, lying. No, I was feeling guilty for putting on a show for the locals and then coming on the blog to slag them off. As more and more of my livelihood becomes dependent on this city, there's something slightly unseemly about biting the hand that feeds me. It occurred to me that there will probably come a day when the only decent thing to do is abandon the blog.

Luckily, today is not that day.

Sunday Inspiration

Well, we're all still here. Must have been bad math.

So Far, So Good...

Unless this is a "California-specific" apocalypse, I'm thinking we're out of the woods. Still too early to tell. Although I find it hard to believe those European heathens would get off Scot free.

Last Call

One of my first jobs was at a trendy little boutique agency in Hollywood. I shared my office with two other designers, Dan and Jennifer. We were the hottest shop in town but there were rumors of problems. Soon, our paychecks started to bounce and then one day we showed up and were informed the agency was closed. We had 20 minutes to clear out our office.

In the mad scramble that followed to find a new job, I lost track of my office mates. About a year later, I ran into Dan. We both had landed new jobs and I asked what had become of Jennifer.

"Oh, she joined a cult" Dan replied.

Seems she met a guy, he introduced her to his "church" and within a matter of weeks she's sold off all her belongings, disowned her family and moved into the cult compound out in Temecula. Dan tried to explain their philosophy, something having to do with astral projection, but it was way to dense to contemplate and I was running late.

A couple of years ago I was having lunch with a copywriter friend of mine. We were both unemployed at the time and didn't have many prospects and we sat there spitballing ideas to try and jumpstart our careers. After running through the obvious options he hit on a unique idea.

"Let's start a cult" he said.

It sounded intriguing.

We'd cobble together a deeply held belief system from the best parts of what was out there. A little Buddhism, a little Hindu, some New Age Mysticism and Native American spiritualism, some Asian ancestor worship mixed with Day of the Dead symbolism, maybe some ancient Greek Gods and Goddesses and, why not, recycling. We'd coat the whole thing with a little Catholic bling and throw up a website. We'd take PayPal.

He'd be responsible for our sacred texts, I'd take care of all the iconography and symbolism. It seemed like a plan and we had nothing to lose. Ultimately it never got off the ground because he found a job and in hindsight it's probably for the best. Had it succeeded it probably wouldn't have ended well, maybe with a bloody power struggle and visits from the IRS. Or maybe we'd overreach and project the end of the world, and then when it didn't happen the whole house of cards would come tumbling down.

Although we avoided that day of reckoning, it appears others aren't going to be so lucky come Sunday. Assuming it comes. With the world scheduled to end tomorrow, all bets are off. At least we'll have some warning. The prediction is very specific and states the end will begin with earthquakes starting at 6pm "local time". That means when it's 6pm "local time" in Sydney, it'll be 1am here. If I wake up tomorrow and all hell's broken loose overseas, I'm going to have to do some fast re-thinking.

All the same, I'm not too concerned, although I'm putting off mowing the lawn until Sunday, just in case. It's a pain in the ass to do and I'd hate to do it and then watch the lawn collapse into a fiery abyss around 6pm.

The Circus Comes To Town

"You're on TV! You're famous!"

That was my mother on the phone last night, talking about Bakersfield, not me.

Thanks to the Sperminator, we're now known as the "Home of Celebrity Bastard Children". I suppose that's a step up from what Bakersfield is usually known for.



I have to admit, I got it wrong. I didn't think anyone would schlep all the way to Bakersfield to cover this story. Especially once it became clear that the family had been tipped off and fled town before the media frenzy broke. But by noon, the Northwest neighborhood was choked with network satellite trucks and news vans from every local station from the Bay Area to the Mexican border, with countless reporters doing live reports from the lawn of an empty house.

I have to give the neighbors some credit. It was amazing how quickly they got wise to the ways of the media. For the early news broadcasts they seemed absolutely giddy with all the attention, willing to talk to just about everyone. By this morning they had called in the cops, started renting out their lawns to the various news crews and clammed up unless someone flashed a checkbook.

What we did learn was that everyone in the neighborhood knew Ahnold had purchased the house. One woman said the realtor was a horrible gossip and spilled the beans without even being asked. And the mistress herself wasn't shy who bought her the house, claiming it was a "retirement gift". Some gift. Taken with the fact that several of the neighbors claim the boy is the spittin' image of Ahnold, I'm surprised the story didn't break sooner. The again, never underestimate the ability of the locals to put 2 and 2 together and get 3.




I really feel sorry for the boy. All the news reports piously claim they're protected the boy by not naming him or showing his photo, at the same time they're flashing photos of his mother, his birth certificate and his home. They really have no other choice now but to move. This isn't LA, where there's a new celebrity scandal almost daily and it would be easy to blend back into the background the minute Lindsay stole some more jewelry (and you know she will).

No, this is a small town and the people aren't particularly kind and now that the word is out, his future here would be nothing but grim. Time to start over somewhere new.

Maybe Fresno.

RIPPED FROM TODAY'S HEADLINES...

We made the Big Time, baby!

We have A R R I V E D.

We are the white hot center of the media universe, and all it took to get us here is Arnold Schwarzenegger's penis.

It turns out the Governator's housekeeper/mistress/baby momma live's right here in Bakersfield!

Well, that certainly trumps the other big news stories of the day, the weatherman and the stripper or the recent outbreak of horse herpes. That one's going to put a crimp in a lot of people's love lives around here.

Actually, when you think about it, it makes a certain amount of sense. If you need to lay low and drop off the map, there's no better place than Bakersfield. I wouldn't be surprised if half the population is in the Witness Protection Program, because who in their right mind would ever think to look for anyone here?

I'm sure the locals are hoping for a media firestorm that shines a spotlight on the city for days, but I don't know if I'd count on that. I notice even TMZ only mentions the woman lives "several hours outside of L.A.", not bothering to name the city. I'm sure that's to avoid having to send someone up here. I'd hate to be in the room when they drew lots for that assignment.

Still, I doubt it will last. In our tabloid culture the story is too good to pass up, so I'm guessing everyone will eventually send someone up here.

So be sure and look for Bako on your nightly news tonight!

P.S. I actually designed that piece of shit poster for Arnold at the top of the post. Not my finest hour, let me tell you, but it seemed appropriate for the day. It's funny things in life often crop back up at the oddest times. I haven't looked at that thing in years and now it came up as one of the first hits on Google.

Ah, The Circle of Life.

Texas Tea

As if Bakersfield wasn't ugly enough, this week they oiled the streets.

Starting on Monday, tanker trucks slowly moved through the neighborhood coating the streets with a layer of shiny black oil.

Why? Beats the hell out of me. I asked Jim why they did it and he said he thought it was to make the streets "look better". Well, it didn't work.

My theory is that the oil companies have recently seen gas prices drop and the quickest way to jack them back up is to lower the supply by dumping several million barrels on the streets of Bako. It's not like the locals would care.

Since oil doesn't dry, at least not right away, the end result is the cars are now spattered with it and everyone has black tire tread marks snaking across their driveways. And all the pollen and dirt and random trash that normally drifts through the neighborhood is now stuck and embedded in it.

The street looks like a lint trap.

I went online to try and figure out why on earth anyone would do this but haven't yet found an answer. Evidently this was, or may still be, common practice out in the sticks where they oil dirt roads for dust control.

While I suppose we would be considered "the sticks", we don't have dirt roads.

Or at least we didn't until they oiled them.

Play At Home And Win!

Another beautiful day in the BFD!

Actually it's kind of overcast and cold. We even got some rain last night, a real gullywasher...

0.01 inches!

Truth be told, no one is complaining much about the unusually cool weather because everyone knows that in a manner of weeks this place will be an Easy Bake oven.


One of the local TV stations is even running a contest to guess the day we cross 100 for the first time this year. It only runs until May 30th because historically the city always breaks that temperature by June 1st.

Sometime in September they'll run another contest to guess the first day we drop BELOW 100 degrees. For the four months in between, Bako will resemble one of those desolate planets you see in SciFi films, a broiling wasteland incapable of supporting human life.

You have to be a legal resident of Kern County to win the contest, but if you're not, don't despair. As far as I'm concerned, if you aren't a resident of Kern County, you're already a winner!

The Land Of Missed Opportunities

We returned yesterday a little early because we had a couple of errands to run, one of which took us downtown. The boyfriend has never really experienced downtown. He works such long hours and there's really little reason to head there. I, on the other hand, have gone out exploring on many occasions, usually on Saturdays when he has to work. That's when I usually take the photos that rotate through the top of the blog, and it's actually time to spice them up again the next Saturday he works. Can't wait!

At any rate, I acted as his tour guide yesterday, pointing out the highlights (or lowlights, as the case may be). And I was struck again by what a terrible shame it is that this city has turned it's back on it's downtown. There are a surprising number of beautiful, ornate buildings from the 20's - 40's, but for the most part they are all boarded up and vacant. The people here seem clueless as to what a gem it could be. Their senses seem to be dulled by the overwhelming amount of strip mall stucco box architecture that they don't even realize what they have.

I lived in Pasadena years ago and watched the derelict Old Town area transform into a stunning shopping district. Same with the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica, which was a drug addict wasteland when I first moved to the beach and now is one of the biggest tourist draws in town. Even my dinky little hometown, which is almost as provincial as Bako, has turned their once neglected downtown into a thriving arts and entertainment district. So why not here?

They've made some attempts, but it seems as if they're in vain. Last year, the old Padre Hotel re-opened after being vacant for decades. It went through a multimillion dollar refurbishment and opened as a swanky boutique hotel with high class restaurants and a top notch bar. From all accounts, it's the most stylish place in town.

And the word is also that it's barely staying afloat. I keep telling the boyfriend we need to check it out while we still can because most people don't think it's long for this world. It's hard to sell style in a town where civic life revolves around WalMart and Target is considered "fancy, schmancy".



And then there's the Fox Theater. Or rather, "The Majestic Fox Theater", as it's known here. It was re-habbed to be the the cultural jewel of downtown and I have to say, from the outside, it looks like they did a magnificent job. This would be the venue for world class artists and acts to make their big Bakersfield splash. It would be the draw for top tier musicians and pop acts and celebrities of all kind.

We drove by yesterday and on the marquee they listed their big upcoming event...

The Monkees.

The originals. Or most of them. What's left of them. They're all pushing 70.

It's the biggest event until 60 year old Billy Idol swings through town in October.

I don't think they have to worry about where to put the red carpet.

So what to say? I guess they get points for effort, at least where the hotel and theater are concerned. But ultimately it's all for naught if no one cares, and that seems to be the biggest problem here. No one can be bothered to care.

Let Them Eat Cake

Ever since we moved here we've established a new tradition for holidays and personal milestones...

Leaving town.

And my birthday was no different as we spent the weekend with friends in the mountains.

All in all it was a lovely weekend. There was a slight issue with the birthday cake. It seems there always is. Last year I dropped the boyfriend's 40th and we had no choice but to serve it as it was, looking like it had been rear-ended by a semi. For mine, the cake was just a tad to moist, and when it came time to frost it, it crumpled into nothing. We ended up ladling it out of a bowl like a cobbler. It was delicious nonetheless, and made with love, so I have no complaints.

Sadly my birthday wish didn't come true, because we're back.

But there's always next year.

Sunday Inspiration

In honor of my birthday, it's a twofer...

Triskaidekaphobia

Today is Friday the 13th.

Many people consider it an unlucky day. Personally, any day you wake up in Bakersfield is an unlucky day in my book, so today is just another day at the office for me.

Luck is something that's been in exceedingly short supply these last few years. There have a lot of sleepless nights. Sleepless weeks of sleepless nights. When I lost my job. When the boyfriend lost his. When we lost the house. And when we ultimately moved here. That was a month of sleepless nights all by itself.

But recently it seemed my luck had changed. Ever since I returned from my unplanned family leave back in February, I've had more work that I could possibly imagine just a few short months ago. A few of the projects have been out of LA, but the bulk of the work, and several new steady clients, are from right here in Bako. I was able to enjoy my newfound good fortune for a couple of days, but then the sleepless nights returned with a new fear...

We might not be able to leave now.

Even after we bought the house, we still imagined we'd be headed back to LA, if not tomorrow, then in the near future. Once the economy revived and things returned to something resembling normal, the opportunities in the city would blossom and we'd throw the house up for rent and hightail it back over the mountains. But that doesn't appear to be how things are going to shake out.

The economy is limping along in the most anemic of "recoveries". And the advertising business I once knew is gone, wiped out in a tsunami of new media. I still get daily job updates for greater LA and the pickins are less than slim. Full-time jobs are a thing of the past, especially for someone my age. And more and more of the contract work is being run through bid sites where you have to compete against the whole wide world, playing "how-low-can-you-go" with Sanjay in Bangalore. I recently saw one interesting project that seemed right up my alley, but then noticed the current bid on the job was from someone in Moldova for $1.26 an hour.

But no worries. I had more than enough local work here.

And that's the problem.

I can't imagine turning my back on this now. It's taken me almost two years to get steady work here and the thought of trying to do it all over again somewhere else is frightening. Especially in someplace like LA which is swimming in out of work ad people. As hard as it may be to accept, I'm beginning to think we may be stuck here.

That's what I think about, wide awake at night.

In bed.

Flicking the cockroaches off me.


PS. Friday the 13th appears to have already hit Blogger. It was down all morning and now I see yesterday's post vanished. C'est la vie.

The Beginning Of The End

I've become a little obsessed with this whole "End Of The World" scenario.

Mostly I'm just upset I have so many outstanding invoices. Had I known I would have made them all payable now, not in 30 days. Now I will have worked for the past month for nothing.

I'm also not happy about the timing. Next week is my birthday and it's one of the uglier ones. If the world could have ended just a week sooner I could have avoided it altogether and died younger. Now I'm going to have to suffer through it and THEN spend an eternity in Hell.

I'm just assuming that's where I'm headed. Call it a hunch. But that's OK. I think that's where all the interesting people will be. Take a look at the people convinced they've already got a first class ticket to Heaven. What a fun bunch that looks like. A boatload of pious scolds. Call it whatever you like but an eternity spent with Pat Robertson sure sounds like Hell to me.

But ultimately it isn't going to happen. And I'll tell you why. One word...

Oprah.

Do you really think the world is going to end four days before her grand finale?

Never. Gonna. Happen.

The world ends when Oprah says it does and not a moment sooner.

Now, she may in fact choose to end the world on her last show. It's up to her. But I think it's more likely the studio audience will get a new car. It could go either way, but I'm going to go with the car.

We Get Mail...

I try to keep up with all the horrible lists Bakersfield lands on, but it's a full-time job. There are just so many ways that this town fails and really, who has the time?

So, many thanks to my good friend and avid reader Sherry who sent me one that I had somehow missed. She sent it the old fashioned way, with a stamp and everything, because she's one of the select few who actually know where we live and has the address.

And according to the clipping she sent, Bakersfield is the 23rd most radioactive city in the country.

I know what you're thinking... "Twenty third? Why so low?".

My thoughts exactly.

It's a little surprising considering all the nefarious military installations nearby and the city's love of all manner of toxic waste. Had they taken the readings in our house I'm sure they would have scored higher, what with our ancient Radar Range. But still, 23rd is a little disappointing and it's going to be a steep climb to make it into the top ten.

If I was Bakersfield, I wouldn't even try. I'd focus on what they do worst:

Worst pollution.

Worst education.

Worst quality of life.

That's like the "Triple Crown of Horribleness" and it's theirs for the taking. I'd hate to see them take their eye off the prize and lose to fucking Fresno.

Besides, they're already more radioactive than them. Fresno clocks in at #83.

The Lonesome Road

I know Bakersfield desperately wants to believe they play in the Big Leagues, but sometimes the lengths they go to is just silly.

Take, for instance, the morning traffic report.

All the local stations do them several times an hour and my question is... why?

There is no traffic here.

Nada. Zip. Zilch.

But that doesn't stop them. Every twenty minutes or so one of the anchors announces "And now a check on traffic..."

They cut to a slow rotation of various traffic cams set up on "major thoroughfares", in reality desolate cross streets and an empty highway. They look like still images because there is nothing moving in them. If you're lucky you may see a lonely pick-up go by. In case it wasn't clear, the anchor will announce that there is nothing to announce.

One station used to have a "Metro Traffic Map", where they turned every two lane country road into a busy interstate with little car icons rushing to and fro. They finally realized they weren't fooling anyone and ditched it.

The best is the local NBC affiliate, KGET, which ups the ante by cutting to a real live California Highway Patrol officer, seated behind a desk and a huge CHP seal.

"And now, with this morning's traffic report is Officer So-and-so."

They cut to the officer, who always looks so serious. And three times an hour, every day of the week, he says exactly the same thing...

"All roads are clear and open. Back to you Kiyoshi."

Yes, the anchor's name is Kiyoshi.

In the year and a half that we've lived here, I've only ever seen one real traffic alert. Someone had dropped a bale of hay on Highway 99.

"So everyone, if you're out there and you see it, be sure and drive around it" the anchor helpfully advised.

There are few things in life that are self evident but I would think not driving head-on into anything would be on the list. Then again, they know their viewers. Who knows how many lives were saved that day.

Sunday Inspiration

The End Is Nigh

Well, this sucks.

The world is supposed to end on May 21st.

How is it I'm just now learning of this?

If I'd known I could have, you know, made some plans. I sure as hell wouldn't have paid my taxes. Thanks for nothing. According to the Mayans, I figured I had another year and a half. Now I only have two weeks?

At least I don't have to stress out about quitting smoking.

Normally I wouldn't give this much credence, but the locals seem to be a little more susceptable to this sort of thinking. You see lots of "In case of Rapture..." bumper stickers around here. I hope people don't go a little crazy. Once the sun rises on the 22nd, people are going to have some 'splainin to do.

It certainly isn't the first time people have predicted the end of the world. Most famously, the world was supposed to end on Oct. 22, 1844. When that didn't happen, it was labeled as The Great Disappointment.

That was years before Bakersfield was founded and took the title.

Throwing In The Towel

I should know better than to open my big, fat mouth.

No sooner had I written a post about our apparent triumph over the cockroaches and we found ourselves under siege.

They are simply everywhere.

I didn't think there could possibly be anything worse than having one skitter across your face while you slept, but I was wrong. Stepping on one barefoot in the dead of the night is definitely much worse. Especially if it's large. It's like stepping on an éclair. You'll never get that sensation out of your head, and shower all you want, you'll never feel like your feet are clean.

It's obviously a Bakersfield thing. Over the past couple of weeks I've noticed the number of ads for exterminators on the local channels has exploded exponentially. And they all feature the same thing... advancing hordes of roaches.

So, to honor our new cockroach overlords, I've changed the background of the blog to better reflect life here.

This is what a typical morning in our house is like.

Hooray for H O L L Y W O O D...

There are days I long for my former life in the entertainment biz. Like... everyday. Designing posters and ads for Hollywood blockbusters. Jetting all over the world to do photo shoots with glamourous A-listers...

OK, the jetsetting thing happened rarely, but those are the bits I choose to remember. Sue me.

And then I look at my sad little life now, designing sales brochures for manure spreaders. Granted, their high end manure spreaders and they don't come cheap, but still...

Some would say there's really not much distinction whether you're selling John Deere or Michael Bay - it all comes down to the same thing... spreading shit. Having worked on "Transformers", I'm not in a position to disagree. All the same, I'd take a Hollywood job over my current situation in a second.

Or so I thought.

The call came in yesterday late in the afternoon. From an agency in LA I hadn't worked for in two years. A big studio project! I was perfect for it, they said. I'd have to drive in for a meeting today, but the project was mine if I wanted it. It was my ticket back to the Big Leagues!

I said yes without even asking what it was.

And then about an hour later I was emailed the creative brief.

Oy vey.

What a piece of crap. I can't believe people spend good money to make this shit. I'd tell you what it was, but I only have a couple of shaky bridges left back to LA, and I'm not about to burn them. You'll know it when you see it this holiday season... in the remainder bin at CostCo.

So I'm off to LA for a fun, shit-filled afternoon. Sounds almost like Bako.

My World

What's it like to live in Bakersfield?

Take a look.

Good Run of Bad Luck

The boyfriend called me yesterday morning sounding a little frantic.

"You didn't happen to buy Lotto tickets last night, did you? he asked.

Sadly, no, because Tuesday night someone in Bako hit the Mega Millions jackpot. Fifty one million, 32 million after taxes.

Well, so much for our retirement plan. Good luck is in such short supply in this town I doubt anyone else in Bakersfield will hit a jackpot in my lifetime.

Yesterday the winners were revealed, an elderly couple. Making the story that much more heartbreaking, they bought their winning ticket at a gas station where the boyfriend often bought his. He's inconsolable.

Had we won, we'd be picking up the check on the way out of town. We'd pay someone to pack up the house and ship it to our wonderful new home back in civilization.

Scratch that.

We'd be on the road five minutes after they announced the numbers. They could wire us the money. We'd just mail the house keys to a charity and say "Adios Bako" as we watched it drop out of sight in the rearview mirror.

A girl can dream. Or at least she could until Tuesday night.

Would Smell As Sweet...

When I was a kid I had horrible allergies, but by the time I reached high school they had miraculously disappeared. No idea why, but for nearly thirty years they were a distant memory.

Until we moved here.

Last Spring, they were back. Of course they were - everything else in life seemed to suck, so why not bring back the allergies too. And now this year, they're back again with a vengeance. For the past month I've been so congested I can hardly breathe.

But there's an upside.

I can't smell a damn thing.

Living in Bakersfield, not being able to smell is more a blessing than a curse.

Of course, there are sacrifices to be made. I can't smell Bakersfield, but then again, I can't smell anything. Including our beautiful roses. The late, previous owner of this house, Josephine, left us some amazing rose gardens. We knew they were there, overgrown, when we bought the house. But it was Winter and they were dormant and nothing could prepare us for the explosion of color that started about a month ago. They are truly a wonder to behold. The boyfriend says they are the most fragrant roses he's ever smelled.

I'll have to take his word for it.

But yesterday, the equation changed. It was the first day of the year the temperature topped 90 degrees, and as I stepped out the door, it hit me like a knitting needle to the nose... Bakersfield. In all it's fermented glory. It's so pungent it cuts through all the congestion and is now the ONLY thing I can smell. I guess I'd better get used to it; it's going to be this way for the next five months.

They say in life you need to stop occasionally and smell the roses, but in Bakersfield, that's just not an option.

School Pride

The day I long feared finally arrived.

The ATM's at the bank were out of order.

I've written of the ordeal of banking in Bakersfield. The only saving grace is the ATM's, which make the process slightly less painful. And now, that option was taken from me.

I arrived at the bank and was relieved to see only one couple standing at the ATM. A dense looking biker couple, in more ways than one, stood at the ATM. The woman, the smarter of the two, was attempting to deposit a check. She'd slip in her card, punch some buttons, insert the check and...

Within about 5 seconds, the machine spit out her check, followed by the card.

Again and again and again.

On the fourth attempt, the machine spit out her check and then there was the sound of a soft "clink" as the red "closed" sign flipped into place. Without returning her card.

Moments of dumbfounded silence. You get that a lot here. And then she turned to her man and said "It done ate my card".

"It done ate your card?" said the man.

"It done ate my card" she answered.

He turned to me and said ""It done ate her card".

Yes, so I've heard.

They turned to go into the bank and see if they could somehow retrieve their card and I followed to go to the back of the bank where I knew there were additional machines. But when I arrived at the back, I saw all the machines there were out of order too.

I now had a choice. I could drive to another branch, although I didn't know where there was one. But if the system was down, I'd be met with the same situation. Or, God forbid, I could do my banking inside. So, I took the plunge.

I walked inside and immediately saw there was a line of about 75 people corralled in a switchback line in front of the bank of tellers. I know, I counted. Knowing from experience how long these people take to do a transaction, I figured I'd be lucky to be out of there by midweek.

Just then, a middle aged woman in a red polyester blazer tapped me on the shoulder.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

This was Dotty, the bank manager.

I told her I needed to deposit a check, but that all the ATM's were down and I was resigned to wasting my afternoon in line.

She said she'd see what she could do and disappeared and I glumly joined the great unwashed masses in line.

To the bank's credit, they do what they can. They had 12 teller windows opened and staffed, something I've never seen before. But it made no difference with this crowd. The line zig zagged back and forth and ended smack dab in the center of the bank of tellers. At that point there is a large, illuminated display like an airport. When a teller is free, a chime sounds, a directional arrow starts flashing either left or right and the number of the teller lights up.

Fat lot of good it does. Over and over again the person at the front of the line just stood there like a wooden post as lights flashed and chimes donged. Somewhere down the line, the open teller would start waving their hands over their heads and calling out, like a lost hiker trying to signal a chopper.

To no avail.

At some point, someone back in the line would reach over and tap the moron in front which would finally get the ball rolling. The truly amazing thing to me was that the shoulder tappers, who apparently were paying attention, fell asleep at the switch the moment they reached the front of the line and ultimately had to be prodded by someone else. There's an obvious cattle metaphor here, but I'm avoiding using it because it would be unkind. To cattle.

After about twenty minutes, four people had advanced and I was eyeing the deposit slip desk to see if there was anything I could use to kill myself. Just then I felt a tap on my shoulder and spun around to see Dotty.

"Come with me" she said, yanking me out of line. "I got the ATM's fixed for you. There's already a line forming, but I told them they had to wait. You go first."

What wonderful service! How did I get so lucky?

Dotty evidently read my mind.

"I'd do anything for a Driller" she said, pointing at my chest.

I'd forgotten I was wearing my "Bakersfield Drillers" T-shirt.

I saw it last summer in a local store and bought it as a lark. At the time, I still thought we'd be moving back to LA in a matter of months and imagined all the laughs and fun we'd have as I wore it out to the bars back in West Hollywood. Every queen loves a good double entendre.

But we didn't end up moving and I soon learned I couldn't wear the shirt here in town. Everyone would stop me and quiz me about my years as a "Driller".

"What year are you?"

"Who's class were you in?"

"Remember Mrs. So-and-so?"

I quickly learned that this town is so small those aren't the type of details you can fake. So I ditched the shirt to the bottom of the drawer. But this particular day I was behind on the laundry and it was the only clean one I had, so I wore it without thinking about it. And boy, am I glad I did.

Dotty escorted me to ATM like a celebrity, extending her arm to hold back the horde that had appeared like they were paparazzi.

"Everything good now?" she asked.

'Yes, thank you" I said.

"We Drillers have to stick together" she said with a wink.

Yes we do.

DRILLERS FOR EVAH!

The shirt's in the laundry as we speak. I may need to buy more.

From The Department of Unfortunate Timing...

Bakersfield dedicates it's new Mosque and Islamic Cultural Center. They're having an open house. Hope they didn't spend too much on catering.

I swear this city just can't catch a break. If I didn't live here I'd almost feel sorry for it.

And for my Republican friends...

Lost & Found

Yesterday we had a near tragedy.

"Somebody", and I'm not saying who (far be it for me to publicly disparage or cast aspersions on anyone's parenting skills, or lack thereof) left the front door open and our little dog escaped.

I was on the computer around 8:30am, the two dogs asleep at my feet, when "somebody" said he was going to Home Depot. About 20 minutes later, I went to refresh my coffee and noticed only one dog. And as I passed by the living room, I saw the front door wide open.

Now, God bless her, she isn't that bright. So there was still a good chance she was in the house. But a quick check of the house and the backyard turned up no dog.

Even so, I still didn't panic. "Someone" had done the exact damn same thing just a month ago, and in that case we found her right next door, snuffling through the shrubs like a pig looking for truffles, in search of her new favorite delicacy, cat shit. Don't ask. She's a little on the heavy side and doesn't show much get-up-and-go unless there's a cat involved, so I figured she couldn't have gone far.

I searched next door, and the house next to that and then crossed the street to search all the houses nearby.

Nothing.

Now I started to panic. Everyone here thinks they're a NASCAR driver and a neighbor's dog had been hit and killed just two weeks ago. Our house sits near the intersection of quite a few streets and now suddenly I didn't have any idea which way to look. So I just started running.

First I ran west about a block and a half, calling out her name like a lunatic. I encountered a woman in her yard who claimed to be gardening, although I'm not sure that's the right term when the plants are obviously dead. I asked her if she'd seen a little brown dog and she said no. I told her where I lived and asked her to find me if she saw her.

Next I ran south. Again, nothing.

Then I ran east a couple of blocks to where our street intersects with a busy thoroughfare. I have to say I was relieved not to see her near there with all the people zooming by at 60mph.

Finally I circled around through the condo complex across the street. We've seen lots of cats over there recently and I thought she might be drawn to them. Or their "delicacies".

Nothing.

As I was headed back home, I ran into Jim.

Cocktail in hand.

I asked him if he'd seen my dog, and he said he hadn't, but he'd be sure to keep an eye out for her.

I was shaking by the time I got home. I tried to call "someone", but then heard his phone ringing on the kitchen counter.

Consider that "Strike Two".

I was beside myself with anger and fear, but then my crack art training kicked in and I decided to make a "Lost Dog" poster.

Something simple and clean, elegant without being fussy. I was thinking a sans serif font. "Gotham"? No, too trendy. 'Gill Sans"? Too lighthearted. I settled on Helvetica Neue. You can never go wrong with Helvetica Neue.

But what about a photo? I remembered I'd just taken some photos of her last weekend with my phone. I downloaded them, but they weren't flattering. I'd have to do a little retouching. Just shave her down a bit. Give her a waist. Maybe some highlights. Keep her recognizable, yet svelte.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

I answered it, and there stood Jim.

"You lookin' for this?"

There at his feet, was my little dog, happy as a clam, tail wagging furiously.

I noticed Jim had refreshed his drink.

He said he saw her just pacing on the sidewalk in front of the house.

She knew she had been bad, so she pulled out all the "cute" stops, and true to form, it worked. I forgave her.

"Someone" should be so lucky.

Sunday Inspiration