There Goes The Neighborhood

So I was surprised to see our dumbshit neighbor Margaret moving out yesterday. At least I think she was moving out. A stake bed truck pulled up and she and her friends just started flinging all her belongings into the back of it. Upended furniture, half open boxes literally tossed into a heap. They seemed suspiciously to be in something of a rush. The way everything was being loaded she might as well just drive it all to the dump because I doubt seriously anything is going to make it out of the ordeal in one piece.

I'm going to miss Margaret. She may have been dumb as a bag of rocks, but she was nice the few times I saw her and she was quiet. I never once ever saw or heard her in her backyard.

We knew she was a renter but she'd evidently been here for years. Now we'll just have to wait and see what the cat drags in. I suppose I could hope for another gay couple, turning our little Lavender Triangle into a Pink Rectangle.

Or actually, it would be a Rhombus.

Whatever.

Our other gay neighbors haven't been the social goldmine we had hoped for, so I suppose it doesn't really matter.

So time to start the betting pool...

A. White Trash

B. Bible Thumpers

C. Shit Kickers

D. Section 8

It doesn't really matter which you choose, because like some much else here, even if you win, you lose.

Random Good Things About Bakersfield #20

I was just thinking it had been an awful long time since I wrote anything nice about Bako. It's not for lack of trying, trust me. It's just always such a needle-in-a-haystack proposition. But then last night the boyfriend came up with one, so here goes.

I thought it would be nice to go out to dinner to celebrate Rosh Hashanah. The boyfriend is nominally Jewish; he even went to school in Israel for several years. At this point I think you could safely refer to him as "lapsed", although he does still speak to the dogs in Hebrew and they seem to quite enjoy it.

The only reason I even knew it was Rosh Hashanah is I've been working on a project for a client in LA who's ultra Orthodox and he was in quite a panic yesterday that we get the project wrapped up by sundown. I've had some wacky deadlines in my career, but that was a first.

So when the boyfriend arrived home from work, I wished him a hearty "Shana Tova!" and asked him where we should go for dinner. "What's involved in a typical Rosh Hashanah dinner?" I asked. He explained and... we decided on Teriyaki.

On the way to the restaurant he said he had to make a quick stop. We had to stop and buy him his lottery ticket. Every week he plays exactly one single, solitary lottery ticket. He's been playing the same numbers for years and he's convinced the one week he doesn't play them will be the week they finally come up.

We stopped at a nearby convenience store and he ran in while I waited in the car. When he returned, he said...

"You know, say what you will about Bakersfield but they do have the nicest convenience store clerks I've ever seen."

And you know what? He's right. With the exception of Miss Thang Tracy at the corner gas station, all the convenience store clerks I've encountered here have been exceedingly nice. And since there's roughly one convenience store for every 5 people in this town, that makes for a lot of nice people.

So.... Bakersfield: Nice Convenience Store Clerks.

Finger Lickin’ Stupid

Our unexpected home renovation has rendered the kitchen useless. Not really, but the hoses from the dehumidifier drain into the kitchen sink, and if you saw what was coming out of them you'd lose your appetite. And your will to live.

So it's fast food for us. But let me tell you something about fast food in Bakersfield... it isn't.

Fast, that is.

If you've read the blog for any length of time you can probably guess the reason: The Perfect Storm of brain dead customers and clueless staff which is a local characteristic. I've chronicled my ordeal(s) at McDonalds, but just to prove the morons here are equal opportunity, today we'll be going to The Colonel.

A lot of times, when I find myself with a craving for fast food, I head to the local KFC. Not because I particularly like the food, but because it's always empty. It has the misfortune to sit in the parking lot of a mostly abandoned strip mall and gets no traffic. No traffic means no customers which means no hassles for me. The only thing you usually have to contend with are the surly teens texting behind the counter. If you try not to think about just how long the chicken has probably been sitting on the warming racks, it's not too bad.

So yesterday I headed over to KFC and as usual, it was deserted. Then, just as I was walking up to the doors, out of nowhere a heavyset black woman swooped in front of me. Didn't even see her coming.

This would be Donna.

I know her name was Donna, because that was what was tattooed on her forearm. I've never understood why people would tattoo their own names on their bodies, but with Donna, it's probably a smart move. As we'll soon discover, Donna is the type who probably forgets who she is pretty often.

So I'm standing behind Donna, who's staring up at the menu board. To me, it was a menu, but to Donna it was evidently the Periodic Table of Elements and she was completely baffled. She was going to need the entire menu explained to her.

Ten minutes later she finally settled on a chicken sandwich.

"And what all is on that?" asked Donna.

Bacon.

Cheese.

And "Colonel Sauce".

What the fuck is "Colonel Sauce"? Who knows. It's probably just a variation of Thousand Island dressing, but it sounds like something out of a bad Southern porn movie.

Donna was having none of it. "No sauce!" she practically screamed. She's evidently had a bad experience with "Colonel Sauce" in the past.

As she was finishing her order, she also added "And I don't want any bacon or cheese neither."

Whatevs Donna.

She moved away and I moved up, but before I could order, Donna popped back into frame.

"You don't have to put it on a bun. I just want it plain."

The cashier and I looked at each other. It was pretty clear to us that Donna was now paying $5.00 for a chicken patty. Donna hadn't yet figured that out and it suddenly occurred to me I didn't want to be there when she did. Donna was a hard looking women and I don't think it's a stretch of the imagination to think that she had done time. Donna could fuck you up.

Both of our orders came up at the same time. They called Donna's name, but she was seated by the window, lost in thought. Perhaps "thought" isn't the right word. At any rate, I snatched my bag and made a run for the door and as I was leaving I heard Donna erupt...

"What the fuck is this??? It's just a fuckin' piece of chicken!!! Why the fuck I payin' $5 for a fuckin' piece of chicken...."

I didn't stick around to see how it all played out. Didn't even look back. If there's one thing I've learned in Bakersfield it's never look back.

A Hole New World

What a difference a day makes!

This was our problem yesterday...



And this is our problem today!



The photo doesn't really do it justice. I couldn't capture the whole mise-en-scène because of all the mammoth dehumidifying equipment and industrial fans, not to mention the heavy gauge plastic that's now cordoning off this half of the house.

Let me just say the benefits of home ownership are vastly overstated.

When All Else Fails...

Yesterday, I finally reached it... THE BREAKING POINT.

Half the house had been quarantined, the ceiling gone. Strangers were tromping all over the house, screaming at each other in Spanish, installing industrial strength blowers and dryers and humidifiers, which all drained into the kitchen sink, rendering the kitchen unusable. We'd lost our cable connection to the world, the dogs were going insane, as were my clients.

I'd had it. Seriously, had it. Lost the will to live.

I would have stuck my head in the oven, but it's electric. I can't catch a fucking break.

So, faced with such adversity, I did the only sensible thing.

I raided our emergency Vicodin stash.

We have one, really we do. It isn't like it's behind glass with a little hammer or anything, which is a good thing because we'd be constantly sweeping up broken glass.

About a year ago, the boyfriend threw out his back, and rather than subject himself to Doctors Without Borders here in Bako, he made a call to our doctor in LA, who promptly phoned in a prescription for Vicodin... 50 pills... with 5 refills.

Well, that should cure just about everything that ails you, and it does. I think I may just be able to get through the day.

Now, in any other town, 250 Vicodins should pretty much be enough for a lifetime, but when I raided the stash yesterday I saw we were nearly out. Call it the "Bako Effect."

I'll give him a call tomorrow and have it refilled. I'm sure he will.

He knows where we live and he's nothing if not compassionate.

Quarantined

Well, I don't know about you, but I'm ready to kill myself.

The leak in the ceiling proved to be the classic case of "good news/bad news".

The "good news"?

A plumber came out and quickly replaced the problem pipe. Not only that, but he surveyed the rest of our plumbing and said it looked to be in pretty good shape.

And then the "recovery team" showed up from our home warranty company.

This would be the "bad news".

We were under the assumption that the problem area was the section of ceiling that collapsed. We were wrong.

They wielded a cattle prod like device that detects moisture. And as they probed the ceiling in frightening larger circles, it was determined that most of the ceiling on that side of the house has been soaked. The leak may have been small, but it had evidently been going on for a long while.

The ceiling has to come down.

They've now cordoned off that side of the house like we're in quarantine. See above. They've started removing the ceiling which has filled the house with the lovely odor of 40 year old wet drywall and insulation and opossum poop. It needs to dry, I've been told, before they can begin re-construction... in a week.

And it's all happening just above the only cable outlet in the entire house.

We will have no TV... for at least a week.

Where was that bookmark for the Hemlock Society...

When It Rains...

"What's that dripping sound?"

Well, there's a four word phrase you hope to never hear.

Not unlike "We're moving to Bakersfield."

But that's the phrase I heard when the boyfriend returned from running errands yesterday. I had picked up a decent size job out of LA late Friday afternoon and had been working on it all weekend. He had just returned from the market with the makings for what we planned to be a a relaxed and pleasant evening. Which now wasn't going to happen.

Because a quick check revealed a puddle slowly forming on the cheap Pergo floor of the family room, right between the TV and the couch. Directly overhead, large drops of water formed on the popcorn ceiling.

"Well that's not good" I said. I say that a lot here.

I knew, from spelunking through the attic in search of the opossum last winter, that all the plumbing for the house ran overhead. I also knew, from that little adventure, that the house was plumbed with galvanized steel. And in addition, I knew from the money-pit renovation of our old house in LA, that nothing good came with old galvanized pipes. All together, I knew far too much.

Because of my previous experience in the attic, I was dispatched to find the problem. Inching along the joists on my knees, I quickly found the problem -a pin prick leak in the hot water pipe was shooting a tiny, scalding stream of water on the ceiling dry wall.

That seemed to be a bad combination.

And no sooner did I think that than a platter size section of ceiling fell away directly under me, smashing on the edge of the flat screen below.

"Well that's not good" I said.

Long story short, the boyfriend made an emergency run to the hardware store for putty and tape and between the two of us we managed to stop the leak. For now.

There's now a massive hole in the ceiling of the family room. The rats must be thrilled. They finally have their All-Access pass to the rest of the house.

A plumber is on the way to assess the problem as we speak.

It just so happened that I had finally received a hefty check from a long delinquent client. I had planned to use the money for a return trip to the doctor. My doctor in LA had grown alarmed when I saw him back in August. He had wanted me to come back the next week to run a battery of tests. I've been putting it off because I simply couldn't afford it. I haven't reached the deductible with my shitty insurance company, and, let's face it, I never will. But now I had the funds, or so I thought. Looks like now the money is going for plumbing, just not mine.

I also just got off the phone with Dottie. She works for our home warranty company and seems like such a dear. She's sending someone over this afternoon to assess the damage and see about the repairs.

"Don't worry honey, we'll make you right as rain" she said.

That's sweet, but not fucking likely. Not unless she plans on packing us up and moving us out of here.

Sunday Inspiration

Dumb & Dumber

Thieves broke into a woman's apartment and stole... the front door.

That's it.

Just the front door.

They left the flat screen. They left the computer.

Just the front door.

"It wasn't even a nice front door" the woman said.

I saw the story on last night's news, but I can't find a link.

I did, however, find another story that's almost as amusing.

Another woman was in the process of moving out of her house. She'd already moved out most of her possessions and went back to pick up the remaining odds and ends. That's when she discovered thieves had broken in and stolen all her appliances.

Including the gas stove.

She was so upset at the discovery that she sat down and lit a cigarette.

The resulting explosion blew the roof off it's joists.

No word on the status of her front door.

Falling Into Fall

So today is the first day of Fall, and as luck would have it, a huge defunct satellite is about to "fall" back to earth. Talk about serendipity.

On the local news they teased that Bakersfield was a potential target. From their mouths to God's ears. Only later did I realize that the target area includes basically the entire populated surface of the Earth, so I'm not holding my breath. Besides, even if it did land here I'm not that sure anyone would notice, what with all the other debris.

I'm feeling somewhat uninspired today and thought I'd just post some of the local news highlights, which is always entertaining. But that's turned out to be somewhat of a disappointment.

There's the usual sex crimes with minors. Nothing special about that.

There's handy leftover tips from "BakersfieldMom.com".

Bakersfield made another list... "Least Educated". Tell us something we don't already know.

Overall, seems to be a slow news day. Not even a single police shooting or meth lab fire.

But then I found this...

"A U.S. Airways flight from Phoenix to Bakersfield was recently delayed by more than 30 minutes because the crew ran out of seat belt extenders to accommodate a large number of out sized passengers."

Way to stay classy, Bako.

Sofa King We Todd Did

One of the first things you learn as a graphic designer, and you learn it quickly, is that the only satisfaction you're ever going to get out of any particular job is on the first round, in the first pass. It's the only time the work will ever reflect your vision and design skill. You get the client brief, you give it careful thought and deliberation, you choose a tasteful palette, sophisticated typography, eye-catching photos (cropped just so) and combine it all in a clever and elegant composition. And then you send it off to the client.

And then they fuck it up.

It usually starts by making "it" bigger. It doesn't really matter what "it" is, it just needs to be bigger. They're paying for all the real estate and they want every last millimeter filled with something.

Then it's usually the color...

"I want it to look like 'Facebook', but not blue..... I hate blue... I really like pink... like a pink 'Facebook'..."

Or they want you to match the colors of a couch.

It then usually spirals downhill from there. If you're lucky you may end up with something that vaguely resembles your original design, something you wouldn't be too embarrassed to show in your portfolio. More often than not, you just cash the check and move on. Life is too short.

But now, thanks to the magic of modern technology, the clients have the ability to fuck it up WHILE THEY'RE ON THE MOVE!

Smart phones! What would we ever have done without them?

Earlier this week I emailed a client a poster design. She's already pretty much signed off on it, with a few minor tweaks. A few moments after I sent it, I got this email...

"I'm finding it really hard to read. The type seems way too small. I don't remember it being this illegible when I saw it in my office."

Hmmm. "Where are you now?" I asked.

"Starbucks."

Well, I think we may have found the problem. You're looking at a three foot tall poster on a fucking 3 inch phone.

Another client called, sounding angry...

"Why did you change the background color to green!?!?!?"

I hadn't. It was still blue.

"I tell you, I'm looking at it right now, and it's green!"

It wasn't. He was just looking at it on his phone.

In his car.

On the 405.

Wearing amber tinted sunglasses.

But as much fun as that all is, nothing compares to the pure joy of receiving angry emails and texts, typed on a touchscreen by clients too lazy to look at what they're writing, filtered through the magic of iPhone Autocorrect.

This is what I received last night from one of my more high maintenance clients...

"net net lay go clot precious fed think thirsty am asa"

You'll be surprised to learn I haven't a fucking clue what that means. What is it...Klingon?

I emailed back for clarification, but never received a response and went to bed.

And then this morning I just had my ass handed to me for not fulfilling his wishes. Somehow, I was supposed to decipher...

"need new layout for client presentation first thing Thursday AM. ASAP"

I swear to God I wish we could just go back to rotary phones.

No Peaks

More than anything else, what Bakersfield most resembles is "Twin Peaks". Without the scenic beauty.

The weirdness factor of this town is off the charts. Now, I'm no stranger to weird environments. I've lived in Hollywood and Venice Beach, both no slouch in the weirdness department. But in both those instances the weirdness could be chalked up to youthful rebellion, drugs or dementia. In Bakersfield, the weirdness isn't so much a bug as it is a feature. Case in point: yesterday's trip to the market.

Yesterday I took one of my increasingly rare trips out to the real world. We were out of dog food. Not for us, for the dogs. Although, at the rate things are going, that may soon be a meal for four. At any rate, I needed to take a trip to the supermarket.

The first person you encounter at the grocery store is Cindy, manning the floral department. She's a kindly looking, grandmotherly type. She reminds me of my old first grade teacher, Mrs. Prosser.

Except Mrs. Prosser never dyed her beehive fluorescent magenta.

Which Cindy does.

Not always magenta. Sometimes it's neon green. Or orange. It seems to depend on her mood.

Occasionally I'll pick up some flowers when I'm there to dress up our otherwise dreary existence, and when I do I can't take my eyes off her hair. Yet no one else seems to even notice. Maybe everyone is just used to it. Maybe she's been such a fixture at the store that everyone is just over it. Still, I try to imagine her sitting in church with that hair.

So I made a quick trip of it and just picked up six cans of dog food. And also some rawhides, because they were on sale. As I approached the checkout lines, my stars were aligned... there was no one in line.

I chose the express line, staffed by Tammy.

She seemed a bit lost in thought and as my dog food slowly rolled up to her on the conveyor belt, she stared at it intently and said, to no one in particular...

"All my friends say I drink too much. They say I'm an alcoholic. They're probably right..."

WTF?

How did we get from dog food to AA? It's a good thing I wasn't buying any box wine.

It was then that I realized there's a good reason I never leave the house, and quickly got in my car to leave.

As I was driving home, a car pulled up next to me at the light. It was a high school kid in a Camaro.

And he was smoking a pipe.

Not your father's pipe. He was smoking a long, curving, clay elf pipe.

Like in "Lord of the Rings".

I was next to Teenage Gandalf.

All of that, in just my little 20 minute outside adventure. Imagine what I would see if I actually explored this place. I'm not sure I have the stomach for that.

My Fair Lady

Well, it's that time of year again.

Tomorrow is the opening of the Kern County Fair!

Where has the year gone?

This year, the theme is "It's Magic", which I can assure you, it's not.

That seems kind of tame, especially after the pedophile theme from 2009.

I'm sure they'll make up for it with this year's delicacy. I hear it's deep fried butter.

That's right - take a brick of pure butter, impale it on a stick, slather it in batter and then fry it in lard until it's a deep golden brown.

My teeth hurt just typing that.

Every year we say we're going to go, but then we don't. At the end of the day, it's just too much Bako in one place at one time. It can't possibly be healthy.

Like deep fried butter.

Let Us Spray

On Friday I had a visit from my new best friend, Lisa. Actually, she's one of my only friends in Bako.

Lisa visites me once a month, like I'm a shut-in, which for all intents and purposes, I am.

These aren't social visits, however. It's all business.

Lisa was here to spray for cockroaches.

Back in June, when the hunky J.T. appeared at my door selling pest control services, I initially only agreed to one Hiroshima-like nuking of the house. But he patiently explained, with his dreamy blue eyes, that to really get a handle on the problem we should consider monthly maintenance. At the time I assumed J.T. would be the one doing the work, and I also imagined that during the hot summer months he might be doing it shirtless, so I agreed. It was only after the contract was signed that I learned he was merely a front man and that someone else would actually be taking care of us.

That would be Lisa.

Lisa is probably mid-30s and built like a linebacker. Her jumpsuit does her no favors. She wears her hair like Alice the housekeeper on "The Brady Bunch". If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say... lesbian. Then again, most of the women here are somewhat mannish, so I could be wrong. She's nice enough to me, but the dogs hate her. Probably because she looks a little like a poodle. A very large poodle.

The service costs $40 a month, which may seem steep, at least until you've been jolted awake in bed at night by cockroaches skittering over your body and face. After that, it seems like a bargain. I have to say, it's worked like a charm. We haven't had a roach problem in the house for months. They haven't really gone anywhere - I still see them enjoying the backyard and at night you can see them by the hundreds scurrying across the fences. But they avoid the house because the house is now too toxic for them. I try not to think about the fact I live in a house that cockroaches find poisonous.

The thing about the pests of Bakersfield is that once you think you've vanquished one, there are half a dozen others on deck waiting their turn. Almost immediately after the cockroaches moved on, the flies moved in and have been a headache all summer. And the silverfish. And the latest arrival, just in time for Halloween, black widow spiders so big they look like movie props. They've colonized our patio furniture and seem to like the pool area, along with the roaches. Nice to see they all get along.

With the backyard somewhat off limits now, and nowhere to go, is it really any wonder I'm a shut-in?

Sunday Inspiration

The Lost Decade

I was listening to NPR yesterday. I listen to entirely too much NPR. They offhandedly mentioned that yesterday was the third anniversary of the collapse of Lehman Brothers, the event that seems to have pretty much started the Great Recession, the first of many dominos to fall.

It's strange because it feels like both so long ago and just like yesterday. Within a year of that date we'd both lost our jobs and our home and found ourselves exiled to Bakersfield. Good times.

They also helpfully added that 1 in 3 economists feel we'll enter another recession within the next 12 months (the first one ended?). The consensus, they say, is that there won't be any noticeable improvement in the economy until 2014, and it will probably be 2020 before things return to "normal", if they ever do.

Armed with all this new information, one thing became crystal clear to me...

I need to stop listening to NPR.

Hooked

I fear I'm going to have to do an intervention. On the boyfriend.

He's recently developed an addiction and it's quickly spiraled out of control.

Drugs?

Alcohol?

No... YARN.

He's become a knitter.

It my own fault, really. About a month ago I made an appointment to have my eyes checked. I'd gone two years without a check-up and I noticed I was squinting a lot and having a hard time reading. I had been holding out to try and get in to see my longtime optometrist in LA, Dr, Greenspoon, "Optometrist to the Stars©". But the sad fact of life is I can no longer afford him, so I made an appointment at Lenscrafters.

The appointment was on a Saturday, and when they called the day before to confirm, they mentioned that they would be dilating my eyes and I might have a hard time driving afterwards. The suggested I have someone drive me, so I dragooned the boyfriend into service.

I figured it would probably take an hour, which I knew would be testing his patience, but then as it drifted into hour number two, he'd had enough.

"When you're done, come get me. I'll be next door" he said.

At Michael's. The craft store.

He left and shortly afterwards I was taken into an exam room and had my eyes dilated. They finished the exam and then told me I was done and flipped on the lights and... yikes! Everything was blindingly bright. They had told me to bring sunglasses, but I didn't have any, having recently sat on my only pair. They gave me a flimsy plastic pseudo-shade to cover my eyes and then sent me on my way.

Like a blind man I made my way next door to find the boyfriend. The shade was beyond useless, so I removed it as I entered the store, which proved to be a mistake. The store was an absolute explosion of color, which was all shimmering and vibrating with my dilated eyes. I felt like I'd dropped down a K-hole.

Finally, I found the boyfriend.

And he was holding a loom.

I wasn't concerned, at first. This house is littered with the scattered remains of past hobbies, something I'm reminded of every time I gaze on the piano. This too shall pass, I thought.

That first weekend wasn't bad at all. He took to the knitting like a duck to water and I was shocked at how quickly he mastered it. By Sunday night, I had a lovely new scarf.

But the scarves have quickly started to pile up. He's been making them for absolutely everyone we know. And he's started exhibiting strange behavior. I would see him hunched at the computer, looking shifty. What was he doing? Surfing porn? No... knitting tutorials on YouTube!

Then last Saturday, he said he had to run some errands and disappeared for three hours. When he returned he had shopping bags loaded with yarn. Those enablers down at the Yarn Barn had turned him to the dark side and now he had a loom to make hats too.

As alarmed as I was, I still thought it was harmless. He enjoyed it so much and he's quite good at it actually. But last night he crossed the line and now I think the time has come to shut it down.

Because now he's talking sweaters.

McMorons

You would think, looking over the husky local population, that if there was one skill they would've mastered, one task they could complete without complications, one simple thing they absolutely couldn't fuck up, it would be the drive through at McDonalds.

But you would be wrong.

Sunday morning I had a hankerin'. A hankerin' for a McDonald's Egg McMuffin.

I was apprehensive about suggesting it to the boyfriend since he's been a little needling about my weight. Imagine my relief when he wholeheartedly jumped on board. But were we too late? It was 10:15 and they stop serving breakfast at 10:30. The nearest McDonalds in only 5 minutes away, so I thought we were safe.

I pulled up and the place was deserted. Everyone must either be hungover or at church. Or both.

I entered the drive through and there was only one other vehicle in front of me, a late model sedan with what appeared to be a lone woman driver.

From the squawk box came a pleasant "May I help you?"

From the car... no reply.

It was 10:24.

"May I help you?"

Nothing.

Just then I noticed the woman driver's arms start flailing around. Dear God, was she having a seizure?

"May I help you?"

Then the woman's arm extended through the driver's window and started jabbing the air with her pudgy little finger, pointing at the menu board.

"That ma'am is an English muffin with egg and cheese...."

The finger jabbed the air again.

"That's a biscuit with sausage and egg..."

Oh hell no! She's making the little McDrone recite the entire menu!

10:25

10:26

10:27

This bitch is going to fuck me out of my McMuffin!

Finally the driver placed some sort of order and drove around the corner to the payment window.

I drove up and quickly placed my order and as the total came up on the monitor, the menu board flipped around to the lunch men. 10:30, on the dot. I'd dodged a bullet.

I pulled around the corner to see the same hapless driver now attempting to pay at the first window. Out came a fistful of cash. Then another one. WTF? Was she paying with Lira? Then the poor girl at the window started handing cash back. Then the woman handed her another fistful of cash. What the hell is the problem? Was the first batch counterfeit?

Eventually the tab must have been settled, because the car started moving up to the second window to pick up her order. Only she... just. kept. going.

Didn't stop to pick up her order. Just pulled back into the parking lot and circled the building.

When I got up to the payment window, the poor girl just rolled her eyes. Nothing needed to be said. It's Bako.

I finally reached the order window and as I received my order, I looked in my rearview mirror and saw the same car coming up behind me, lap 2.

I suppose McDonalds is easier to navigate on the second try. Of course, for all I know this could have been her sixth or seventh attempt.

I happened to drive past McDonalds yesterday and half expected to see the same car still there. In this town that wouldn't be that unheard of.

Moon Over Bako

Never have I seen the seasons change so suddenly and dramatically. Last week was definitely Summer, this week is obviously Fall, ushered in Saturday with the most violent thunder and lightning storms I've ever seen, at least in California.

I talked to a local friend over the weekend, someone Bako born and raised, and she said no one in her family had ever seen anything like it. The lightning was so vicious Saturday night that they did the unthinkable... they called off several football games. For Bakersfield, that's like postponing the Second Coming.

The lightning also sparked over 40 wildfires which have made the notoriously bad air here even worse.

But there is an upside.

Last night, as I took the dogs out for their evening walk, the full harvest moon was rising in the east and it was so intensely orange it looked like the Great Pumpkin.

Fall is definitely in the air.

Or maybe it's just soot.

While We’re On The Subject Of Tragic Anniversaries...

Today marks our second anniversary of life, so to speak, in Bakersfield.

Words fail me. Neither of us could even imagine we'd still be here.

Back in 2009, when our lives were in freefall, the survival instincts kicked in and our thinking at the time was "any safe port in a storm". If that port turned out to be Bakersfield, so be it. It beat living in a cardboard box under an overpass. Not by much, but it beat it.

We could handle a year, we thought. By then the economy would surely be on the rebound and we'd easily find work again somewhere civilized.

But here we are, two years later.

Marooned.

Sunday Inspiration

Such a sad day.

Thunderdome

Crazy, crazy weather.

We were waken at 4am by huge claps of thunder. And blinding lightning flashes.

I haven't seen anything like it since I was a kid. Thunderstorms like this are pretty rare in these parts.

It was the dogs' first experience with either and I think we can safely say... not fans.

Just What The Doctor Ordered

I thought going to the grocery store was the most aggravating experience in Bakersfield.

Then again, I hadn't yet experienced the drug store.

In all the time we've been here, I had yet to have to have a prescription filled. It's not because I'm in particularly good health. It's because my insurance is so shitty I couldn't afford to discover whether I was in good health or not. And once I finally went to the doctor, the answer came back "not". I was diagnosed with extremely high blood pressure. No doubt from dealing with the morons in this town. So off I went to the neighborhood pharmacy.

The letters on the outside of the building may read "C.V.S." but make no mistake, what you're going to be dealing with is "A.D.H.D."

I have never seen a more scatterbrained group of people in my life.

And they were all behind the counter!

Dispensing drugs!

I suppose that's one way to thin the herd.

When I dropped the prescription off, a nurse-ish lady greeted me warmly at the counter...

"Helloooo..... how can I help you?"

I started to explain I needed a prescription filled when suddenly a page came over the sound system.

All of a sudden she started looking up at the ceiling, as if she didn't know where the voice was coming from, her head darting around like a chicken. The page ended and she looked back at me...

"Helloooo..... how can I help you?"

It was if she had forgotten we had already done this and she was greeting me for the first time.

I dropped it off and hoped for the best. The next morning I received an automated call informing me the prescription was ready for pick-up. I schlepped to the store and went to counter and when I said I was there to pick it up, a different woman informed me it wasn't ready.

But they had called, I explained.

She looked puzzled. Actually, she looked lost.

"I'm very sorry, but it isn't ready. Come back around 2."

So four hours later, at 2 on the dot, I showed back up wearing the same clothes I had worn that morning. The same woman greeted me at the counter. She didn't recognize me. She then informed me it still wasn't filled.

"Who told you it would be ready at 2? she asked.

"You did" I replied.

Hmmm. This really threw her for a loop. I thought her head might explode.

She told me I could wait, it would just be 10 or 15 minutes, so I took a seat nearby. And watched.

It really was like watching chickens. The whole staff just seemed to bounce around from place to place with no purpose and every time the phone rang or a page came over the speakers it just drove them to distraction.

Finally, after 15 minutes I went back to the counter. It was lady Lady #1.

"Helloooo..... how can I help you?"

Oy vey.

I told her they had just filled prescription for me and gave her my last name. The filled prescriptions are on a large rack three paces off to the side. By the time she had gotten there, she had forgotten my name.

"I'm sorry... what was your name again?"

I told her again and just for good measure I spelled it out.

She started rifling through the bags of drugs, seemingly lost.

After a few moments I was wondering what the hold up was and it was only then I noticed she was at the wrong end of the alphabet for my name.

"Excuse me" I said.

Up popped her little chicken head...

"Helloooo..... how can I help you?"

I reminded her that she was in fact "helping" me as we spoke. She was looking for my drugs, and she was doing it in the wrong place. I spelled my name, yet again, but another page came from on high and she lost her train of thought. Actually, it derailed.

Eventually, she found my drugs. I had been in the store 40 minutes.

When I got home, I did the only prudent thing. I looked up a photo of the pills online to see if it matched what I had actually been given.

you can never be too careful with these people.

Leave The Driving To Us

School started here a couple of weeks ago so I've had my eye out most mornings for my favorite lady bus driver.

And finally this morning, there she was!

Driving a short bus!

I felt so bad for her. Wouldn't that be considered a demotion?

Actually, if you think about it, it's probably a step up. Fewer kids, easier to handle and park. It's probably a prized position.

We waved as she took the corner way too fast. I suppose you can be a little more reckless knowing all the kids in back are already damaged.

Insane. Heat.

Everything you need to know about Bakersfield in just one photo...

It's incredibly hot.

And the people are a little possessed.

You Heard It Here First

I've written before how Bakersfield is the National Petri Dish for all the corporate chain restaurants. Every new product launched onto the national casual dining scene originated here.

Some of them are hits (McLattés), some of them are horrible, horrible misses (JBX, the Jack In The Box Nightclub).

So imagine our shock and surprise when we saw this...



Taco Bell has something new and special, only for us.

Top Secret.

Extra Super Top Secret.

So, sssshhhh.... don't tell.

Taco Bell is now a now a Private Club, only for the people of Bako and Fresno.

A Private Club that serves..... TACOS MADE OUT OF DORITOS!



Crazy, no?

Could be cool, could be yet another sign of the Apocalypse.

In Bakersfield it's always a toss-up.

The Lords of Bakersfield

No harm, no foul. We returned home and all was well. Truth be told, the more we thought about it, the less we were worried about being robbed. This is Bakersfield, after all, and had we been robbed there was a better than even chance that they would've left the valuables and taken something stupid like the vacuum cleaner.

So, I spent sometime yesterday afternoon catching up on all the local news, or what passes for it here, and I stumbled upon the latest gay scandal.

Jeez.... there sure do seem to be a lot of them around here. Why, it seems like only yesterday the virulently anti-gay local GOP state senator was stopped for a DUI. Leaving a gay bar. With a male escort. Good times.

The latest is a city councilman from a neighboring town, fine upstanding member of the community and firefighter, who was caught schtupping 16 year old boys.

What caught my eye, reading the article, was one of the comments.

"...just like the Lords of Bakersfield..."

"The Lords of Bakersfield"?

Oh... I had to look that up. And all I can say is... yikes!

"The Lords of Bakersfield" is/was a secret society that's been the source of dark talk and whispers for generations. All the "important" people in town have always insisted it was nothing but a myth, but occasionally things would go awry and the truth would be briefly exposed, only to be swept back under the rug as quickly as possible.

"The Lords" were a group of many prominent men in town - judges, lawyers, city and county officials, the editor of the paper, police officials, pastors and scions of some of the wealthiest families.

And they were all gay!

And, obviously, closeted. And predatory.

Originally it was called the "White Orchid Society", which is about as gay as it gets. At some point someone wisely decided to butch it up and re-brand it "The Lords of Bakersfield".

It was a creepy secret association of closeted gay men who preyed on the young men of Bako or any hapless drifter who had the misfortune to pass through town. Whenever something got out of hand or a member of the group was in danger of being exposed, the other members would use their power and position to make the problem "go away". Evidently, in the 80's, that involved a couple of murders.

I wish I could say I was surprised, but Bakersfield is so repressed and wound tight that of course there was an underground gay cabal of powerful people fucking the teen boys. How could there not be? If you go on any of the gay chat sites, absolutely everyone is married and "on the down low".

It's always the most pious, anti-gay reactionaries who get caught soliciting in airport restrooms, offering teens to be a "sugar daddy for a night" or, shockingly, showing off the latest "Puerto Rican Diet".

I always had a gut feeling Bako had a sleazy, freaky underbelly. I also always felt there was something slightly sinister about this place. Seems I was right on both counts.

Sunday Inspiration

Premonitions

We've left town for the long holiday weekend.

We haven't gone far, but we've gone far enough, trust me.

Yesterday I noticed the neighborhood was eerily desolate, more so than usual. We're something of an anomaly in that we actually use our garage to park our cars. Everyone else seems to have turned their garages into macho man-caves or episodes of "Hoarders".

All of our neighbors park their cars out in the driveway, next to the boats and RVs. And yesterday they were all gone. All of them.... cars, boats, RVs. It would appear that just about everyone is gone for the weekend and I couldn't shake the feeling that we were going to be robbed.

Call it a hunch. I'm paranoid that way.

As I was running errands that afternoon I noticed some shiftless strangers hanging out down the street and when I returned home I did the only logical thing. I started hiding things. Cameras. Computer equipment. Jewelery. Just in case.

The boyfriend eventually came home and we packed up the car and the dogs and off we went. As we were leaving our neighborhood and turning onto a main drag, we noticed some other shifty characters loitering about and the boyfriend turned to me and said "I have this weird feeling we might get robbed this weekend."

Funny you should mention it, I said.

I told him I'd had the same feeling and told him what I had done that afternoon. There were a few moments of silence and then the boyfriend executed a perfect Bat Turn and headed back to the house. As I sat with the dogs in my lap, the boyfriend rushed back into the house and emerged a few moments later with everything of value he could carry, mostly watches and jewelery. Essentially, we robbed our own house.

At least we'll have that if we come home and find the house wrapped in police tape.

Offsides

So I had to take my car in for service.

There had been a strange sound coming from my right front wheel well and I probably should have had it checked out months ago, but I had no idea what it would cost and it didn't really matter since I couldn't afford it no matter what it was. But this week it started to sound like the wheel might come flinging off on a sharp turn, so I went ahead and made an appointment.

I dropped the car off and was told it would be about 20 minutes until the shuttle returned. The days of loaner cars are long past, so I took a seat in the waiting room and passed the time surfing the net on my phone.

About 10 minutes later, another guy dropped off his car and joined me in the waiting room. And then another. And then a third.

And they were all stunningly attractive!

Three! That's more attractive people than I've seen in the nearly two years we've lived here!

They were all remarkably similar. They all appeared to be early to mid 30's. They were all extremely buff which you could tell because they were all wearing shorts and very tight T-shirts. And it quickly became obvious we'd all be riding in the same shuttle.

I tried not to stare, really I did. The shuttle finally arrived and we all shuffled out. They other guys let me enter first, maybe deferring to the fact I had been waiting the longest, perhaps due to my advanced age. I climbed into the back row, two others took the middle bench and the one I found the most attractive rode shotgun.

Our driver was Lester, an older black man. Before taking off, he collected our destinations. The three other guys dutifully buckled their seatbelts, I didn't bother. The worst case scenario was we'd be in an accident and I would be thrown into the laps of the other men, and unsurprisingly, I was OK with that.

Then things suddenly took a turn for the worse.

As we pulled out onto the street, Lester loudly announced...

"OK Gentlemen.... LETS TALK SOME FOOTBALLL!"

Oh dear God, let's not. Really..... let's not.

If there's one stereotype about gay men that's pretty spot on it's the one about gays and football. Go to a gay Super Bowl party and the only time anyone's attention is riveted on the TV is during the commercials.

Lester demanded to know "our" teams and proudly proclaimed himself a Raiders fan. Shotgun was for the Cowboys, the other two were for the Steelers and New England. Thankfully, I went last and made sure to choose a different team so I wouldn't run the risk of having to actually know anything about their teams.

"I'm for the 'Niners" I said. Why? Jim, my wacky neighbor, is a huge SF fan and has a Niners banner hanging over the garage. I walk by it every day so it was the only team I could think of.

Suddenly New England, sitting in front of me, turned around and said "Hey man, we play each other in a couple of weeks!" He offered his fist for a fist bump, but never having done that before, I left him hanging with his fist in the air. I was afraid I was now going to be exposed as a fraud, a big gay fraud. What would they do to me? Push me out of a moving mini-van? Luckily, I wasn't seated near a door.

Then, just in the nick of time, Lester said something provocative about the Cowboys and suddenly all the testosterone was directed up to the front and everyone started talking trash about each other's teams. I was reminded that God, in His Infinite Wisdom, usually balances out good looks with brains and once the guys all opened their mouths they became much less attractive.

Mercifully, I was the first stop and I was so anxious to get out of the car I just told Lester to drop me off three blocks from the house. That way, no one would know where I lived.

The ride back in the afternoon was much less stressful. I was picked up by the lovely Esperanza and small talk was minimal since she spoke no English.

She had the radio turned to a local pop station and they were promoting the "Roach Round-Up".

Yes...the "Roach Round-Up".

Send in your photos of the largest cockroach you can find and you could win a trip to Vegas. Only Kern County roaches are eligible. We wouldn't want someone throwing the contest with a foot long ringer from Madagascar.

I picked up my car and on the way home it started making the same sound. Nothing had been fixed, but at least I hadn't been charged anything. I probably won't go back because if I learned anything yesterday it's that I'm better off never leaving the house.

…And For Worse

Today is our anniversary. Nine years.

We met over Labor Day weekend in Palm Springs. I could share the charming and wholesome story we tell our friends and family, or the somewhat sleazier truth, but I won't. Suffice it to say, meeting the boyfriend changed my life for the better and I just want to thank him for putting up with me all these years, especially the last two harrowing ones.

I was looking up what the traditional anniversary gift is for the Ninth and I see that it's "Pottery".

Hmmm..... I found these...



...but I'm thinking that's just not right.

And then I discovered there's also a "modern" version of the anniversary gift list. It appears to have been written by the Sharper Image. "Desk Sets"? Really?

On that list, the Ninth is "Leather".

That opens up a whole world of possibilities. If you're into that sort of thing.

At any rate, I just wanted to commemorate our special day.

I love you honey.