“You Like Me. You Really, Really Like Me.”

A big part of my job is just trying to keep up with the kids. So everyday I trawl through a handful of design sites, noting what's considered hip and cool and edgy and all those things I'm allegedly not anymore now that I'm middle aged. So imagine my surprise as I scrolled down one such site and came across a piece of my work.

How cool is that?

I've been digitally validated, which sounds kinda painful but really isn't. It's actually pretty nice.

I wish I could post a link, but it would blow my cover, so you'll have to trust me on this one.

Who woulda thunk it... I guess I'm still marginally relevant.

Bakophilia

"Bakersfield, Land of Perverts."

There's a motto you probably won't see on a city bus anytime soon, but it's true. For such a bunch of pious scolds, there sure is an awful lot of pedophilia going around. Teachers schtupping students, city councilmen schtupping scouts, coaches schtupping players... there's entirely too much schtupping of minors going on around here.

The city councilmen arrested for having sex with young boys posted bail and then slept with three more boys. He's persistent, I'll give him that.

The latest is the girl's soccer coach. It's always the damn coaches.

Here's a thought... if you're going to schtup one of your students, don't stop at a convenience store to buy condoms driving a school district van with the girl in the passenger seat. Just sayin'.

Space Case

The boyfriend has very few faults, but one in particular has become glaringly obvious over the past few weeks: the man has utterly no grasp of spatial relationships.

This became clear when I was down in Orange County a couple of weeks ago to go house hunting with him. He had lined up several properties to look at, the first one being his favorite. I'll admit, it was nice, but it was small. Very, very small. I was incredulous as he proudly gave me a tour.

"The dining room table will fit perfectly" he said, grandly gesturing to what had to be the dining "room".

Why yes, it would fit...wall to wall. We'd have to crawl across the top of it to get to the kitchen.

Next, in the living room, he vaguely pointed out where all our furniture would go, which would only be possible if we stacked it. I was gobsmacked.

I gently tried to explain to him that he was insane, but he was having none of it. In his mind, the rooms were twice as big as they were and our furniture was half it's size and if he had anything to say about it, this was our new home. Luckily, the landlord's strange decision to paint the place daffodil yellow drove a stake through that potential nightmare scenario. Later that day, we checked out the lovely Tina's spacious condo and crowned it the winner. I left back for Bako assuming a crisis had been averted.

Not quite.

That deal fell through, as well as another for identical condo in the same complex. When the boyfriend drove up here a week ago Friday to help with the packing, we were both getting a little panicked because we had nowhere to move. Saturday morning the boyfriend went back online, trawling the rental listings to see if anything new had popped up and... voila! One did! It looked amazing in the photos, but it listed no square footage. He immediately called the landlord to set up a showing for Monday but the landlord informed him that the unit would more than likely be rented by then. So he made the executive decision to drive back down to see it. I couldn't accompany him since I was slammed with work and had two Monday deadlines.

It took him three hours to get there in weekend traffic. He started texting me photos and the place did look fantastic, but it was impossible to judge the size of the rooms from the images. 'It's big enough?" I asked him repeatedly and he assured me it was. He filled out an application and then made the three hour drive back to Bako.

As much as I trust the boyfriend, and I do, I was a little relieved that I had some back-up. He had arranged to show my parents the condo on Monday and I knew my mother would me give the straight story. When I spoke to her that evening I asked her what she thought.

"It's in a great neighborhood" she said. "And it's very clean. It's... cute."

Aw fuck. "CUTE?" That's realtor-speak for small. Doll house small.

I got the boyfriend on the phone and grilled him about the size, and once again he assured me that it wasn't that small. But he didn't sound quite as cocky as he once did. Not that it would have mattered... we had been approved and the boyfriend had already signed the lease.

Tuesday the phone calls started.

Always mid-day, the boyfriend calling from our new home on his lunch hour.

"Grab a tape measure and tell me how long the bed is... how wide are the dressers... how deep the sofa is... how big is the TV..."

I'd give him the measurements and there'd be silence on the other end of the line.

By Thursday, he sounded despondent when I talked to him, but he claimed he was just tired.

Friday night, he was back in Bako. Rather than relaxing after the arduous drive, he grabbed a tape measure and started measuring things. Then he sat on the floor. And cried.

"I really fucked up" he said through his tears.

Hearing him admit a mistake sent a chill up my spine. That never happens. It must be bad. Real bad.

Turns out the condo is about 100 square feet smaller than the daffodil place.

I guess I'll find out just had bad a situation it is the day we move in... that will be the first time I see it.

The best thing I can do is lower my expectations and expect the worse. Right now I'm picturing something akin to a Habitrail.

The more I've thought about it, the more I'm convinced it'll all be OK. Even if it is bad, it's not like we bought it. If we could tough out two years in Bako, we can tough out a year in a doll house. And at the end of the day, a Habitrail back in the civilized world beats a castle in Bako any day of the week.

And The Loser Is...

I think it may have been last year, but it could have been the year before, but I wrote that there was nothing worse than watching the Oscars in Bakersfield.

For years, that was always "my" day. I threw a huge party and for the most part it was the only party I threw all year. In it's heyday, it was quite the event.

Turns out, however, I was wrong. Turns out there is something worse than watching the Oscars in Bakersfield...

Watching the Oscars in Bakersfield... alone.

Greetings From Bako

Sunday Inspiration

Down The Memory Hole

It was unseasonably warm last night as we took our evening walk. The sliver of a crescent moon hung low in the western sky, glowing orange in the bad air. The stars were unusually bright, both of them. As we walked our little Bako neighborhood, my thoughts turned to... Dallas.

Not the city, the TV show.

Specifically, Season 8.

During Season 7, actor Patrick Duffy had grown bored playing "good guy" Bobby Ewing. He was a big TV star now and there were surely bigger and better things ahead for him, so he asked the producers to let him out of his contract. They obliged and promptly killed off his character.

Season 8 proceeded sans Bobby Ewing, but the bigger and better things didn't materialize for Mr. Duffy. So he asked to come back to the show. Once again, the producers were happy to oblige, but there was a problem... he was dead. Or rather, his character was. You have pretty limited options for bringing a character back from the dead, especially if you rule out the "evil twin" scenario. So the producers came up with a novel solution.

Season 9 began with Bobby's grieving widow awaking to the sound of running water in the bathroom. She goes to investigate and discovers her dead husband in the shower. "But how can this be?!" she exclaims. "You're dead!".

"Oh honey", he replies. "You were just having a bad dream."

And that was that.

Season 8 didn't happen.

It was all just a bad dream.

And never spoken of again.

I've decided this will be the approach we take in regard to our two and half year stay in Bakersfield... it never happened.

We'll do a little nip and a tuck on our personal history and surgically remove 2010 and 2011. We'll fudge the dates to hide the scars and from now on our official story is that we lost our house in LA and then moved to Orange County for new job opportunities. Nothing to see here, move along.

Sure, if anyone were to examine it closely, the puzzle pieces wouldn't quite fit and the dates wouldn't jibe, but why would anyone do that? And soon enough, it will all grow blurry in the mists of time and become irrelevant. Bakersfield will be as it should be... forgotten.

Run Forrest, Run

We were headed out the door for the morning walk when I was shocked to see Dave jog by.

I don't know if his name is Dave. He looks like a Dave to me. Mid 40's, lean and balding.

He lives around the corner on one of the countless dead end streets which also happens to be one of the dogs preferred routes. On the days they choose that particular path, we always run into Dave. Because Dave is a runner.

A very serious runner.

You can tell by his outfit. He's always decked out in a skin tight, lycra running suit. He must have dozens of them because I don't believe I've ever seen the same one twice. He also must have dozens of pairs of running shoes, because the shoes are always coordinated with the outfit. He also wears goggles.

He lives in the third house from the corner, and as we walk by he's always in the midst of his elaborate warm-up routine. Part stretching, part Tai Chi, part meditation and all zen. I used to say "Good Morning", but he always just ignores us. Because Dave is in "The Zone".

We continue on our way, zigging and zagging three or four blocks until we come to the end of the street. We double back around and as we come back upon Dave, he's in the middle of the street. At some point he crouches down behind imaginary starter's blocks. He bows his head, eye's closed in concentration. And then his head snaps up, eyes focused ahead like a laser. He hears the imaginary crack of a starter's pistol and he's off.

He explodes in a burst of speed at the start but soon settles into rhythmic gait, pacing himself. But as he nears the end of his run, he pours on the juice in a frantic sprint. As his chest snaps the imaginary finish tape, Dave thrusts his arms into the air in victory.

Dave has run 100 feet.

Seriously, he runs from his driveway to the stop sign at the corner. Can't be more than 100 feet.

Although you'd never know it by looking at him. He huffs and puffs, hands on his hips, pacing in circles catching his breath as if he's just run back to back marathons. And then he goes home.

It bizarre. The only explanation I can think of is maybe he's on house arrest and that's as far as he can go without triggering an ankle monitor.

Or maybe he's just a lunatic, like the rest of 'em.

At any rate, that's why I was shocked to see him running all the way over here. Maybe he's now on parole.

Doing Time

We finally have our parole date, the day our exile in Hooterville mercifully comes to an end...

March 10.

We'd move sooner, but it's just logistically impossible. Such a shame.

We moved to Bakersfield on September 12, 2009, the day after the 8th anniversary of 9/11. From one unimaginable tragedy to another. For those first few months I used to keep track of the days, like an inmate, but after 100 it just became too depressing to contemplate. Every once and awhile morbid curiosity would get the better of me and I'd tally up the days of our unplanned stay. The last time I checked we had just crossed the 800 mark.

Now that we have an exit date I figured I'd add the days and see just how long we will have been stuck here by the time we see Bako in the rearview mirror for the last time. And the final number will be...

911.

Make of that what you will, but it's kinda creepy.

Does Not Computer

It would appear I dodged a bullet with my computer issues.

It will hopefully end up being a $400 fix and not a $4000 replacement. Of course that doesn't factor in the Mac guy's exorbitant fees. The culprit was a bad video card and I ordered a new one on Sunday and let me tell you, that little video card sure gets around. I just checked the tracking and it started out in Palatine, IL., then went to Davenport, IA, on to Des Moines, IA, then to Sylmar, CA, next to Van Nuys, back to Sylmar and finally on to Bako. It says it's currently out for delivery and I expect I'll hear a knock on the door any minute. I should be back in business later today.

I have to say it's been a pretty scary experience realizing for the first time just how dependent I am on this stupid little box for my livelihood.

I've also realized that this profession is now one for the pretty well off. It used to be that if you had the talent all you needed was a T-square, and X-acto knife and some markers. Now you need a $4000 computer and $3000 worth of software, not to mention scanners and printers and back-up drives and... the list goes on and on.

I got an inkling of that when I first found myself unemployed. I knew I probably had to update my skillset and would ask around for recommendations as to what new software I should learn. A lot of people recommended MAYA, a program used in motion graphics and CGI rendering. I looked into it and the basic software package costs $6500! And classes to actually learn it cost several thousand more. That was an extreme example, but the others weren't all that much better. The bottom line was I simply couldn't afford to learn anything new. Especially since I had already spent a fortune learning other programs that are now obsolete. It certainly makes for a very cloudy future.

I was surprised how understanding my LA clients were with my predicament. I wish I could say the same thing about my Bako ones. What a bunch of whiny little babies. Fuck 'em. I'm counting the days until I can just tell them to pound sand.

Laissez les bons temps rouler!

It's "Fat Tuesday" down at Buck Owens' Crystal Palace!

Listen, I've been there. Every Tuesday is Fat Tuesday.

So come on down and get your party on. The festivities run until the wee hours... 10pm.

“We Are Experiencing Technical Difficulties..."

You would think, with our recent spate of good fortune (new jobs, more work, leaving Bako, et al.) we would be in a celebratory mood. Instead, I've found myself looking over my shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because, for the last four years, that's how it's been... every triumph, however small, overshadowed and overwhelmed by a subsuming disaster.

And it finally came last night.

My computer died a grisly death.

PC people have the "Blue Screen Of Death", we Mac people have the "Grey Shade of Death." It doesn't happen very often - Macs are inherently stable and I've only ever seen it once in the 20 years I've used them, and that computer had been doused by a broken pipe. But the computer seizes up and you restart it and suddenly a grey screen descends like a night shade and a dialog box pops up telling you in six languages to manually re-start the computer. It really doesn't matter what language you speak, it means... R.I.P. It's less a night shade and more a final curtain.

"So how is he writing this?" people may ask. On my rinky dink laptop, which has spent the better part of the day trying to function as a back-up drive, with limited success.

The bottom line is, it may be a minor issue (a graphics card gone bad) which should be rectified by Tuesday. Or... the computer is toast. In which case, I'll be applying for a checker job at the market, because I don't have the five grand to replace the set-up I need to function as I have.

I'll know more tomorrow when the sole, solitary Mac "guy" in Bako swings by to examine the situation. And don't think that's cheap.

So if this space goes dark for a couple of days, just know that's why.

And if it goes dark for more than a week, say "hi" when you check-out at Vons. Because, without a computer, I'm dead in the water and essentially out of work.

The good things in life are always too good to be true. Or they will be crushed, along with your hopes.

Consider me crushed.

Feeling Blue

Up to my eyeballs in boxes. Again.

Moving used to be something kind of exciting, when it happened every five or six years, but this will make three moves in three years and the thrill is gone, even when it means leaving Bakersfield.

Now, if only we had somewhere to move to.

The boyfriend drove back up late last night to help with the packing and he came with some distressing news. We were turned down for the lovely Tina's condo. It's probably just as well because the odds of her being able to truck all her hoardings out in the next few weeks looked remote. He was somewhat cryptic about the reasons, but you don't have to draw me a map - we were declined shortly after they ran my credit.

I only have one blemish on my credit report, but it's a doozy... the short sale of the LA house. Everyone told me at the time that doing a short sale was preferable to a foreclosure, that the impact to my credit wouldn't be nearly as bad. And yet, the day escrow closed on the short sale, my FICO score dropped 300 points and every last credit card I had was cancelled. Even the Discover. So, if a foreclosure is worse, do you have to give the bank a kidney or something?

There is a possible silver lining. There's another unit for rent in the same complex and the boyfriend checked it out before he drove up. It's a little less private, a little darker and a little cheaper, but it's essentially identical to the one we saw last week. He met the landlord and my credit won't be an issue. Or so he says.

There's just one catch...

"They're painting the living room blue" said the boyfriend. "And it isn't a very pretty shade of blue."

My, these Orange County folks are a colorful lot.

Considering most of our furniture and belongings are in the warm, inviting earth tones of the 70's, it's going to make for a pretty garish existence. As far as home decor color palettes go, "blue" would probably be my second least favorite. My absolute least favorite would be "yellow", so I suppose you could say we're moving up.

All the same, we'll keep looking. And the clock is ticking.

Helter Skelter

If you've ever wondered what it would be like if chickens could push shopping carts, wonder no more. Just drop by the supermarket and watch the locals shop.

I seriously don't know what their damage is.... a broken gyroscope, a software glitch? Whatever it is, grocery shopping is certainly an adventure here. People dart about with no rhyme or reason, jerking from aisle to aisle as if they have no control over their own bodies. With no warning they'll reverse course or make sudden turns, ping ponging their carts off each other and the shelving.

Once I was walking about 6 feet behind one woman when she suddenly did a 180 and rammed her cart directly into me. She looked stunned, like she didn't know what just happened. Yesterday I was walking up an aisle towards another woman when she abruptly did a Bat Turn right into the mayonnaise. She then started looking around trying to make sense of it all.

And they have no concept of personal space. They follow each other way too close and then someone will be distracted by a shiny brick of Velveeta and suddenly stop and the next thing you know you have a 4 cart pile-up. You'll get to the check-out line and within moments feel another cart crawling up your ass and banging your shins.

The only excuse I can think of is nerve damage. Probably from years of breathing the toxic air.

Bad Air Day

I had a brief bout of the flu right around Christmas and even though I recovered after a couple of days, I developed a hacking cough that I still have to this day. I assumed it was just the first stage of lung cancer from years of smoking. Turns out, it's worse than that.

I happened to just catch a special report on the local news about the poisonous air of Bakersfield. The air pollution here for the past three months has been the worst recorded in over a dozen years. Which begs the question.... it used to be worse?

The pollution here contains all the usual suspects you'd find in the air pollution of most major cities. And in a way it's unavoidable since the topography of the San Joaquin Valley traps the air and blocks any winds that could help clear it out. But the air of Bakersfield is even more noxious for the things it has that you won't find anywhere else. And you wouldn't want to.

To start, there are all the pesticides and poisons and defoliants from the ag industry. Not to mention tons and tons of ammonia from all the manure. There's God knows what spewing forth from the oil refineries. Added to the mix are deadly spores carrying Valley Fever and... Bubonic Plague. That's right... BUBONIC PLAGUE. "It's not just for the Middle Ages anymore!"

It's a fucking witch's brew of death.

The weatherman anchoring this special report them went on to cheerfully describe the affect of all this on the people.

"In a nutshell" he said "it slowly dissolves the human body."

They then went on to interview people who were moving out of Bakersfield for their very survival, people suffering such horrendous respiratory difficulties that they were interviewed through Darth Vader-like breathing apparatuses.

Holy moly, we are getting out in the nick of time.

Must. Pack. Faster.

Tastes Like Chicken

To paraphrase Donald Rumsfeld, you have to go with the local cuisine you have, not the local cuisine you wish you had.

An Oildale man was arrested for cooking and eating neighborhood cats. The actual charges were "using animals commonly kept as pets for food." There is something seriously twisted about any place that needs a law like that on the books. He was also charged with unauthorized non-agricultural burning. And littering.

Police were alerted by a neighbor who smelled "burning cats".

Just how would anyone know what that smelled like?

This place...

Condo Mania

I don't know why I thought spending the weekend in the OC looking for a new place to live would be relaxing and fun because it just wasn't.

A week ago our biggest concern was potentially having to pay both rent and the mortgage for a month or two. The boyfriend had found an amazing condo, but there were other applications in on it and if we wanted it we would have had to take possession today. And we didn't feel we'd be moving until the end of March. But the owners mysteriously and abruptly took the unit off the market the same day the Bako house sold and here we were, under the gun, trying to find someplace to spend at least the next year.

I drove down Saturday morning and after a dropping the dogs and a brief visit with the folks, we were off house hunting.

First up was another condo the boyfriend had found near his work. He had visited it earlier in the week and said it was going through a complete remodel. It was nice enough, but seemed a bit small to me. There was a full work crew there putting the finishing touches on a brand new kitchen, new floors and painting. Which was kind of an issue. When we showed up they were in the process of painting the main accent wall in the living room bright daffodil yellow. What the hell were they thinking? "Ask the landlord if we could paint that back to white" I told the boyfriend. It wasn't a deal killer so we kept it on the list.

We drove by more places, checking them off due to location or condition. We made an appointment to see one that seemed really promising. It was really close to my parents and looked amazing online. We met an agent at the unit and it really seemed like it could be our dream home. Except for the fact that it backed up on a major thouroughfare.

"Do you think the noise is going to be an issue?" I asked the boyfriend.

"What?" he said.

"Do you think the noise is going to be an issue?"

"WHAT??"

"DO YOU THINK THE NOISE IS GOING TO BE AN ISSUE?"

The question somewhat answered itself.

We were getting a little dispirited and desperate, but we still had one last showing set up.

It was kind of an odd situation. We would be meeting with the tenant, not the landlord. It seems the tenant had only lived there six months and was in a situation where she needed to break her lease and the landlord had put the onus of finding a new renter on her. We were buzzed into the complex and met the tenant out in front of the unit.

Tina.

Tina was a round sort of woman and appeared to be in her late 30's. After the brief introductions she launched into her tale of woe. She had moved into the condo with her elderly father and after only three months he had gotten ill and unexpectedly passed away. There was more to the story, much more, something about a mobile home and a feud with her brother, a fraudulent power-of-attorney... Frankly, it didn't make a whole lot of sense. The bottom line was her father had paid the rent with his Social Security check. "I haven't worked in years" Tina said, somewhat proudly. "I'm on disability." Probably with some nebulous and unverifiable "anxiety disorder". I definitely got the sense that the thought of work made Tina anxious. All the same, I did feel somewhat sorry for her, being forced to move because of the death of her father. Which proved not to really be the case. It turns out her father had left her enough money to buy a double wide somewhere out in the 909. "Paid all cash for it" said Tina.

So on to the house.

One thing was clear. Tina is a hoarder.

We walked into the living room and it was filled to eye level with boxes and plastic bins full of what looked like dolls and other tchotchkes. I assumed she was just in the process of packing.

"I'm going to start packing this week" said Tina.

All riiiighty.

The clutter wasn't the most frightening thing. Smack dab in the center of the room was a massive flat screen TV, one of the biggest I've ever seen. And it was tuned to C-SPAN with live coverage of the wingnut lollapalooza, the Conservative Political Action Conference in DC. Walking into the living room we were greeted by the monstrous, ghoulish image of Sarah Palin's demonic head, six times larger than life.

Tina is a Right Wing hoarder.

I was reminded of images from the Tea Party hoopla back in 2010, heavy set people in patriotic garb and tri-corner hats, tooling around in free, Medicare-paid-for Hoverounds, waving signs protesting government spending. I wondered if it ever dawned on Tina that if her Republicans take control she might have substantially less disability money to spend on QVC.

Whatever.

If you could look past all the crap, the unit was really quite nice. Perfect, actually. It was a couple hundred dollars over our budget, but for the space and location, it seemed worth the price. If we really budget, it was completely doable. We took rental applications and later that night made the final decision... we were going to go for it.

The boyfriend wavered on Monday, worried about the increased cost. He was leaning back towards the first unit we looked at which was $200 under budget. On his lunch hour he went back to check it out once again, which sealed the deal. Turns out the daffodil yellow wasn't just for an accent wall. The entire house, every wall in every room, was now eye blistering yellow. And the landlord was not open to repainting. I would go insane living there. And blind.

So it looks like we're moving into Tina's condo. Provided she can truck all her junk out in time. Which is a real concern.

I have to say that I had an epiphany of sorts after meeting Tina.

I realized I may not have to give this blog up after all.

So Sad

I wrote last week that at the time I came out Madonna was Diva In Chief, but by the time I hit my stride at as a gay man in the 90's, it was Whitney. The high point, in more ways than one, was Gay Pride in New York in 1999. Whitney made a surprise appearance at the Pier Dance down in Chelsea and I was only about 10 feet from the stage. She was a little fucked up, but then, so were we. It was a magical experience, at least what I remember of it.

I was down in the OC over the weekend and the boyfriend and I were out all day Saturday trying to find someplace to live. We arrived back at my parents, who were watching the news, just as the announcement was made about her death. We were both stunned.

My mother didn't really know who she was, which is pretty much true of any music artist of the past 40 years. But she once taught voice and knows an amazing singer when she hears one and as the various clips of Whitney's performances over the years played everywhere over the weekend, my mom was captivated.

All weekend long the sad news was rehashed on every conceivable TV show, with all the same clips and all the same rampant speculation. By the time Sunday evening rolled the story had been recycled so many times, now with the added news that it was probably an accidental drowning, that we all just became numb to it and sat through it in silence.

Finally, as we watched it all again one last time before going to bed Sunday night, my mom offered up a coda.

"It's such a shame. She should've taken a shower."

Caffeinated

A local man was arrested for spiking the office coffee pot with half a gram of meth.

Seems like a waste of good meth - can you even get high by drinking it? I think not.

He worked for a tax preparation business. They promise "rapid returns". I'll bet.

PS. Yes, I know I already ran the this image but never in a million years did I think I'd actually have a story this spot on for it.

Sunday Inspiration

If ever a Sunday Inspiration had "Bako" written all over it, it's this one.

Will Wonders Never Cease

The house sold.

In less than 48 hours.

And for $16k over asking.

And in the uniquely Bako twist (you knew there had to be one), the buyer hasn't even seen the house.

It seems they REALLY want to live in this neighborhood. Why, I couldn't tell you. Must be the charm. At any rate, they had put in offers on three other houses around here and each time had been outbid. So there was no way that was going to happen again, even if they were buying it sight unseen. It's actually not quite as crazy as it sounds... every other house here has the same floorplan, so it's kinda "seen one, seen 'em all".

The offer actually came in Thursday morning before the house had been shown even once. I was initially relieved - I had a huge deadline Friday and never anticipated there would be such a demand to see the house. I thought with the offer in hand we could cut out all that nonsense and let me get some work done. But the realtor insisted we keep showing the house, convinced we would get some sort of "Storage Wars" bidding action. So I gave in, although I tried to get them to cluster the showings so I could pack up the dogs and leave only once.

That worked OK Thursday, when the dogs and I took our road trip out west.

But Friday they scheduled showings for 11:00, 11:30, 12:00 and 12:30. I was already having heart palpitations over my deadline and the dogs were none too happy either. But we had no choice, so off we went again.

This time north.

We cleared the Bako Metroplex fairly quickly and soon found ourselves driving through almond orchards. With the unseasonably warm weather, the trees were already starting to blossom and even I have to admit it was beautiful. I found myself thinking "Maybe I've been too hard on Bako because this is actually pretty cool". Just then the road ended, right at the gates of the massive industrial complex of... Halliburton. The fine folks who brought you the Iraq War. Allegedly, they're big into oil field production, but I think that's just a cover. I think they're really training mercenaries and militias. I have to say it was like coming unexpectedly upon the Death Star.

We tooled around for about another hour and the the dogs and I went through the McDonald's drive through. The dogs love the fries.

Finally we headed back to the house and when we got there I was livid. The front door was wide open and there was nobody there. Just weeks earlier the neighbors across the street had been robbed in broad daylight, most likely by Jim and his felonious drinking buddies. I've got ten grand worth of computer equipment in here, not to mention the TVs and other electronics. I'm leaving this morning with the dogs to spend the weekend in the OC with the boyfriend (and the folks), searching for somewhere to live (the dream home he thought he had lined up for us fell through). There was no way and hell I was leaving a lock box on this house for three days if the realtors were this brain dead.

I railed at the boyfriend and he called back 20 minutes later and said he accepted the first offer. All the other showings were canceled and the lock box was removed and now I can leave with at least a little peace of mind.

And now the real fun begins.

"I didn't really read through the contract when it was faxed" said the boyfriend over the phone, sounding really panicked. What was it, I asked.

30. DAY. ESCROW.

Starting yesterday.

Priced To Sell

"This is a very desirable neighborhood. I think your house will sell quickly. I wouldn't be surprised if there are multiple offers..."

In my experience, realtors are relentlessly optimistic. Or, at least in LA, willfully deceptive. Or delusional. Usually, some combination of the three.

But, hope springs eternal. So when the house officially went up for sale on Wednesday, I hoped for the best and within hours, the appointments for showings started to flood in. Color me surprised. But it was kind of a mixed blessing. I had just acquired a new client and I have a very big job due today. I was already hopelessly behind before the house even hit the block. And now, every two hours or so, I would have to stop what I was doing and pack up the dogs and leave for a good long while. I was basically fucked. Then again, I've lived in Bakersfield for two years, so it's not like I'm not used to that.

I did ask the realtor if perhaps they could kind of gang up the showings to make the disruptions less frequent, so yesterday she clustered a bunch of them together and around 11am the dogs and I had to split for about an hour and a half.

But I had a plan.

There's a park not that far a drive from here. I see it all the time, and it looked pretty nice. The dogs and I would have a lovely afternoon in the park in the unseasonably warm weather.

I figured the park would be deserted on a weekday, and I was mostly right. Except for the drug dealers. And the tatted up ex-cons playing basketball. And I think, maybe, some hookers. They have to go somewhere during the day, right? And there were all those abandoned mattresses piled up, which, you know, could be put to use I suppose.

I led the dogs away from all that, to the back end of the park, to the edge that faced a residential street of run down, once nice homes. They all were encircled with chain link fencing, holding back rabid pit bulls. No doubt intended to intimidate the roving band of parole officers which was going door to door to, you know, check up.

Even the dogs looked uneasy, and who could blame them? I decided we were leaving... NOW.

But what to do? I still had an hour to kill.

So the dogs and I took a road trip.

We got in the car and we just headed west.

Driving west out of Bakersfield is like exploring the rings of a tree, or more appropriately, a nine layer dip. It's the Cliff Note's version of the history of Bako. First you hit the far flung subdivisions, with names like "Liberty", and "Seven Oaks" and "Brighton Park" and "Tesoro". Then you hit the stillborn extensions of said subdivisions, fields of concrete slabs and half-built homes. After that are the fallow former farmland that still sports the faded signs promising "Phase V" of all of the above. Beyond is the real farmland, which you knew was coming by the smell of the manure. The only surprise for me was the discovery of "MilitiaLand", a strip of gun ranges and warehouse "churches" with names like "God's Army".

I have to say, I saw more of Bakersfield in a day than I've seen in the past two years we've lived here. Which is why I'm glad we are getting the fuck out.

And that appears to be happening sooner rather than later...

We have two offers on the house...

Over asking...

In one day.

I'm going to have to adjust to "relentlessly optimistic". It isn't normally in my nature

That’s Entertainment

I made my living for over 20 years in the entertainment business, and it was fun. And lucrative. Things started changing back in the late 90's but you tend to ignore these things when you're being paid obscenely well. But then the economy collapsed and those of us further up the food chain, the ones who made the most money, were chucked overboard to try and keep the whole enterprise afloat. It wasn't personal, just business, and I certainly wasn't the only one affected. The bottom line was that about mid-2009, whatever entertainment work I had completely dried up and out of desperation I started looking north and here we are... in Bakersfield.

But last year things began to change. I started to get calls for entertainment work. And since everyone still had my cell number, the one with the 323 area code, everyone thought I was still hanging out in the old neighborhood. And since everything today is now handled with email and text and FTP sites and...well, I'm now getting almost all my work from Hollywood and they have no idea where I live. I'm grateful, obviously. But here's the thing...

I had actually forgotten how much I hate entertainment work.

Not entertainment. I still love that. But the business has changed and it's now run by anal retentives.

Seriously, this week has been mind boggling.

Here's how it used to work...

Say, you have a new TV show or film and you need to come up with ideas for how to advertise it. So you sit down for a good spell and think about clever ideas and you doodle them up and run them past the team and you'd settle on a dozen or so ideas and have an amazing sketch artist realize them. You run these past the studio, which, back in the day, was run by people who actually still had imaginations and could look at a sketch and visualize it and approve it and trust you to pull it off. And everyone is happy.

Now, I would give an example of what I'm actually working on, but to do so would void God knows how many non-disclosure agreements and blow my anonymity. So for a hypothetical example, let's say its a TV show with Jennifer Aniston. And let's say we came up with a killer idea of Jennifer Aniston walking on water. It could happen, right?

So, in the good old days, we'd sketch that up, the studio would sign off on it, we'd shoot Miss Aniston on some mylar and strip in some water and voila!!... a poster.

But not now.

Now, before we even can show it to the studio, it has to be a fully realized vision. Because everyone at the studios now are now soulless, visionless cretins. And everyone lives in fear of them.

So now, I have to take a head shot of the lovely Miss Aniston, find a photo of a body double and Frankenstein them together. The body won't be quite right, so you'll have to break some limbs and twist some things and more than likely stitch together body parts from multiple photos. I'll break legs to make it look like she's walking. I'll strip in a photo of some water. Surely this is enough to get across the idea to the beancounters at the studio, right?

Wrong.

"I don't know... would she really wear that color nail polish?"

"Those shoes look kind of cheap, can't you swap them out for some Louboutins?"

"There's a flyaway hair over her forehead, that just kills it for me."

"Her wrists look kinda thick..."

"She would never wear a hem that short... lower it two inches."

Keep in mind, these are just preliminary comps. They are going to get the chance to photograph Miss Aniston in whatever they like next month. Doing whatever they want. Hypothetically.

So here I sit, past 1am, not doing anything grand, design wise, and not on Miss Aniston.

I was working on another actress for an upcoming show. I had come up with an idea I thought was pretty clever and the agency I was working for had loved it. Now, as I actually was building it with photos, suddenly and stupidly, earth shattering issues had arisen... her nails.

"She ALWAYS wears French tips, and they are ALWAYS GLOSSY!"

OK sure. It isn't actually HER. And her nails will appear smaller than a grain of rice in the final product. It's a fucking comp. But I'm a wage slave, so whatever you want....

It's so exhausting. And demoralizing. And just plain idiotic.

I need to look into what manicurists make. I feel like an expert at this point and no matter what it pays, it's gotta be less aggravation and better hours.

Hellegance

Ever since we moved to this cow town I've asked myself one question... where is all the ELEGANCE?

And now I have my answer. At the Legacy Suites Motel.

"Where Elegance Meets Bakersfield".

The Last Frontier

Our realtor told us something really quite shocking. Five or six years ago, before the economy crashed, when Bakersfield was booming and new housing developments were sprouting up faster than weeds, the city commissioned a report and determined that fully 20% of the workforce actually worked in LA. People by the thousands had evidently decided that the two hour, hundred plus mile, one way commute was worth the price of a slice of the American dream. A house in LA that would cost half a million dollars could be had here for a little over $100k. For the price of rent on a two bedroom apartment in West LA, you could own a McMansion in Bako. So Bako boomed.

Of course, to justify the drive and not go bat shit insane, you needed to perfect the art of self delusion. You needed to tell yourself, and believe with all your heart, that Bakersfield wasn't really a desolate, backwards outpost in the middle of nowhere. In reality, it was nothing more than a far flung suburb of LA. You know, just like Santa Clarita. But with a big ass mountain range in between.

And to be honest, I did it too. When it became clear over a year ago that we may be stuck here for awhile, for my own peace of mind and fragile mental health, I convinced myself that we weren't really THAT far away. Sure it takes an hour just to get to the LA County line but on a weekend in LA, it could take that long just to get to the beach. Denial: Not Just A River In Egypt. And it was in that spirit that I accepted my teaching position. Making a 200 mile round trip commute once a week wouldn't be a big deal I kept telling myself even though in the back of my mind I was unsure just how long I could pull off that little charade.

But you know what? It really hasn't been an issue. I've actually enjoyed the drive, if for no other reason it's the only break I get off the computer. Since about September I've been flooded with work and have been working seven days a week. For a few hours each week, I was free from the annoying client emails and texts and I was able to give my eyes some much need rest. And the weather has held, making the drive more serene and scenic. I actually liked it.

Until yesterday.

I don't know why, but yesterday reality set in. Maybe it was the grueling work schedule over the weekend and the lack of sleep and loneliness, but on my drive in yesterday I found myself falling asleep somewhere near Burbank. What the fuck was I thinking when I took this job? This is beyond stupid.

All through class I just found myself dreading the drive back and when the time finally came I just steeled myself for the next two hours, praying to God I wouldn't nod off and launch myself off the road and into Pyramid Lake. The pitch black drive through the Grapevine was nerve wracking and when I finally descended in the good ole' SJV, I found myself saying out loud "We really do live in the middle of fucking nowhere."

And as if on cue, then came the tumbleweeds.

Yesterday the winds had kicked up in advance of an approaching storm, I had driven through dust storms on my way out of town and now driving back in I was being pummeled by tumbleweeds. Hundred of them. Flashing across the highway and into the side of the car, piling up along the median and forming clumps that I had no choice but to blast through. Lord only knows what it did to the paint on my car. I've been to afraid to check this morning.

When I finally arrived back in Bako it felt like I was arriving in Dodge City, circa 1880.

I am just counting the days til we return to civilization. I'm just not cut out for frontier living.

Life Is A Mystery, Everyone Must Stand Alone

Around 3 yesterday afternoon the boyfriend was packing up to leave. He had driven up for the weekend to see me and the dogs and, more importantly, take care of the dozens of small repairs and touch-ups that had to be done before the house officially goes on the market on Wednesday. I wasn't much help as I had taken on way more work than I could realistically do over the weekend. On Friday I had 13 projects on my plate and by Sunday I had whittled it down to two.

I know our current situation is temporary and it's ultimately for the greater good, but that doesn't make kissing him good-bye every Sunday any less depressing and sad. Shortly after he left, I emailed off the last job and for the first time in weeks I found myself with the rarest of things... free time.

So I sat down to watch the Super Bowl.

I'm gay, so that meant watching the commercials and turning my attention to folding laundry while the actual game was on. It's the first time I had watched the Super Bowl solo and it made for a singularly lonely experience. By about the middle of the second quarter I felt a wave of sadness start to overtake me and as the tears welled in my eyes, it happened...

The Madonna Halftime Show.

Oy vey.

Now, I love me some Madonna. As I may have mentioned, I'm gay. For gays of a certain age she's about as close to a patron saint as you're going to get. And while I had heard she would be performing, it had actually kind of slipped my mind, so when they said "Next up..... Madonna", my spirits lifted.

She started off with "Vogue". "Vogue" came out shortly after I did and like me, it hasn't aged well. Was it always so kitschy? I guess so. I can't believe I once knew all those moves. Or that I just admitted it in print. What saved it, for me, was the over-the-top production, the grand homage to Elizabeth Taylor as "Cleopatra". Extra gay points for that. Grade: A-

Next up was "Music". Meh. I was never a fan and the production looked cheap. Grade: C

Then came the new song. You had to know there was a new song. Madonna aint stupid and you knew there had to be a new album and tour to promote. And sure enough, she launched into "Give Me All Your Luvin'", a sugar pop anthem that was so saccharin it made my teeth hurt. It was Madonna channeling Britney Spears. Someone should let Madonna Britney was over about four years ago. Not helping matters were the platoon of cheerleaders trying too hard to skew the whole thing "youthful" and chanting "LOVE! MADONNA! They might as well have been on stage beating a dead horse. Grade: D

Around this time two thoughts crossed my mind.

The first was "Jeeze, Madonna is old."

In a bit of sleight of hand, she packed the stage with dozens of dancers, popping and locking and jumping and spinning, all to distract from the fact that Madonna herself was essentially up there doing basic yoga moves. At one point she just took a break and let a tightrope walker take the spotlight. And the provocative sex kitten of yore was M.I.A. Rather than showing any skin, Madonna was bundled up like she was off to go skiing.

The second thought was.... "Is Madonna even relevant anymore?"

That thought must have crossed her mind as well, otherwise why would she pick younger up and coming stars such as Nicki Minaj as back-up singers? I'm sure she's regretting that this morning since all the buzz is about the middle finger and not the performance.

Next came "Express Yourself", which was so brief and forgettable I actually had to go online to remind myself what the fourth song was. I'll give this one an "Incomplete".

And finally came "Like A Prayer", which I liked because it's probably one of my most favorite Madonna tunes. I'll even overlook the whole "gospel choir, been there, done that" production. The marching band was a nice touch. It's hard to believe that 20 odd years ago this song caused such a uproar Pepsi had to pull an ad that featured it. And here it is now in a G-rated Super Bowl Halftime Show. Of course, you can also hear it in any grocery store aisle or elevator, so I guess it's not so hard to believe. I'll give it a A for old time's sake.

And then it was over, Madonna disappearing through the floor in a puff of smoke like the Wicked Witch of the West. Extra gay points for the "Wizard of Oz" reference.

So when all was said and done, for a final grade, I'd have to give it an... A-

I know, it doesn't add up, but I have to admit I was in a much better mood afterwards, so that had to count for something.

Plus, I'm an easy grader. Just ask my students.

Sunday Inspiration

House Hunters

The past week has been overwhelming, between an unexpected avalanche of work, trips to LA and the recently wrapped reconstruction of the house. It's been unbelievably stressful. Good stress, but stress none the less. I woke up early this morning when I thought I might be having a heart attack. Instead, I think it was just the questionable fried chicken I ate last night. Without the boyfriend's McGyver-like skills in the kitchen, I've been left to my own devices and on more than one occasion I've chosen poorly.

Speaking of the boyfriend, he's been a busy bee as well. For a week now he's been looking for a new place to live, on his lunch hours and after work. And earlier this week it appeared as though he had found our new home. He sent me a link to the listing with a ton of photos and he took a bunch more with his phone and emailed them to me. The plan was for me to drive down with the dogs this weekend and give my blessing once I'd seen it in person. But unexpectedly yesterday I was approached about several TV projects and after a crazy quick trip to LA, I now have too much work over the weekend to leave. But still, I thought it best to get a second opinion on the new house. The boyfriend tends to have issues with spatial relationships which becomes a problem with as much crap as we have. So, since I wasn't able to check out the new apartment, I did the next best thing... I sent my mother.

And why not? She is, after all where I get my innate design sense and good taste. If it didn't pass muster with here it probably wouldn't with me either. And the good news is, after a showing last night, she gave it her stamp of approval. She hates the carpet, but other than that, we're good to go.

The plan now it to rent it as of March 1st and move probably mid-March. The Bako house should go up for sale next week, priced to move. Our feeling is the house shows better with furniture in it, especially once the boyfriend gives it his magical staging touch, so if we have to stay a couple of weeks longer than we'd like, if it helps get a better offer, it's the cost of doing business.

So overall, everything seems to be going swimmingly. Which scares me a little. I keep looking over my shoulder waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It's Bakersfield... you know there just has to be another shoe.

Ask, And You Shall Receive

On the local news this morning they did a report on an Arizona lawmaker who's pushing for a "White People's Day".

"Log into our Facebook page and tell us what you think" said the anchor.

Oh Lord, I thought, this can't be good. And I wasn't disappointed. The Algonquin Round Table it's not...










And then there's Bakersfield's own Dorothy Parker, Tina Marie Baker Turner...





I have no idea what "shenar work" is, but I bet it's grueling. And what's with digging for shark teeth? These people...

This response struck a chord with me...


But by far, my favorite response was this...


Happy Groundhog Day!