Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot...

I was sitting on my couch with my partner last night. He was known here in the past as "the boyfriend", but after 22 years together and well into middle age, "boyfriend" seems too silly, so "partner" it is. I heard him laughing and looked to see him reading a book. "What are you reading?" I asked.

"Your blog" he replied.

See, back in the Before Times, pre-Covid, I had decided to have the blog printed and bound. Whatever my feelings toward our time in Bako, I was still quite fond of the blog and didn't want to leave its existence up to the Tech Lords at Google. It got me through some terrible times and I didn't want to discover one day it had just vanished into the ether. I found an online service and it seemed pretty pricey but went ahead and ordered it. Imagine my surprise when a 20lb package arrived on my doorstep containing the blog in hardcover... all THREE volumes. Did I really write that much? At any rate, after thumbing through them revisiting some highlights (or lowlights as the case may be) they went up on the bookcase and there they have sat, gathering dust like an outdated encyclopedia, for years.

Until last night.

It's been 12 years since we left Bako. Honestly, our two and a half years in exile could have easily broken us, but in the end it made us stronger and made our love deeper and enduring. I never would've survived this experience without him, and I know he feels the same. His new career took off fairly quickly and soon I had a new path as well. Together, we've become somewhat prosperous and respectable, which is why I ultimately decided against outing myself in this final post. A friend once told me I should try and sell this blog to Netflix or HBO, and while I was flattered, and as entertaining as people have found this adventure, "The Sopranos" it's not. Besides, my employer would most likely be aghast if they read this blog.

My partner still refuses to use the "B word". Like Voldemort, it is The Place That Shall Not Be Named. If it must be referred to, and he really wishes I wouldn't, we usually just euphemistically allude to the time we lived "up north". With the passage of time, and some artful fudging of the dates we left LA and arrived in Orange County, we have effectively memory-holed Bako.

We spent sometime last night reliving some of the foibles of our time in Bako, misty watercolored memories of the way we were. But looking over the blog, one thing bothered me and that was the final post. I always aimed for snarky and frequently crossed over into spite, but the final post in retrospect seemed especially heartless. So I decided to try and log in and rectify the situation, deleting that final post and giving this blog a proper epilogue. God bless Apple - this blog was created four computers ago but I still had the login credentials stored in memory. So here we go...

Several years ago we were attending an extended family reunion in Lake Tahoe. We decided to drive, which left us with two options. We could travel north on highway 99 right through the heart of Bakersfield, possibly triggering underlying PTSD. Or we could take the backroad, traveling up Highway 395 on the backside of the Sierras through the "Valley of Meth", the no man's land between Victorville and Lone Pine. We ultimately chose the 99 - it was the fastest route and we figured enough time had passed and the highway is mostly below grade as it passes through Bako, so other that the ridiculously tall sign for "Buck Owens' Crystal Palace", there would be little to see to remind of us of our time in exile. Just throw on some club music and focus on the road ahead and we'd be in Shafter before we knew it.

As we approached the "Bako metro area", maybe around Pumpkin Center, the 99 ground to a complete halt. After inching ahead for about 20 minutes, we decided to, God help us, turn on a local AM station to see if we could find any information on the what the problem was. That's when we learned that the CHP had shut down the highway in both directions because some poor soul was clinging to the railing of an overpass, threatening to jump.

Totally relatable - been there.

Without even thinking or consulting a map, I blithely said "Lets just hop off at Panama, cut over to Stine and then cutback on Ming..."

My partner looked at me as if he had seen a ghost. What was wrong with me? Why did I still know that? After YEARS?

Just goes to show you that while you can leave Bako, Bako never really ever leaves you.

And you know, I'm OK with that.

 

The Best Thing About Bakersfield...

Leaving.


***************************************

I'll post an epilogue of sorts sometime next week with news, if any, of future plans.

Eric

Quivering With Anticipation

I was watching the news a week or so ago and they were showing the story of the Costa Allegra, the cruise ship which suffered a fire and subsequently lost power and spent several days adrift in the pirate infested waters of the Indian Ocean. Ultimately it was towed to port in the Seychelles and when it arrived there were reporters dockside to interview the passengers. One woman summed it up...

"It was horrible, it was miserable, it was frightening. The heat was unbearable, what little food there was was inedible, the people didn't seem to know what they were doing. But worst of all was the stench..."

Honey, you just described the last two years of my life.

Her voyage mercifully ended, and ours is about to begin. Within 24 hours in fact. I couldn't sleep last night, neither could the boyfriend. He drove back last night for the last time and we packed until 3.

With just one day left, I suppose I could be charitable. I wish I had some profound lessons learned to share at this point, but about the best I can come up with "to each, his own". I have to say that the vast majority of the people in Bakersfield wouldn't dream of living anywhere else. Most of them were born and bred here and their families go back for generations. All that inbreeding has resulted in an odd little ecosystem that suits them to a T. It can be rough on outsiders, but that's beside the point... it isn't meant for us.

It reminds me of a nature show I saw awhile ago where they profiled these bizarre creatures that lived on the sea floor. Specifically, they had adapted and evolved over the eons to live comfortably around some boiling hot sulphuric vents. That environment would be toxic to all normal creatures, but they thrived in it.

So who am I to judge? I couldn't stand this place, but most of the people here are happy as clams. Little, toxic, mutant clams.

So to the people of Bakersfield, I wish you all well. Don't take this the wrong way, but I hope never to see you again. I'm sure the feeling is mutual.

One. More. Day.

Into The Great Unknown

I'm finding myself feeling somewhat adrift these days.

Part of it is the isolation; I've been in solitary confinement now for over a month, no offense to the dogs. And I mentally checked out of Bako weeks ago. I find on the rare occasion I leave the house or watch the local news, I've reverted to the same "what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-these-people" bemused detachment I had when I first moved here, before the reality and despair set in.

But the void has yet to be filled. I'm excited to be leaving, thrilled actually, but because I really have no idea where we are moving, rather than anticipation I'm feeling more trepidation. I have a vague idea where we'll be from the map and a few fuzzy online pictures of our future home, but other than that, it's a mystery to me. The boyfriend assures me it will all be great, but his continued use of words like "snug" and "cozy" isn't having the calming effect I think he thinks it does.

But in the end, it all doesn't matter. We'll be away from here and that's the important thing. I just want it over with already.

There’s Something Rotten In Bako

As I find myself wrapping things up and winding things down, I have to admit I've had pangs of guilt in regard to this blog. Have I been too mean? Have I been too hard? Have I been too judgmental?

And then yesterday I went to the market.

I found myself in line behind an attractive young guy. And then I noticed the giant tattoo on his forearm.

A swastika.

A big one too; you couldn't miss it.

I'm not sure which was more horrifying, the swastika or people's reaction to it, which was... nothing.

The woman in front of him chatted him up, the cashier cheerfully made small talk, the box boy happily offered to help him out with his bags, no one seeming to notice or care. But you couldn't not notice it.

I'm not so naive as to think there aren't neo-nazis or white supremacists lurking in any given part of the country, but I never thought I'd see them accepted as part of polite society.

It would be easy to dismiss if it was an isolated incident but it's not. A few weeks back the dogs took an unexpected detour through a vacant lot around the corner. The lot is huge and the neighborhood kids use it as a dirt bike park, building up mounds of dirt to make jump ramps. I was just gazing at the ground as we walked along when suddenly we came to a trench that had been dug in the hard dirt. It was about a foot wide and went in a straight line for about 20 feet where it made a sharp 90 degree turn. "What the hell?" I thought as we walked along and then I looked up and realized we were standing in the middle of a 50 foot swastika.

Why on earth would someone take that much time and effort to carve a 50 foot swastika?

I'm glad we aren't sticking around to find out.

“We Can’t Be Beat!”

We came up with a partial solution to our new dollhouse accommodations... Fire Sale!

The reality is our new place lacks both a family room and spare bedroom, so those are two rooms of furniture we'd have to pay to store, not to mention sundry other soon-to-be-homeless pieces of furniture. That simply isn't in the budget. And after moving three times in three years, we've decided to stay put for awhile, regardless of the circumstances, so there was little chance the stuff would be used again anytime soon. Plus, our move is going to be priced by the pound. A ton here, a ton there, it adds up quick. So if we can drop hundreds of pounds off the move, so much the better.

Everything went up on Craigslist last week and initially business didn't look promising. The only calls we received were from cracked out meth heads hoping we might be interested in, you know, giving it away for free.

Let me think on that a moment... NO.

Business picked up on the weekend. A woman called inquiring about the family room furniture and after checking it out, she decided to buy it. She said she'd return with some help to move it and was back in a surprisingly short time with what I assumed to be her family. There was a disheveled, middled aged man I took to be her husband, and three sketchy teenagers I guessed were her children. Turns out they weren't family in the traditional sense, but rather members of the same "group home", which was where our furniture was destined.

"It's a half-way house and it's right around the corner" the jittery teen girl announced. "There are a lot of them around here."

Well, that explains a lot.

And then there was Rachel.

Rachel and her husband were relocating here from LA. Her husband had accepted a job here six months ago and had been making the 300 mile round trip every day since. It had finally gotten the better of him and they reluctantly decided to move here. Rachel was interested in the bedroom furniture and came by to look it over.

She seemed anxious right off the bat and as she told her story she only got more so. When I told her that we too had moved here from LA, she looked to me for reassurance.

"It's nice here, right? she asked, almost pleading.

"Absolutely", I lied.

"Lots of things to do? Nice people?"

"Definitely", I lied.

Shameless, I know. But I couldn't afford to scare her off and lose the sale. Did I mention we pay for the move by the pound?

Rachel seemed visibly relieved and agreed to buy the whole room. She said she'd be back the next day with her husband to pick it up.

Sunday, they showed up to pick up the furniture and Rachel seemed somewhat stressed, her husband too. More than that, they both seemed apprehensive, maybe a little scared. I know the feeling well. That's how we were in the days before we moved here.

I wished I could tell them it would all be OK, but I'd already told enough lies for one weekend.

The Countdown Begins...

My last Monday in Bakersfield.

Just writing that brings a smile to my face.

And I do mean LAST. I will never set foot on this side of the Tehachapis again. Evah.

If at some point in the future I need to travel north, I'll fly. Won't even pass through this neck of the woods again. I'm afraid the smell will bring on PTSD.

Sunday Inspiration

Bloody Obvious

The Cat Fancier was back in the news, the man accused of barbecuing neighborhood cats.

He was in court for his arraignment where he denied killing cats. He did however admit to decapitating them, drinking their blood and then cooking and eating them.

I hate to be the one to state the obvious but once you've removed a cat's head and drained the blood, you more or less have killed it.

Then again, stating the obvious is a particularly Bako trait. In a somewhat related, following story, it seems the Cat Fancier's house has been repeatedly burglarized during his incarceration. They interviewed his neighbor...

"I saw someone trying to get in through the window, so I called the cops. I used a phone."

Well, what the fuck else would you use? Telepathy?

It reminded me of a sign I'd seen earlier that day while I was driving on a street bridge over the Kern "River"..."'NO DIVING".

The Kern River has been dead for years, a trash filled dry gulch splitting the city in two. This particular stretch probably hasn't seen water since the Eisenhower Administration. Is there really a problem with people gazing over the rail at the dried, cracked, concrete-hard dirt bed and thinking "Hey, that looks refreshing...?"

If was up to me, I'd ditch the sign. Save the city some money and hopefully thin the herd in the process. It's a twofer.

Spectator Sport

It's baaaaaack.

The state wrestling championships!

Three days of hot, young, nubile high school boys grappling each other, grabbing each others' junk, shoving their faces in each others' crotches, held in a city rife with pedophilia. Good times.

When it was held here last year, I though it was just an unfortunate coincidence. I assumed it rotated through other cities, but evidently it's ALWAYS held in Bakersfield. Can't imagine why that would be.

There's nothing wrong with wrestling per se, although I find it curious it seems to be most popular in the more homophobic parts of the country. What's creepy are the spectators who are just a little too... interested.

Last night on the news they showed footage from last year. The camera focused on two muscular boys, glistening with sweat, entwined with each other and then panned up into the stands, which were full almost exclusively with middle aged men with binoculars and cameras.

So very, very wrong. So very, very Bako.

A Hit And A Miss

Just to prove I'm not a completely heartless bastard I thought it would be nice to list some of the things about Bakersfield I'm going to miss. And I will, just as soon as I think of some. Seriously, it's harder than it looks. I spun through the blog looking for some forgotten highlight or memorable experience and came up blank. I even enlisted the aid of the boyfriend who generally has a sunnier disposition and is less hostile to all things Bako (but not by much). He had nothing. In fact, the only thing we agreed we would miss were the Fourth of July Fireworks. They were fun. Never underestimate the simple joy of blowing shit up.

The one thing I will miss is this blog. It's been immensely therapeutic and most days it's the only creative thing I get to do.

I'm on the fence as to whether to continue blogging. On the one hand, this blog was born out of desperation and despair, which I'm hoping will be in short supply once we move. Also too the bitterness and resentment which powered it for two plus years. It may have served its purpose and run its course and I wouldn't want to be accused of milking it and overstaying my welcome. Like the last two seasons of "LOST".

On the other hand, I do love writing. And after meeting Tina and looking back on Cindy, it's not like there won't be a wealth of fun topics down in the OC. If I do decide to keep on writing, it will be at a new blog with a new name. I'll close the last chapter on "Lost In Bako" and let it rest in peace.

“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.