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.

Let’s Get Ready To Rumble

There's trouble brewin' in the neighborhood, bad blood between two of our wackier, some would say scarier, neighbors and yesterday it boiled over in an ugly way.

In one corner, we have Jim, eccentric, alcoholic ex-con and probable grand theft accomplice. In the other, we have Roz, Bakersfield's answer to Angelyne. Roz was once a staple on this blog, but over the past year she's been rather elusive. Like Sasquatch.

They both live in the condo complex across the street and their duplexes back up on one another, which would seem to be the source of the troubles.

It was around noon yesterday when I heard a commotion outside, yelling and screaming coming from the general direction of Jim's house. I looked out my office window but the view was blocked by some shrubs. I could, however, see a squad car parked not far away.

Being the concerned, some might say nosy, neighbor that I am, I went out front to see what was going on.

The Rozmobile was parked askew at the curb in front of Jim's. The driver's door was flung open and Roz was standing on the sidewalk in a poly-blend giraffe print pantsuit, screaming at Jim. Jim was in his front courtyard, behind the wrought iron gate, gripping the bars like a prison inmate, which I'm sure comes naturally to him. He was screaming back at her. What they were screaming, I couldn't make out. I think they were both drunk. Did I mention it was noon? About 30 feet down the sidewalk, a lone police officer stood, arms crossed, doing nothing. Perhaps he was waiting for back-up, perhaps he was just letting nature take it's course. Whatever the reason, he wasn't getting involved.

Just then, Roz's roommate/lover/whatever Deena came charging down the garden path, both barrels blazing. She joined in the fray, screaming at Jim that he was a drug addict with outstanding warrants (both charges more likely than not true), and he fired back calling her an alcoholic carpet muncher (again, ditto).

Just as things seemed about to escalate out of control, another squad car came screeching to a halt right behind the Rozmobile and a burly cop leapt out. Showing remarkable restraint for the BPD, he didn't shoot anyone. He quickly got the situation under control, sending Deena skulking off from whence she came and taking statements from both Roz and Jim. Within a few minutes it was all over... for today. I don't think for a second that this is the end of it.

For me, the most shocking thing wasn't the fight. It was Roz, or more specifically, her car.

The last time I'd seen either one was back in August, when I noted she had traded in the old Vette for a new one and what an ungodly shade of brown it was. Well, in the intervening months, she's given it an Extreme Makeover and it turns out the brown color was only the base because the car now sports an intricate, hand-painted leopard pattern.

A leopard print Corvette... there's something you don't see every day, and trust me, you don't want to.

Well, it should make her easier to track. And with the ongoing feud, that's going to come in handy in the coming months.

Bad Fences Make Bad Neighbors

We have new neighbors.

Can't tell you anything about them because I haven't seen hide 'nor hair of them since they moved in in early November. I know they're there - I saw the U-Hauls out front and now there are cars in the drive and lights on at night. But other than that, they've been invisible.

I can tell you one thing though - we dodged a bullet.

Back in October I was taking a break from work and had let the dogs in the backyard and was lost in thought. (Actually, I was having a smoke, but at the time I was still pretending I had quit, so let's go with "lost in thought".) The sound of screaming children was coming from one of the neighbors and it sounded like a schoolyard at recess. "What fresh hell is this?" I was thinking when suddenly I was startled by a high pitched woman's voice behind me...

"Hi y'all!"

I spun around to see a woman's head poking through one of the broken slats in the fence. She looked disembodied, like the head of a buck mounted on a wall.

"I'm Darlene and it looks like were gonna be neighbors!" she exclaimed.

Darlene was blond and looked to be early 30's. She was pretty in a cheap kind of way and spoke in a thick Texas twang.

"This house is just perfect for me and all my kids..." she continued.

It was only then that I realized all the screaming kids were in the yard behind her.

My dogs had wandered over to investigate the strange woman's head poking through the fence and as they approached there was the sound of a wolf lunging at the fence, the fence slightly buckling from the impact.

"We're gonna have to do somethin' about the fence 'cuz my dog will bust through this like nothin' and have your little dogs for lunch."

I was trying to absorb all this good news when one of the rugrats started pleading behind her...

"MommyMommyMommyMommy..."

Darlene's sunny disposition morphed into a scary looking scowl as she glanced behind her.

"GOD DAMN CHEYENNE NOT NOW. MOMMY IS TALKING TO OUR NEW NEIGHBOR!"

Yikes.

She turned her head back to me and the beauty queen smile popped back up.

"Y'all have a great day. And God bless."

Her head disappeared and I caught a glimpse of the pandemonium in the yard through the missing slat. We were fucked.

Back in September when I had created my little "Future Neighbor Poll" I had listed the choices as:

A. White Trash

B. Bible Thumpers

C. Shit Kickers

D. Section 8

It had never occurred to me to include "E. All of the Above".

Needless to say, Darlene never moved in.

Our first stroke of good luck since we moved here.

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.

Endless Bummer

This morning's headlines were all about shark attacks and missing white women, an unmistakable sign we've reached the dog days of summer. Did it ever occur to anyone that maybe the white women were eaten by the shark, or is that just too obvious?

Any way you slice it this has been a Debbie Downer summer. Little work, dwindling funds and now health issues. A crazy stock market and crazier Republicans and the fear that everything is going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better.

Adding to the general malaise is the realization that the motley group of characters I refer to as "my neighbors" have been more or less missing in action all summer. When it comes right down to it, it's been very lonely around here the past few months. I haven't a clue what's become of them, but I certainly miss the distractions.

I haven't see Roz in ages, although I noticed she upgraded to "RozMobile 2.0". A few weeks back I noticed a brand new Vette parked in front of her condo. It's an absolutely hideous shade of brown, a color so ugly it must be custom. I can't imagine a car company actually offering it as an option, not even an American one. I'm guessing she picked it to match her leopard print car cover. I was relieved to see that "Lil' Roz" made the lateral move, her unmistakably jaunty silhouette still perched on the dash.

Likewise, I haven't seen Roz's partner/roommate/ whatever, Deena the Dog Whisperer. She did drive past us once, with a wave, her rabid dogs almost busting out the back windows of her Kia when they spotted my dogs. I swear it's only a matter of time before those beasts kill something. Let's just hope it's one of the neighborhood kids and not a dog.

The Suburban Gangbangers have been M.I.A. all summer, the low-riders never leaving the driveway. If I had to guess, I think their absence probably involves parole violations.

No sign either of our dumbshit neighbor, Margaret. Obviously she eventually had her power restored because her rattle trap air conditioner runs nonstop and sounds like it's about to launch itself off the roof.

The Old Man Who Washes His Car hasn't been spotted in months. Maybe he's dead.

I did catch a glimpse of our old bitchy neighbor, Mary. She's sporting a new look these days, a hairstyle that harkens back to early 80's Nancy Reagan. It just confirms what I've always suspected - Bakersfield is about 30 years behind the times.

But by far the most shocking absence has been Jim. As long as we've lived here he's been a fixture in the front yard, through every season, hot or cold. Normally his morning would be spent decorating the yard, hoisting pots and decorations up into the sad little tree. Once it got to be too hot, he'd retreat to his lawn chair with a cocktail, holding court and watching the world go by.

But not lately.

I have no idea what's up, but Jim has seemingly vanished. I know he's here, I can occasionally hear his voice. But it's almost as if he's in hiding. I hope there isn't a warrant out for him. That would really bum me out.

With everyone missing, I've had to look elsewhere for my entertainment. So thank God I found THIS!

It's absolutely brilliant. Where to start? How about with the photos? They look great don't they? It almost makes Bakersfield look livable. Too bad all the photos are stock images of other, nicer places. Or how about the music? You won't be getting that tune out of your head all day, let me tell you.

I'm completely mystified why this website exists. All the locals will know it's obviously a lie. And nice as it is, it's not enough to actually lure unsuspecting tourists here and trap them. Or maybe it is. That's a pretty low bar.

Hey! What a great idea. I want to open a bar here in Bakersfield and call it the "Pretty Low Bar". Look for it under "Nightlife", coming soon.

The Eye Of The Beholder

They have standards here. They're low, but they have them.

A neighbor we'd never met just asked us for the name of the person who build our "lovely fence". And just to spite them, we gave them Rodrigo's number.

Gone With The Wind

A couple of weeks ago my office chair broke. Something in the tilt mechanism snapped and it turned into a bobblehead doll.

Office chairs aren't cheap and it was an unexpected expenditure, so for several days I tried to make the best of it. It required the balance of a Cirque du Soleil acrobat. Shift your weight a little too far forwards and you were doing a header into the keyboard. A little to the back and you'd be doing a somersault. Before long my back was going into spasm, so we bit the bullet and bought a new chair.

The old one was shunted off to a corner, but yesterday we were catching up on our housekeeping before taking our first plunge in the vat out back. The boyfriend had had enough of the chair and wheeled it into the garage.

Just what we needed - more broken down crap taking up space in the garage. But what to do? It was too large to fit in the trash bin and they won't pick up random crap thats just wheeled to the curb. I thought about loading it in the car and finding a dumpster somewhere, but that seemed to be entirely too much work.

And then it dawned on me. I need to think like a local.

So I grabbed a marker and a sheet of paper and wrote "FREE" on it. I taped it to the chair and wheeled it out on the lawn.

"No one is going to take that!" the boyfriend protested. And he had a point. It was obviously broken. It looked like it had had it's neck snapped and was hanging off kilter.

"Let's just give it a chance" I said. "It's Bakersfield."

Ten minutes later I peeked through the front blinds.

The chair was gone.

I swear these people are like locusts.

A Plum Shame

"I tried to stop them, but it was too late..."

It was Jim. In his front yard. With a cocktail. As usual.

I was expecting a check so I had gone out to the mailbox, but it was 106 and the mailbox was too hot to touch. Maybe the reason there are so many house fires here isn't meth labs after all. Maybe it's just the mail spontaneously bursting into flames.

But back to Jim... what was he babbling about?

He pointed to our plum tree, the only fruit tree that's in the front yard and not protected by the fence.

It had been stripped bare.

"Bunch of neighborhood kids, from down the street. They were there with trash bags stealing all your fruit. I shooed them away but it was too late. Looks like they got just about everything. I told them they were stealing, but they didn't care. Fuckin' kids."

Fuckin' kids is right.

I was so bummed. I was planning on going out to pick plums once the sun went down, but now there was nothing to pick.

Well, kids... payback's a bitch. I'll get them at Halloween. Not with anything traceable, of course.

Actually, I don't blame the kids.

Can you imagine a world where middle school kids, home for summer break, sitting in the air conditioned game room playing Grand Theft Auto, would suddenly decide it would be really fun to slouch down the street in Death Valley heat to steal some fruit? Yeah, neither can I.

I blame the parents. Bunch of white trash Fagins...

"Go steal some fruit or no Helper for you!"

I suppose I should be grateful it was only fruit they stole, although for all I know they're casing the house too. I guess I'll have to rethink our security arrangement. I thought Jim, forever drunk out in the front yard, would act as a deterrent. It looks like that plan is no longer operational.

Such A Deal

My God these people love their yard sales. It seems like every other house in the neighborhood is having one today. It's like the Rose Bowl swap meet out there, with a caravan of cars going house to house to house.

I'm convinced most of the customers are really just scouts from the competition. Picking up deals and then going home and marking it up a buck and putting it back out on the lawn. All they are doing is selling the same crap to each other over and over again.

"Honey, look at this deal I just picked up for $5!"

"Didn't we just sell that an hour ago for $3?"

Lawn And Punishment

I hate to admit it, but when it comes to the front yard, I'm a failure.

The first couple of times I mowed the lawn, it was awful. But I cut myself some slack because it had been over 30 years since I'd done it. But it's been 5 months now, and I show no signs of getting any better at it. Whatever Mad Lawn Skillz I had when I was 13 are gone and I don't think they're ever coming back. It's embarrassing.

It's also dangerous. I never appreciated as a teen just how lethal these machines are. I can't believe my parents actually let me operate them unsupervised, and that was back before they added all the modern, idiot-proof safety devices. Every time I mow the lawn I'm convinced I'm going to lose a foot. And the edger? Forget it. That thing scares the shit out of me. I've opted to let the lawn slowly creep onto the sidewalk rather than deal with that death machine.

So despite my best efforts, our yard pales in comparison to the neighbors. Especially the Republicans. All their lawns are neat as a tack. A prime example is Bob, around the corner.

He mows his lawn in a perfect diamond pattern that would be the envy of any Major League ballpark. The lines and angles are so exact you could probably chart the stars with it. Then again, that's one of the qualities you expect in someone of his persuasion... military precision.

There's only one solution that I see... a gardener. I'm going to have to step it up and make more money.

Pros And Cons

"Livin' the life, Eric. Livin' the life."

I was walking the dogs around dusk last night and passed Jim and his prison buddies hanging out in the front yard, having some beers. I asked him how he was doing and that was his response.

My God, I wish I was that delusional. It would make living here so much easier.

I've learned quite a bit more about Jim in recent months. He spent some time locked up, for what and for how long I don't know and I don't want to know. He's a recovering drug addict and a not-so-recovering alcoholic. Obviously. This morning he was watering the lawn, screwdriver tinkling in hand and it wasn't even 7am. He makes some money scavenging junk with his friends and then trying to sell it, usually by displaying it out on the front lawn. This week it's a half dozen doors and a ceiling fan.

Jim has these impromptu get togethers almost every evening. Actually, they kind of go on all day long.

There was a time when living across the streets from an ex-con would have made me uneasy, but that's just unavoidable here. Seems like half the town has done time at some point. And besides, we consider Jim a friend and his buddies seem fairly genial. With them hanging out all day it's like a full-time Neighborhood Watch and saves us the cost of putting in an alarm system.

The parties used to stretch into the night, but Jim lives with his gay dad Erich and they recently changed Erich's schedule down at Walmart and he has to get up at 3am. So if Jim doesn't wrap things up by around 8, Erich comes out and shoos everyone away so he can get some sleep.

One other thing I learned about Jim is he has a girlfriend. We haven't had the pleasure of meeting her, but Jim says that we will.

In October.

When she gets out of prison.

The Dullest Tool In The Shed

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

Take, for instance, our neighbor Margaret.

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

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

"Do you have power?" she asked.

Why yes, we did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This stumped Margaret.

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

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

"Did you pay your electric bill?"

*** crickets ****

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

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

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

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

The Oprah finale that aired the day before.

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

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

The Mystical Power of Lesbians

I had promised my dogs an extra long walk yesterday. I had been so busy with work this week that I hadn't been able to give them the attention they so richly deserve. I delivered on my promise and we were almost home, when we rounded the last corner and I saw a frantic Jack Russell terrier darting through yards and out into the street. Hot on her heels were two tiny puppies. Someone must have let them out, I thought and as I walked a little further I saw a woman standing by the open slider of a mini-van trying to coax the dogs to her. I just assumed they were hers, but as we got closer, she asked me if I could help. She said she'd seen the dog and her puppies aimlessly roaming the neighborhood all day, and the mother dog kept running into the street and nearly had been been hit several times.

The terrier came over to check out my dogs, but she was horribly skittish and ran away anytime I got close. I could see the dog had no collar. There wasn't much I could do as long as I had my own dogs, so I told the woman I had to go drop my dogs off at home and I would come back. I returned with one of my dog's harnesses, hoping I could get close enough to catch her and hook her up. The puppies had run off into some bushes to hide, and when we found them they had curled up against each other and were fast asleep.

For 20 minutes we tried to catch the dog, but it was hyper and frantic because it didn't know where it's puppies were. I got the bright idea to try and lure her with her kids, so we retrieved the puppies from the bushes and I sat on a lawn with them in full view. It did the trick, to a point. The terrier came to me and inched up to her babies, but every time I made even the slightest move, she was off again.

I then thought perhaps if we could lure her into our backyard, at least in a confined space she'd be easier to catch and would at least be out of traffic. I picked up the puppies and started walking home. The terrier followed behind at a distance and the woman trailed us all in her mini-van. Along the way, we ran into several neighbors and I asked each if they knew who the dog belonged to. They mentioned they had seen the dog in the neighborhood for the past several days but didn't know who it belonged to.

We got to the house and I opened the gate and carried the puppies so the mama dog could see where we were going. The woman parked and I told her to come up from behind and when the dog entered the backyard to close the gate. The plan almost worked, but the terrier is smarter than most people here and just as she was about to come into the backyard, she realized something was up and turned tail and ran. We tried it a couple more times, but the dog was on to us, so finally I brought the puppies back out onto the front lawn and once again tried to lure the dog with her babies.

The puppies were adorable (see above) and several times we were close to catching the dog. But she seemed terrified of people and I could only imagine what kind of abuse she must have endured. We were on full view with our dilemma and slowly other people stopped to try and help. It was heartwarming to see how many people truly cared. Some people tried to catch the dog, others stood in the street to slow down cars, a couple of people brought out dog food and water. But in the end, it may have been too many people, because soon the terrier was running far down the street and disappearing completely for long stretches of time. By this time an hour and a half had passed and I didn't know what we were going to do. We had the puppies, but they couldn't have been more than a couple weeks old and I was pretty sure they hadn't been weened. And abandoning the mother to save the pups seemed cruel.

The woman suggested we call the dogcatcher.

They have a dogcatcher here?

Eventually people started to give up and leave and I hadn't a clue what to do at that point.

And then, out from the neighboring condo complex, lumbered Deena, the lesbian.

"What's going on? " she asked.

We explained the situation and Deena said she'd seen the dog a couple of weeks ago. She said, in fact, a friend had seen her too and mentioned that if they were able to catch the dog, she's be happy to adopt her.

"Let me make some calls..." said Deena.

She disappeared for about ten minutes and when she returned she was carrying a dog crate.

"I talked to my friend and she's on the way. Says she'll adopt the mother and the babies too. Take them to the vet and get them all checked out and healthy."

That was great news, but we still had to catch the mother.

Deena stomped into the yard and plopped herself down on the lawn sitting Indian style with the crate behind her.

"Give me the puppies" she demanded.

I know from experience you don't fuck with Deena, so I handed over the pups and she placed them in her lap.

At this point we hadn't seen the mother in about 20 minutes. I didn't even know if she was in the neighborhood anymore, although I suspected she wouldn't abandon her kids.

Deena sat with the pups. And whistled.

A loud, shrill whistle.

Suddenly, across the street, the terrier's head poked out from behind our juniper. The juniper the boyfriend had accidentally butchered over the weekend. Deena whistled again, and the terrier calmly trotted across the street and slowly approached her. Deena sat there, unmoving, and the terrier circled her a couple of times.

And the the terrier sidled up beside her and laid down!

Deena reached over to pet her, and I figured this was when the dog would bolt. But it quietly sat there and let Deena pet her. Deena stroked her back and slowly rubbed her ears.

And then, in a flash, she performed some lesbian jujitsu and the dog was in the crate.

Seriously, I didn't even see it happen, it was that fast. Dog on the ground, dog in the crate, in the blink of an eye.

The dog freaked out at first, but then we placed her puppies in with her. Once they were reunited, everyone calmed down.

Deena got up off the grass, picked up the crate, said a terse "Thanks", and she was gone. Crisis averted. After two hours.

I always thought of lesbians as cat people, but not anymore. Deena is a "Dog Whisperer".

Just A Nip And A Tuck

The weekend started on a bit of a low note - we finally received our tax returns.

Talk about demoralizing. And I'm not talking about the taxes; those came in about as expected. What was so depressing was seeing the final tally of my income for the year. I had a rough idea of what I made, but I just didn't have the stomach to actually add it up before everything went off to the accountant. Now I was staring at it in stark black and white. Feeling masochistic, I whipped out a calculator to determine just how far I'd fallen and figure out what percentage of my 2007 income I was now making. And the gruesome answer?

25%.

I should have just skipped college and gotten a job at McDonalds. I'd be middle management by now.

The boyfriend fared better than I. He's making close to half what he once made. But all told, it cast a horrible pall over our weekend. We needed something to take our mind off our financial troubles and decided the best answer was...

Agressive yard work.

And I mean aggressive... we broke out the chainsaw.

I know what you're thinking... two gay men and a chainsaw, there's something you don't see every day.

We actually bought it when we bought our house in LA. We had one large, somewhat mangy tree, dead center in our backyard. All it really needed was a trim, but in those first few months, we were house poor and so we couldn't really afford a professional trimmer. But how hard could it be? We'd do it ourselves.

I was up on a ladder, wielding our new chainsaw. The boyfriend was down below, art directing. There was a steeper learning curve than I had imagined with the chainsaw. Wrong limbs cut, or cut too short. Cutting through one limb and accidentally nailing the one behind too. Eventually, I got the hang of it, but it was too late. The tree looked like a celery stalk.

It would grow back, we said. In time, it would grow back. But it was truly awful to look at and we didn't have the patience. The following weekend we used our new chainsaw to cut it down at base and covered the stump with a potted plant.

This time would be different, we'd learned from our mistakes. Or so I thought.

Initially, it went well. We trimmed several trees with the lightest of touch. But then I handed off the chainsaw to the boyfriend as I went to tend to my weed garden.

The first sign of trouble was the trees on the side of the house. Four smallish trees spaced out down the side yard. We had thought they might actually be dead when we bought the house, since they had no vegetation and seemed somewhat brittle. But it was winter and they were only dormant and over the past couple of weeks they had started to bloom.

Well, they're dead now.

"Looks better, dontcha think?" I heard the boyfriend say behind me.

I turned around to see the four tree carcasses piled on the sidewalk. It did actually look better, and it certainly makes my job of mowing the lawn that much easier. Still, it seemed a little brutal.

Next, he decided to "trim" the juniper on the corner of the property. The juniper is large and old and hasn't been tended to in probably 30 years. The lush greenery on top covered an impossible tangle of gnarled roots and twisted branches. He was just going to "clean it up". He pointed down the street to a neighbor's juniper, one that had lovingly been trimmed, probably for years, into an elegant bonzai shape. That was his goal.

I went back to my weeds and I heard the chainsaw ripping through branches. After about a half an hour I went to check on his progress.

It looked like a truck had plowed into the juniper.

He had given it his best shot, but it was clear this was going to have to be the job of a professional. I could tell he was disappointed, and I promised him we'd get someone out to fix it.

It was about at that time that Jim crossed the street, cocktail in hand. He invited us over for afternoon drinks with his gay father and other neighbors, and we said "sure, why not".

So as the sun set, we joined about a half dozen of our new neighbors for strong drinks and conversation. The main topic was one of our other neighbors, who wasn't there. An older man who lives about five house down. He owns quite a bit of rental property in Bako and had a penchant for renting to young women and single moms. When times got tough, he graciously offered to accept sex in lieu of rent. And he recently got caught. As if that isn't bad enough, his immediate next door neighbor is the District Attorney. AWKWARD.

We really had a lovely time and it certainly ended the weekend on an up note. It turns out quite few of our neighbors have something in common...

They all work at WalMart.

That will come in handy.

I should have an "in" when I eventually apply for a job. Because, after looking over my tax returns, I'm afraid it's just a matter of time.

Long May She Wave

I saw Jim was out yesterday replacing his American flag.

With an even larger American flag.

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

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

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

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

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

Dinner For Eight

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

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

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

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

In particular, there was Monique.

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

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

This would be Monique.

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

Several of them, evidently.

"We should be her friend" the boyfriend said.

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

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

She was batshit insane.

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

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

We nicknamed her "Cookoo Bananas."

She began to scare us.

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

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

We didn't know what to do.

So we ordered dinner.

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

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

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

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

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

She could see in the house.

And she was watching us.

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

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

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

She turned and walked away.

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

"I WILL NOT BE IGNORED!"

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

And she was irate.

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

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

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

The next day Monique was gone. Institutionalized.

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

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

Yet.

Give ’Em An Inch, And They Take The Yard

The boyfriend and I came up with a novel idea:

Let's use the garage to park the cars.

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

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

At least, not to us.

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

That was a year and a half ago.

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

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

That's when the crowd formed.

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

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

Nothing! Nothing is for sale!

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

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

You got it.

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

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

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

We’re Here. We’re Queer. Get Used To It.

I was curious to see how life as we knew it had changed with the revelation that we lived in the "Pink Triangle" - that's what you get when you connect the dots between our house, Jim and his gay dad, and the gay neighbor across the street.

The answer would appear to be, not much.

The boyfriend hasn't had any interaction with any of them since the Super Bowl party. I thought for sure there would be cocktails scheduled by now. Maybe brunch down at Buck Owens' Crystal Palace (it's the best in town, they say). But that's not how they roll here, I guess.

Not much is known about the neighbor. He made so little impression on the boyfriend that he couldn't even describe him. Of course he'd been drinking. I think his name is Tom, although the boyfriend was a little shaky on that bit of information too. The only thing I can deduce about him is he's a Bad Gay. His front yard is overgrown and unkempt and as we head into March, his Christmas decorations are still up. That would simply be unspeakable in West Hollywood.

And then there's Jim and his dad. Jim was out with a cocktail when I pulled up with the dogs on Monday, as usual. He came over to say hi and asked about my mom. He could see that the three of us were ragged out from the drive and said he'd leave us alone and we could "catch up" later.

Catch up?

With what? Other than dog-walking small talk I know nothing about him.

But then last night, I met dad.

I was taking the dogs out for their final walk around 9:30, and as we walked back I could see a car backing out of Jim's driveway. As the car drove away, there was a lone figure standing on the sidewalk.

It was Kenny Rogers.

Or a dead ringer for him.

Turns out it was Gay Kenny Rogers, otherwise known as Jim's dad.

He was dressed in sweats and flip flops. As we got about 10 feet from him, he spoke out in the gayest, sing-song voice...

"I know who YOOOOOOU are! You much be Eric. Im Erich too.... with an 'H'".

I was getting a total disconnect between him and Jim. They didn't seem from the same planet, much less related.

He extended his hand in such a way I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to shake it or kiss it. I chose the former.

He expressed how happy he was to meet me and sang the boyfriend's praises. Mentioned something about getting together soon. For some reason all I could think about was Kenny Rogers Roasters Fried Chicken.

I was actually kind of excited about the prospect of our own little Bako gay clique, but it's starting to look like a sketchier proposition that I imagined. Time will tell. We'll see what I think after I meet the other neighbor.

Comings and Goings

When I returned from my Wiener Adventure at Walmart yesterday, I was saddened to discover Cindy (the Good Neighbor) moving out. She had friends haphazardly throwing her crap in the back of a couple of pickups.

"Your moving?" I asked, somewhat surprised.

"Yeah. This place is just too big for one person and it costs a fortune to cool and heat" she replied.

Her unit is a mirror image of ours, three bedrooms with huge cathedral ceilings in the living room, so I could see her point.

"Plus, I'm done with roommates. The last one was a heroin addict..."

Honey, I hate to break it to you but they've ALL been heroin addicts - that's what you get when you advertise on Craigslist.

By nightfall she was gone. I can't say I'll miss her braying beagles. All the same, the neighborhood will be a little sadder for her absence.

Not much to report on the other side of the wall. Mary seems to be rattling her cage a little more frequently, but we haven't had any other altercations since I dropped the C-bomb on her.

We did learn a little bit of curious information. Turns out the unit we live in, which is attached to hers, is owned by her bother, who now lives in Fresno. Frankly, if she were my sister I don't think Fresno would be far enough. What we find interesting is that Mary is such a rabid anti-smoker and yet her brother specifically advertised this unit as "SMOKERS OK!" That must be one fucked up family dynamic. The holidays must be an absolute blast with them.

Ordinarily I'd be concerned to see what low-life grifters replace Cindy, what with our new gangbanger neighbors across the street. But truth be told, I don't really care.

You see, Cindy isn't the only one moving...

Hicks On Ice

The neighbors got together and created a community ice rink! Isn't that nice? And just in time for the holidays.

Actually, it's strictly by accident. The first of many, I'm sure.

For the past week the overnight temperature in Bako has dropped below freezing, but a little sub-zero weather isn't going to deter the people of Bakersfield from their God-given right to water their lawns for 8 hours. In Bakersfield, a lawn isn't properly watered until you can scuba dive in it. Most people aren't satisfied until their front yard looks like a reflecting pool. The sprinklers usually kick in before dawn. Water sheets over the sidewalks. It pools in the driveways and gutters because the brain trust down at City Hall never quite understood proper drainage. And over the past week, early in the morning, it freezes.

It makes walking the dogs an adventure, I'll say that. I should pick the nicest home and slip in front of it. Mama needs a new pair of shoes.

During the just past election, everyone and their mother was bitching and moaning about getting more water, getting "our fair share". Yet they released a report earlier this year showing that 75% of all the water use in Bakersfield is for landscaping, and the way it's done here that means most of the water just flows into the gutter and down the drain.

Or it would, if they could figure it out.