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.

Freedom Isn’t Free (But It’s Half Off, at WalMart)

I was out walking the dogs this morning, early, before the day became molten. I usually let them choose their own way; it's their time, after all. And for the first time in ages they chose to revisit our old stomping grounds, around the corner. By Mary.

Mary is in quite the festive mood. In addition to the prerequisite house flag, she's festooned the entire front of her condo with dozens of smaller flags. Yet, even from a distance, something seemed a bit... off. Once we got closer the problem became clear.

Her flags had too many stripes.

Stars too.

I didn't actually bother to count, but I'm guessing there were at least 20 stripes. That's what you get when you buy Chinese made flags. I don't blame the Chinese; It isn't their flag. Do you know how many stars are on a Chinese flag? Me neither. And this isn't the first time I've seen fucked up flags here.

I would think if you're going to put yourself out there as a "True Patriot™", you might want to at least bother to get that little detail correct. But people don't. They're either too cheap to buy a real flag, or too lazy to notice. It's Couch Potato Patriotism. Which, I suppose, isn't much of a surprise. On the news this morning they had results from a poll where 42% of the people they surveyed didn't know what year the Declaration of Independence was signed. Whatever.

It's already too hot to venture outside, but the AC is cranked and there's Twilight Zone marathon on. Seems somewhat fitting, living here.

So now it's just a matter of counting down the hours until we can celebrate the holiday the way God intended...

by blowing shit up.

Happy Fourth of July.

Missing In Action

Sharp-eyed readers of the blog may have noticed something conspicuously absent these past few months...

Cockroaches!

I know - it's a miracle!

It would appear we left the roaches behind when we moved. Since we moved into the new house, we've only spotted two of them and they were both outside. In Bakersfield, that's statistically insignificant.

Now, I'm not saying the city doesn't have a roach problem - it does. But it would appear that our particular infestation had less to do with the city and more to do with our slovenly ex-neighbor, Mary.

I always suspected she was Queen of the Roaches.

That being said, I'm not prepared to declare victory just yet. I'm no expert in these matters and for all I know the opossum was what was keeping things in check. Once the weather warms up, things could change. But I will go on record to say that we are cautiously optimistic.

Where There’s Smoke...

The day before I left on my little unplanned holiday I noticed new tenants moving into our old rental.

I've now seen them several times - the dogs still like to walk past the duplex. Y'know, for old times sake.

And I think I can say with some certainty one thing is true...

Mary's karma train has pulled into the station! Big time.

These people are chain smokers! Heavy, heavy chain smokers. The type who light their next cigarette with the one they're currently smoking.

Every time I've seen them, a couple, they both have smokes dangling out of their mouth. And the wife, or girlfriend, smokes the loooong ones, the ones that last F O R E V E R. Not only that, but they've placed a cafe table (with ashtray) and chairs right by the front door, right next to Mary's.

So she's getting it from both ends.

So to speak.

Poor dear.

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...

$#!+ My Mom Says

Yesterday brought a sudden and violent eruption of Mt. Mary next door. She'd been dormant for months, or so we thought. But evidently pressure had been building and yesterday she finally blew.

I was in the backyard and I heard her watering. Without warning, from over the fence came...

"SHIT!"

I assumed she must have stepped in... shit. Or something. But the tirade continued and was directed at me.

"QUIT SMOKING ALREADY, I CAN'T HANDLE IT ANYMORE, ENOUGH!!!!!"

Now, I'll be the first to admit that smoking is a dirty, nasty habit. Both the boyfriend and I rue the day we ever started, and we've made countless attempts to quit over the years. We were, in fact, just about to give it another go before the unfortunate layoff last week. So normally I'd actually have a lot of sympathy for Mary's distress.

Except I wasn't smoking.

I was taking out the trash.

We abandoned the backyard months ago and there isn't so much as an ash tray back there anymore. We'd occasionally let the dogs out to cavort on our stamp-sized back lawn, but the summer heat killed that off leaving nothing but a patch of dirt, so we don't even do that anymore. But try telling that to Mary. Whenever she hears our back door open she sees clouds of smoke curling over the fence.

"QUIT SMOKING ALREADY, I CAN'T HANDLE IT ANYMORE, ENOUGH!!!!!"

Well, I can't handle it anymore either, bitch.

So I screamed back "I'M NOT SMOKING!!!!"

And then I dropped the bomb.

Not the "F-Bomb". Please. "Fuck"s are a dime a dozen in my vocabulary, a byproduct of my years in Hollywood. I tone it down when we're out in public in deference to the local sensibilities, but it wouldn't be a word I'd choose to shock anyone. No, I chose another word. A word so vile I can't even type it.

The "C word".

Rhymes with "punt".

She slammed her door so hard she shook the house.

I guess that's that. We have to move now.

I can't imagine that didn't light her fuse and it's just a matter of time before she attempts to poison the dogs or slash my tires. I don't think she'd go so far as to burn our house down, seeing as how it's attached to hers. But she isn't really dealing from a full deck so I don't think anything is off the table.

I was reminded of an incident that happened over the summer, one I'd evidently blocked out until Mary flipped out.

Shortly after we moved in we had some minor repairs that needed attention. Can't even remember what they were. The property management company sent out a handyman. He was really quite nice and chatty too.

"I did a lot of work on this place. Fixed both doors" he said gesturing to the front door and the French doors that lead to the backyard. It was only then I noticed both door frames looked like they had been badly shattered and glued back together. "Looked like somebody kicked them both in..."

It was the first we'd heard of this place's violent past. Whether it was a domestic dispute or a S.W.A.T. type thing, we didn't want to know.

A few months later we started finding notes stuck in the front door...

"John - call me ASAP. XXX-XXXX. Hector".

We didn't know who "John" was but I'm guessing he was the previous tenant. We tossed the notes.

Eventually Hector got a clue and started leaving notes saying "Please forward to John". OK, sure. Forward them where? Prison? That's where I pictured John right about then. We tossed those notes too.

Then one evening while we were eating dinner there was a knock at the front door. The boyfriend answered and standing there was a sketchy guy clutching a note.

Hector.

He asked for John, we explained we didn't know anything about anything. Hector asked the boyfriend to pass along a note and as the boyfriend tried to explain we didn't know where John was, Hector cut him off and said...

"Not to John. To his mother. She lives next door. HER NAME IS MARY..."


*SCREE*SCREE*SCREE*SCREE*SCREE*SCREE*SCREE*

So yeah, I think we have to move.

This And That

It's been a remarkably boring summer in the neighborhood. The neighbors used to provide me some small measure of amusement, but for the past several months they've completely let me down.

Cindy, the neighbor to the south, has been missing in action. Her last batch of illegal sub-tenants fled over a month ago and we've anxiously awaited the next round of grifters to arrive. But so far, nada. The word must be out on Craigslist about Cindy, word that she's a little... off.

And then there's Mary. She continued her sonic assault for several weeks. What had started as daytime offensive soon started running 24 hours a day. She ratcheted up the country music a little each day until it was so loud you could hear it in our house even with all the doors and windows closed. It was looking as if we might have to get the authorities involved and then suddenly it stopped. Maybe another neighbor complained. At any rate, after that she seemed to vanish. We've heard not a peep from her in weeks. At one point I grew concerned she may be dead. Perhaps "concerned" isn't the right word. "Amused"? I pictured the probable scenario - Mary had powered through an entire box of wine and as she stumbled into her living room she tripped over a stack of Home Shopping Network boxes and fell and cracked her head on her Hummel display case. But then we noticed her car was coming and going, so she's obviously still alive and kicking. She thankfully seems to have given up on harassing us. All the same, I still let my dogs shit on her lawn. Wouldn't want her to think we've let our guard down.

Jim, the Exterior Decorator has likewise been M.I.A. I was surprised to see the Fourth of July pass without so much as an inflatable Statue of Liberty. I chalked it up to his hernia operation back a few months. But then the other day I noticed he's been at work on his tree again, changing out the accessories. Go big or go home, they say, and Jim has clearly decided to supersize it. He's always had an assortment of potted plants hanging from the limbs, but now he's decided to swap them out for 30 gallon monsters. They're so big and heavy he's devised a complicated winch and hoist system to keep them aloft. There's so much rope and rigging in the tree now it looks like a three masted schooner.

And then there's Roz. Haven't seen hide 'nor big hair of her in months. That isn't to say there's no news. Disturbing news. It turns out Roz has a roommate...

The Lesbian!

I have to admit I didn't see that coming. Although in hindsight the cats we're probably a dead giveaway. I wouldn't presume to go so far as to imply they are.... lovers... mostly because that's a thought I just can't wrap my mind around. That would mean Roz would have to be a lipstick lesbian, albeit an aging, white trash lipstick lesbian circa 1986. And where I come from they just don't mesh with bulldykes. You'd be as likely to see those two co-habiting as you would a Blood and a Crip. But what do I know. It's not like there are a lot of choices for gay folk here. Maybe Bakersfield just makes for strange bedfellows.

Excuse me while I go try and scrub that image out of my brain.

Bumbershoots

Back in 1991 the artist Christo unveiled a massive art installation south of here on the land of Tejon Ranch. It consisted of over 1700 bright yellow umbrellas stretching across the mountain passes of the Grapevine. There was a corresponding installation along the coast of Japan, an equal number of blue umbrellas stretching into the sea.


What did it all mean? Who knows. But it was deemed a rousing success despite the fact that a woman died when one of the umbrellas became unmoored in a sudden gust of wind and struck and killed her.

No one ever said art was painless.

The reason I mention this is because our wacky, mentally unhinged neighbor Mary seems to be channelling her inner Christo. She's created her own umbrella installation, and thrown in a few random Christmas decorations just for the hell of it.


What does it all mean? Who knows. Although if I had to hazard a guess I would have to say that, like all her previous art installations, it has something to do with second hand smoke.

I'm not an art critic, but I think even the casual observer can see that this particular subject matter has grown tiresome.

The Phantom Menace

We rarely go in the backyard anymore, especially since Mary launched her sonic offensive featuring KUZZ - "Bakersfield's Best Country Music!" So I have no idea when this went up. It's the latest addition to her ever expanding al fresco ICU unit, her line of defense against the non existent second hand smoke.

I'd hate to see all that hard work be for naught, so I lit a bunch of incense next to the fence.

Psych Ops

I was in our postage stamp sized back yard last week and I was afraid I had finally cracked.

I was hearing voices.

Shania Twain, to be exact.

I'm not sure which was scarier - that I thought I was hearing it, or that I actually recognized who it was.

But it turns out I'm not losing it, it really was her, on the radio, playing so quietly you could barely hear her it.

And it was coming from next door.

From Mary.

Oh Lord, what fresh hell was this? We'd grown somewhat immune to her antics, the random thuds and pounding on the wall, the midnight vacuuming. It was like people who live near the airport and never hear the planes after awhile. And now, country music.

But then I heard a rustling of her mangy dogs from the other side of the fence and it occurred to me I hadn't seen her PT Cruiser in awhile. In fact, she'd rolled her trash bins out days before pickup, which was unlike her. She must be away, and she left the radio on outside, low, to comfort the dogs in her absence. How uncharacteristically sweet of her. We actually do the same with our dogs when we know we're going to be gone awhile, although we leave it on classical. Wouldn't want the dogs to turn stupid. I actually felt a little guilty for assuming the worst of her.

But if we've learned anything about Mary it's to never giver her the benefit of the doubt. She returned the next day, but the country music persists. It's been on 24/7 now for over a week, and every day the volume seems to get ratcheted up just a teeny tiny little bit.

She's fucking with us.

I'm assuming her goal is to make being outside uncomfortable, to keep us from smoking. If true, it's rather pointless - we grew tired of her regular performances of "Second Hand Smoke Dinner Theater" and once the weather turned cold we just started smoking in the house. Fuck it, it's a rental.

So she has no reason to do what she does other than pure spite, which is apparently her M.O. with everyone. She shares a driveway with a duplex on the opposite side. She can easily park her car in her empty two car garage, or on the street, but every day she positions her car in the middle of the driveway, as close to the center line as possible. She parks directly opposite her neighbor's garage door and it forces them to execute a 36 point turn just to leave the house. As far as I can tell, the only reason she does it is because she can.

What a bitter, miserable person.

If I might be so bold as to paraphrase Shania... that don't impress me much. Bitch.

The Lady In The Bubble

Let me first state that smoking in a dirty, nasty habit and the boyfriend and I both rue the day we ever started. We've had a devil of a time quitting and have made many attempts over the years. They say there's no "good" time to try and quit, but there are in fact "bad" times to try, and being exiled to Bakersfield is definitely one of them.

So we went ahead and rented a "smoking" duplex.

Which brings us to our passive aggressive, bi-polar neighbor, Mary.

Mary does not like our smoking one bit.

At first it started with a bit of kabuki theater, a grand performance of hacking coughs the minute we stepped out the back door. She doesn't appear to work and evidently spends the day lurking near her back door waiting for us to come out. I believe in law enforcement circles that's referred to as "lying in wait".

She then ramped up the show and turned her back patio into an al fresco ICU unit, with heavy gauge plastic (pictured above).

And recently she's upped the ante, angrily voicing her disapproval every time we step outside. Who she's talking to is anyone's guess. I assume it's her dogs, but for all I know it's the voices in her head. Whatever the case, we're clearly the intended audience.

But here's the thing...

We don't smoke outside anymore.

At least not near her. In deference to her issues, if we do smoke outside, we go to the far side of the house, 50 feet away and around a corner, next to our other neighbor Cindy, who smokes like a chimney and couldn't care less. Or we just smoke inside, which we're allowed.

But that doesn't matter to Mary. She will not be ignored.

So I open the back door to let the dogs out into the yard...

"Oh my God the SMOKE is awful!"

I step outside to water the plants...

"Oh my God they're SMOKING again!"

I'm in the backyard, shaking out a rug...

"Everyone get inside... (to the dogs) I don't want you exposed to all that SMOKE!"

I take out the trash...

"Oh my God it STINKS out here!"

Needless to say, no one's ever smoking and there's never any smoke. But in Mary's mind, huge billowing clouds are wafting over the fence and slowly killing her.

We should be so lucky.

Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary, How Does Your Garden Grow?

Not much has been heard from the immediate neighbors since before Thanksgiving.

Which was a good thing.

Until this week.

It's Mary, next door.

There have been ominous thumping noises coming through our common wall for days.

After much thought, we've determined it can only be one thing...

She's stacking bodies.

Or perhaps just stockpiling cat litter.

Who's to know?

There's Something About Mary

So we both started smoking again. There's a shocker. This particular effort to quit was doomed from the start. When my partner announced in early August "we" would be quitting that week, my first reaction was "Are you out of your fucking mind? NOW?"

He was on unemployment, with absolutely zero prospects. I hadn't worked in months, nor been paid for the work I did prior to that. The house was about to enter escrow as a short sale, in an effort to stave off foreclosure. We were in the process of packing up our things with no idea where in the world we were going. What a simply fantastic time to sneak up behind me and kick out the last crutch I had. "But we need to think about our health" he said. No shit. I thought about my health everyday, wondering if the constant chest pains were merely from stress or the warning signs of a major coronary. I didn't have time to worry about my health sometime in the mythical future. But he was undeterred, and just to maintain peace in the family I went along with it.

And the first few weeks were actually OK. Didn't miss it at all. It looked for awhile like this time would finally be IT, the final triumphant attempt to kick the habit. And then we found out we'd be moving to Bako.

I started cheating immediately. Sneaking them when he was at work or when I walked the dogs. I thought it was curious he didn't smell it, but it ends up that's because he was cheating too. He denies it to this day, but when you do a load of laundry and out fall a half a dozen lighters, and they aren't yours, then I think it's safe to say he's being a bit disingenuous. But no matter - it is what it is.

So we're out on the patio having a smoke last week (we don't smoke in the house), and all of a sudden, from over the fence we hear a horrible hacking cough, followed quickly by a door slamming. And it was a fake cough, the kind you do when you're calling in sick, but you really aren't. The type of over-production that isn't fooling anyone.

It's Mary. The neighbor. And she's sending us a signal.

My boyfriend thought I was being paranoid. Maybe she was sick. Maybe she just accidentally slammed the door. Why did I always have to think the worst of people? ( I just do.)

Anyhow, the next day it happened again...

Cough, cough, HACK, cough... SLAM

Oy vay. OK, we get it. We decide to do the considerate thing and if we must smoke, we'll just go to the opposite side of the yard, at the edge of the dead lawn, next to the fence we share with Cindy, the nice neighbor. And Cindy's a smoker too, so it's cool. Forty feet from Mary's fence, I light up a smoke and...

Cough, cough, HACK, cough... SLAM

You have GOT to be kidding me. Doesn't she ever go inside? And how could she smell it two seconds after it's lit? Mary's a bitch. But neither one of us are in any mood to start a feud with someone we share a wall with. So we decide we just won't go outside if Mary is outside. You can usually tell when she is, because her yard is festooned with tiny white Christmas lights and she turns them on when she goes outside. Such a magical look for such a miserable person. So that becomes the drill - we poke our heads out the door and see if the coast is clear. And that worked exactly twice. The third time, we see no lights and step outside on the patio and light a smoke, and 10 seconds later we hear a window slide open and then hear

Cough, cough, HACK, cough... SLAM

Now I'm just pissed. At least have the decency to talk to us. But no, she always just scurries away whenever we run into each other in the front yard. Just like her little cockroach friends. I'm beginning to wonder where this is all headed. Well, yesterday, we found out.

We came home Sunday afternoon to discover Mary has shrunk-wrapped her patio. Hung heavy gauge plastic and turned it into an outside ICU. Never say Mary doesn't know how to make a point.

My boyfriend looks at me and says "Do you think that's because of us?" Um... exactly what other reason could there possibly be? That the City of Bakersfield has quarantined her with an infectious disease and neglected to mention it to us? No, I think it's safe to say it's because of us. God I hate her.

So the saddest thing about this whole episode is we were going to give quitting another shot around the holidays. With the house gone, and things starting to settle down in our lives (albeit in Bako) we figured we should give it a serious try. But not now. We're going to keep smoking to spite her. I'm on my way out to pick up a carton right now. Fuck her. And her little dog too.