The Art Of Flattery

I finally got around to dealing with my taxes, gathered up all the necessary documents and mailed them off to Mathmagic Land and hoped for the best. Last year the bulk of my income, such as it was, still came from over the hill in LA, but it's becoming increasingly clear that that won't be the case this year.

Even before business hit the traditional holiday dead zone, you could tell that the terrain had shifted and it was going to be more difficult than ever to maintain my charade of still being in the LA loop. The clients needed more attention and handholding and they'd turned cool to the idea of people working from home. Fo a variety of passive/aggressive reasons they preferred people working in-house under their thumb, and that wasn't a viable option living over a hundred miles from the action.

But...

Things are surprisingly looking up here in Dogpatch.

I know, go figure.

I actually landed what could prove to be a very lucrative client about a week ago. There are a couple of other options brewing. And I decided to really buckle down and do a major promotional push. And to that end, I decided the very first step should be an image makeover.

For Bakersfield.

They say you catch more flies with honey and that flattery will get you everywhere, and what better way than playing to everyone's insecurities and portraying little 'ole Bako as... appealing.

So I made a little poster...



A little retro, which seemed on point. Appealed to their vanities with a nod to the oil business and agriculture and their aspirations to aerospace and green energy. A happy, bright vision of the place I now call home.

Sure, I took some liberties, like the blue sky. It's called "artistic license", and I probably pushed it right to the point where they revoke it. But overall, I have to say I like it. I actually wouldn't mind living there.

Too bad it doesn't exist.

Sunday Inspiration

No Holds Barred

I was watching the local news yesterday, the highlight of any day, and the sports report was devoted to this weekend's state wrestling championship, which is being held in Bakersfield. Again. It's been held here for the past eight years because Bakersfield is described as a "hotbed of wrestling".

Yikes! That sounds like a gay porno title.

But after watching the segment, it seems that may not be far off the mark.

They cut in footage of young high school boys pinning and groping each other with disturbing interviews with grown adult men who all seemed just a little to "eager" to watch them compete. One in particular, who looked frighteningly like John Wayne Gacy, seemed practically salivating for the start of the competition...

"I just can't wait for all the action to start" he said.

He was leering so broadly when he said it he might as well as said "I just can't wait for all the hot boy-on-boy action to start." It made my skin crawl.

But it's all clean, All American fun, I'm sure. I mean, who amongst us isn't up for watching half naked, high school man-children, sweating in skin tight lycra as they grab each other's crotches? I know I am.

I wish I could say I was surprised that such a homophobic, closeted city would also be a "hotbed" for male wrestling, but that's just how things work here. One day you're railing against homosexuals, and the next you're picked up for a D.U.I leaving a gay bar. That's just the Bako way.

So we know the guys will be busy this weekend, but what about the ladies? Don't worry gals! This weekend is also the start of the Roller Derby season!

American Gothic

It was a beautiful morning as I set out to walk the dogs. It was unusually warm and the tail end of a passing storm had filled the sky with billowing clouds lit pink by the rising sun. We rounded a corner and that's when I met some of our new neighbors, Kathy and Bob.

They looked to be in their mid to late 50's. Kathy was headed to work and Bob had come out to see her off. When she spotted my little dog she fell in love and started gushing over her. Ever the attention whore, my little dog ran over and ran through her whole "cute" routine. We exchanged introductions and engaged in dog small talk, or small dog talk, if you prefer. They have two dogs, Charley and Gus, both of who could be seen looking on from the living room window. They asked if I was new to the neighborhood, since they evidently knew all the neighborhood dogs. I said I was and we chatted about the that for a bit. Finally Kathy said she simply had to leave. What a charming couple, I thought.

And then Kathy hit the remote for the garage door.

As the door slowly rolled up it exposed an older Cadillac completely plastered in Right Wing bumper stickers.

"RUSH!"

"Glenn Beck Nation"

"Live Free And Die"

"SOCIALISM!" with the Obama "O"

And the ever popular "prying guns from cold dead hands".

They completely covered the bumper and back of the trunk and we're creeping about halfway up the back windshield.

The closer I looked, I realized it was a Time Machine...

"McCain/Palin"

"W'04"

"Bush/Cheney"

"Don't Blame Me, I Voted For Bush"

"Bush/Quayle"

Dear Lord, they should really trade that thing in; it must have 500,000 miles on it. Or maybe not. It's Bakersfield after all, and it isn't far between any two points. It's probably only a mile or two to Republican Headquarters, or the local militia, where Kathy undoubtably worked.

The dogs and I scurried along as Bob planted a peck on her cheek. A few moment later, Kathy passed us in the Wingnut Mobile, waving maniacally. How she can see out the back is beyond me.

I always wonder what these people would think if they discovered they not only have a bleeding heart liberal in the neighborhood, but a gay one to boot. I guess we'll never know because I'm not about to spill the beans. Even though a life lived in Bakersfield is barely worth living, it isn't worth dying for either.

The Return Of The Lawn King

How many pansies does it take to mow the lawn?

If you're like us, the answer is "two".

I haven't mowed a lawn since the Reagan Administration. The early Reagan Administration. I rented for years and then my first home was a townhouse, so lawn care wasn't part of the deal. When we finally bought our house in the hills, the "yard" was a 45 degree slope of iceplant and, in later years, gophers. The boyfriend, to the best of my knowledge, has never mowed a lawn; his parents were fancy gardener people. But now we find ourselves with a lawn. A big lawn. And it was only a matter of time before it was going to have to be dealt with.

A gardener wasn't financially feasible, so the first order of business was buying a lawnmower, even though we couldn't really afford that either. We hadn't gotten around to it when the family crisis hit and I went M.I.A. But then, as fate would have it, I mentioned our predicament to my parents and they mentioned we could have theirs. Finally, this past summer, with my father in his 80's, they threw in the towel on the yard work and hired a gardener. At first my mother thought it was an extravagant waste of money, but now she's a convert. Not only does the yard look lush and better than ever, but the gardener agrees to carve her shrubs into the odd shapes she's fond of.

So I returned to Bako with a lawnmower, a Honda "Easy Start."

Don't believe it.

This past weekend we wheeled it out in the yard. My father had given me a quick run down - open the throttle and pull the ripcord. Voila! Easy Start!

In practice, not so much. We did as he said and pulled the ripcord.

Nothing.

Again, and again and again. Nothing.

After 20 minutes, I felt like a fool. The neighbors were driving by, highly amused. I could hear Jim, seated in a lawn chair and nursing a scotch at 10 in the morning, laughing from across the street.

I gave up and let the boyfriend try as I went inside and tried to pull up the owner's manual on the internet to see what we were missing. But no, the owner's manual said "open the throttle and pull the ripcord. Voila! Easy Start!".

I went back outside and the boyfriend was beside himself and his arm hurt.

"Maybe it's broken" he said. "Let's buy a new one."

I wasn't about to be defeated by a lawnmower, so I said "no".

And then, like a lightening bolt, the idea hit him...

"Maybe it's flooded".

Whatever that means.

So we agreed to let it sit for awhile, and when he went out and tried it again 20 minutes later... Voila! Easy Start!

Since he had no mowing experience, I took over. It was like riding a bike, I thought. But that proved not to be the case. The one thing I quickly learned is that a lawnmower is not a precision instrument.

I sure hope the daffodils grow back.

When You're Number 2, You Try Harder

Bakersfield: The Second Most Toxic City In America

Damn you, Philadelphia!

There's always next year...

A Question Without An Answer

There are days I wake up thinking "What the fuck happened?"

"How the hell did I end up in Bakersfield?"

Today is one such day.