The Police Blotter

The morning news here is remarkably consistent. Every single day, the headlines are usually a combination of three things:

Police shootings.

Hit and run fatalities.

Unexplained house fires.

This morning we're batting two for three.

The BPD's "shoot first, ask questions later" policy paid off with another victim... a man in a wheelchair. Allegedly he was suicidal, so the outcome was probably pre-ordained. Then again, they seem to say that about a lot of the people they shoot.

And the typical combination of drunk drivers and drunk pedestrians resulted in another round of what I like to call "Bako Frogger." This time the victim didn't even make it into the street and was mowed down on the sidewalk, so evidently the field of play has expanded. As a general rule of thumb it isn't safe to walk anywhere in this city, which is probably why few people do. Few sober people.

We haven't had a house fire yet, but the day is still young. Of course, there've been so many lately perhaps we've reached the month's quota already. They're always reported as some sort of freakish event even though they happen almost daily. "Authorities" are always "stumped" as to the cause.

Really? Here's a hint... "Eth-may Abs-lay".

Happy Memorial Day

Sunday Inspiration

Random Good Things About Bakersfield #16

Wool Growers.

Bakersfield has a long Basque heritage, but all that's left of it is a handful of Basque restaurants. Everyone says Wool Growers is the best.

The boyfriend had had a tough week and an even tougher Friday, so I decided to treat him to dinner out on the town. We drove around for awhile trying to figure out where to go and finally settled on Wool Growers. I eaten there once before, not long after we moved here. The people I was working for took me out to lunch and I remember at the time I was fascinated with it. To be honest, I was still a bit shellshocked from the move and happy to finally be eating somewhere that wasn't fast food or a chain restaurant. The lunch menu was limited and I was told at the time that to get the full monty I really needed to come back for dinner. And tonight was the night.

It's in a seedy part of town, and industrial area east of downtown. We passed a hooker along the way. I'm assuming it was a hooker. With the sequined magenta hot pants and impossibly high wedge heels she didn't look like she worked for any of the surrounding auto body shops, which were closed anyway.

The restaurant is in an unassuming block building with a lovely antique neon sign. We didn't have a reservation so we put our name in and took a seat at the old school bar for a couple of drinks.



It's been here forever, but looked like it got a makeover in the 70's with sculpted, curvalicious popcorn ceilings. How can you not love a restaurant with a sheep theme?




The way it works is you only get to choose your meat, so to speak. It's a three course meal and everyone gets the same first two courses and the same sides with your entree. The boyfriend chose lamb chops and I chose the veal.

The first course is a soup, which is served family style with a bowl of red beans and salsa. You dish it all up in a bowl and mix it all together. It's served with hard cheese and bread.



Course number two is a vinaigrette salad served with tomatoes and pickled tongue.



And finally, the main course is your entree, served with spaghetti marinara, french fries and corn.




All in all, it was an utterly charming evening.

But we'll never go back.

Truth be told, the food was kinda awful.

It may have been rich and authentic at one time, but at best it reminded us both of a Jr. High cafeteria. Almost everything was obviously straight out of a can. And like all Bako restaurants, whatever flavor there was fled town long ago. We couldn't even tell the difference between the lamb and the veal and how can pickled tongue have no taste? It was like eating cardboard.

So, I can't say I'd recommend it for the food, but it certainly wins hands down for atmosphere. And that appears to be enough. As bad as the meal was, we still left is surprisingly high spirits. And in Bakersfield, that qualifies as a good thing.

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.

A Night At The Oprah

"Our Oprah, which art on TeeVee,
hallowed be thy name;
thy kingdom come;
thy will be done,
on earth as it is in Chicago.
Give us this day our daily "Aha".
And forgive us our makeovers,
as we forgive them that makeover against us.
And lead us not into temptation;
but deliver us from Judge Judy.
For thine is the kingdom,
the power, and the glory,
for ever and EVAH!"

Amen.

I'm not sure what exactly I expected from Oprah's last show but I certainly didn't expect to be going to church. But that's exactly what it was, a one hour sermon from the High Priestess Herself, Pope Oprah the First... P'Oprah.

I was an infrequent Oprah viewer at best, but I had planned to watch her final shows this week. Then I discovered Monday's and Tuesday's shows were just pre-taped highlights from last week's Oprahpalooza in Chicago, most of which had already made their way online and on the news. So I passed on those, but I still planned on carving out an hour yesterday to watch the Grand Finale.

She was definitely preaching to the choir. When the show started and she quickly announced there would be no guests and nobody was getting anything, no cars, no vacations, no nothing, I thought "Then why the hell are we here?" Maybe it meant something to the True Believers, but to me it seemed like an hour of Oprah reading off Hallmark cards, broken up only by commercials for Sizzler and Mattressland. And there was something deeply unsettling about a Billionaire media mogul lecturing people to find "their bliss" and live a simple life of love and light. Or maybe I'm just terminally cynical.

At one point I accidentally leaned on the remote and the channel changed to the BBC World News, and even they were doing a report on her but they kept pronouncing her name "Opera", which made me laugh and gave me the title for the post.

I tried to stick with it but after about 20 minutes I threw in the towel and went back to work.

Don't get me wrong, I like Oprah. I think she's done a lot of good in the world and brought attention to a lot of worthy causes. But the orgy of Oprah these past few weeks and months has been overkill on steroids. By the time the show started yesterday I kept thinking "How can we miss you if you won't ever go away?"

But now she's gone. So she says. It'll be interesting to see how long that lasts.

Man’s Best Friends

My dogs hate me.

Despite my best efforts to educate them, they remain stubbornly unclear on the concept of "working from home".

Using their simple dog logic, if daddy is home he is here to play with me.

Sorry, doesn't work that way.

Not that they don't try. Every single morning we go through the same drill. As soon as I sit down at the computer, my older dog starts bringing in a parade of squeaky toys, one by one. He sits behind me and every so often lets out a sad, forlorn squeak. After a minute or two, he abandons that toy and goes off to try another one. He seems to think there's one magic squeaky toy that will do the trick and get me down on the floor to play. The end result is a massive pile of toys just behind my chair.

My little dog is even more pathetic. All day long, she carries a tiny tennis ball in her mouth, never dropping it, wanting to be ever ready if I decide it's time to play. It looks like she's ball-gagged.

By mid afternoon they both get sullen and moody. And occasionally, out of spite, my older dog will grab a rawhide chewy and plop himself between my feet and the wheels of my chair. I think he's secretly hoping I'll roll over his tail, for no other reason than to amp up the guilt.

It's not like I ignore them. We go out for a long walk when the boyfriend leaves for work around 6:30. And I usually block out a half hour to play, chasing one around the house while simultaneously flinging a tennis ball all over creation for the other. And around 1 or 2, we go out for another long walk, this one specifically to go looking for cats. Or to go rolling in the grass. Sometimes both. It's up to them.

But still, it's not enough.

The worst part is they make me feel so bad I've taken to overcompensating by feeding them treats and now they're getting fat.

I am such a bad parent.