My blue recycling can arrived from the city of Bakersfield yesterday. The instructions were taped to the side of the can in a plastic bag. The plastic bag has a little number 4 in a triangle on it. The blue trash can only accepts plastics with the number 1 or number 2 on them.

It was an inauspicious beginning.

The service costs $4 a month and I realize I'm paying the city to do something they'll make money from, but I was too lazy to fully recycle beforehand so that's OK with me.

 

Like my co-worker (our environmental reporter), I'm growing vegetables in a plot behind the garage in the backyard.

I've planted tomatoes, squash, cucumber, jalapeno peppers and bell peppers. In containers, I've planted cilantro, parsley (flat leaf and Italian) and basil.

I've buried gallon milk jugs with tiny holes in the bottom next to the tomato plants in order to get water as close to the roots as possible. (Thanks to the kind folks at Dagny's who have been saving their used jugs for me. That's why I've been carrying milk jugs and a coffee on my way back to the newspaper every morning.)

Everything is going well, with a few exceptions. Otis the dog nibbled a cucumber plant to its base, the jalapeno pepper plants are developing purply-black markings at the junction of the main stem and the side stems (not sure of the technical jargon), and two of the milk jugs were still half full a day after filling. Also, the cilantro is looking brown.

I know there are loads of people who grow their own vegetables, so feel free to weigh in with any suggestions.

This is an excerpt from Jack Kerouac's "On the Road":

In the middle of the night we overtopped the lights of Palm Springs from a mountain road. Atdawn, in snowy passes, we labored toward the town of Mojave, which was the entryway to thegreat Tehachapi Pass. The Okie woke up and told funny stories; sweet little Alfred sat smiling. Okietold us he knew a man who forgave his wife for shooting him and got her out of prison, only to beshot a second time. We were passing the women’s prison when he told it. Up ahead we sawTehachapi Pass starting up. Dean took the wheel and carried us clear to the top of the world. Wepassed a great shroudy cement factory in the canyon. Then we started down. Dean cut off the gas,threw in the clutch, and negotiated every hairpin turn and passed cars and did everything in thebooks without the benefit of accelerator. I held on tight. Sometimes the road went up again briefly;he merely passed cars without a sound, on pure momentum. He knew every rhythm and every kickof a first-class pass. When it was time to U-turn left around a low stone wall that overlooked thebottom of the world, he just leaned far over to his left, hands on the wheel, stiff-armed, and carried itthat way; and when the turn snaked to the right again, this time with a cliff on our left, he leaned far tothe right, making Marylou and me lean with him. In this way we floated and flapped down to the SanJoaquin Valley. It lay spread a mile below, virtually the floor of California, green and wondrous fromour aerial shelf. We made thirty miles without using gas.

On Monday morning I reviewed the Sunday night Morrissey show, but I traded the black T-shirt for the cowboy boots Thursday night and strode (an inch or so taller) into Uncle Buck's Club Extreme to hear John Conlee.
It was my mad friend George's fault. He thinks because I've lived here almost half my life I need to get countrified, so he's taken me to two Merle concerts, given me his old anaconda-skin boots and wrapped me up in Gary Allan songs whenever we take a drive.
Conlee is not the most imposing figure (he reminded me of an old hardware store owner you see in PG-rated movies), but man, when he opened his mouth, he filled every inch of the cavernous club and he looked like he did it without even trying.
And it was the same for every song.
And the crowd of, hmmm, about 200 (sitting around tables, kinda like an intimate wedding reception) loved it. Every song. Every joke. Every story.
Conlee played crowd favorites, like "Doghouse," during which every couple in the audience seemed to give knowing looks to each other, to the lovely "Miss Emily's Picture."
During the song "Busted" loads of people got up and put money in a bucket on stage. I didn't know what to make of this. It reminded me of the money dance at a wedding (an awful tradition, if you ask me), but Conlee explained things afterward for simpletons like me who didn't know any better.
The tradition began some years ago at the Paso Robles fair when one fan gave Conlee some money after the song and others joined in. The money all goes to the Feed the Children charity, and I believe Conlee said the practice has now raised over $200,000.
He sang "Old School" and then a video tribute with his song "For Those Who Serve," an ode to family members of those serving overseas.
He belted out a couple of songs too from his new gospel album, "Pass it on," about a father passing on his alcoholic genes to his son (does it get more country/gospel than that?) and a sweetly powerful rendition of "Amazing Grace."
Conlee paused for a few minutes in the middle of his set to answer audience questions. There was the obligatory "are you single?" from a confused drunk man and then someone said: "Bakersfield needs a new sound. Are you ready to be it?" Conlee smiled, and his guitarist replied for him: "We still like the old one."
Someone requested a Merle song (no, it wasn't me) and Conlee responded with "Today I Started Loving You Again."
Then it was time for the song he enjoys performing the most (I know this because someone asked during the Q&A.) He reached into his pocket, put a pair of tinted-red spectacles on and serenaded the adoring throng with "Rose Colored Glasses."
It was fantastic.
John Conlee is my dear friend Deloris' favorite singer. I didn't have to ask her what she thought because her feet and her fingers made sweet music of their own on the floor and the table throughout the show.
Her college-age son is now a huge Conlee fan. The photo he had signed by the man himself after the show (which will probably hang in his room in college) is testament to that.
Ah, the roots of country run deep in this fine old town.

"You have never been in love until you've seen the stars reflect on Eagle Rock Boulevard ... "
Like a preening, cocksure matador, Morrissey took to the stage of the Rabobank Theater Sunday night, rocking and rollicking his way through a stylish set full of early favorites and new material.
With three identical massive, looming James Dean photos as the backdrop to his stage/shrine, the former The Smiths frontman opened his 100-plus minute set with "First of the Gang to Die" then launched into "Last of the Famous International Playboys."
I'd never seen a band at the smaller Rabobank building, but it's a million times better than it's soulless cousin next door down. I don't think the entire front section of the theater sat down once during the show and as the dazzling spotlights and moody color changes bathing the stage illuminated this heaving throng hanging on Mozza's every word, it was easy to imagine oneself in London or Los Angeles.
Predictably, the few Smiths songs Morrissey did play, like "Girlfriend in a Coma," got the loudest ovations, but while the energy of the crowd wilted ever so slightly depending on the collective cognizance of the song, Morrissey's passion was a soaring, almost sexual ode to performance. No half-arsing it for this man.
At times, audience members clambered on stage to kiss, hug, or in one woman's case, wrap her arms and legs around the singer, clinging like a little boy to his mum. Morrissey took it all in stride, never missing a note as security wrestled the idolizing fan away. At separate intervals he lifted three little kids on stage and crooned to them before tenderly helping them back into their parents' arms. One day, these little nippers will realize they were in the presence of a rock genius.
As for me, I already knew it, and I don't think I'll ever forget.

I had a really scary encounter last night while walking my dogs in the shifty part of the Oleander neighborhood.
Me and Otis and Mia were cruising along on our 20-minute walk when a large, nutty-looking, mangy pit bull trotted up to us all hard-man like.
As he approached in this menacing manner I tried to give it the large one (there were three of us after all) and scare him off with cries of "Go on!" and "Away!" It made no difference to this brute.
He came right up to us, stopped, stared, flexed and raised his hackles.
Mia and Otis ain't small and scrapped a bit in their younger days, but I was mortified at what I thought was about to happen. I even looked around for a large stone or piece of wood, but there was nothing handy for the fight I was certain was about to begin.
Then I took the peace initiative.
I started talking to the dog in a friendly manner, telling him he was a good boy and a pretty boy and lots of other lies. He seemed bemused by my new tactic, but at least the snarl was gone. And then, magic! He began wagging his tail.
I knew then that the situation had been diffused. I met aggression with kindness and in the end everyone went home happy.

I'm not even a country music fan, but you don't have to be to appreciate this up-and-coming singer. View the slideshow.

Our entertainment writer is reviewing the Brad Paisley concert tonight. Check his blog late Thursday night/early Friday morning for the review, and let me know what you thought of the concert.

It's great news that the Valley Plaza is close to finding a replacement for the Robinsons-May store.
As the mall's marketing director says, the new tenant, "represents an opportunity for the future of not just the mall, but the community as well."
Let's not read too much into that hyperbolic statement. Hopefully no one believes our gang problems will be solved if a Nordstrom's moves to the mall or our horrible air will be no more should Calvin Klein sets up shop in the Plaza.
But, Bakersfield has come on leaps and bounds fashion-wise in the last decade or so.
The preponderance of high-priced boutiques in town must mean there are fashion-conscious residents among us (or just those with money to burn), while the impending arrival of Banana Republic (April 30 in the mall) is also a step in the right direction.
Who do you think will fill the empty Robinsons-May?

I have to admit, had it not been for a few nostalgia nuts in the Californian newsroom I would never have heard of Big House. Subsequently, by the time I had heard enough that I wanted to go to Thursday's concerts the tickets were all sold out.
Erik Loyd's review is fantastic — written from the knowledgeable perspective of a true music lover. But that's just my opinion. What did you think about the gig?

Went to see Merle Haggard's early show at the Fox last night with my friends
George and Deloris and what a wonderful place to see a band. The last time I
was there was to see Joan Baez and the venue has a  grand, yet intimate feel
to it.
Merle played all his classics ,including "Daddy Frank", which I was quite
pleased about, because the last time I saw him at Crystal Palace last year
he didn't play it and I was a bit upset about that.
The classics weren't enough for one man sitting in front of us, who got
ejected for (I think) demanding rather too vociferously that Merle play
"Okie from Muskogee."
Maybe his language was a little blue because the Fox's crack security squad
spirited him out of there on the double.
Merle did play "Okie" later in the show, most likely while the shouter was on his way home. Unlucky!
The funniest part of the show was when Merle stopped singing for a bit to
talk about the whole street sign thing. He called Dean Florez, Dan Florez
and then completely butchered the pronunciation of Jon McQuiston's name,
which was quite unfortunate because McQuiston then appeared on stage with a
check (I think) for the street sign fund. McQuiston actually told a pretty
nice story about when he was stationed around here somewhere after the
Vietnam war and there was a bit of dissatisfaction with the military at that
time, but McQuiston said Merle's songs made him proud to be serving his
country.
The crowd loved it and I smiled because I was wearing my "If You Don't Love
It Leave It" T-shirt which I had purchased for the outrageous sum of $25 at
the Crystal Palace show.
As we were on our way out we passed the waiting multitude crowded around the
Fox's entrance for the later show.
If it was going to be anything like the one I had just seen, they were in
for a real treat.