It's been a while since I've been in school. I mean, since i've walked through the awkward yet exciting halls of high school. I can't say that I miss it, but I do wish I could see what everybody was wearing on the first day. 

Remember that? painstakingly you decided your first outfit: The blue shirt with the shiny white shoes. No, that sun dress your mom thinks is just a bit to revealing.  Or the ripped jeans with the Van Halen T-shirt...

Then you saw what everyone else was wearing. Which  fashions are hitting the halls this year? What are your kids going to wear on the first day of school? What are the clothes you absolutely hate, and will never let your kid into?

Queens of the Stone Age is not an arena band.

This fact became much clearer to me after sweating, elbowing, screaming and head-banging Monday night at the Queens concert here in Bakersfield.

I first saw the Queens two years ago at Allstate Arena in Chicagoland. The band played with Nine Inch Nails, and while the Queens show was great, it was obvious that NIN frontman Trent Reznor’s solo act was more suited to the mega-space.

The anonymity and disconnect of a big arena complement Reznor’s own slightly off-putting personality and angry electronica. You don’t want to talk to your fans, Trent? You’d rather we just look at the cool video screen or your muscled biceps? That’s just fine, we wouldn’t expect anything else.

The Queens, on the other hand, have an appeal that has always been more raw energy and charisma than projection screens and props. Their kind of rock is meant to be intimate and skin-on-skin sweaty, and it comes across clearer when the audience has the chance to get close and really connect with the band.

That’s why Monday’s show was perfect. It was at The Bakersfield Dome, a middle-tier venue in town that also regularly hosts boxing — it’s the ideal mix of not-trying-too-hard trendy and redneck dirt.

The building is just what it sounds like — a round room covered with a dome — and its construction vaguely resembles a grain silo or a barn. There’s plenty of floor space, and the seats curve in a semi-circle around the stage, which is clearly visible from anywhere. The floor is dirty, sticky, and it reminded me of a wrestling mat. The building is old, it reeks of sweaty history, and sometimes the bartender will give you a $5 Budweiser for $4.

It’s just right for the Queen’s brand of muddy stoner-rock.

The opening band was Los Angeles-based duo The Gasoline Angels.

I listened to them on MySpace before the show, and I thought the Angels fairly mellow grunge sounded like a good match for the Queens. But in person, not so much. The group, which consists of brothers Karim Chatila and Kasey Chatila, played a short set, just 40 minutes, and I don’t think the crowd once felt tempted to dance. They were just…boring. That’s all. Two people on stage — one brother played drums and keyboards, the other sang and played a seriously lackluster guitar — is not enough.

So when the Queens took over, fronted by the red-headed Josh Homme, fresh off a knee surgery and limping onstage using a cane, the crowd was more than ready. They opened with “Do it Again,” a track from their breakthrough 2002 album, Songs From the Deaf.

It’s one of the group’s trademark bedroom rock songs (there’s at least one on every album), and it was a brilliant choice. Those familiar with the group immediately recognized it, and for those who didn’t, the song features a “Hey” chant that anyone can pick up in seconds.

“Do it Again” also set the overall tone for the concert — sex, baby, and we like it dirty and hazy. The Queens have always been a true rock band when it comes to the drugs. Homme admits to have battled an addiction to painkillers, and their early work practically sweats Vicodin and cocaine. And lately they’ve been really pumping it up in the sex category, evidenced by their choice of songs for the show. They broke out “Skin on Skin” from Lullabies to Paralyze (2005) and “Make It Wit Chu” from their new album, Era Vulgaris.

And as part of the encore, they banged out “Feel Good Hit of the Summer” from Rated R (2000), the song’s drug-chants interspersed with Homme whispering, ahem, sweet nothings and making...er, creative hand gestures.

Such interaction is only possible when you can actually see your audience. I was in the front, anchored to my savior, a big man in a yellow shirt, and I could practically feel Josh Homme’s eyes connecting with mine as he swung his hips and moaned the chorus to “Make it Wit Chu.” And the venue was so moderately sized that you could get the same jolting effect from anywhere on the floor — you wouldn't necessarily need to be squished up against all those dripping bodies. Unless you wanted to, of course.

What’s really great is that the Queens actually look like a band that enjoys what they are doing. They aren’t just out there to play the show and get back on the road (Just ask me about the Red Hot Chili Peppers’s attitude in that area). Instead, they come back on stage to play from 20 more minutes when the audience is enthusiastic. They thank the crowd and make meaningless-but-loyalty-inducing small talk. For example, when the band came back on for an encore — they played for nearly two hours total — Homme accidentally strummed the wrong chord when transitioning from “Burn the Witch” to “Feel Good.” He joked about messing up, teased his bandmates, and explained why he was hobbling around with a cane. I could hear it all. I felt like I was in on a secret — along with every other perspiring body packed in the space.

Oh, and the music — it sounded great live. Better than on the album, especially the new tunes like “Battery Acid” and “Misfit Love.” Homme carried the show easily with his magnetic stage presence, and the rest of the band followed nicely. You couldn’t hear them missing bassist Nick Oliveri, the other original group member who Homme fired in 2004. Not even a little bit.

The band’s current tour is full of mid-level venues like the Dome. When they hit Cedar Rapids, in my home state of Iowa, on Aug. 3 they’ll play not the U.S. Cellular Center, but rather the Hawkeye Downs Fair Grounds. And the group recently announced additional tour dates that include several Montana locations. It appears the Queens have already figured out what I just realized: They aren’t an arena group. They fit much better in a smaller, more intimate space where their enthusiasm can transfer to the fans.

"We always get to play L.A. and New York and Chicago and London…There are people (in smaller markets) that aren't spoiled like the bigger audiences. We just want to play to people that are psyched,” guitarist Troy Van Leeuwen told the Montana newspaper Great Falls Tribune.

More power to ya, Queens. If I had my way, venues like the Dome, general admission floor tickets, and audience interaction would be a mandatory component of all rock shows.

I hate Union Ave. More specifically, I really hate the intersection of Union and 178. Just check out a map. There are something like 17 road meeting here!! I sincerely believe this intersection was designed for the sole purpose of confusing those new to town.

I mean, it’s not just Union and 178. What about the Golden State Ave.? Or Truxtun/Beale/Edison Hwy? I just don’t get it. I swear, I’ve been sent out on assignment on multiple occasions and had Google maps tell me to turn on a road that I seriously could not find.

Couldn’t a town that has so much space — space enough to allow free parking downtown! And parking on the side of nearly every street! So much parking! — have created some less confusing intersections?

That’s another thing. Space. Sometimes, I think I’m headed out of town because I haven’t seen a building in a while and there’s only desert-y landscape surrounding me, only to turn a corner and be confronted by gasp! Buildings! It’s strange. Also, sometimes roads take up enough space to be at least three lanes, but only one lane is drawn. And then you just simply don’t know what to do when you are navigating turning situations…and it results in giant white un-drivable triangles that are needed to create the turning lane. I repeat: I just don’t get it.

Coming soon: Why it is so incredibly difficult to exist with no form of in-state ID and a bank called Iowa State Bank.

--- Maggie Anderson

(p.s. No one take this as a bash on Bakersfield, please. I think nearly all towns have similar road issues.)

I was in Lamont Tuesday night to photograph the woman in my story on community organizing. There were a lot of people playing in the park outside the buiding where the meeting was, so after I had taken plenty of pictures I went outside to check it out.

These guys were having a great time playing basketball. I heard the next day that this was the first time in a while that this park, San Diego, had the bball hoops and nets up on the court. Usually people go to other parks around town, I guess.

I took the pictures thinking I'd submit it that evening for just a standalone picture in the paper, but even though I was back to the paper in time to submit something before deadline, they weren't as good as I hoped. So here it is on the blog instead. I even got ALL of their names. There must have been 15 guys playing.

I love the potential for spontaneous photography in the paper. Most often we photograph planned assignments, but I'm learning that it is just as important, if not more, to capture those moments that you didn't plan for. I'm working on getting better at flipping a u-turn or pulling to the side of the road if I see something interesting. Sometimes you don't have time to stop, but often those spontaneous stops for a picture don't take much time and are worth the effort.

-Amy

What Work Is

Philip Levine

We stand in the rain in a long line

waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.

You know what work is--if you're

old enough to read this you know what

work is, although you may not do it.

Forget you. This is about waiting,

shifting from one foot to another.

Feeling the light rain falling like mist

into your hair, blurring your vision

until you think you see your own brother

ahead of you, maybe ten places.

You rub your glasses with your fingers,

and of course it's someone else's brother,

narrower across the shoulders than

yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin

that does not hide the stubbornness,

the sad refusal to give in to

rain, to the hours wasted waiting,

to the knowledge that somewhere ahead

a man is waiting who will say, "No,

we're not hiring today," for any

reason he wants. You love your brother,

now suddenly you can hardly stand

the love flooding you for your brother,

who's not beside you or behind or

ahead because he's home trying to

sleep off a miserable night shift

at Cadillac so he can get up

before noon to study his German.

Works eight hours a night so he can sing

Wagner, the opera you hate most,

the worst music ever invented.

How long has it been since you told him

you loved him, held his wide shoulders,

opened your eyes wide and said those words,

and maybe kissed his cheek? You've never

done something so simple, so obvious,

not because you're too young or too dumb,

not because you're jealous or even mean

or incapable of crying in

the presence of another man, no,

just because you don't know what work is.

------------

This poem is by a man named Phillip Levine, from 
a National Book Award-winning collection of the same name. He grew up in and
around Detroit, Michigan, as have I. He writes brilliantly and beautifully
about the oft criticized as dirty and hopeless city, it’s groaning factories,
and the people working its industries. He’s able to shed a heroic and noble
light upon the great people of that city. 
	When I tell people out here I grew up around Detroit, people usually don’t say 
much, but give me glances that look as though
they have just eaten a lemon, or even worse, look disapprovingly at me like a
mother who knows her son is up to no good but can’t stick him with any
particular offence. In almost all cases, people have not smelled the sulfur of
the river rouge steel mill, or seen Diego Rivera’s epic murals. They haven’t
grown up listening to Bob Seeger, MC5, and the White Stripes. And they haven’t
been downtown to a community concert to become part of the supple and turbulent
organism dancing in the street to save the city. It’s true, Detroit is dying.
The auto industry has all but left, Chrysler is getting thrown around like a
tennis ball, and the city is a rusted shell of what it once was. 
	But it’s the people who keep it alive. There are very few places in America where
people are trying harder to save what they have earned, and known, and lived
for years, while the rest of the country scoffs at what they perceive as the
filth of Detroit. Next time someone brings up Detroit, remember the beauty of
this poem, and Rivera’s noble murals. Think, just for a second that there may
be more than crime, and poverty, and the ravages of the absent auto industry,
but there may be people working hard to save their piece of America.

-Drew 

...but then I accidentally deleted it. This is the second time I've done this while trying to write this post. I'm not an idiot, I swear! The problem is keyboard shortcuts. They don't work here. ARgh!! I'm sooooo annoyed! But I promise, I'll try again. I'm just going to start writing everything in Word and pasting. This post about how much I despise Union Avenue will happen.

xxoo,
Maggie Anderson

I'm working on a photo story that involves Ana. She is the president of M.E.Ch.A. at Bakersfield College.  I want to show her perspective as a young woman within a larger photo story about the current face of female community organizers in the area. I'm not sure how it will go, and I've just explained the basics here because I'm still learning about her and the other women I hope to work with.

She and other MEChA students held a car wash on Saturday to raise money for a youth conference they hope to organize for the fall. She's wiping down a windshield in this photo.

My name is Amy, and I'm the photography intern this summer at the Bakersfield Californian. I haven't posted yet, but I'll try to do more. I think I'll post photos of things that weren't published and maybe comment on why I do or don't like them.

Here's a photo from a hip-hop dance class that I stopped in on while driving through downtown on the way back from an assignment. I like the expression on Andrew's face, and it was fun to see the kids learning dance, rhythm, and expression through hip-hop.  It would have been a better photo if I had been able to capture a moment when Isaac's hands were not covering his face, but you can't always get it. At least I can't. Someone else probably would have. But that's why photojournalism is fun for me, and a challenge--all the elements have to come together at one moment. And a good photojournalist will anticipate the moment as best he/she can and be in the right place in order to capture it.

The caption is below:
Andrew Morales(QC), left, 8, throws his hands up in a "Wassup!" pose during the intermediate hip-hop class taught by Isaac Stewart, center, at LQ's Performing Arts Center on Tuesday, June 19, 2007, in downtown Bakersfield. Morales'(QC) cousin, Randi Flores, 10, right, has been taking classes here for four years and helped introduce Morales to the class.

Scenario one, 9:30 p.m. Monday, June 18: Thrasher Metal
    I persuade Emileigh to join me at The Gate, a concert venue in downtown Bakersfield. I of course know nothing about anything yet in this town, but four local bands are playing, and I'm thinking it would be nice to get a handle on the local arts scene.
    We arrive at 9:30 after leaving the directions at home and having to go back to get them. From the outside, The Gate appears to be a community center of some sort. As with many things in town, the entrance is not immediately apparent — the entire structure appears to be surrounded by a chain-link fence. We take a gamble with the lighted area to the left and are rewarded with music-ish sounds. The boy at the ticket counter appears to be about 16. He lets us in for free because they are already on the last band. He is heavily tattooed, as is everyone there. Of the 20 or so people inside, we are two of only four girls. Most of the guys there are shirtless, covered in tattoos and piercings, and thrashing to the noise coming from the stage.
   I thought I understood heavy metal — after all, Slipknot is from Des Moines — but this made me really reconsider. I was legitimately afraid that I would be physically harmed during this concert, and I think it might be the first time I've ever felt that way. It's certainly the first time I've ever felt that way at a music event. I mean, I've participated in some intense moshing at a NIN concert, but I never once felt like I was in any danger. Here, it was obvious that this was a group, and we were not part of it. The kind of fervent synchronized flailing reminded me of a ritual or something that could all-too-quickly get way out of control.
    But at the same time that it was disturbing, it was fascinating. At one point, about five of the half-naked boys started throwing fists and kicking in a line, their movements amazingly synchronized, and for a moment it was almost mesmerizing. And when the singer was quiet, the band wasn’t too terrible — they were basically a screams-only Metallica. After a couple of songs, I wasn't too uncomfortable. I still didn’t want anyone to touch me, but I sort of started to tap my foot. I can see how this sort of behavior can be a release. We stayed until the end of the set but left soon after.
    Emileigh remarked once that no one was hitting on us. I said they would be more likely to physically hit us. But it was true — I really think most of them barely noticed we were there. Maybe if you are moshing with such fervor, your hormones already have enough of a release.
    Someone later told me that The Gate is a Christian center?   

Scenario 2, 1 p.m. Tuesday, June 19: Vintage Clothes
    Emileigh and I finished our brought-from-home lunches in approximately 10 minutes. We decided to explore an antique store we saw on Chester with the rest of our break. We enter the store (I can't remember what it's called) and hallelujah! Racks and racks of vintage clothes, hats, shoes, you name it. A bit more pricey than my favorite store in Iowa City, but oh, so much selection! Lunch time ritual? You better believe it.

Scenario 3, 1:40 p.m. or so, Tuesday, June 19: Persistent suitor
    As we are walking back from the fantastic vintage clothing store, a man in his car waves at us. Flattered as I usually am when hit on by strangers, I sort of blush and shyly look away. And sort of wave.
    Not a good idea. The man blows us a kiss. I'm starting to get uncomfortable. I mean, getting hit on is nice, but there's a line. We turn the corner but he's stopped at a red light.
    "What if he turns the corner and follows us?" I ask Em.
    "I'll be surprised if he doesn't," she says.
    I look over my shoulder. Sure enough, the car approaches. He calls out:
    "I could fall in love right now."
    Oh, wow, I think, walking a bit faster.
    "I'm talking to you," he says. "What's your phone number?"
    I shake my head.
  "It's your smile. I can't resist it. Don't walk away, we may never see each other again."
    "He's not going away," Emileigh says, and then says to him. "What's your number?" She's hoping he'll give up. No such luck. He pulls over to the side of the road, actually gets out of his car, and follows us. We're so close to being back!
    "I'm Joe," he says.
    "I'm not interested," I say.
    "What's your name."
    I shake my head.
    Finally, Em convinces him to just give her his number and he leaves.

And that, friends, was the most exciting 16 hours I've had in Bakersfield yet. And it hasn't even been an entire 24-hours!

— Maggie Anderson

Dear Diary,

Last night I saw a UFO. I was driving on Union Avenue where it becomes Panorama, and there it was. Over oily expanse of desert derricks, it was flying through the black night: A rectangular prism with lights on each points of the box. They were flashing and colored red, blue, and white. It had a search beam that extended from the bottom of the box all the way to the ground. I pulled my car to the side of the road so I could marvel at it. The search beam scanned over the dry ground for a few minutes, and then it flew off, disappearing into an indistinguishable blob of color.

Anyone else see something? Want to offer conspiracy theories linking this to Florida's Iguana invasion?

Sincerely,
Emileigh