...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

I can’t believe that people care, at all, about Paris Hilton going to jail when our brothers, sisters, sons and daughters are dying in the Middle East.  Recently I was browsing a book of the New York Times cover pages for the last 100 years, and I read headlines such as “Dr. King Slain,” “End of War In Europe!” “Man Walks On Moon.” Seriously, man walks on the moon. Once more, man walks on the moon. For thousands of years human beings have been looking into the sky and saying “I want that. I want to be there and I want to touch that.” And Americans did.  It was a momentous event in American and human history.
    And now we have Paris Hilton.
I wonder if the days of 40-point headlines are done. I’m wondering if the front page of the times will announce “War Over in Iraq!” Or if attention will peter out, the stream of our nations news sucked dry by tributaries and dams proclaiming, “Paris in Jail,” and “The winner of American Idol is (insert generic singer here)!” while our sisters, brothers, sons and daughters die in Iraq.

Oh, by the way, my name is Drew and I’m a new intern. I grew up in Michigan and attend the university of Michigan. I’ve been thinking not only about my personal experience at the newspaper, but newspapers in general since I have gotten here. I guess it affects us all.

Drew

Yes! Outlaws can be found almost anywhere. Sometimes while walking through a perfectly innocent patch of prickly pears, one can come across an outlaw pitching a tent for shelter from the harsh desert sun. Sometimes the tent can take the form of a wooden building with swinging doors. Outlaws have two legs, on which they wear dust-covered chaps. When faced with a foe, they grit their teeth (outlaws often have grit in their teeth) and pull a .45 8" barrel pistol from their holster. Sometimes that gun is a U.S.A. M1873 Peace Maker. Outlaws are often surrounded by beautiful women. If, as an outlaw, I cannot be surrounded by beautiful men, I would like to be one of those women.

Inspiration for this narrative essay from:
http://www.genevaschools.or...

As a part of our summer internship here at the Californian, we interns decided to start a blog about our experiences both at the newspaper and in the city.

I will start by making a list of things I enjoy about Bakersfield that I do not have in Iowa City:

1. Roads that are long enough their names change
   
2. A donut shop less than one mile from my house
3. More plausible fantasies about becoming an outlaw and surviving in the desert drinking only the insides of cactus
4. An apricot tree in my front yard
5. U-turns
6. No humidity
   
7. More daylight hours
8. On my way back from the movie theater, I counted more than 10 motels in less than a mile, one of which was named "Motel"
   
9. Western outlet stores (who would've thought?)
10. A plum tree in my front yard
11.  Maggie and I had to call three Pizza Huts before we found the one that delivered to her apartment