Bake Town - baketown's Blog - Bakersfield.com

Tortoise Theft

Tue, 28 Apr 2009 12:28:33 PDT

Herb's article about the woman who had her tortoise stolen reminded me of one of my own. Unfortunatly, my story does not have a happy ending. You can find it here.

Interesting side note - the friend who gave me that tortoise is now my husband. I had no idea things would turn out this way, but somehow he always did.

Creeped Out

Thu, 06 Nov 2008 14:39:27 PST

Creeped Out!

Louie Garcia Jr just moved back to town after 20 years in prison. According to a police report, "Garcia was convicted in 1989 for lewd and lascivious acts involving children and for using force, violence, duress, menace or fear to commit lewd and lascivious acts upon children." Ew. Not the kinda guy I want for a neighbor - that's for sure.

The thing I found striking however is where Louie is living. He lives 0.31 miles from an elementary school. He is literally one minute away. Now, if a crazy, old woman like me can figure that out, why can't the people who are responsible for watching this pig?

I'm not sure who be more afraid of.

To Flush, or Not To Flush

Wed, 02 Apr 2008 14:10:27 PDT

My husband and I have discovered that we have had very similar experiences growing up in Bakersfield, but in completely different ways. For example, his family dynamics are very different from mine. His parents divorced, he moved several times, etc. My parents are still married and I lived in the same house until I moved out at the age of 20. But, we both remember saying all good parents taught their kids in the 1970s during the drought. “If its Brown flush it down, if it’s Yellow let it mellow.” If you don’t know what that means you didn’t grown up in Bakersfield.

The funny thing is, we both still do it. It’s wasteful to flush every single time you go to the bathroom. Flushing every other time saves a lot of water. (You just have to be mindful when company is coming over.) My best friend DD (who also grew up here) doesn’t flush every time either.

So tell me, what’s in your toilet bowl?

Puppy Looking For a Good HomeA friend of mine asked me to put the word out about a puppy she found t

Mon, 14 Jan 2008 14:52:53 PST

A friend of mine asked me to put the word out about a puppy she found this weekend. It's a black and tan, male, hound dog about 5 months old. If you're interested and have enough room for what will be a good sized dog, email me at baketown@gmail.com

Thanks!

I Confess

Tue, 25 Sep 2007 08:55:46 PDT

I can no longer hide. I can no longer avoid what is really going on around here. I can no longer pretend like I just suddenly lost interest in my blog, the one place I could always find comfort over the years. I have to confess…I met a man. No better way to make your mind go blank and your jaw hang slack, huh? Not for me anyway.

The thing is this is not just any man. He is one of my best friends. I met him in 1980 at Thompson Jr. High. He would act silly to get my attention, and I would laugh and pat on him, but I never agreed to ‘go with him.’ By the time high school started I was picking him up everyday and delivering back home. While at school he would follow me from class to class carrying my books. (Who does that in the 80’s??) He hated all my boyfriends and would complain, but he still tolerated me talking to him about them. By our junior year I had begun to look at him differently. We went to the Winter Formal together and a few other dates, but I was worried about losing him as a friend, so I cut it short off with the “Just Friends” speech. Every year he would sign my yearbook and tell me how much he loved me. I just laughed and said, “Oh Oscar!”

As we got older we stayed in touch at first. He came to my wedding and to visit me when my son was born. We tried to stay friends, but every so often he would look at me and say, “I love you,” so I began to pull away. Even my friends would tell me, ‘Oscar really does love you, do you know that?’ and I had to admit I did. It just made me sad. We were both married and struggling. There were many dark days ahead for both of us, and I began to avoid him when I saw him. I couldn’t face him anymore.

I would see him sometimes, walking down the street near my house and it would break my heart. I wanted to stop him and take him for a ride just like we did in high school, but something always stopped me. Things went on like that for over three years. Then, two weeks ago everything changed.

I went to the Nile to see The English Beat with a group of friends. It crossed my mind that Oscar might be there, but I was having too much fun to think about it. I was in the middle of dancing to the first song when Oscar suddenly appeared from the crowd and headed straight for me. He looked great. I have never been so happy to see him. He walked right up to me and grabbed me into a great big hug. Right then everything changed.

Oscar told me later that several friends had called him at work telling him to get down to the show. He resisted at first, then found someone to cover his shift and walked down to the Nile. He was escorted in the backdoor by friends and fans shaking his hands shouting, “Yeah! Oscar’s here!” He said he felt like a rock star. Then his best friend appeared before him and said, “She’s here.” Oscar said he didn’t hear anything after that, he just made a bee line for me. The rest is history.

Well, not all the rest. It’s only been two weeks. We’ll see what happens now, but it’s looking promising. I think my lack of blogging might be a good indicator of how distracted I am. Either he is with me, or I am sitting at work staring at my computer trying to remember how to do my job. Today seems to be a good day. At bit of the fog has lifted. Oscar chastised me yesterday when he learned I hadn’t been blogging. I do feel badly. I just haven’t been able to think of anything else, and I didn’t really want to write about Oscar because I know my brother is going to read this, and I don’t know! How weird is that? Oh well, I guess there’s just no avoiding it.

I am smitten and my mind has turned to jelly. Toast anyone?

Walk The Highway

Fri, 07 Sep 2007 10:59:16 PDT

For those of you who like to chastise me for being mean or bitter when I make fun of people, get your typing fingers ready, cuz I’m about to poop all over what really is a very sweet gesture. According to the paper today, local resident Nathan Staker plans to walk to Anaheim to ask the woman he loves to marry him. The journey is meant to prove his undying love for his paramour. To me it just proves he’s desperate and broke.

Staker acknowledges he doesn’t have the money to drive to Anaheim due to the fact he was recently laid off. (Ooo – he’s a catch!) He doesn’t have money for a ring either. He does, however, have a back pack full of beef jerky and spare pair of socks. Apparently Staker got the idea to walk to Anaheim after his girlfriend told him, “My future husband should do things others wouldn’t do.” Hmmm. That leaves the door kinda wide open don’t you think? Maybe there’s good reason the others don’t do those things.

Whatever her she meant, Staker took it to mean he should walk 135 miles along the highway (which is illegal) to propose to his girlfriend because, according to him, “She is the most smartest and beautiful girl I ever met.”

I just hope she’s smarter than he is.

HerSpray

Fri, 24 Aug 2007 16:16:12 PDT

I just had the strangest experience. My mom asked me to go to the movies with her and a friend today, so I agreed. I wasn't really all that interested in seeing Hairspray, but I like doing things with my mom. I noticed as we took our seats that of the 15 or so people in the theater I was the youngest one. In fact, I was probably the only one who didn't get a senior citizen discount. For some reason my mom chose seats right in the middle of a bunch of other old people. I guess they like to stick together. Anyway, I felt like I was sneaking into a geriatric convention.

After the movie started I noticed right away something a little different. Old people like to talk about the movie while its on. And of course they can't hear each other, so they talk really loud. If it had been a movie I really wanted to see I wouldn't have thought it was so funny. As it was, the old coot's comments made me laugh more than the movie.

The best part was when Tracy Turnblad's father makes a bed out of woopie cushions. As he tires to get up in the morning there are serious of silly farting noises. The swarm of seniors sitting around me started to giggle. Then they started giggling more. That made me start to giggle. Before I knew it we were all cracking up, no longer even listening to the movie. I laughed so hard I cried. When the movie was over the woman in front of me turned around and said, "I haven't laughed that hard in years."

From now on I only want to go to the movies with old people.

What Wisdom?

Fri, 27 Jul 2007 10:02:35 PDT

I woke up my son early this morning, fed him a light breakfast of toast and a boiled egg, then I drugged him with two sleeping pills, waited until he was almost out, forced him to negotiate a flight of stairs, stuck him in my car and dropped him off in a dentist’s chair to have his wisdom teeth ripped out. Ah, the joys of parenting.

Poor Paul has to go through the ordeal of having his wisdom teeth pulled twice. The first time he began to have severe pain on the right side of his face and ended up having an emergency extraction. They didn’t put him under; they just numbed the snot out of him and dug ‘em out. Ouch. My poor baby was so miserable for weeks after. And the swelling was shocking. I had never seen anyone swell up that bad.

I had my wisdom teeth removed when I was 18. I’ll never forget the sit down with the oral surgeon in which he explained all the numerous things that could possibility go wrong, and then asked me to sign a consent form. ‘What? Do I look like an idiot?’ Apparently so, because I signed the form and they knocked me out. Back then they did it the good old fashioned way and really put you under. Trouble is, every time I’ve ever been put out, they always have a hard time getting me to come to again. I think they over dose me. I was out for almost two days. But, I had prepared and drank a ton of pineapple juice, so I didn’t have much swelling. I did, however, have an allergic reaction to the penicillin which made me violently ill. Oh, and I couldn’t drink out of a straw for a good six months or it would come shooting out of my nose. Yeah, good times.

Anyway, Paul knew when he had the first two wisdom teeth removed he would have to go back and get the other two out this summer. That and our trip to Tahoe has been all he has had to look forward to. He has not been too excited about this visit to the dentist, as you can imagine, so that’s why I suggested that this time he be put under during the ordeal. He agreed. I had no idea they no longer did it the same way. Generally speaking I was told to give him two Halcion and call them in the morning. It was weird seeing my kid all high and loopy.

Of course, this is nothing compared to when he had his cornea transplant back in 2005. Paul was terrified of the surgery, but he was brave and didn’t let on until they stuck that thing in his arm so they could put in all the IV’s and stuff. He lost it, turned white, got all clammy and sweaty, and started begging me to take him home. It was all I could do to keep from bawling. The anesthesiologist came around the curtain, took one look at Paul and said, “Oh dear, we’d better put him out now.” Within a few a minutes his head was rolling forward and I was standing in the corner crying. God. I hope we never have to do that again.

So, now I sit and wait for the dentist to call me and tell me they are done removing pieces of my teenaged son so I can come get him and try to repair the damage they have done. It’s a good thing they don’t warn you about these days BEFORE you have kids.

One From The Archives

Tue, 24 Jul 2007 16:31:44 PDT

Because I've been slacking lately I figured I'd dig something out from my archives to post here. I do have a few other posts on my blog if you're interested.

One Night In Oildale

Growing up in middle class, small town suburbia has its advantages. I had supportive family & friends; I received a good education and I was taught to work hard to succeed. It was this hard work ethic which led me to accept a job working the late shift as a cashier at a Texaco StarMart on Olive Drive, just off Highway 99. I was in college at the time, I needed the cash, and I could study in-between customers. Nevertheless, it was not long before my desire to succeed was over shadowed by the realization that I had a false sense of security.

Working alone six to midnight every Friday and Saturday, I had pretty much gotten used to the weirdos and miscellaneous freaks who would wander in to purchase cigarettes, buy beer or stop for a tank of gas. I even became used to the frequent complaints about having to “pay first” for gas (as if I had just made up the concept to irritate them). Still, nothing could have prepared me for the frightening, and in many ways, life altering experience that happened one night.

A semi-regular customer (whom I had previously mentally nick named “Captain Ahab”) pulled up in his green and primer gray jalopy. He was a barrel of a man, thick and stout, with dirty fingernails and a sunburned face. He wore the same oil stained overalls I had seen him in before, and a greasy ball cap pulled down low over his frizzy, red hair. His full beard and moustache reminded me of a cross between a lumberjack and a sea captain. I could barely make out his steely blue eyes. His voice was deep and rough, hiding a slight southern drawl. He never smiled…ever.

“Number one,” he mumbled as he shoved a twenty-dollar bill at me across the counter. “Okay” I said cheerily, “Twenty on one.” Then I watched as he plodded outside and began to pump the fuel. The left, rear fender of his car was held on with duct tape and the headliner inside the car sagged in shreds. As I turned back to my homework, I couldn’t help but wonder what his life must be like.

Shortly after I turned back to my studies, a loud, beeping alarm sound caused me to look up again. ‘Ahab’ was outside, glaring at me through the window, frantically gesturing at me to turn the pump on again. I held up my hands to indicate my helplessness and waved for him to come back inside.

Furious, he stormed back inside. Mumbling and angry, he spouted derogatory and racist remarks as he slapped another twenty on the counter. Stunned as I was by his outburst, I tried to explain I could not turn the pump on without entering a dollar amount. “Ahab’s" retort was several profanities accompanied by a steely look. When he returned to his car, I felt my own temper grow as he continued to glower at me through the window. Then suddenly, I had a moment of clarity: I’m alone. Working the night shift at a gas station. In Oildale. This dude probably has a gun tucked away under the seat of his excuse for a car.

When he returned for his change, I tried to maintain my composure. He had only managed to squeeze in another twenty-two cents worth of gas. I kept my head down and eyes averted while he continued his tirade and I attempted to count back his change. My face was red hot and I heard a faint buzzing sound in my ears. And then, after a particularly inflammatory remark that he made - I lost it. Just as he turned to the leave, still spewing profanity and racist remarks, I let him know that he didn’t have to pay first at the Chevron across the street, and he should probably go there from now on.

What happened next is, without a doubt, one of the most terrifying things I have ever experienced (next to the monkey attack, of course). Ahab blew up into a fury of volcanic rage. Beet red and screaming at the top of his lungs, he erupted into a stream of profanity and nonsensical remarks, some of which included calling me a “n***r luvin’ whore.” Watching him explode and worried for my own safety, I tried not to show the fear which had suddenly gripped me. I lashed back out at him, hoping he would think I was as crazy as he was. I screamed at back him to get out and never come back.

What happened after that it is a blur. He headed for the door and for what I thought was the gun I imagined being in his car. The stream of obscenities continued and the more he bellowed at me, the more I yelled back at him. I have no doubt he wanted to throttle my neck. His stare was menacing and he had a wild look in his eyes.

Just then a small, elderly Asian man opened the door and stepped in. Quickly realizing what was going on, he made a small step backward in retreat. Seeing this as my opportunity, I informed “Ahab” that he should leave and never return or I would call the police. Abruptly, just as quickly as the storm began, it abated.

It took me a long time to shake the feeling I got from that night. At first I was sick and wobbly from the actual event. But more significantly, it was the feeling that I had afterward. That is the lesson that has stayed with me.

My sense of security was lost. I had come face to face with pure hatred. Beneath his sharp, blue eyes, I saw evil. And the realization that there are countless others out there, just like him.

My One And Only

Tue, 17 Jul 2007 14:34:11 PDT

Today is my niece's birthday. (I 've written about her before.) I only have one - all the rest of the "grandchildren" are boys. (I don't think any of us mind.) Our boys are great, but our girl child...my one and only niece - she makes up for being the only girl. And then some.

The thing about her that is so amazing is that she was quite literally born with a God Given Talent. From the moment a crayon was first put in her tiny, little fist she has been creating works of art. She is remarkable. She just draws, and sketches, and colors - non stop. Sort of like the rest of us breathe.

I just spent the weekend with her (and the rest of my family) and I was (again) amazed at how good she is and how consistently she draws. If she is not eating, or sleeping, she is drawing. And so fast! It's like watching a machine in motion. She's in a special art college now to learn how to do animation like they do at Pixar. I have NO doubt she will go far. Very, VERY far. I am continuously amazed by her and admire her, not just for her talent, but for who she is. She is so beautiful. Just like her art.

So... Happy Birthday Niece. I guess I don't tell you this enough, but I Love You. Very much.

I Need Help!

Fri, 29 Jun 2007 10:03:44 PDT

A friend of mine is a teacher at a local community high school. (The school is open year round.) He is trying to start a recycling program for his “at risk” student population. The plan is to teach these students about recycling and why it is important so that they will take that knowledge back home and into the community. He is hoping to get several large plastic containers donated to the school so he can begin his program, and I agreed to do what I could to help. If any of you have, or know someone who has a large, plastic bin that is not being used, it could be put to good use with this program. Your donation would be very gratefully appreciated.
In fact, I’ll personally take you to lunch.

Please email me at baketown@gmail.com. Thanks!

Nothing Nerdy about Nurdles

Thu, 28 Jun 2007 12:28:15 PDT

Y’all already know how agro I am about my battle with the plastic bags. I’ve written about it here, here, and here. Well, things are about to get much worse with me now that I’ve read this article. It’s a long read but worth the time.

Here are a few excerpts:

******

“No matter how virtuously you toss your chip bags and shampoo bottles into your blue bin, few of them will escape the landfill—only 3 to 5 percent of plastics are recycled in any way.”

“There’s no legal way to recycle a milk container into another milk container without adding a new virgin layer of plastic,” Moore says, pointing out that, because plastic melts at low temperatures, it retains pollutants and the tainted residue of its former contents. Turn up the heat to sear these off, and some plastics release deadly vapors.

“That’s a concern as plastic proliferates worldwide, and people run out of room for trash and start burning plastic—you’re producing some of the most toxic gases known.”

“Except for the small amount that’s been incinerated—and it’s a very small amount—every bit of plastic ever made still exists,”

“Plastic crumbles into ever-tinier fragments as it’s exposed to sunlight and the elements. And none of these untold gazillions of fragments is disappearing anytime soon: Even when plastic is broken down to a single molecule, it remains too tough for biodegradation.”

“Meanwhile, every year, we churn out about 60 billion tons of it, much of which becomes disposable products meant only for a single use. Set aside the question of why we’re creating ketchup bottles and six-pack rings that last for half a millennium, and consider the implications of it: Plastic never really goes away.”

******

Never is a really long time.

The Scott I Knew

Wed, 27 Jun 2007 14:43:05 PDT

The stories and articles about Scott Sturtevant started shortly after he passed away last month. Slim the Drifter, as he was known, had drifted away from Bakersfield once again, but it was immediately oblivious his spirit has never left this community. I chose not to write about Scott mostly because I didn’t have all the information everyone else seemed to. I didn’t know Scott because of his music, I knew him because of his humor.

It’s hard to say how old I was went I met Scott but he was a friend of my older brother, so I must have been around 9 years old. I remember he was funny and crazy and he made me laugh. And like my brother, he didn’t seem to mind having a snotty nosed little sister tag along. Not that I hung out with the two much, but it was enough for me to remember him and his name.

Years later as I attended shows in high school, I was surprised when Scott’s name popped up. He didn’t look like the same Scott I had met years ago. He and my brother had fallen out of touch as their live took different paths, but when I approached Scott and told him who I was, he flashed a great smiled and grabbed me up in a hug. He asked all about my brother and always told me to give him his best. He may have looked scary, but there was still a sweet man inside.

I would run into him now and again over the years. He gave me a CD once to pass along to my brother, which I did. But as time passed I became more concerned. Scott didn’t look good and it was obvious his health was deteriorating. It looks like all the hard living finally caught up to him.

I am impressed and inspired by the other stories and articles I have read since Scott’s passing. I have learned a lot. But none of it changes my memories my brother’s funny friend who took the time to be kind to a little girl.

Warning!!

Tue, 26 Jun 2007 15:29:22 PDT

For those you with sensitive sensibilities or who are offended easily, this is not the post for you. For those who you who would like to see pictures of the inside of a Vegas dive bar, this IS the post for you. Check it out on my blog.

Don’t let it be said that I didn’t warn you.

Get a life! Or a truck!

Mon, 25 Jun 2007 12:09:25 PDT

There’s a bill board near my work I don’t care for. It’s an advertisement for a Dodge Ram and it features a picture of a man’s arm with a truck tattooed on it. Underneath the picture it reads, “Get a life at your local Kern County Dodge Dealer.” What the hell?

Are they suggesting that you’re not driving one of their gas guzzling monster trucks you don’t have a life? Or are they saying that until you are so enamored by your vehicle that you have its image tattooed on your arm, you have not lived? I beg to differ. I think my life is infinitely better because I don’t own a Dodge Ram. I don’t have friends bugging me to help them haul crap all over town. And I don’t have to spend hundreds of dollars on gas every month in order to propel my ass around.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s when you start to think about tattooing a picture of your truck on your arm, that’s about the time you should start worrying about “getting a life.”

I scored!

Thu, 21 Jun 2007 17:39:50 PDT

I received the best gift in the mail today EVER! My ex-boyfriend from high school, also known as the drummer from The Examples, sent me a DVD copy of the video recordings they took back in their hey-day. Oh the hilarity. Oh the bad 80’s hair. Oh the memories.

For those of you who don’t know who The Examples are, they were a pseudo punk band in Bakersfield in the 80’s. They won Best Band of Bako in 1985 and 1986 at the Kern County Fair. The band consisted of three bad boy, hot Mormons from Highland High School. Their humorous songs included Charles Ingles, Happy Hippo, Fishing’s Fine, Fat Matt, and I Want to be a Chef – just to name a few.

Apparently I still feel I have bragging rights 20 years later.

Paper! Paper! Read all about it!

Thu, 21 Jun 2007 13:35:54 PDT

I went to a local grocery store yesterday and I couldn’t help but notice as I walked in that there was a man asleep in the corner. I looked over, so as to better understand why a man would be sleeping in the corner of a grocery store, and discovered that he wasn’t really asleep, he was just lounging there - with his shirt pulled up and his gut hanging out. He seemed about ready to doze off when he saw me looking at him, so he perked up (just a little) and said, “Would you like a paper?” I told him I already had one and proceeded to go about my shopping.

While I shopped I wondered what the good folks at the paper would think of this guy sleeping on the job. I’ve been seeing their booths all over town, always with some poor schlep looking bored and trying to give away papers. I kind of feel sorry for them. It’s got to be hard to try and give away something people either already have or don’t want. Sometimes I take one just to make them feel better.

They really need to get some more dynamic people to work their booths though. Like maybe a kid with a snap cap and a Brooklyn accent yelling, “Papers! Git yer papers ‘ere!” You know, create a little excitement.

Lord knows a sleeping man with a gut isn’t going to do it.

Notchs? No Thank You.

Thu, 21 Jun 2007 13:08:11 PDT

There’s a letter in the paper today from a woman who has an idea on how to help with the overpopulation of unwanted dogs and cats. Her idea is to “notch” the ears of animals that are fixed. That way animal control officers will know, ‘Hey, this dog ain’t no breeder’ so they don’t need to take it to the shelter to feed it. Wow. Brilliant plan, huh?

First of all, umm….if it’s a boy dog you don’t really need to notch the ear, right? I mean, all you have to do is check out his package. No nuts – no problem! Females are a little trickier I guess. But honestly, the idea of removing a hunk of my pet’s ear doesn’t sound so good to me. Maybe I could just pierce them instead. That way she can accessorize.

I’m sure the woman who wrote the letter is a kind and gentle soul who really wants to help, but come on, is cutting up their ears really the answer? Then again, maybe the mangled mutts wouldn’t get as much action with a hunk missing from their ear.

Maybe this plan will work after all.

Getting Railroaded

Thu, 21 Jun 2007 12:26:14 PDT

There’s another article in the paper today about the Infamous Honking Trains of Bakersfield. They’re still trying to figure out how to stop the noise without spending a bunch of money. I have an idea. Tell them to stop. There, problem solved and it didn’t cost a penny. Okay, so it’s more complicated than that. I just can’t figure out why.

Presumably the reason for all the noise is to alert people who might be on the tracks to get out of the way. In other words, to wake up the bums passed out on the train tracks. (That doesn’t sound very comfortable, does it?) I can understand the desire to help these people, but come on, is it really THAT big of a problem? Has there been a rash of bums being squished that I’m not aware of? If that’s the case, then I say honk away – but keep it within reason!

I often wake up early, especially in the summer. It’s nice to get things done before it gets too hot. So the other day while I was watering I couldn’t help but notice a train blowing its horn for a really long time. This was no three second job. This was really llllloooooooooooooooooooonnnnnnnnnggggggg. I started counting when I noticed it and got all the way to 12 before it stopped. That’s the thing that makes me mad. Some dudes really lay it on. There are others that seem respectful, maybe even a little peaceful. Then there are the a-holes who blast away like it’s their own personal air raid siren.

I know how save money – ditch those guys.

Fatherisms

Tue, 19 Jun 2007 13:38:33 PDT

I was reading a blog earlier about Father’s Day and the silly things they tell us when we’re little. One guy shared this story:

“My dad told me the worst swear word you could possibly say was "Bostonian". It meant "someone who has no private parts." My brother and I used the word until we were teenagers and my father giggled every time we said it, right before he sent us to our rooms.”

That’s too funny. I guess the silliest thing my parents told me was that cows stood in the pools of water to keep their milk cool. Every summer we would drive to Texas to visit relatives and I would see all these cows stranding around in ponds. When I asked why this was the answer I received. I believed it until they finally told me the truth in high school.

What silly things did your father, or mother (or both) tell you?