Love is like a Depeche Mode song...

I believe in true love. I am also an idiot.

I suppose I was brainwashed by Hollywood and the adult Top 40 hits of the 80s. These ridiculous and corny notions that love is the only thing that matters, that it can stand up in the face of anything. Love is all that matters. I believe those things. I was tricked!

I guess the key to being someone like me is finding some other sucker who believes the same thing. I know there has to be someone like that around, dealing with the same disappointments I am.

I know a few couples who are of the same mindset I am. I have no idea how they managed to find each other. And I have even less of a clue how they've managed to stay together in the face of a world that doesn't care. But I guess that's the whole point. The outside world doesn't matter.

I'm amazed at the reasons people have for breaking up. You aren't ambitious enough. You're not tall enough. You're don't make enough money. Are these reasons for being in love with someone or reasons you chose your particular banker?

I'd hate to go so far as to declare the world full of shallow people who're only looking out for themselves in the end. I know it's not that bad. But it's certainly discouraging.

Hockey Versus Baseball (Hint: Hockey Wins!)

I love hockey, as anyone with a passing familiarity with me knows. From late September to mid-June, I am pretty much unavailable for societal functions. I turn off my phone. I don’t return e-mails. I stop looking both ways when crossing the road. I am glued to the television, watching my beloved Los Angeles Kings embarrass me night after night.

Being a hockey fan in southern California is hard. When most people discover that I am a hockey fan, they immediately assume I’m an Anaheim Ducks fan. Well, before that they get confused and think I’m talking about Soccer or Badminton or any of the other sports 99% of Americans don’t care about. Once they figure out that I’m talking about the sport played on ice that isn’t curling, they assume I’m a Ducks fan. Which makes me want to stab them in each eye with a used spork. Kings fans hate Ducks fans. Ducks fans hate Kings fans. It’s the SoCal equivalent of the Yankees and the Red Sox.

And, so it goes, year after year. I obsess over hockey and fill in the occasional gaps in my schedule by watching the NFL. But the summers are long, and boring, with only a few brief weeks before and after the hockey season to keep me entertained (Yes, I watch the NHL Draft, NHL Awards, pre-season games, Free Agent Day, YouTube clips of training camp, reruns of playoff games on the NHL Network, etc, etc, etc…). So, this summer, I’ve made an attempt to ingratiate myself to America’s past-time. You know, the one that isn’t football?

When I was a kid, my father made me play a few seasons of kiddie-baseball. I don’t think I played in Little League. I want to say I played in the Junior Baseball Association, but I can’t be sure. I really don’t care. I was terrible at the game. But I was dutiful. He brainwashed me into caring about the Los Angeles Dodgers. I watched their games. I wore the hats and t-shirts he bought for me. I drank the blue Kool-Aid.

That is, until the early 90s. I was becoming a teenager, and I decided that I really didn’t give a crap about baseball. I liked hockey, girls, and football, in that order. The last game I watched or even attended was when I was 17. I was taking a journalism class at Bakersfield College, and one of our group assignments was to attend a local baseball game and each write a story about it. I think I might have written about how boring the experience was.

Flash-forward 12 years, and here I am making an attempt to understand why people are interested in baseball. I have a few friends who are absolutely die-hard baseball fans. A few Boston Red Sox fans… A few San Francisco Giants fans… Hell, one of my old bosses is a dyed-in-the-wool Los Angeles California Angels of Anaheim fan. And, of course, there’s my father, who is still a Dodgers fan.

So, I try to understand them better. And I watch a few games a week. I still don’t get it. The game is slow, and I think a lot of fans would agree with me on that. There is a certain “chess match” quality to it, I suppose. And I do love the fact that 114% of the league’s players aren’t from the United States. What can I say? I love a good accent!

I don’t really know for sure if I’ll ever truly appreciate baseball. I just haven’t had that moment or moments that make it click for me. I don’t even know if I’ll pick a team to follow. Maybe just to be contrary, I’ll become a Toronto Blue Jays fan. They suck, right?

Taj Mahal

Imagine that you’re in Bakersfield, California. Give yourself a good fifteen minutes to acclimate to the hybrid alfalfa/cow fart/beer smell and the dreadful heat and humidity. Take stock of the 300,000 mouth-breathers spread out across a landmass large enough to fit 58 Hollywoods. Soak up the squat buildings, the bad drivers, and the “Cowboy Up!” bumper stickers. Are you still there?

Now imagine you’re with a group of friends. And this group of friends decide that it’s time for nourishment. What comes next is inevitable, “Where the hell are we going to eat?” It’s an obvious progression of the conversation, and one that’s easily hurdled. A few people throw out ideas. Some are shot down, some are accepted. A consensus is taken, and the group heads off to discover new culinary frontiers.

Now, that would be the short version. But this is Bakersfield, California we’re talking about. Land of eight million dream-cicles. There is approximately one McDonald’s hamburger stand for every four people in Bakersfield (numbers are estimates only). Throw a rock out of any window, out of any building in Bakersfield, and you will hit a Carl’s Jr. Need to eat? Drive in a direction. Any direction.

Today, it was Indian food, served at Taj Mahal (5416 California Ave). Yes, that gastronomic delight from that country somewhere way over there. Curries, biryanis, and lassis (unfortunately, no bhang lassis on the menu here) served with a smile, or at the very least, some confused expressions. “You want an order each of cheese and spiced beef naan? And mango chutney? And lamb biryani? And a mango lassi?” Translation: “You are fat, American pig.”

The stunned waiter brought my food out dutifully, along with the food of my luncheon companion (who ordered shrimp tandoori, and gladly helped me with my feast as well). The lamb biryani was a little dry, but good. The naan was fantastic, though, and I had to order a second mango lassi when the first one mysteriously disappeared into my mouth. We feasted like royalty. Bakersfield royalty.

Storm

I miss my old Geo Storm. It was my second car, following a '57 Ford truck that doubled as a tank. I got it my senior year in high school and was very proud of the silly thing. It was electric blue and sexy as hell. When I got it, I drove over to Kara's place and took her for a ride around her complex. I probably thought I was the shit.

The car, which was a '91, lasted about five years. Shortly after getting it, I bought one of those silly license plate frames that read, "Let's put the fun back in funeral." I remember pulling into a parking lot, blissfully unaware of my surroundings. A older couple, probably in their 60s, approached my car.

"Do you think funerals are funny, asshole?" the husband asked. "Well, yes, they can be quite funny, in the right circumstances," I replied. "Well, I'll have you know…" was about as far as the conversation went on his end. I practically skipped away.

That car made me invincible. Or, at least I thought so at the time. I think we all have those times or objects we associate with our youth. That Geo Storm didn't actually make me cool, I just thought it did. Still, I miss that damned car.

Dear Rude VONS Checkout Girl

Dear rude VONS checkout girl,

Please don't misunderstand me. I get that you are super-cool and 18 and just out of Stockdale High School. I get that the rules of societal behavior just don't apply to you. But I would appreciate if, in the future, you kept these things in mind when I patronized your store for fruit for my son…

1. I know that I'm fat and funny looking. Pointing these things out to me is unnecessary.

2. I kind of figured that your high school girlfriend was in line behind me. Especially since you spent half of your time talking to her. She gets it. You work at VONS. You are cooler than the rest of us.

3. I do realize that Fresca isn't the sexiest choice when it comes to soft drinks. You don't really need to point this out.

4. I walked out of my house wearing a Star Trek t-shirt. I am fully cognizant of this fact. Telling me a story about your friend who still has Star Wars bed sheets, and how you're glad he's "just a friend and not a date" is unnecessary. Especially while giggling at your friend and rolling your eyes at me.

5. Assuming that all nerds want to have sex with you is a fallacy. I find you rather appalling, to be honest. I have no interest in having sex with you.

With all due respect,
Michael

The Job, The Grill, & The Gate

I went job hunting today, with a spear and a bucket and everything. I'd like to find something to do soon. I hate being useless. I'm going to prepare myself for substitute teaching in August in the event that nothing happens between now and then. I still need to get my state license and appropriate recommendations together though.

My qualifications freak me out, though. I'm qualified to write, obviously, having done it professionally in the past. I have management experience; I'm pretty good with customers in a retail environment. I'm even qualified to teach the children of America, if even just on a substitute basis. I am not qualified to shovel rocks, however. I have a paper saying so. Don't get me wrong, I can physically do the work. I just failed the test that says I can officially do it. What's next? Proof I can't work in a coal mine?

After hitting up some local businesses, I drove around a few parts of east Bakersfield I'm unfamiliar with. I haven't really done that since moving out here, with the price of petrol being what it is. I took in an auto lot, with its shiny red tasseled car antennas blowing in the wind. There was also a shopping center with everything I love about east Bakersfield concentrated in one place.

Every store had merchandise on display outside, often covered in rain spots or a fine layer of dust. Accompanying these items were people, leisurely enjoying the day. Some even sat on furniture outside the rental store, eating their lunches. There was a man grilling chicken in the parking lot, his associate chopping the tasty birds into burritos, or salads. Mexican sodas were available for purchase, iced.

There was a 99 cent store on one end of the complex, at the other, an 88 cent store. Both seems equally patronized. Anchoring the shopping center was an honest to goodness carniceria, painted a vibrant mix of teal, green, and red. Customers flowed in and out of the automatic doors with a "Woosh!" The smells of the place were quite lovely and I thought it was a store more people should visit, even if it were the sort of place most non-Hispanic people wouldn't look twice at.

I was certainly looked at more than once by the patrons of the carniceria, and of the shopping center on a whole. I was looked at as an interloper. Maybe my shoulders were hunched too low. Perhaps I lacked the jump in step most of them had. Maybe I just didn't look like I belonged there.

I drove back to my odd, little gated community. The one near all the farms and bizarre east Bakersfield mini-mansions. Horse runs and rental parks, brick walls and pass codes. The whole way thinking, "I belong with those people."

Mountain Battles

Kim Deal's side-project, the Breeders, has been a strange footnote of its parent band, the Pixies. 1993's "Cannonball" single made them one of the odder one-hit wonders of the grunge era. The band wasn't exactly grunge, just adored by grunge luminaries like Kurt Cobain. And the album "Cannonball" came from, Last Splash, went platinum in the US, something a Pixies album never achieved. No wonder Frank Black never let Deal write many Pixies songs.

She hasn't really written many Breeders songs either. The drug problems of Deal's sister, Kelley, have kept the Breeders out of the studio for much of the last two decades. The band's latest album, Mountain Battles, comes six years after the last one, and is only their fourth release overall. Despite the delays, it finds the band trading in the same kind of lo-fi indie rock they were on their first three albums. It's two parts Pixies, one part Sonic Youth.

And the Pixies-lite angle works well for Deal's reedy voice. What Deal sings is less important than how she sings it. It's quite easy to listen to the album without picking up on many of the lyrics. This is both a credit to Deal's emotive, but thin, voice and a disservice to her lyricism. The lyrics aren't bad, just unremarkable. Kelley Deal backs up Kim on most of the songs, and the harmonies are enjoyable. The interplay of vocals on "German Studies," for instance, is one of the song's strong points. I'm just not sure if I remember any of the words.

With production from frequent collaborator Steve Albini, Mountain Battles is best played as loud as possible. Albini's sonic trademarks (live recordings without much overdubbing, noisy guitars, lack of effects) benefit from being experienced at high volume. The music here flows from soft to loud, often within the span of a single song. The intimacy of the recording process is replicated on the album with aplomb. The experience can be likened to one of a band playing a live set in your living room.