Think Van Morrison with equally good material and a textured, New Orleans twang unlike any other voice in America and you have Andrew Duhon. The singer-songwriter’s upcoming performance at the Bakersfield Music Hall of Fame on Jan. 18 will be his third local appearance with Passing Through P…

Earlier this week, I rode a Bird, one of those electric scooters that recently came to town. I wanted to wave to people and say, “Yes, this is me. I’m riding a scooter,” but I didn’t dare take my hands off the handlebars lest I fall or run over a soft, fleeing animal.

Last Saturday was the Bakersfield Master Chorale’s "Messiah" concert. This is the Christmas program, but Handel’s "Messiah" has a tendency to swamp the rest of the selections like high seas might a short-walled boat.

An old house is a mysterious thing, and one of the mysteries of this 122-year-old house has been a light switch downstairs inside the front door.

Frank Fisher, aka Cranky Franky, eats breakfast at the “Pine” six days a week. That’d be seven if Fisher didn’t have coffee and a doughnut at church on Sunday.

We were at Mel’s cabin near Glennville for a men’s night. I was doing dishes for a dinner that included spareribs, Luigi’s pasta with red sauce, salad with blue cheese and sweet, toasted pecans, and a pot of Italian beans.

Everybody can agree on Thanksgiving. If we can’t agree on Thanksgiving, we’re probably not going to agree on much. It’s an uncomplicated holiday or at least for someone like me, whose contribution is subliminal, rather than honest labor in the kitchen.

When David Torres knocked on the door of Room 113 last Friday morning, he looked around as if to check for enemy fire. Good — coast clear. At 8 a.m., local defense attorney had already accomplished his primary goal, regardless of whatever ambush faced him later in court: Beat H.A. Sala to a …

I wrote the first part of this column (see below, starting with “Looking back”) last week, before we moved from our downtown offices at 17th and Eye to our new digs on Pegasus Drive out in the puckerbrush. I was sad then but now I’m singing a new tune and loving the melody.

Check his blood pressure. While you’re at it, maybe his sanity, too. Ken Wonderly is not only restoring a house built in 1895, he’s enjoying it, unruffled by the clouds of flying dust, high-pitched whine of the electric saws and nail guns that sound like small automatic weapons.

I hadn’t seen her in 40 years. “Hadn’t” was discounting a quick visit and Christmas cards that, although regular and heartfelt, are no substitute for face-to-face. If it hadn’t been 40 years, it might as well have been.

The column on selling Mexicali West, (the family will continue to operate the Mexicali on 18th Street), elicited this response from Rhonda Brady:

Today, the Dodgers beat the Colorado Rockies 5-2 to clinch the division title. It took every bit of the 163 nail-chewing games, but they prevailed. Pop the champagne, don the victory caps and above all, give thanks to the baseball gods who do not always cooperate.

Is it murder if somebody deserves it and I thought about it on Machu Picchu? Rather than calling it murder, which can be prone to misunderstanding and hurt feelings, maybe we could consider it human sacrifice in the Incan tradition of purification.

For dinner, I chose one of my best black shirts. The short-sleeved kind, one size too small, the sort that delivers an impression of fitness. Black focuses the attention on the black shirt rather than on a white, lumpy face.