Category: Wyatt’s Words

Every news organization is collectively masturbating over a “blood red” moon tonight during the lunar eclipse (one of FOUR over the next 1.5 years), which if you’ve read the Bible, (and I’ve read MINE *points to Gwyneth Paltrow’s cookbook*) then you know it means something bad, like locusts are going to come and bring doom to us all. Which is fine. I’ve had to trim trees before, and let me tell you, I could’ve used a smattering of locust. Would’ve made my job a helluva lot easier.

actual shot during the eclipse.  nailed it!

There’s something about the solar system everyone else seems to get that I just…don’t.

For instance, I love star projectors because they’re cool and they have shooting stars.

shut up and take my money

I dislike actual stars because they’re just not the same. Look, I know that in Ancient Egypt it was a real big deal because entertainment was light, but come on. We have flush toilets now and we can put as many damn stars as we want on our walls.

1) I can’t see them in a city
If I have to drive out to Bigguns, Montana to see something that’s right above me, it’s not worth seeing.

2) People who are into it, suck
I appreciate people who are knowledgeable at what they do. I even appreciate people who like stars.

I don’t appreciate people who hold you hostage while they point out a bunch of constellations with a telescope that costs more than a house. We get it, there’s the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, and the diphead who’s manipulating the magnification so I go blind.

3) Aliens
Aliens ruin everything. If they’re out there, then they’re doing a crappy job of showing themselves to us.  If they’re not, there’s more crazy people than I thought, because something like half of Americans believe in aliens with literally no evidence.

4) It’s affected by…clouds
That’s right. CLOUDS affect our ability to see the solar system. Drops of water, the same as the ones drooling from your lips now at the thought of a Waffle Taco, can prevent you from seeing every single star in the Universe. In no industry would a performer so delicate and so easy to ignore survive.

5) I can’t go there
I can go to the Bahamas, so it’s nice to see pictures of the Bahamas. I can go to Bigguns Montana and Madagascar and all the other cool places. I can’t go to the stars (yet, at least) and that makes me feel really kinda sad (and also concerned about, if I could, just how nauseous I would get on the trip).

So look, if I wanna see an Eclipse, I’ll go to a goddamn Mitsubishi dealership.

Until then, I’ll stick to the projector.

meh

I never understood “coffee”.

I was a kid and would drink it at holidays when everyone else had some and it never quite had an effect on me.

I liked tea, but I was never one of those people who would be found clutching a Starbucks cup like it was a lifeline.

Until my dad introduced me again to coffee.

My world was changed. Coffee made life vivid, I would get insane amounts of work done, and have brilliant ideas.

Sure, it gave me the runs, but it was WORTH IT.

Then there was the inevitable crash.

And the two or three cups to keep the high going.

And then sleeping for twelve hours to come off that caffeine high.

So my experience with coffee wasn’t great. I’d go through a week where I’d be all about coffee and another week where I avoided it like the plague.

I eventually, permanently switched to black tea, which mellows me out.

Unfortunately, if I have some on an empty stomach, I approach what it must feel like to die quite rapidly.

the struggle is REAL

And then one day at Trader Joe’s, on complete impulse, I bought Yerba Mate, and placed it in the back of my cabinet where I didn’t find it until yesterday.

The first time was awful. It did nothing for me and tasted like old man smell (Polo Cologne and Marlboro Reds).

cigarettes: they help you tear down barbed wire fences!

Today I thought I’d give it another shot, put it in a bigger mug, and it was actually quite pleasant.

But the boost was what made it worthwhile.

I was clear, focused, and not sweating out of my butt.

I’m now a Yerba Mate devotee/believer/evangelist!

if it’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for me

I never understood “coffee”.

I was a kid and would drink it at holidays when everyone else had some and it never quite had an effect on me.

I liked tea, but I was never one of those people who would be found clutching a Starbucks cup like it was a lifeline.

Until my dad introduced me again to coffee.

My world was changed. Coffee made life vivid, I would get insane amounts of work done, and have brilliant ideas.

Sure, it gave me the runs, but it was WORTH IT.

Then there was the inevitable crash.

And the two or three cups to keep the high going.

And then sleeping for twelve hours to come off that caffeine high.

So my experience with coffee wasn’t great. I’d go through a week where I’d be all about coffee and another week where I avoided it like the plague.

I eventually, permanently switched to black tea, which mellows me out.

Unfortunately, if I have some on an empty stomach, I approach what it must feel like to die quite rapidly.

the struggle is REAL

And then one day at Trader Joe’s, on complete impulse, I bought Yerba Mate, and placed it in the back of my cabinet where I didn’t find it until yesterday.

The first time was awful. It did nothing for me and tasted like old man smell (Polo Cologne and Marlboro Reds).

cigarettes: they help you tear down barbed wire fences!

Today I thought I’d give it another shot, put it in a bigger mug, and it was actually quite pleasant.

But the boost was what made it worthwhile.

I was clear, focused, and not sweating out of my butt.

I’m now a Yerba Mate devotee/believer/evangelist!

if it’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for me

In LA, there are three Sunday pastimes: hiking Runyon (for the ambitious) drunch (drunk brunch, for the lazy) and going to the Farmer’s Market.

The last option on the list has replaced going to church for most people, because what would you rather do on a day of rest: be talked to by the man, or buy some vegetables you’ve never heard of to feel better about yourself?

So before you all go fork over your hard-earned cash (only) to some hucksters hawking haricot vert, you should know this:

Farmer’s markets are just places where farmers take the product that wasn’t good enough to sell to grocery stores and hasn’t reached the high level of inspection that retail produce receives.  It isn’t stuff that was “just picked this morning!’ either, it’s more often the fruits and vegetables that they’re just about to throw out and want to get a few extra bucks for.  If you’re a farmer, you don’t send or sell your best or freshest things to the farmer’s market–you take it to retail, then to wholesale, then a distributor, then farmer’s market is just above “disliked neighbors” and “compost”.

Most farmer’s markets aren’t “local” either, unless you consider 250 miles as local.  The closest LA produce is grown in Oxnard, which is an hour drive away and mostly strawberries and lettuces.  The rest is grown in the San Joaquin Valley and trucked down to LA (so you’re not saving the environment versus what you bought at your local Ralph’s.)

guy holding spinach: well goodness, i just got an exemplary deal on this organic,  fresh, local spinach!

guy behind the stall: i bought some packages at Costco and charged you 3x the price.  lol, suckerrr

Of course, at every farmer’s market, there’s the guy who grew some bellpeppers in his backyard all by his-self, but those kinds of farmers are quickly dying out.  Even farmers who grow small volumes of produce can still sell to a local grocery store or distributor.  If you’re a small farmer and you don’t have enough product for a farmer’s market, it’s common to, well, fill your inventory.  Why not just buy a box of oranges at Costco and sell them a for a few times more on the weekend?   Farmer’s markets are profitable for small and large farmers because they can dupe people into paying way more for produce than they ever should.

Don’t just believe me either.  According to Organic Gardening:

Farmers’ markets have become so popular that they’re being co-opted by wholesalers, retailers, and farmers who may be local but not so committed to a sustainable food system.

The only thing unsustainable is to rely on a food delivery system where once per week, a bunch of people congregate on a narrow street and haggle over rutabagas.  There’s a reason why that happens more frequently in countries where more people starve and not here.

So what does that leave?  Well, the produce at a farmer’s market just tastes better, right?

Not really.  Nothing tastes sweeter than the superiority of foraging for your own meal at a farmer’s market instead of those commoners who shop at the grocery.

Yes, my sausage sandwich fell on the floor.

Yes, I’m going to pick it up and eat it even though it was open-faced.

Look, floors ain’t clean, folks.

But they’re probably cleaner than my hands.

And I doubt every corner of this Starbucks is teeming with malaria or something (then again, it’s not exactly the Soweto Starbucks).

People who shout “FIVE SECOND RULE” disgust me. Usually they’re those EXXXTREME fratty types who want to show me just how hardcore they are by eating something that has literally come into infinitesimally-quick contact with a surface that isn’t a plate with pizza stains.

Listen guys, this ain’t Fear Factor. Your gravity-propelled Hot Pocket isn’t the same as eating a bowl full of maggots. When you decide to do that outside of initiation, then you can call yourself hardcore, bro.

I love when restaurants comp people for food they drop. I would likely abuse that, becoming complete butterfingers at Melisse or Nobu or something and then getting tons of food on the house.

zoidberg: the final chapter

I’m surprised people don’t spill more things. 9.8 m/s^2 is pretty fast folks. Enough to just let things…slip through your fingers.

There’s no weirder feeling than when something is spilled. It’s a combo of tragedy (NOT THE SPAGHETTINI!), regret (why, fingers, why do you FAIL me SO), relief (welp, guess I’m just officially incompetent and will have to hire someone to carry everything for me now), and satisfaction (fuck yeah, stick it to the MAN with his plates and clean floors).

And as a spectator? The responsibility is overwhelming. Either you can jeer (BUTTAHFINGAHS) or help (here, let me scoop that up for you) or stare (she just…broke the space-time continuum). I think it’s best to run from those situations. I’m not a fan of avoiding responsibility, but breaking into a dead sprint away from someone who lost the meatballs on their spaghetti plate sounds like a logical move.

Nobody noticed me drop my sausage sandwich, and nobody was available to give me looks of derision or flat-out panic. So I consider it a public service I was able to handle this situation effectively.

Everyone calm down.

I GOT this…

This morning I was violently shaken awake by the Encino (NOT WESTWOOD) earthquake, which felt quite similar to Kathy Bates grabbing me by the shoulders and knocking me around for 20 seconds (not as titillating as you’d expect).

Earthquakes are like rollercoasters–the person who’s telling you how “cool!” it is just shit their drawers.  Earthquakes are also an opportunity for armchair seismologists to pretend like they know the ins and outs of plate tectonics.  

“STAND UNDER A DOORWAY”, they wail, casting looks of judgment at you that’d make the Westboro Baptist congregation blush.

MYTH 1:  Earthquakes will kill you unless you stand under a doorway, also known as “God’s Pelvis”.

TRUTH:  Standing under a doorway is at best useless and at worst damaging.

In modern homes doorways are no stronger than any other parts of the house and usually have doors that will swing and can injure you.

But this isn’t good enough for some people.  They start blathering on about “aftershocks” like a Dunkin Donuts fearing Oprah’s return.

MYTH 2:  Your obituary will read that you survived an earthquake only to get completely hosed by a more powerful aftershock, and yes, will include the word “hosed” because that niece you hate wrote it.

TRUTH:  The earthquake you actually felt is highly likely to be the worst earthquake you’ll feel.

It has also been claimed that foreshocks are not simply small mainshocks, but rather are triggered by the nucleation phase of the upcoming larger mainshock. If this is true, we would expect mainshock size to influence the magnitude, number, and/or spatial extent of the foreshocks. We do not observe any such correlations.

Just because the quake subsides doesn’t mean the steady stream of bullshit stops.  These people claim that it was ‘earthquake weather’, that they could ‘feel’ it before the earthquake started, while casting their limbs out akimbo to show you that earthquakes are apparently similar to Huntington’s disease.  This is all despite the fact that what happens miles beneath the surface of the earth couldn’t be more far removed from what happens above it, and that this person should’ve used their psychic powers for good (9/11) versus stupid (predicting an earthquake after it happened).

Worse yet are people who specialize in earthquake prediction, who rank just slightly above Sylvester Stallone’s “rumpologist” mom as “seers of the future”:

way to be on the ball with CA, guys

good to see you predicted today’s quake with the same accuracy as the massive Fresno quake that didn’t happen 3 days ago

MYTH 3:  Earthquakes can be predicted by the weather and/or joint pain and/or rumpology

TRUTH:  There is no such thing as earthquake weather.  We can’t even predict the weather, let alone use the weather to predict earthquakes.

Some regard hot and dry weather as “earthquake weather,” a supposed precursor to a large quake. Yet there’s not clear cut agreement on this combination, because others deem “earthquake weather” to be when it’s hot and humid. This belief about the weather conditions above the surface’s affecting what’s going on beneath is an old one, dating to the days of the ancient Greeks. Posited Aristotle, who believed quakes were caused by winds trapped underground, less wind above the surface must mean more below, hence earthquakes were more likely when the air was still.

Earthquakes: just like that gassy kid with Cheeto fingers in the back of class!

–Aristotle

trust no bitch

Sullen and defeated, the weak retreat back to their hidey-holes of daytime TV-fueled ignorance.

But the aggressive, the General Custers of stupidity, bitterly cling to one more myth like Gollum in a Jared showroom.

“You know,” they say, putting their hands on their idiot hips, “we’re DUE for the BIG one”.

MYTH 4:  The big one’s a-comin folks.  Hitch your britches and grab yer mistresses, we gotta high-tail it out of Cal-i-for-nigh-ay!

TRUTH:  A large earthquake is more like your cousin’s unplanned pregnancy than your cousin’s general penchant for poor life choices–a possibility but not a certainty.

For example, here’s a recent LA Times article about “the Big One”:

The “Big One” that has been forecast for the San Andreas fault could end up being bigger than earthquake experts previously thought.

Recent research showing that a section of the fault is long overdue for a major earthquake has some scientists saying the southern portion of the fault is capable of a magnitude 8.1 earthquake that could run 340 miles from Monterey County to the Salton Sea.

The southern San Andreas hasn’t had a large quake for more than a century. The sleeping giant has been building stress for so long that it could snap at any moment, experts said.

I’ll hold while you change into your Pampers.

The average time interval between the last six earthquakes that ruptured the San Andreas fault in the Carrizo Plain is 88 ± 41 yr. This is less than the time since the most recent A.D. 1857 earthquake, less than all reported average intervals of prehistoric earthquakes along the entire San Andreas fault, and significantly shorter than the 235 yr average used in recent seismic hazard evaluations. The new chronological data combined with recent slip studies imply that the magnitudes of the earthquakes that ruptured the southern San Andreas fault in the Carrizo Plain since ca. A.D. 1360 were variable, and suggest that the widely held view of rare but great surface rupturing earthquakes along this portion of the southern San Andreas fault should be reevaluated.

Shhh.  I’ll wake you up after your nap.

To sum up: doorways won’t protect you (duck and cover under something strong, I can only protect two young ladies at once, sorry), you’re likely feeling the main quake and the aftershock will be pitiful, nobody can predict earthquakes, and California won’t fall off into the ocean (which the US Geological Survey actually had to debunk).

Class dismissed.

From the man who wrote the award-winning post “I Built This“…

Dear Hillary:

I enjoyed building my own Resolute desk a little while back. And although it’s not hand-carved from wood from that mighty ship, I am about 78% sure it’s not particleboard.

Take THAT, IKEA.

I know you hope to sit behind the Resolute desk someday in the Oval Office. It would be a step up from where women kneeled during your husband’s administration.

In reference to the terrorist attack on our consulate in Benghazi and our murdered ambassador and security heroes, you said the following:

“With all due respect, the fact is we had four dead Americans. Was it because of a protest or was it because of guys out for a walk one night who decided that they’d they go kill some Americans? What difference at this point does it make?”

Never mind the fact that you and your boss blamed an Egyptian-American filmmaker for putting up a video on YouTube that allegedly “incited violence”.

Never mind the fact that we were assured this wasn’t a terrorist attack, nosiree.

Never mind that Amb. Stevens asked for backup support on repeated occasions until right before the attack.

After all–what difference does it make?

I set out to answer that question.

So, for my next project, I had to do something ambitious. Something groundbreaking. Something that would be a fool’s errand for just a mere *man*.

I decided to add a second bedroom–the kind you’d need when separate beds just aren’t far enough.

Scientists say you spend 1/3 of your life in your bedroom. Well not “you” specifically. Scientists are not following “you” and your dalliances. It’s not all about YOU.

I wanted more room. I wanted to make a DIFFERENCE.

But how, HOW to accomplish this? When you’re a leader, you have to make the tough choices. You can’t just knock through with a wrecking ball haphazardly. You can’t just invade Libya and expect to not have to pick up the pieces!

I looked at my 70s-style mirrored closet doors. They keep sliding off and running over everything on the bottom layer of these narrow closets, because apparently this room was built for an anemic child with a single pair of overalls.

I looked at the wall across from my bed. Bland. No TV. No pictures. Don’t want to hang anything and forfeit some of the security deposit.

I decided to put together peanut butter and chocolate. Like an AMERICAN(TM) would.

*shooes away Shania Twain from singing “Let Freedom Ring”* NOT YET!

I used my prodigious muscles and lifted the closet doors straight off their wheels, carrying them over to the open walls and placing them delicately, like old law documents in a shredder.

I set them side by side (careful to not leave fingerprints or spray an incredible amount of sweat on the clean glass) and slid them together, covering up the wall behind.  There’s nothing quite like a good cover-up.

SUCCESS.

The illusion of a second room. Just like the illusion of security provided to our men on the ground in Benghazi.

But, after all, what difference does it make?

From the man who wrote the award-winning post “I Built This“…

Dear Hillary:

I enjoyed building my own Resolute desk a little while back. And although it’s not hand-carved from wood from that mighty ship, I am about 78% sure it’s not particleboard.

Take THAT, IKEA.

I know you hope to sit behind the Resolute desk someday in the Oval Office. It would be a step up from where women kneeled during your husband’s administration.

In reference to the terrorist attack on our consulate in Benghazi and our murdered ambassador and security heroes, you said the following:

“With all due respect, the fact is we had four dead Americans. Was it because of a protest or was it because of guys out for a walk one night who decided that they’d they go kill some Americans? What difference at this point does it make?”

Never mind the fact that you and your boss blamed an Egyptian-American filmmaker for putting up a video on YouTube that allegedly “incited violence”.

Never mind the fact that we were assured this wasn’t a terrorist attack, nosiree.

Never mind that Amb. Stevens asked for backup support on repeated occasions until right before the attack.

After all–what difference does it make?

I set out to answer that question.

So, for my next project, I had to do something ambitious. Something groundbreaking. Something that would be a fool’s errand for just a mere *man*.

I decided to add a second bedroom–the kind you’d need when separate beds just aren’t far enough.

Scientists say you spend 1/3 of your life in your bedroom. Well not “you” specifically. Scientists are not following “you” and your dalliances. It’s not all about YOU.

I wanted more room. I wanted to make a DIFFERENCE.

But how, HOW to accomplish this? When you’re a leader, you have to make the tough choices. You can’t just knock through with a wrecking ball haphazardly. You can’t just invade Libya and expect to not have to pick up the pieces!

I looked at my 70s-style mirrored closet doors. They keep sliding off and running over everything on the bottom layer of these narrow closets, because apparently this room was built for an anemic child with a single pair of overalls.

I looked at the wall across from my bed. Bland. No TV. No pictures. Don’t want to hang anything and forfeit some of the security deposit.

I decided to put together peanut butter and chocolate. Like an AMERICAN(TM) would.

*shooes away Shania Twain from singing “Let Freedom Ring”* NOT YET!

I used my prodigious muscles and lifted the closet doors straight off their wheels, carrying them over to the open walls and placing them delicately, like old law documents in a shredder.

I set them side by side (careful to not leave fingerprints or spray an incredible amount of sweat on the clean glass) and slid them together, covering up the wall behind.  There’s nothing quite like a good cover-up.

SUCCESS.

The illusion of a second room. Just like the illusion of security provided to our men on the ground in Benghazi.

But, after all, what difference does it make?

Milestones are a strange reminder we’ve developed as part of our human experience to schedule out when we remember things. For painful memories it’s especially strange—why wait until one of these to notice a difference?

I get uncomfortable when people talk about their parents—more specifically, their mom. Usually they make generic statements about how their mom texts them all the time or how their mom found them on Facebook. I just sort of nod and mumble some sort of agreement in order to not feel so different from them, but my situation is very different.

Ten years ago today my mom suddenly lost consciousness behind the wheel of her truck as she drove out of my middle school where she was volunteering at that day’s book fair. Her vehicle crossed the center divider, amazingly avoided two lanes of oncoming traffic, poles, and trees, and drifted to a stop at a grassy knoll across from the school. Last time I drove by there, the tiremarks were still on the median.

An angel of a woman, Lisa Walker, saw what happened and ran to the window where my mom was slumped over the wheel. Immediately she called paramedics who had to break the back right window of the car—over the seat I had occupied on so many family vacations—and pulled her out of the driver’s seat to resuscitate her. When we got the car back, there was so much broken glass. Until we sold it sold years later—we kept finding broken glass. My mom had bought me a book and a poster at the book fair as a surprise gift. They were in the car as well—scratched up by the glass.

Her black Talbots shoes were still in the backseat too. Small. Suede. Fragile. Macabre.

My dad received a call at around 12:15PM from the sheriff that his wife was in an accident. His first question to the man was: “is she alive”? The sheriff paused, then responded that the paramedics were still trying to get her heart started. He turned his car and sped directly to the scene, with the sheriff pleading for him to go slowly and not get in an accident himself.

My mom received the same call only 8 years earlier when my dad had a heartattack on his airplane and was pronounced DOA as it landed at McCarran airport. Rarely in life do two people get to feel what the other one felt in a nearly identical life-or-death situation.

It was estimated that she had no blood pumping to her brain for at least 10 minutes. Scientists have determined that irreparable damage to the brain happens at that stage—usually sooner. After over three tries, the paramedics finally got a heartbeat and that they were taking her to Saint Agnes hospital.

While this was happening, someone in my Leadership class looked out the window and noticed an ambulance was across the street—alerting my teacher, Mrs. Capshaw. We gathered around the window and looked, but all we saw was the ambulance and a green pickup, the ambulance blocking anything else from view. I said a little prayer to myself hoping that person would be ok.

I don’t know what I would’ve done if I saw it was her. The scenario has run through my head hundreds of times—would I scale the 6-foot retaining wall outside the classes to get over there? Start screaming and crying? Get hit trying to cross the street? I determined it was good I didn’t find out.

At 1:45PM a golf cart came to my geometry class to pick me up. Some scary-looking woman walked up to the door and asked if “Matt Torosian” was there. I was hoping she was asking for Matt Sasaki and not me.

It was for me.

I knew I was in trouble for something. Was it about that fight I got in the other day? I’d never been picked up and sent to the office for anything before. What would my mom say? “Did you punch back?” It was the longest golf cart ride I’ve ever taken as I tried to hyperexamine what I possibly could’ve done wrong the past week.

We got to the office and I went into the principal’s. The secretary, the assistants—all of them had these downcast, troubled expressions. I didn’t know what to make of it. What could’ve possibly happened?

Why was my grandma there in her purple jacket and holding her purse? Why was she shaking?

My dad was on the phone and told me “your mom is in the hospital, she had a heartattack”. This didn’t shock me like it should have. After all—my dad had a heartattack and he was fine. But who would make dinner now?

It’s amazing how selfish your initial thoughts can be. My mom and I had gotten in an argument a couple days before over some girl I liked and how it was making my grades struggle in that class. Damned Allison Berryhill. At least I wouldn’t have to continue that argument with my mom now.

I hugged my grandma for longer than I had ever hugged her. I’d never seen her so upset before. This was not someone who ever this upset—she was just stern and had the occasional laugh to break up her permafrown.

I asked her if she wanted me to drive to the hospital but she said she would. She didn’t look like she was in any shape to drive—but I guess it was better to have a disturbed 82-year-old than a 13-year-old take the wheel. My mind was flooded with images of how happy my mom was from the night before at the Superbowl, from my birthday a week earlier. I desperately tried to piece together how this possibly could have happened to a relatively young, healthy woman.

We got there and everyone was there. All the grandparents. Aunts and uncles. Cousins. Everyone was sad and was trying to comfort me but I wasn’t feeling anything. I just knew my mom was going to come home that night and she’d be a little weak for a day or two but things would be ok.

It was awhile before I was allowed in to see her. Two by two we were allowed to go into the ICU, like this was Noah’s Ark or something. My grandma teared up and I walked in with this little frail old woman, supporting her more than she was supporting me. She had fallen not long ago walking out of our house and my mom broke her fall. I was careful to make sure that didn’t happen again.

I walked by what seemed like miles of ICU rooms—even though there were just 3, I ogled into the glass doors of each to see if she was in there.

We walked in and there she was, on ventilators and heart machines beeping and making that haunting inhale-exhale sound. She wasn’t awake. She wasn’t responsive. I quickly learned what a “coma” was. I didn’t understand. She’s just supposed to wake up, right? Why isn’t she waking up? Can’t she hear us?

The overcast skies grew hauntingly dark as the hours passed. As it approached 6PM they opened up in mourning, unleashing a torrent of rain.

I felt terrible. I couldn’t cry like them. I couldn’t cry like the people in the waiting room. Around 10 they told us it would be best to go home and let her rest, with the hope she’d wake up. My dad and I stopped and got Taco Bell on the way home—I remember looking at the dash of his Expedition and searing the digital time of 10:15 PM into my brain. The food was welcome because we were starving. It also tasted terrible because for the first time ever, it was just my dad and I at the glass dining table.

The other seat was empty.

I don’t remember much of those days, but I remember friends and relatives visiting and just staring at them. I remember my grandma breaking down in the waiting room the next afternoon and being afraid that she’d put herself in one of the hospital beds. I remember her wrinkled fingers clutching onto a tissue as tears flowed down her face and she asked, “what are we going to do without her?!”

My Aunt Sandy brought the family together to pray over my mom in a circle. Music and Bible verses were played over a small stereo because we were told it would help activate her brain function. Messages and notes and calls came in from everywhere. She touched so many lives that it seemed like everyone I had ever met convened at one point and place in time.

Nurses were sweet and wonderful, doctors less so. They burdened my dad to make end-of-life decisions within a matter of hours, helpfully adding that every day the chances grew more slim, at one point surpassing “one in a million”. Her eyes were open. She would occasionally mouth something that looked like words. Her fingers would twitch. We were told those were simply involuntary. No sign of life.

On the 14th, Valentine’s Day, a Saturday, she was up and smiling. Her eyes slowly tracked movements. When my dad and I told her what day it was, she said those three words that changed my life: “I love you.”

We called in all the relatives to go see her and they witnessed it too. The doctors weren’t there to see it. It was a Saturday. My dad and the other adults hoped she’d keep this up until Monday so they wouldn’t have to go back to describing how long it would take for her to die when they took out the ventilator (one hour) or the feeding tube (one day). Luckily nobody told me about this until afterwards. It was a good thing they didn’t—it was another point in time I would have just lost it. Still, my mind is haunted by “what could’ve been’s”—what if they took out either of those? I’d have to sit there for a day and watch my mom die as they starved her. What the hell is wrong with these sick bastards?

She slowly, but surely, began to recover day by day. She graduated out of the ICU and to a hospital room—which felt like the best graduation in the world. And further to a rehab facility, where she slowly learned to walk, talk, and perform small functions again.

A miracle had occurred.

I remember crying the day my grandma told me the story of how she made breadsticks. It was one of the only times while all this happened that everything seemed so real. I just imagined seeing my mom in the kitchen at the rehab center, wearing a chef’s hat and rolling the dough with supervision, happily and innocently making breadsticks how she had cooked every meal for years. It’s shocking when life confronts you with moments when you remember what you previously took for granted. It’s shocking when life reminds you of how fragile strong people can be.

New Year’s vacation and my birthday, the last photographed events before my mom’s accident

My mom still doesn’t remember what happened or what it was like when she was in the coma. It’s painful to see her get frustrated when she can’t remember events, names, faces or stutter when you know she’s trying to say something quickly in the moment and it overwhelms her system. Her case gives unique insight into how the human brain works. She remembers emotional events like weddings better than meals and everyday events. Certain memories, times, people get supplanted for others. Individuals are still there, but occupy different roles. Her mind can revert to 1978, then to 1993, then to a patched-together version of the present day, and rifle between without warning.

She’s never afraid to ask questions—who is that? What happened to (that relative that passed away)? The hardest thing is to watch her tear up when she realizes that people like her beloved godmother have died in the past few years and she has to experience it all over again, like it just happened. Even hearing that people she disliked pass away still elicits a reaction of profound sadness and loss.

My mom’s an exceptional conversationalist, when engaged. She usually prefers to sit and watch, but it’s amazing what a little scotch can do. Taking care of her has taught all of us the virtues of patience, simplicity, and gratitude.

Most importantly, she taught the value that no life is worthless.

This decade has not happened as I nor anyone imagined. I’ve spent so many hours of it thinking about what it would be like if things went differently—of how my mom with all her faculties would react to current events, or changes in my life or the times.

Most importantly, I’m grateful she’s still with us. I talked to her on the phone this morning, and towards the end of the conversation she said “I’m so glad we got a chance to talk…and probably more glad than you.”

I smiled and told her, “I don’t know about that”.

I wasn’t planning on watching the State of the Union this evening but every year I always do in the same way I don’t plan on drinking 3 sakebombs in a row on my birthday and then wonder how I woke up on the bathroom floor of the sushi bar.

The entire event is theatre. What was intended to be a written address to Congress outlining detailed policy proposals turned into a grand televised and streamed spectacle where you walk in and shake selected hands, the audience rises and falls depending on if they agree, and you’re allowed to bring a few people to point to in the audience next to your wife for maximum political impact. I mean, come on, what other speech could possibly be so important that if a bomb hits the building they leave someone out of the audience on purpose to keep the country going?

yes folks, we left this guy behind tonight.  the President’s got some huge, brass balls

The State of the Union is a speech that’s written for everyone to agree with. As a result, it’s meaningless. It’s not an instruction to Congress—it’s just a note saying “the kids are all right”. And it’s stupid they release it beforehand. If I was President, I’d spring it on people in real time. No teleprompter, one hand-written copy.

Ok maybe typed. I can’t read my own handwriting and I don’t want to embarrass myself on national TV (any more than I already would).

Hmm.

That’s a novel idea.

What’s stopping me from giving a State of the Union address someday?

Why don’t I just get elected President?

Such a speech would probably go just like this:

Good evening America and assembled Congress.

I am proud to report that our country is stable and healthy. While others around the world rise and fall, America remains eternally vibrant and strong.

The fact that we are not in consistent agreement on every matter is a good thing. I won’t take your time tonight to express platitudes that placate. If I wanted to be liked, I’d do stand-up.

Enough about me. This speech is not about me or what I would do. It’s about you. It’s about you contacting your member of Congress and advising them on how this country should run. No matter what happens, the power of this nation resides amongst its people.

I speak to a country that’s at a crossroads tonight.

Many issues face our nation. I’ll begin on the external front.

Our military is stationed around the world to act as a force of good amongst a troubled and dangerous globe. They perform a difficult task—the highest task—and we hold them in the highest gratitude for our service. As we begin to draw down current engagements, we must remind ourselves to engage in the interest of America, our interests, and our allies. And we must ensure our veterans are taken care of upon returning home. I ask that Congress fully funds the appropriate measures to revamp our system of veteran healthcare and transition into civilian life—so no hero is forgotten.

There exist governments around the world on nearly every continent that are in the business of systematically oppressing their people. North Korea. Iran. Venezuela. Zimbabwe. These governments have held onto power for too long. They have blood of innocents on their hands—and they insist on threatening America, our allies, our interests, and their neighbors.

Tonight, I’m announcing that the United States will support any and all legitimate efforts within our interests to begin the process of regime change in these countries. We will not allow countries in the 21st century to deny their citizens the basic rights that we enjoy—as humans and as Americans. To any evil empire that continues to denigrate its people: your days are numbered.

I ask Congress to fund appropriate measures to evaluate the democratic health of the aforementioned countries and any other nation that similarly violates human rights and dignity.

Terrorism is still a real global threat. From Chechnya to Gaza, Nairobi to New Delhi, Islamic extremists and evincers of the worst of humanity continue to wreak havoc and threaten global stability. We cannot—we will not—allow any individual or group—rogue or regime-supported—to snuff out innocent life.

I ask Congress to use all reasonable resource and collaboration to supporting the capture and elimination of these groups. We found and eliminated Osama bin Laden to the benefit of the world. It is not beyond the capability of us or our allies to snuff out any similar harbingers of evil.

The global economy is still reeling from the after-effects of recent events. We have all learned the lesson that we cannot spend money where none exists, borrow money to cover our losses, live outside of our reasonable means, and use government power to enrich corporate wealth. Charity begins at home.

I ask Congress to review the spending of each and every government agency—beginning with congressional and executive staff. I also ask Congress to begin a comprehensive review of every future liability and mandate—starting with Social Security. In a final request on this topic, I ask Congress to support the transition of Social Security and retirement programs for the next generation into private accounts tied directly to individual contribution. There is no reason why Americans should not be allowed to determine the course of their retirement. We cannot tax future generations—our children and grandchildren—into oblivion to fund our current generation. Our young generation should not be a bank—they should be our investment. I will address more reforms for the next generation later in this message. Acts like Medicare and Social Security designed in context decades in the past have run well beyond their intended means—to the point where they now burden and ignore those they are intended to help most.

One of these outdated ideas that has grown well beyond its means or intent is our tax code. Americans—families, small businesses, students, retirees—should be able to prepare their own taxes without outside assistance. We must create a new system of taxation—not based upon penalty, but based upon contribution.

Tonight, I ask Congress to eliminate the existing tax code, deductions included and replace it with a flat tax of 15% for individuals, small businesses, and corporations. Not only will our country receive record revenues, our businesses will be able to operate freely. We can foster a new generation of entrepreneurship, cementing America as the place to take innovative ideas and make them into reality.

Healthcare is a major struggle for many Americans. Our current system provides high-quality care—but at a premium many Americans cannot afford. Many young people don’t want healthcare and won’t pay for it as a result. They especially don’t want to pay for expensive plans that are forced to include conditions that either don’t affect them or they don’t need. Here’s how to lower healthcare costs: instead of restricting a young Californian to the choice of purchasing from just 5 providers in their state—allow them to purchase from across state lines. Knock down state barriers on healthcare and let companies compete. Let insurance providers offer a plan for a 30 year old (catastrophe coverage and yearly physicals), not a 70 year old (hospice care, gout, and dialysis). Give American universities an incentive to develop new, cost-effective treatments to replace expensive, increasingly-common ones.

I ask Congress to eliminate restrictions for all non-military government employees to obtain private insurance. I also ask Congress to allow Americans to purchase a la carte health insurance from the provider of their choice.

Returning to young Americans—we have an education system that is not hitting the mark. It is not the fault of our teachers or our students—it is the fault of onerous requirements and bureaucracy that our education system is not the force it once was. It is not too late. I ask Congress to encourage the Department of Education to decentralize and focus on a state-based education system—eliminating all federal curriculum requirements. We have 50 states in our great Union—50 laboratories for innovation. We want to inspire young people and teach them logic and values—not burden them with tests and reduce them to headcounts. We want to empower good teachers who love to teach—not reward incompetent administrators. Most importantly of all—we shouldn’t allow the government to make educational decisions for our families and young people. I ask Congress to empower families to choose the source of their child’s education—so we can create an educational system that becomes the envy of the world.

We are a nation of immigrants. We are also a nation of law-abiding citizens. We want to encourage the immigration of global citizens who bring hard work, values, and a love for our country to the table. We do not want to empower criminals, terrorists, lawbreakers, or those with a disdain for our country to enter. We also want to ensure that those being persecuted in their homeland have a safe shelter from tyrannical governments.

Therefore, I ask Congress to secure our borders and to overhaul our immigration system—to encourage innovators and the aspirational to come to America and stay—weaving another fiber into our rich American tapestry. I also ask Congress to ensure that those who have attempted to enter and become a part of our country legally take precedence over those who have not. Our modern-day Ellis Island immigrant is not a huddling mass, it is a highly-educated person who wishes to further their education at an American university. Let us not turn these people away from Liberty’s door.

As our hardworking immigrants show, America is a beacon of hope to a turbulent and troubled world. Our two-hundred-thirty-eight-year-old experiment in creating a representative government of the people, by the people, and for the people, ensuring the God-given rights of humanity, has succeeded. It is both humbling and awe-inspiring—and countries around the world continue to look towards our Constitution and system of government as inspiration.

Our strength lies not in the ability of our government to coerce or our physical might. It lies in a family that comes together every evening to share a meal. It lies in a young person taking care of his disabled sibling. It lies in a WWII veteran who travels each year to visit the memorials of his fallen comrades. It lies in a parent praying with their child before bed. It lies in our ability as Americans to meet every challenge, survive every obstacle, and persevere through every hardship.

May God bless you—and may God bless America.

I have to thank President Obama and the nice Republican lady with all the kids for speaking so poorly that they made me take notes on how to make my future State of the Union address that much better.

And time’s running out.  I only have 15 years to practice.