Category: Wyatt’s Words

People say I’m a terrible parker.

I blame a variety of factors: visibility, high curbs, wind chill, locusts, machete-wielding metermaids, there’s a smudge on the backup camera…

Yes, the car has a backup camera. I don’t really know how to park one without it. It’s brilliant and probably one of my favorite pieces of technology, up there with the iPad fleshlight which allegedly is available for pre-orders (not like I’d know).

eyy…the bike was askin for it…

What’s frustrating is that it only beeps front and back, not on the sides…

Yes, the car beeps when you’re too close. I believe it’s required on all cars now due to the Americans Against Disabilities Act (or is it “For”?) It’s like sonar (son-car?) and gets really pissed when you’re really close, like a cat or that prudish little sister of yours, it’s just a sports massage, geez.  After using it for a couple years I know how to fudge those last few inches, which sounds really dirty but it’s totally natural, trust me.

But goddamn it. Due to some unscrupulous curbs approximately 37 feet tall [citation needed] my car has some scratched-ass wheels on the curb side. If this was the UK it would be on the other side, but this isn’t and my teeth have never looked better.

Apparently Lexus makes a car that parallel parks itself, but then you still have to drive a Lexus which means you qualify for Social Security and you really can’t stand this wild new music the young people listen to, what’s that upstart new instrumentalist’s name? That’s right, Kenny G. “G” probably stands for GangMember!

My friend taught me how to parallel park and I’m a total boss at it now, with or without cameras, sensors, utensils, and air traffic control. Yes my friend, that one. The girl. The Asian girl. Yes, an Asian female taught me how to carefully maneuver a motor vehicle. You’re all just racists, like a bunch of Krauts!

I always thought LA was the land of cars and parking lots that stretched from sea to shining sea (Malibu to Palos Verdes), and I’m super disappointed that it’s like parking in New York (if cars are even really legal there anymore, pretty sure all they’ve got are horses and carriages).

The best thing is when you open the passenger side door and it scrapes the curb (because you have to let the bitch out, her hour is up), and you (ok, she) flails around helplessly trying to push it back towards the car without further scraping the curb, and then there just has to be this huge push and this awful scrape, like the sound of a 747 bellyflopping on tarmac, yet it’s oddly satisfying like you just picked a scab or something because it’s already scraped and next time you do it you’re not afraid of scraping it and you’re FREE from your passenger-door-side scraping shackles, which are probably not legal under the Geneva Convention.

All this having been said, I’ve never met an untrustworthy valet, but I still don’t trust them and they adjust the seats to “Verne Troyer” and I hate how you have to valet park every 27 feet (pretty sure you have to valet to valet park now), like it’s not my fault this office of 80 people has three-and-a-half tandem parking spots in total, and I’m totally parking-gifted now so I’ve got this guys, and as the valets panic and run to stop me I nearly back into a Lexus but I don’t because I’ve got sonar, a backup camera, and pure SKILL.

Perhaps this country’s most difficult job is to be ex-President.

All of the decisions you made during a short course of time get to be judged and re-judged on a national scale, and you have zero power to influence them.

You know that there’s a polite role that must be played as an ex-President: you must be available to help out in a charity fashion, but any discussion of political issues is frowned upon.

Our history’s ex-Presidents have been faced with severe challenges. Many died soon after office, starting with our first. The stress of an office that greys even the Just-for-Menniest men takes an incredible physical toll on these men. Others were shuffled out of office in disgrace, like both Johnsons or Nixon. Teddy Roosevelt boldly challenged his successor with a third-party run, perhaps forming one of the most badass ex-presidencies.

Most were subject to criticism by their successor, perhaps none more than ex-President George W. Bush.

In the past four years, President Bush has remained extremely silent on public matters and eschewing the spotlight. His memoir was released soon after office, as was expected, but otherwise we have little knowledge of the workings inside a mind that shaped so much of recent history. Many folks on both side of the aisle feel that, for better or worse, they’ve lost an old friend.

So when a Bush family member’s e-mail account was hacked and photos were released, we learned that Bush has now taken up a new hobby: painting.

Through an analysis of his work, we’ve learned a few things:

1)  His painting of Barney the Dog is pretty damn good.

2)  He signs his paintings “43”, as the 43^rd President, an interesting choice of nomenclature.

3)  His biggest artistic inspiration?  Frida Kahlo.

Gawker’s description of his paintings are as such, “[his] technique is unschooled, not self-consciously trying to emulate any identifiable painter; and his references don’t seem to be any paintings at all.”

Which is foolish, because the painting of him in the bathtub is a total homage to Frida Kahlo’s What I Saw In the Water:

 

The Kahlo painting is a holistic focus on a life lived: a life that started with promise, and innocence, and soon became populated by regret, sadness, and failed aspirations, all creating the artist in present form.

And when we look at Bush’s painting, it all makes sense.  The shower painting is similar too, his back facing the viewer and his face shown only in a small, round mirror: it’s introspection at its most intimate, it’s an attempt to reconcile the past with the present.

It’s saddening.  Bush entered office amidst electoral turmoil, promising to unite a country divided.  Things were looking up those first few months: despite a dipping economy, it seemed a new era was upon us.

And then September 11th took the rule book and set it on fire, defining the next 7 years of a presidency that was supposed to continue the peaceful, prosperous economy of the decade prior.  Bush rose to the occasion, uniting the country, but not under the circumstances he nor anyone would have chosen.  The press tore him apart.  War was initially successful, but became mired in a region that was helplessly backwards.

With President Bush, you could always get a palpable sense that he was feeling every emotion along with you.  He was not there to lead you, or tell you what to do, but wanted to walk alongside you and learn as you learned.  He built upon the human quality that his predecessor pioneered, but his frustration at not being able to make more progress was always prevalent.  And now, as he lives out his ex-Presidency at a ranch near Dallas, staying out of public view, you see a man who is irritated by partisanship, his successor, and his legacy, and helpless to change it.

The problem with Spain is, well, Spanish people.

They’re warm, generous, creative, and wild.

They’re also terrible at managing their economy.

One of the signs of a failing and greedy society is how much they pursue simple actions of revenue, like giving out and collecting speeding and traffic tickets.

In California, specifically LA, I’ve watched those actions increase nearly 300% in the past few months. Cops are stationed in full force to get revenue. Parking enforcement gives you a ticket before the meter is expired and is enforcing the most Lilliputian of rules to make a quick buck.

And in Spain you see this too. Mercedes, for example, has a history of using the beautiful Spanish countryside and coastline as places to photograph and test their vehicles (most recently the A-Class).

But when a group of reporters were testing their new E63 AMG, the cars were pulled over and impounded.

Why? Because the authorities could.  Because they knew Mercedes would be wealthy enough of a company to pay the fines to be on their way.

On the same token, you see cops not pulling over jalopies and piles of crap but BMWs and Lexuses and higher-end vehicles.  And while a point could be made that those cars are more likely to be driven quickly, they’re also more likely to have older, wealthier, and more responsible drivers.

So it’s a double-edged sword.  Of course the state needs revenue.  But in another fashion, they simply want to target only those who can pay it, furthering a gap of inequality.

Whose door will they knock on when no one who can pay remains?

The problem with Spain is, well, Spanish people.

They’re warm, generous, creative, and wild.

They’re also terrible at managing their economy.

One of the signs of a failing and greedy society is how much they pursue simple actions of revenue, like giving out and collecting speeding and traffic tickets.

In California, specifically LA, I’ve watched those actions increase nearly 300% in the past few months. Cops are stationed in full force to get revenue. Parking enforcement gives you a ticket before the meter is expired and is enforcing the most Lilliputian of rules to make a quick buck.

And in Spain you see this too. Mercedes, for example, has a history of using the beautiful Spanish countryside and coastline as places to photograph and test their vehicles (most recently the A-Class).

But when a group of reporters were testing their new E63 AMG, the cars were pulled over and impounded.

Why? Because the authorities could.  Because they knew Mercedes would be wealthy enough of a company to pay the fines to be on their way.

On the same token, you see cops not pulling over jalopies and piles of crap but BMWs and Lexuses and higher-end vehicles.  And while a point could be made that those cars are more likely to be driven quickly, they’re also more likely to have older, wealthier, and more responsible drivers.

So it’s a double-edged sword.  Of course the state needs revenue.  But in another fashion, they simply want to target only those who can pay it, furthering a gap of inequality.

Whose door will they knock on when no one who can pay remains?

*ABC Malfunction*, an orange message flashed on the dashboard screen.

How the fuck can the alphabet malfunction in my car? Did a muppet hack into its systems when I was parked at that shady 7-11?

I ignored it and continued about my day, feeling no effects.

Then a few days later it happened again. And this time, it was ugly.

I was driving down a residential street when my car suddenly went into lowrider-hydraulics mode. It bucked like a (non-Ford) bronco, as if someone swapped “unleaded” with coke in the fuel line.

I pulled over immediately and noticed my car was on stilts. No wonder it was pop-lock-n-droppin it all over da place.

I also noticed one tire was super low. Like “pull over or else we’re dragging this enormous paperweight with wheels back to the dealer” low.

16 psi low.

I gave it a tidy little inflation of air when I noticed a shiny lump coming from the tire.

That’s right.

It was a nail.

There I sat, in the CVS Agoura Hills parking lot at 11PM on a cold January eve, using a pair of pliers to try to yank this piercer of dreams out of my tread-worn life.

45 minutes of efforts were unsuccessful. I filled the area with rubber cement and called it a night. And then the next call I made that morning was to my dealer to fix-dis-shit.

The cheerful folks at Mercedes Benz of Beverly Hills took my car in without question, gave me a free loaner, and told me those magic words that always come back to haunt me: “We’ll get back to you this afternoon!”

“This afternoon” passed.

As did the next.

Silence.

9AM. The phone rings.

I groggily and weakly answer to the sound of my “service advisor”, who is “advising” me on service that I’ll have to pay hand over fist for despite the car being under warranty still.

Advisor: Good morning! We’ve got some news on your car.

Me: *gurgle*

Advisor: My technician found THREE nails in your back tire. And your other one is worn. So we can’t repair anything until we replace both.

Me: *mmf*…*waits for information to register* how much is thisgunnacostme…

Advisor: It will be $340 per tire, so $680 total. Then we can work on your suspension light.

Me: WHAT?! HOW much?! Can’t you just patch the one tire?

Advisor: uhhmmm…errrrr…well…both tires are down to 4mm and werequestyoureplacethemat3mmandicantauthorizemytechniciantodoanythingaboutthatsorrywecanonlyreplacethem

Me: you…you can’t just patch the tire?

Advisor: wellummnoseebecausethetread…thetreadistoolowasdjkewfhkeadljwdkaewfbejaf we’re not responsible!!!111

Me: I’ll get this fixed myself. When can I pick it up?

Advisor: oh, it’s ready to go, they’re just taking it down now. But remember the tires have to be replaced or else or else (some drastic reason that sounds like Iran’s acquisition to a nuclear weapon is hinging solely on me replacing my fucking tires)

Me: I’ll be there soon.

I get a courtesy call an hour later telling me my car is ready, so I wait a few more hours to get work done and head down their way.

I drive up and hand the polite serviceman my keys, then ask if the car is ready.

“Yup, it’s ready! No charge! You can just wait right in front of the rental area and we’ll have it right out!”

I should have noticed by his disturbingly-wide grin that this wasn’t going to end pretty, probably with me taking an SLS hostage and mowing down Beverly Hills denizens, but I had a call and had work to handle.

I talk on the phone for 15 minutes. I get some documents done. I pace. I get some more work done, and pace. I pace enough to wear trenches in the cement.

After a half-hour I go up to my service advisor. “Isn’t it supposed to be ready?” I ask, tensing up slightly.

“Oh of course! I’ll get them right on it!”

For those of you at home playing “bullshit bingo”, yes, you can put a pinto bean, mark, or red circle on the “I’ll get them right on it!” square.

I return to sentry duty, pacing, watching other people drop their cars off, get rentals, get their fixed cars, solve Millenium Prize problems, watch uranium-238 reach half-life, observe erosion, laugh at the Simpsons 574th season, and grow seven Methuselah beards.

I walk back to my service advisor. He can likely tell by the look on my face that I’m not only ready to bite into the SL65 that just pulled in out of sheer anger, but replace the car’s dipstick with his plump body.

Me: “I have to be somewhere an hour ago. Is. It. Ready?”

Advisor: “Uhhh…sure! They’ll bring it around.”

Another half-hour passes. By now it’s been well over an hour of bullshit.

Just as I’m about to hijack the GL550 they’ve wisely parked in front of me to probably block me from spewing acidic impatience everywhere, I see my car limply pull up.

The driver/mechanic runs out. “I’m just gonna add some air to the tire!”

Me: “You had over an hour to do that. And all morning.”

Mechanic: “uhhh…there’s no pump downstairs. Sorry!”

He must have seen my rage-filled eyes boring a hole through him because he ran to get the pump and hastily inflate my derpy tire.

I gunned out of this Carnia of hell and drove to my go-to tire place, Delco in Encino. They’ve always taken care of my car efficiently and cheaply.

Within 45 minutes, they had the nails removed, the tire properly inflated and patched, and came out to explain that my tires still have at least 5000 miles on them.

The damage?

25 bucks.

I drove out a happy man, my ride de-Impalaed and my wallet not relinquished to debt collectors.

And guess what? My car has been driving properly-inflated and just as fine as the day it was bought.

So kids, it pays to take no for an answer. Doing so saved me $655 today.

Let’s face it folks: Britain has shitty food, notably with no fruit or wine. Their women are not exactly renowned for their beauty, either.

Fruits they get from Southern Europe, the US, and Africa.

Wine comes from a four-century-old agreement with Portugal.

Women are probably imported there under more sinister circumstances.

Yet, somehow, they managed to take over the world. How?

Because they had nothing and lived on a sad little isle.

Therefore, the drive for products they didn’t have led them across the world’s seas.

Don’t believe me?

Look at Costa Rica.

What do they have? Delicious food, fruits aplenty, sugar cane liquor (not quite wine but it’ll definitely get the job done) and gorgeous women.

With a setup like that, who needs to go out and conquer anything?

Point is: you want your country to take over the world? Make sure you have awful food, no fruit-growing, nothing to drink, and ugly women.

Clearly, the only thing holding the Soviets back was vodka and sexy models.

R: I couldn’t find my phone. It ended up being under the bed.

W: How did it get under there? Did you throw it under there?

R: I don’t know…

W: I was talking to you before you hung up. How could it have possibly gotten under the bed?

R: All I know is I couldn’t find it and I had to use “Find My iPhone” to…

W: Wait…WHAT?! You used “Find my iPhone” to find your phone in your own house?!

R: Well…yeah…

W: Why didn’t you message me to call? I could have called!

R: I…um…didn’t think of that.

8:30 AM.

It’s a Saturday morning.

I’m awake.

And goddamn it, I’m going to go to yoga.

Surprisingly, finding free yoga in Santa Monica isn’t an easy task.

Of course there’s “donation-based” yoga places, meaning I slip in the back, bend around a little, and slip out like a movie theatre fart.

Unfortunately, for some reason, yoga only happens on Saturdays at 8AM and 10AM, just like Bikram himself wanted [citation needed].

Which means my glorious plans for 9AM full-body-stretching have been scuttled.

So I scour Yelp, eventually finding one 9:30 class at YogaWorks in Pacific Palisades.

Best of all, if I sign in as a noob (that’s “newbie” to you older folk) I get a week for free.

I gun it up Sunset to the Palisades, putting Gene Hackman in The French Connection to shame.

I took a brief moment to muse on the irony of rushing someplace to relax, but then realized I had a mom-SUV to overtake and got back to handling the twisties.

I parked somewhere a few counties away, and ran up to the studio, bursting through the doors and throwing off my jacket and shoes like a late hooker.

Swaggering into the small class (hosted in what appeared to be an end table drawer) I noticed something strange: I was the youngest one there.

Now I’m used to being the younger one in the group; after all, I’m the youngest cousin in the family and enjoyed hanging around adults as a kid.

However, when I’m in a group of people whose first presidential ballot was cast for a certain bespectacled polio victim, I take notice.

We laughed and joked around, and I grew attached to the grandmother next to me who, for some reason, felt the need to wear costume jewelry even in yoga class.

The positions that some of those women, just as mild-mannered as your grandmother got into, would put Sasha Grey to shame.

The instructor couldn’t help but comment on my “young, broad shoulders” as he readjusted my headstand stance, which for once gave me a brief feeling of a Sandusky victim.

Needless to say, it was the most boner-free and conversational yoga experience I’ve had.

If you want to do yoga and have fun (avoiding the intense Lululemonheads and professional trapeze artists that populate most studios) I recommend going during senior hour.

It’s worth seeing a roomful of saggy asses.

My favorite pair of shoes are some Converse-style True Religion sneakers that I wear every single day. That having been said, I like to keep them clean often with a good-ol toss in the wash.

That wasn’t enough for someone sitting three feet down from me on the bench at Starbucks, who removed his headphones and loudly asked me to lower my foot that was facing in his general direction.

Of course I asked him why.

He said, “There’s two reasons, one of which you might not think of” in a tone that would put a biggest-for-his-britches professor to shame.

And continued, “ONE: Because your shoes have been in the gutter and on the ground and therefore could be not that pleasant. TWO: I’m going to educate you, in some cultures…”

Having had enough of this bullshit, I interjected, “look I understand that in Islamic cultures it can be considered disrespectful to have your shoe facing someone”.

His face lit up. “IT’S NOT JUST ISLAMIC! IT’S NOT JUST ISLAMIC! It’s Asian and Buddhist and and and it’s disrespectful. But THAT’S not the reason I asked you to…”

I continued, “Ok, then I have a question, do my shoes legitimately smell? I washed them just a few weeks ago and would honestly like to know if they do.”

He lit up again, “I’m not going to argue it! Do what you want! That question doesn’t deserve an intellectual response!”

I replied, “well, if that’s not an intellectual question, then neither is your request.”

Exasperatedly, he spat, “Yes! Of course! I know it isn’t!” and then, with a huff, put his headphones on and went back to work.

He soon slank away to a nearby table and then out the door soon after, but not before I snapped a pic of his hasty escape from my terrible, evil, shit-smelling shoes of doom.

pictured: slinking

 

My newest obsession has been Whip-its.  Ever since I found out that you could get high from goddamn whipped cream I’ve been fascinated with the concept.

In a Christmas convo, Rich told me about this awesome cookie-in-milk recipe where he puts whipped cream on top of the milk, THEN dunks the cookies.

The man is a fucking genius, but I digress.

What follows is the dialogue of two men who are fascinated with a certain special islet of the periodic table:

R:  Of course I have enough whipped cream.  I just opened up a new mothafuckin can!

W:  Great!  Try doing Whip-its.  Tell me what it feels like.

R:  What’s a Whip-it? *begins to cautiously hum the Devo song*

W:  It’s when you put the can up to your mouth and push the switch and inhale deeply and no whipped cream comes out.  It’s supposed to get you totally high.  Demi Moore does it.

R:  1) You’re trying to kill me.  2) No, I’m not doing that, I just want whipped cream.

W:  Of COURSE I’m not trying to kill you!  It can’t kill you.  It would be like telling you to inhale something harmless like helium or something.  Haven’t you ever inhaled helium?

R:  Of course I’ve never inhaled helium.  And now you’re finding ANOTHER way to try and kill me.

W:  Nobody has ever died from helium!  It’s totally safe.  We used to do it all the time in class…*mumbles on in helium-induced fever dream*

R:  What are you talking about?  OF COURSE you can die from helium.  It keeps oxygen out of your brain and you die!

W:  That’s ridiculous.  Your brain still gets the same amount of oxygen.  This sounds like something a parent told you to keep you from doing it.

R:  That sounds plausible.  But the oxygen analogy is completely wrong.  Suppose you make tea, right?  And you put the teabag in water and drink the tea.  It still has the same amount of water, but it’s tea.  And it can kill you!

W:  Ok…fine.  But still, *googles* okay…TWO people have died from helium intake from 2000 to 2004.  See?  Harmless!

R:  What are you talking about?  THEY DIED!

W:  Yeah, but they had gas masks or some shit.  I don’t know.

R:  Yeah, they did it at parties and then they died.

W:  Well they shouldn’t have done it with gas masks, just do it with a frickin balloon.

R:  You’re still trying to kill me…

W:  Okay, I confess.  I just want to hear your funny voices on helium

R:  Well you never will.  Unless you want to hear my last words.  *in helium-voice* “I…learned…it…from…youuuuu….

And this, folks, is why we need to legalize helium.