Category: Wyatt’s Words

Well folks, it happened.

I had my first Lindsay Lohan moment.

No, I didn’t rear end anyone with my car (already did that) or steal jewelry (shh) but I unwittingly did something worse—a repeat of the panic moment when Lindsay Lohan was presumed dead in a Marina del Rey Ritz-Carlton hotel room, but emerged moments later.

Flash forward. Friday morning, 1030 AM.

I hear a banging at my door. I wake up, sweaty and bleary-eyed, hearing someone yelling in a thick female Russian accent, “ARE YOU OKAY?! CALL YOUR DAD ON YOUR PHONE!”

Through my contact-free eyes I can make out the figure of my landlady and an unidentified gentleman, who proceeded to slam the door shut and storm out.

Admittedly, it was late in the morning for me to not hear from my dad. So I looked down at my phone to find that…I hadn’t received any calls…and it was stuck on the software-update screen.

Fuck.

Let’s rewind a little bit.

Friday morning, 2:30 AM. I wake up having fallen asleep about an hour and a half earlier, sweaty and dehydrated. I stumble over to the kitchen and guzzle some water, take out my contacts and lay back in my sweat-covered bed.

I can’t sleep. Especially not in this.

So I decide to get some work done, maybe do some writing. I frustratedly (and still-sweatedly) worked through work stuff and articles and it was about 4:45 AM.

“I have to get to sleep now, or I won’t wake up in the morning,” I thought. I felt good, however, that my Friday would be easy and calm considering I got most of the stuff I needed to do done.

Before I fell asleep I realized I might as well update my devices to the new iOS 6. I had spent the day getting my computer up to speed on neglected software updates (sorry MacBook!) and it was time to get everyone on the same page.

So I set both to download, saw that the iPad finished first, had enough time to play with Siri for the first time before I fell asleep after 5 AM, knowing my iPhone would update and restart itself.

What I didn’t realize was that it would open up to the iOS 6 screen, which would ask me to confirm terms&conditions, Siri, other settings, and THEN allow me to receive and make calls.

Whoops.

After a few failed calls, my dad apparently called one roommate at 830AM who was on a plane and the other soon after, and then called the landlady, who busted my door open to find me…asleep. He panicked and thought I had a heartattack or ODed or something, when in reality I was just exhausted, dehydrated, asleep, and had a phone in the charger that wouldn’t receive any damn calls.

Luckily, nobody called the paramedics, because the scene would’ve been even more awkward. Yes, I was naked under the sheets, and yes it was one of the first thoughts that ran through my mind as the landlady stood there.

I called my dad after she left and explained the situation, claiming that it was a phone issue (I would’ve gone into detail but he wouldn’t have understood). Coincidentally, that Friday was the day of the iPhone 5 release, and my (as far as he was concerned) non-functioning iPhone 4 was the perfect cover to go get a new one without hearing a save-your-damn-money lecture.

But that story is one for another day ☺

I haven’t eaten alone in a restaurant since I was 12 and my parents left me at the table while they attended a party in the banquet room next door.

That was when I knew I was a grown-up.

Also, it was some scary shit.

So if I have to eat alone, I generally get food to-go and bring it home to my Internet, where at least I know I’m not completely alone *flips on fetish webcam*.

Today was different.

I was hungry. No…I was starving.

Mental faculties were starting to slip. Protein bars would not suffice.

I was 30 minutes from home.

I needed food. NOW.

I stopped off at a little Armenian restaurant in Encino off Ventura. I could tell it was Armenian, of course, by the red, blue, and orange lettering above the door.

And the curtains in the window. Legit.

I walked in to see the waiter chatting with an elderly couple in Armenian. The place was otherwise empty. I picked up on the language though. Another sign this place was legit.

All three looked at me as if I was lost. I sat down with a menu, and the waiter mustered his best broken English to ask this little ginger kid what he wanted to order.

It’s a Saturday. It’s Armenian tradition to eat Kheyma, a dish consisting of raw beef with cracked wheat, parsley, onions, and cayenne pepper.

I know that freaks most people out. Raw meat?! It should. It’s the Armenian version of spicy tuna.

And it’s also amazing. The luxurious texture, the fresh and spicy flavor, the way it makes you feel perfectly full without being too full…it’s what I would probably choose as a Death Row last meal. As a kid, I never understood why the old folks ate it. Now, I get it anywhere I can find it, because it’s delicious and reminds me of home and family.

So I’m pleased to discover they have Kibbeh Nayeh on the menu here, which is Kheyma, just the Lebanese term. I order that, with a chicken kebab sandwich (if you’re an Armenian restaurant who can’t cook amazing chicken, you shouldn’t be in business) and a glass of tahn (Armenian yogurt drink).

The waiter paused in shock. The old couple stopped talking and looked over.

“Do you know vhat zat is? Are you SURE you want to order zat?” the waiter offered, finally mustering up a few words.

Before he could explain further, I calmly raised my hand and explained I’m Armenian, and that it’s one of my favorite foods. The look on his face went pale, then returned with a confused but ebullient smile. “Oh, just vanted to make sure because…” before he could finish I offered, “I know, I don’t look all that Armenian, it’s cool.” He excitedly worked his way back to the kitchen to start cooking the meal.

The couple started talking to each other in hushed Armenian as I played with my phone, waiting for my food.

The kebbeh came out and I felt like a kid at Christmas, pausing to take a quick picture of it before I literally tore through it like a deranged wolf. At a pause to drink in my meal, I looked up and the older gentleman began to speak in a heavy accent: “ve don’t know you Armenian but veen you order zat ve vere sooprized!” I reassured them like I did the waiter that I was indeed Armenian and began chatting them up on where I was from, where they were from (Paris), and had a beautiful conversation with them. The gentleman explained that most Fresno Armenians were from Eastern Turkey, near Erzurum, and that my family name (Torosian) likely came from the “Toros/Taurus Mountains” in Southern Turkey. I remember hearing from my grandfather before he passed that we were indeed mountain people, from a village high up in the mountains, so it really struck me to hear that.

In a five minute conversation with strangers, I learned more about myself than I ever thought possible.

The wife mentioned how impressed she was that I ordered a food that the young people either don’t know about or don’t appreciate, and we delved into a discussion about life and the importance of staying active even in older years. The couple were world travellers, and said the same thing all the older people in my family have said, “I look old but I feel young. My mind is young.”

It made me pause and realize how we seek to make our bodies young and neglect our minds, letting them age and deteriorate with the trials and tribulations of life and letting the little things bother and age us.

“So never stop learning?” I said.

“Of course!” she replied, as her face lit up like a child’s at a candy store.

I noticed my chicken pita was getting cold, so I scarfed down each half. Moist. Tender. Perfectly roasted. I’ve only had chicken this good once, at one little restaurant back home, where a little old man and his wife cook, almost like this setup. Like eating in someone’s kitchen.

The waiter sensed that after engulfing my food I was looking for a typical LA-style eat-pay-n-go meal but he advised me to sit and take my time. I did, and continued to enjoy conversing with the older people.

He proceeded to bring out three perfect little slices of watermelon for dessert. It was the ideal digestif to the wonderful meal I had just consumed.

Had I not stopped to eat alone and overcome a fear, and instead gone to Jamba Juice on the way home, I never would’ve had such an eye-opening yet grounding experience. I never would’ve met these inspiring people. I never would’ve widened my horizons. I would have stopped learning, cemented my closed-mindedness, gone with the safe route, and ultimately had a ho-hum afternoon.

Instead I had an incredible day, all because I chose to overcome that fear.

I love private planes and have been fortunate enough to fly twice on them.

You drive up to the plane (LITERALLY up to the plane) and can just…walk…right…in.

You shake the pilot’s hand, they ask if you’d like a drink, and you’re on your way. Hassle-and-molestation-free.

So I don’t understand why celebrities and notables fly commercial planes. It’s a terrible experience.

Mitt Romney flew commercial before the 2012 campaign.

And one day, it got to him, when he put a “Vulcan death grip” on one member of celebrated musical duo LMFAO due to a seat-reclining issue in first-class.

I, too, have faced the wrath of the Mormon Meteor.

The year was two thousand and seven.

I was at my local place of shopping, Fig Garden Village, in the hamlet of Fresno.

I heard the man speak. And he was good. *Too* good.

I saw the orange line from his poorly-applied tanning lotion down the side of his face.

He must’ve noticed that I saw his…flaw.

After his pronouncements, I approached him, hat-in-hand, in tattered clothings. “please sir, may I take a daguerreotype with you?” A willowier me asked, with all due respect and humility.

He brushed me aside like a tse-tse fly.

I tapped him lightly on the shoulder, asking the question again, with even more due respect and humility, almost bowing out of reflex.

He leered at me with his Vulcan stare, ageing me 15 years in 15 milliseconds.

“I just have to see these people over here,” he said sternly, biting the words out of air like a voracious rat at a wheel of Gouda. “Just. Gimme. A. Minute.” Munch. Munch. Munch.

He upheld his promise and returned, politely, for a picture, even gently guiding my grandmother into the frame when she wanted to stay out of it (a memory she vividly remembers as the day she “met Rummy”).

He smiled a gentle smile, and we shared a knowing glance with each other. That man would become the President of United States.

I had that same glance with McCain one year later. :/

Good think I asked him if he would consider choosing Sarah Palin as his Vice-President.

At least I’m 1 for 3.

I love private planes and have been fortunate enough to fly twice on them.

You drive up to the plane (LITERALLY up to the plane) and can just…walk…right…in.

You shake the pilot’s hand, they ask if you’d like a drink, and you’re on your way. Hassle-and-molestation-free.

So I don’t understand why celebrities and notables fly commercial planes. It’s a terrible experience.

Mitt Romney flew commercial before the 2012 campaign.

And one day, it got to him, when he put a “Vulcan death grip” on one member of celebrated musical duo LMFAO due to a seat-reclining issue in first-class.

I, too, have faced the wrath of the Mormon Meteor.

The year was two thousand and seven.

I was at my local place of shopping, Fig Garden Village, in the hamlet of Fresno.

I heard the man speak. And he was good. *Too* good.

I saw the orange line from his poorly-applied tanning lotion down the side of his face.

He must’ve noticed that I saw his…flaw.

After his pronouncements, I approached him, hat-in-hand, in tattered clothings. “please sir, may I take a daguerreotype with you?” A willowier me asked, with all due respect and humility.

He brushed me aside like a tse-tse fly.

I tapped him lightly on the shoulder, asking the question again, with even more due respect and humility, almost bowing out of reflex.

He leered at me with his Vulcan stare, ageing me 15 years in 15 milliseconds.

“I just have to see these people over here,” he said sternly, biting the words out of air like a voracious rat at a wheel of Gouda. “Just. Gimme. A. Minute.” Munch. Munch. Munch.

He upheld his promise and returned, politely, for a picture, even gently guiding my grandmother into the frame when she wanted to stay out of it (a memory she vividly remembers as the day she “met Rummy”).

He smiled a gentle smile, and we shared a knowing glance with each other. That man would become the President of United States.

I had that same glance with McCain one year later. :/

Good think I asked him if he would consider choosing Sarah Palin as his Vice-President.

At least I’m 1 for 3.

 

Just like America, I built this desk with sweat, determination, passion, and hard work.

Mostly sweat.

I didn’t ask for government help. I didn’t ask for a bailout.

I toiled through pre-assembled parts in the Costco box, following directions in English, and twisting my Allen wrench to make sure each screw of the leg was built to last, like every spike driven into the earth of the Transcontinental Railroad that my forefathers made.

Actually, I’m pretty sure my family came over in the early 1900s on both sides.

But no matter! Because we took that immigrant spirit straight to the land, growing crops in fallow soil, enduring harsh (California) winters, and working to get an education.

I was the first member of my family to go two a four-year UC school. And go to school I did! With my books (and laptop) under my arm, I walked uphill to class both ways—BOTH WAYS! (through Drake Stadium up Bruinwalk at UCLA)

And now that I’ve completed that education, I seek my secondary education. To become a professional!

This desk is the desk where ideas will spring forth! Where creative concepts will mesh into brilliance! Where complex equations will spring from the pages into my mind! Where my laptop will sit as it loads the newest XTube videos on my slow Wi-fi!

Yes folks. This desk, this “intelligence-table” as I like to call it, was built with my own two hands, some-assembly-required. Every safe-like open-and-shut of the (velvet-lined) drawer is a testament to the American Dream (Made in China).

I am proudly responsible for putting a Kardashian (Jenner) on a Segway.

As a *Sales Associate* at Segway of Santa Monica in summer of 2011, my responsibility was to train new riders on the machines, give tours on the beach from Santa Monica down to Venice, sell machines, and repair current ones. I found the job on Craigslist, and while it wasn’t an easy job, it paid more than minimum wage. Of course, it didn’t pay as much as go-go dancing in WeHo, but I needed money to buy food to eat to bulk up so I could do that eventually.

I must have done shitty at the interview since the weirdly passive owner didn’t hire me. I wore my sharp black polo and white skinny jeans and taught the owner how to play tennis (we had to teach him something as part of the deal). Of course I hadn’t played tennis regularly in about 4 years so I dropped the ball and couldn’t even balance it on the racket. Derp.

But apparently their first round of new hires quit/left for school and I was next on the list. Soon I realized that, excepting one basketball player who was on his way out the door (Harrison, who was straight) the entire rest of the crew was gay. Jason, the owner, was gay and nerdy; David, the manager, was gay and bitchy; DJ, the on-and-off coworker, was gay and materialistic; and Seth, the other new hire, was gay and flamboyant. I don’t quite know where I fit into this mix, and since I didn’t really fit, I think I was pretty resented.

The first day a nervous-looking woman walked in with her two daughters and a driver. The daughters were decently behaved but she kept scolding them. I noticed she had a Birkin bag, probably worth about $18,000, as well as an AMEX Centurion black card. Later I found out she was Suzanne Rogers, one of the most wealthy and highest-profile women in Canada. Harrison was 15-minutes late to open the store because he was arrested the night before for a fake license, and David was openly scolding him in front of the Rogers clan. It was embarrassing, and little did I know what I had gotten into.

Having never ridden a machine, I didn’t realize I would need to for the job. I thought I’d simply hold down the fort and sell them. They don’t make people who work at a golf store play 9 holes in the aisles, so why the hell should I have to ride this two-wheeled bone-snapper?

Of course, next to our building was a big hill we had to take to the beach. I was nervous as all hell. Sweating profusely, knocked knees, knowing that this was it and I would die on some geekgasm invention. Thankfully, Harrison was patient and I didn’t die, and by the end of the day I was actually having some fun riding them.

I never fell. Except once. I hit the bottom of the hill too fast trying to deliver a machine to a customer and went over a curb. The machine flew one way, I flew the other into a parking lot, face-first. I limped away, bleeding, to the horror of onlookers. I still delivered the machine and got a $10 extra tip for my trouble. Enough to maybe buy bandaids.

Speaking of fell: people fell. A lot. More than we ever advertised. I saw a guy get his toe cut open, a guy skin his whole nose and side of his face, kids get bruises, bumps, and bleeding wounds left and right. One day we had a birthday party of 14 very rowdy 12-year-old boys. The mom knew the minimum age limit was 12 and still about 1/3 of the kids were underage. We let them ride anyway—after all, she signed the waiver. Four of the kids got injured, but they all had a blast, so I guess it was worth it.

And speaking of waivers: yes, we had very extensive waivers to sign. Initials here, here, and here, sign here, basically sign your life away. It always amused the British people for some reason.

Speaking of British people, over 60% of our customers were foreign. Tourists from all around the world, Germany, Scandinavia, China, Canada, France.

The French were the worst. Not regular French—they were polite and kind. No, the French Canadians and French Jews. Arrogant, rude, belligerent people. One French Canadian guy ran his machine into a wall after I told him to wait before getting on it. The French Jews were one family that came three times in a week. I had to scream at the kids to get them in line and to stop double-and-triple riding the delicate machines.

Seth was a godsend. As a former flight attendant, he had the patience to handle large bunches of rowdy people and instruct them properly. He was always cheerful, always kind, and always just got shit done.

David, on the other hand, was a nightmare. Demanding, overbearing, sleazy, virulently liberal (“OMG, Bachmann is such a cunt”). He was upset because he was 27 trying to get a degree at UCLA in the same major I received at 19, that I had a better car than him, whatever he could find. I later discovered he was bitchy because his mom was going through cancer, he had a deadbeat brother, and a boyfriend on the way out. Still no excuse, but after I discovered all that he seemed a little less bitter and a little more sympathetic to me. I think he viewed me as some sort of Devil Wears Prada surrogate to him (I was also intelligent, a stickler for perfection and cleanliness, and uncompromising) but just as Andy left, I did too.

So that was our little group. Jason was rarely seen and only came in the office to complain. David kissed his ass of course, which was sad to watch. Our Long Beach office had some awesome folks, most notably Suzanne, who was a kind-hearted, motherly woman who we had the opportunity to have a few joint tours with and who helped come out and watch over things occasionally. Wished I could’ve had her as a boss instead.

We once had a joint trip down to San Diego for a group of orange juice people. I don’t know how, but we managed to get everyone together and our shit organized in order to pull it off. To say we were dysfunctional was a massive understatement. We rented a gorgeous house overlooking a lake in San Diego for the night, and of course got drunk, played Scattegories, and hot tubbed. I got way too drunk, so the next day was kind of uncomfortable, but we pulled off a huge tour with only one person falling. Not a bad deal.

Which brings me to the Kardashians. As one of our most notable celebrity clients (they each had a machine) David was of course terrible to them. I couldn’t understand why—they were excellent PR for us—but apparently they always had an issue with their machines and them not working properly.

Kris Jenner’s new assistant, Karen, called into the store one day asking if we could come out and repair their machines because they weren’t running. David blew her off, so she called again and I explained that it may be a battery issue. The batteries cost $1k each. She paused and shrieked, “Kris is gonna SHIT HER PANTS!” I told her she could bring them in and we would fix the problem.

The next day Karen called again, asking if we could come out to the Jenner house to fix the machines. David ignored her call and I told her I’d get back to her. He bitched and moaned over and over again about how they had so many problems and how they were needy. I explained that they paid for service each time, so it shouldn’t be a huge issue. He scowled and ignored me.

The day after, David was off and we had someone else in to help out in the meantime. Karen called in and I told her I would personally come out and handle the issue. So I did, and despite the fact it took me 45 min to get there, I was soon pulling into the famous Jenner driveway by their white Mercedes G up at their Hidden Hills house.

Karen greeted me and let me in, and I had to contain how marveled I was at the cleanliness of the house and the sheer volume of family portraits that scaled the walls. She led me to the garage, and I tested the machines labeled “Kylie” and “Kendall”, sneaking glances around in the meantime. The whole family was in Santa Barbara preparing for Kim’s wedding, she said, and they were doing renovations while they were gone. Kris’s clothes were all racked in the garage, all on Dolce & Gabbana hangers, organized to a tee. I asked Karen for a quarter to open the back of the key battery with (the device has a small, round watch-face for a key and, without it, the device won’t run). She looked sideways at me and fetched the quarter, and sure enough I found the problem: the key battery, a little watch battery, was out. I took the keys with me and told her I’d mail them back. I tested the machines and they worked just fine, but I had to explain that they won’t work correctly unless you leave them plugged in at all times. Karen couldn’t grasp this concept, so I had to plug them in for her and begin my departure. As I walked out the door, she pried the quarter from my hand, leaving me somewhat in shock as I was getting ready to hand it back to her with other screws and paraphernalia. I almost backed into their fountain on the way out, and left to return to the store.

I replaced the key batteries at the store and labeled which was for which girls’ machine, and Fedexed them back to the house. Karen called and was very appreciative that they worked—she was new at her job and could not fail otherwise, it seemed, Kris would fire her. It felt good to help out, and to watch David squirm upon his return that I got the damn job done.

The next day I was taking a tour to the beach when I saw Kendall with some friends. Some members of my group went to talk with them, and she blushed and smiled and kept walking. I didn’t want to say anything, it would’ve been weird.

I finished working there 2 weeks later and returned back home, missing out on their huge Burning Man rentals gig, which I didn’t really regret because being out in the desert with them for a week didn’t sound appealing in any way. We went our separate ways, but the memories that I had of that summer I’ll never forget.