Where Common Sense Goes to Die—After Filing an Environmental Impact Report.
I spent the weekend in California.
Beautiful weather. Beautiful ocean. Beautiful people.
And apparently, a statewide competition to see who can turn ordinary life into a graduate seminar on emotional damage.
I was there for about 15 minutes, and I was convinced California isn’t actually a state.
It’s a 163,000-square-mile lifestyle experiment with beachfront property, venture capital, and no control group.
And the subjects are running the lab.
Now, before anyone gets offended, let me be perfectly clear.
I kinda like California.
I love the beaches. I love the mountains. I love the restaurants. I love the weather.
I just have one question.
WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK HAPPENED TO EVERYONE’S BRAIN?
Somewhere along the way, California decided that common sense was discriminatory, personal responsibility was oppressive, and reality was merely one of several available subscription plans.
And everyone apparently clicked “Accept.”
Well, not everyone.
There are still normal people here.
They’re just hiding in their houses, whispering things like, “I think men and women are different,” while checking whether Alexa is legally allowed to report them.
Let’s Start With the Environment.
California is going to save the planet.
One paper straw at a time.
I ordered a drink and received a paper straw that began decomposing before I finished my first sip.
Apparently, saving the sea turtles requires me to drink iced tea through a miniature toilet-paper roll.
But here’s where this shit gets absolutely spectacular.
A published study tested 20 brands of paper straws.
NINETY FUCKING PERCENT OF THE BRANDS TESTED CONTAINED PFAS—THE SO-CALLED FOREVER CHEMICALS.
Let me make sure I understand this.
We got rid of plastic straws because they were bad for the environment.
So we replaced them with paper straws that can contain chemicals that persist in the environment.
And the paper straw dissolves in my drink.
THE STRAW IS BIODEGRADABLE. THE CHEMICALS AREN’T.
Who the fuck came up with this?
Somewhere in Sacramento, there’s probably a committee celebrating the environmental benefits of a product that simultaneously disintegrates in your mouth and potentially introduces forever chemicals into the conversation.
This is not environmental policy.
This is a fucking Saturday Night Live sketch with a government pension.
And it gets better.
Take out food arrives in a plastic-lined container.
Hot food.
Grease.
Steam.
Exactly the conditions that can cause certain food-contact materials to release chemicals or shed microscopic plastic particles.
So let me understand the science.
My straw must be paper to protect the ocean.
But my $37 organic, sustainably harvested, emotionally fulfilled chicken can sit in packaging that may transfer chemicals into my dinner?
WE’RE SAVING THE FUCKING FISH WHILE SEASONING OURSELVES WITH THE CONTAINER.
And the container has a little green leaf printed on it.
Because apparently printing a picture of nature on something makes it environmentally responsible.
I think I’m going to start selling cigarettes in recycled cardboard boxes.
With a picture of a tree.
We’ll call them Sustainable Lung Destruction.
California will probably give me a tax credit.
I asked for a plastic bag.
The cashier looked at me like I’d requested a baby-seal-clubbing demonstration.
Apparently, I was supposed to bring my own reusable bag.
I’m visiting from Georgia.
Should I have packed a fucking grocery bag between my underwear and toothbrush?
And if I forget it, I’m not buying a bag.
I’m buying a $4.99 “reusable lifestyle accessory” that will sit in my trunk until the next time I forget it.
The Cars. Oh, This Is Fucking Priceless.
California wants everyone driving electric vehicles.
Fantastic.
I’m all for innovation.
But here’s a little problem.
Depending on how you measure poverty and account for California’s astronomical cost of living, roughly a third of Californians are living in poverty or struggling just above it.
These are people trying to figure out how to pay rent, buy groceries, and keep the lights on.
And California’s solution?
BUY AN ELECTRIC FUCKING CAR!
Brilliant!
“Excuse me, Governor. I can’t afford my apartment.”
“Have you considered purchasing a $70,000 electric SUV?”
“Sir, I have $43 in my checking account.”
“Wonderful! Would you like the upgraded battery?”
“Can I get food stamps?”
“No, but we can offer you a charging-station rebate.”
And where exactly are people living in apartments supposed to charge these things?
Run a 300-foot extension cord from their third-floor bedroom?
Perhaps they can charge their cars using the positive energy generated by their emotional-support dogs.
But here’s where California reaches a level of economic genius normally reserved for people who invest their retirement savings in magic beans.
CALIFORNIA MAKES BILLIONS OF DOLLARS FROM GASOLINE TAXES.
Billions.
Money that helps pay for roads and transportation.
So California is aggressively pushing people to stop buying gasoline.
Which means, if the plan succeeds, an important source of transportation revenue shrinks.
Think about that.
The government is essentially saying:
“WE DEMAND THAT YOU STOP BUYING THE PRODUCT THAT GENERATES BILLIONS OF DOLLARS FOR US!”
And then, when the revenue starts disappearing:
“OH FUCK! WHERE DID ALL THE MONEY GO?”
It’s like owning a liquor store, launching a statewide campaign against drinking, and then wondering why your business is failing.
So now California has to figure out how to replace the revenue.
Maybe they’ll tax electricity.
Maybe they’ll tax miles driven.
Maybe they’ll tax charging stations.
Maybe they’ll introduce a new Environmental Transportation Happiness Assessment.
Or perhaps they’ll just tax the paper straws.
THEY’VE CREATED A BUSINESS MODEL WHERE SUCCESS IS A FINANCIAL PROBLEM AND FAILURE IS AN ENVIRONMENTAL PROBLEM.
That’s not a strategy.
That’s a fucking hostage situation with solar panels.
Meanwhile, someone driving a $100,000 electric car is sitting in traffic for 45 minutes behind 37,000 other people doing exactly the same thing.
Congratulations.
You’ve eliminated tailpipe emissions while simultaneously eliminating three hours of your life.
And don’t even think about honking.
You might trigger somebody’s emotional-support Chihuahua, who is already processing the trauma of a yellow traffic light.
The car has self-driving technology, but the driver still needs a therapist to merge.
Speaking of Emotional-Support Animals.
I saw a dog in a stroller.
Not an old dog.
Not an injured dog.
A perfectly healthy dog.
In a stroller.
Wearing sunglasses.
The dog looked embarrassed.
The owner looked proud.
I swear to God, the dog was looking at me as if to say, “Please help me. I used to chase squirrels. Now I’m attending fucking Pilates.”
At this rate, California dogs will soon have therapists, personal pronouns, retirement accounts, and a podcast about boundaries.
Meanwhile, their owners will be sleeping in the backyard because the dog needs his personal space.
The dog doesn’t walk anymore.
He has a mobility consultant.
The Restaurants.
I love great food.
But ordering dinner in California has become a hostage negotiation conducted by people who don’t technically believe in hostages.
“Is that gluten-free?”
“Is it dairy-free?”
“Is it vegan?”
“Was the chicken pasture-raised?”
“Was the chicken emotionally supported?”
“Did the chicken have a happy childhood?”
“Did anyone explain to the chicken that it was going to become dinner?”
Jesus Christ.
I JUST WANT A FUCKING CHICKEN SANDWICH.
And the prices!
I ordered a coffee.
Seven dollars.
Would you like oat milk?
Another dollar.
Would you like an extra shot?
Two dollars.
Would you like to tip?
The screen offered me 20%, 25%, or 30%.
For handing me a cup of coffee.
The barista turned the screen around like I was bidding on a house.
I’m surprised there wasn’t an additional option to contribute to the barista’s student-loan forgiveness program, carbon offset, and emotional-support kombucha.
The Politics.
California has somehow perfected the art of solving problems by creating three larger problems and appointing a committee to study the original one.
Housing is too expensive?
Make it harder to build housing.
Energy is too expensive?
Make energy more complicated.
Traffic is terrible?
Remove a lane.
Businesses are leaving?
Raise their costs and hold a press conference about economic opportunity.
Gas tax revenue might decline?
Tell everyone to stop buying gas.
Paper straws contain forever chemicals?
Form a committee to study whether the chemicals identify as permanent.
It’s fucking brilliant.
If California were a publicly traded company, the shareholders would have fired management, replaced the board, and sold the furniture.
Instead, everyone gets a new committee.
A task force.
A commission.
And a 400-page report explaining why the solution requires another $11 billion and a pilot program.
I’m beginning to believe California’s state motto should be:
“We Have a Solution for Every Problem. Unfortunately, It’s Another Problem.”
And Then There’s the Language.
You can’t just say something anymore.
You have to consider whether what you’re about to say might emotionally injure someone who isn’t even in the conversation, hasn’t heard you, and may not exist yet.
I asked someone a simple question.
They responded, “I need to honor my truth.”
Your truth?
What happened to THE truth?
Apparently, California now has more truths than Starbucks locations, and every one of them needs its own parking space.
I can’t wait until someone gets pulled over for speeding.
“Officer, I appreciate your perspective, but in my lived experience, I was only going 35.”
“Sir, you were going 97.”
“That’s your truth. Please respect mine.”
Case dismissed.
The officer then offers a restorative-justice circle to the speed limit.
Everyone Is Healing From Something.
I overheard someone say they were taking a break from work to “reconnect with their authentic self.”
What the fuck does that even mean?
Were they previously operating as somebody else?
Was there a temporary replacement employee named Chad?
I’ve been working for more than four decades.
Apparently, I’ve been doing it wrong.
I should have spent more time manifesting abundance, protecting my energy, and establishing boundaries with people who expect me to actually accomplish something.
I heard another person say, “I’m currently not available for anything that doesn’t serve my highest vibration.”
Wonderful.
I’m currently not available for anyone who says “highest vibration” without referring to a washing machine.
At some point, “I don’t want to do it” became a wellness philosophy.
But Here’s What Really Gets Me.
California is filled with incredibly smart, creative, innovative people.
Some of the greatest companies in the history of the world were built here.
These people invented technologies that changed humanity.
They created industries.
They put computers in our pockets, transformed medicine, revolutionized entertainment, and made it possible for me to have an intelligent conversation with a machine.
And yet somehow, they haven’t figured out how to make a fucking paper straw last longer than six minutes.
How is that possible?
You can build a rocket that lands itself.
But you can’t build an affordable apartment.
You can develop artificial intelligence.
But apparently natural intelligence is becoming optional.
You can create a car that drives itself.
But you can’t figure out how to make traffic move.
You can put a satellite into orbit, but not a trash can where people can find it.
You can invent the technology that transforms the global automotive industry.
But you can’t figure out how to replace the gas-tax revenue when everyone actually buys the cars.
And you can spend decades eliminating potentially dangerous chemicals from our lives, only to discover them in the environmentally friendly fucking straw.
THIS IS THE MOST INTELLIGENT INSANE ASYLUM EVER CREATED.
And the best part?
Everyone thinks everyone else is crazy.
The left thinks the right is crazy.
The right thinks the left is crazy.
The vegans think the meat eaters are crazy.
The meat eaters think the vegans are crazy.
The landlords think the tenants are crazy.
The tenants think the landlords are evil.
The electric-car owners think the gasoline drivers are destroying the planet.
The gasoline drivers think the electric-car owners are destroying the power grid.
The paper-straw manufacturers think they’re saving the world.
The chemists are wondering what the fuck is in the straws.
And the dog in the stroller thinks everybody is crazy.
For once, I’m siding with the dog.
At least he knows he’s being pushed around.
My Final Thoughts.
As most people know, I wake up every morning smiling.
I love people.
I love innovation.
I love solving problems.
And I genuinely believe the world should be a happier, better place.
Which is precisely why California fascinates me.
This state has more natural beauty, more money, more talent, more innovation, and more potential than almost anywhere on earth.
And somehow, it’s managed to turn everyday life into an Olympic event in competitive absurdity.
But I will say this.
I had a fantastic weekend.
The sun was shining.
The ocean was beautiful.
The food was wonderful.
And everywhere I turned, there was another absolutely unbelievable situation that made me laugh.
In fact, I’m starting to think California might be the happiest place on earth.
Not because everyone is happy.
But because it’s physically impossible to spend 48 hours here without laughing your fucking ass off.
I went there for a relaxing weekend.
I left with enough material for a Netflix comedy special, a doctoral thesis on collective insanity, and possibly a prescription for Xanax.
And if anyone in California is offended by this blog, please understand:
I respect your feelings.
I honor your journey.
I acknowledge your lived experience.
And I sincerely apologize for any disruption to your emotional ecosystem.
Now please get your fucking dog out of the stroller.
He wants to walk.
And so do I.
Preferably back to Georgia.
Have a wonderful day, California!
And remember:
Just because you’re offended doesn’t mean you’re right.
Sometimes it just means you’re in California!
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