I see crazy people
…walking around like regular people. They don't see each other. They only see what they want to see. They don't know they're crazy.
Santa Barbara.
Oh sure, it may look gorgeous. It may have beaches and brownless skies and fountains and mountains and trees every five feet (even though they're palm trees). But I know the secret; I know the other Santa Barbara. The one that appears when the billowing gray darkness lurches over the forbidden island of skunks and hantavirus, causing that fog from Silent Hill to pour between the peeling wood houses and inviting the crabs to scuttle out of the drainpipes. You see it when you're walking on the coast at low tide and you stumble over a headless seal or a mummified bird, as the homes on the cliff face above crumble into the hungry stone teeth of the ancient sea. And you stand in muffled isolation, amongst the scurrying sea-roaches, contemplating an unspeakable madness at the core of all creation.
Then, on the periphery, a silhouette comes staggering out of the grey. It looks human, but its shape is… wrong. Too primitive. It walks like a maimed animal and unintelligible gibberish escapes its mouth, the effects of a mind in the throes of degeneracy. As you draw closer to it, its loathsome gaze fixes upon you and, impossibly, it forms into human speech the single chilling thought which possesses its brain: "I hope you die." And with nothing more, it turns away from you back to its terrible business, whipping out its cell phone to call its girlfriend and tell her how totally fucking drunk it is right now.
Actually, that happened on a relatively clear day last month on State Street, which was closed for traffic but the bars were (obviously) open. There's something eerie enough about roaming through the center of an empty four-lane street while traffic lights alternate uselessly for cars that aren't coming, without sub-humanoids forecasting your doom. Alright, so he was a fairly average looking college doofus, but yes, he really did say that to me out of nowhere as I was passing him, and then casually whipped out his phone like it was nothing. And it was intensely creepy, as are many of my interactions with human beings.
And that's the third Santa Barbara, the one that, like anywhere, is spoiled by all the goddamned people. Whether it's by a cosmic horror wrought in the dark soul of the city or the gentle, sunny climate which lowers survival standards, there is something off about things here. I have seen more ambulances here in one year than I have in the course of my life; three for instance at my apartment complex pulling people out on stretchers, and one which stopped next to me to abduct an old woman sitting on a bench on State Street. But it's the people that capture it, from more subtle eccentricities to the insane hobos which are abnormally prevalent, roaming every street corner in gangs. They rule here, and they know it. I watched one lumber into a very busy street, secure in the knowledge that traffic would stop and wait for him with nary a honked horn. The Trenchcoat Wizard, as I've named him, dressed only in said coat, pants, a bandana, and lots and lots of plastic Mardi Gras beads, acted similarly at one intersection where he decreed that, nay, he shall not deign traffic to pass this day, and simply stopped in the middle of the road to stare down unfortunate drivers. He, like many others, is a constant conversational threat at the MexiMart where he lurks to initiate unauthorized banter with passersby.
Oh I know, screaming hobos and drunken retards are nothing new, no matter how many there are. I understand if that doesn’t seem remarkable to you. But consider this case: I'm at this bike rack, minding my own business. Bike racks are danger zones because they're places where people are forced to stop for several seconds and temporarily let down their crazy sense, and they instinctively know this. Before I can escape, from behind I hear a voice shrieking at the top of its lungs. "Stop it right there, Fernando! Don't think I don't know what you're up to!" The voice belongs to an angry and enormous but relatively normal woman. I glance around trying to figure out who 'Fernando' is, when I realize that only person nearby is me. God dammit. "Don't you try to steal from me! I saw what you did! And I know you've been hanging around my house and if I catch you again I'm going to call the police and have you arrested! Do you hear me?!" I realize that I recognize this woman. I've observed her here once before at a distance, screaming at length at a passing couple for "following" her, and doing things behind her back, and something about revenge for what happened to her lunch. Only now do I realize that they were strangers. So, I fall back on the tried-and-true solution to all problems: I ignore it. Soon spent, she storms away, but turns to me as she passes and says "I can't believe you'd be so [unintelligible] that you'd let any spirit enter your body. Stop doing that." "You got it," comes my only reply as she stomps off to further inflict her dysfunction on unsuspecting strangers. It's times like these when, for an unwelcome moment, I briefly sympathize with the kinds of people who are threatened by and want to criminalize deviant behavior, and am filled with quiet fantasies of black armored trucks loaded with jackboots cruising up and down the streets to enforce the precious calm. Before I remember it's me they'd be protecting it from.
I experienced a related feeling this week. I was crossing in front of a driveway which has this lovely fence that prevents anyone from seeing who's coming or going. I always assume that a car will come barreling out at maximum speed the instant I reach it just because God knows I'm there. And in this case I was correct; a SUV burst out immediately, but anticipating it I stopped in time, if only just. Then one of the rear passengers craned his head out the window to stare at me and shouted "BOOM! Hahaha!" slamming his fist into his hand and turning to high-five his friends or whatever. Seriously, who does that? Sometimes I wonder if media really does jade certain kinds of people into behaving like the internet IRL.
Santa Barbara.
Oh sure, it may look gorgeous. It may have beaches and brownless skies and fountains and mountains and trees every five feet (even though they're palm trees). But I know the secret; I know the other Santa Barbara. The one that appears when the billowing gray darkness lurches over the forbidden island of skunks and hantavirus, causing that fog from Silent Hill to pour between the peeling wood houses and inviting the crabs to scuttle out of the drainpipes. You see it when you're walking on the coast at low tide and you stumble over a headless seal or a mummified bird, as the homes on the cliff face above crumble into the hungry stone teeth of the ancient sea. And you stand in muffled isolation, amongst the scurrying sea-roaches, contemplating an unspeakable madness at the core of all creation.
Then, on the periphery, a silhouette comes staggering out of the grey. It looks human, but its shape is… wrong. Too primitive. It walks like a maimed animal and unintelligible gibberish escapes its mouth, the effects of a mind in the throes of degeneracy. As you draw closer to it, its loathsome gaze fixes upon you and, impossibly, it forms into human speech the single chilling thought which possesses its brain: "I hope you die." And with nothing more, it turns away from you back to its terrible business, whipping out its cell phone to call its girlfriend and tell her how totally fucking drunk it is right now.
Actually, that happened on a relatively clear day last month on State Street, which was closed for traffic but the bars were (obviously) open. There's something eerie enough about roaming through the center of an empty four-lane street while traffic lights alternate uselessly for cars that aren't coming, without sub-humanoids forecasting your doom. Alright, so he was a fairly average looking college doofus, but yes, he really did say that to me out of nowhere as I was passing him, and then casually whipped out his phone like it was nothing. And it was intensely creepy, as are many of my interactions with human beings.
And that's the third Santa Barbara, the one that, like anywhere, is spoiled by all the goddamned people. Whether it's by a cosmic horror wrought in the dark soul of the city or the gentle, sunny climate which lowers survival standards, there is something off about things here. I have seen more ambulances here in one year than I have in the course of my life; three for instance at my apartment complex pulling people out on stretchers, and one which stopped next to me to abduct an old woman sitting on a bench on State Street. But it's the people that capture it, from more subtle eccentricities to the insane hobos which are abnormally prevalent, roaming every street corner in gangs. They rule here, and they know it. I watched one lumber into a very busy street, secure in the knowledge that traffic would stop and wait for him with nary a honked horn. The Trenchcoat Wizard, as I've named him, dressed only in said coat, pants, a bandana, and lots and lots of plastic Mardi Gras beads, acted similarly at one intersection where he decreed that, nay, he shall not deign traffic to pass this day, and simply stopped in the middle of the road to stare down unfortunate drivers. He, like many others, is a constant conversational threat at the MexiMart where he lurks to initiate unauthorized banter with passersby.
Oh I know, screaming hobos and drunken retards are nothing new, no matter how many there are. I understand if that doesn’t seem remarkable to you. But consider this case: I'm at this bike rack, minding my own business. Bike racks are danger zones because they're places where people are forced to stop for several seconds and temporarily let down their crazy sense, and they instinctively know this. Before I can escape, from behind I hear a voice shrieking at the top of its lungs. "Stop it right there, Fernando! Don't think I don't know what you're up to!" The voice belongs to an angry and enormous but relatively normal woman. I glance around trying to figure out who 'Fernando' is, when I realize that only person nearby is me. God dammit. "Don't you try to steal from me! I saw what you did! And I know you've been hanging around my house and if I catch you again I'm going to call the police and have you arrested! Do you hear me?!" I realize that I recognize this woman. I've observed her here once before at a distance, screaming at length at a passing couple for "following" her, and doing things behind her back, and something about revenge for what happened to her lunch. Only now do I realize that they were strangers. So, I fall back on the tried-and-true solution to all problems: I ignore it. Soon spent, she storms away, but turns to me as she passes and says "I can't believe you'd be so [unintelligible] that you'd let any spirit enter your body. Stop doing that." "You got it," comes my only reply as she stomps off to further inflict her dysfunction on unsuspecting strangers. It's times like these when, for an unwelcome moment, I briefly sympathize with the kinds of people who are threatened by and want to criminalize deviant behavior, and am filled with quiet fantasies of black armored trucks loaded with jackboots cruising up and down the streets to enforce the precious calm. Before I remember it's me they'd be protecting it from.
I experienced a related feeling this week. I was crossing in front of a driveway which has this lovely fence that prevents anyone from seeing who's coming or going. I always assume that a car will come barreling out at maximum speed the instant I reach it just because God knows I'm there. And in this case I was correct; a SUV burst out immediately, but anticipating it I stopped in time, if only just. Then one of the rear passengers craned his head out the window to stare at me and shouted "BOOM! Hahaha!" slamming his fist into his hand and turning to high-five his friends or whatever. Seriously, who does that? Sometimes I wonder if media really does jade certain kinds of people into behaving like the internet IRL.