When I decided to depart Appalachia for the umpteen-thousandth time, I returned to California’s sunny coastline because it was a place I knew well. This slender sliver of Mediterranean-style charm and climate is mostly mild and temperate, which I like. Though I’ve never been to the source of this continued comparison, I trust the well-traveled souls who expound the virtues of Southern Europe to have a modicum of sensibility in their assessment of such things when I hear them speak, or I read about their sojourns. Till I discover for myself, someday, I’ll assume they’re accurate. Regardless, having lived, worked and traveled extensively in California off and on since 1978, the South Coast fits my lifestyle, language and budget, for now.
It took me four-and-a-half years, this last time, to understand who I had become and what I wanted to be doing with my life, but the transpired time between the actual decision and its fruition was a mere three weeks. This is the power of knowing something as opposed to just wondering, pondering, hoping or wishing. I knew that I wanted to be someplace else and when I, finally, screamed “Yes” to the universe, she complied and replied, immediately.
Within three weeks I had a new job and a new home — back in Santa Barbara, again. Now, be careful what you wish for, it just may happen. Always pay attention to the details and don’t be afraid to get real specific, because god has a great sense of humor and she’s all-too-willing to give you exactly what you believe, if not what you say you want.
What I wanted was out of West Virginia; my home and my personal ghetto. Ghettos are not places — they are states of mind. There are more people imprisoned inside their own heads than could possibly fit within all the gulags of the world. To break free, you must first visualize it. See yourself somewhere else, with someone else — being someone else. Sense it, smell it, taste it, hear it and feel it all about you.
See yourself in it, whatever, wherever and whomever it is. Believe in it. Do not deny yourself this gift. Give yourself permission to have it, to go there or for it to come to you. There is no separation. The universe is willing and wanting to give you all you ask for, now, if you can only stop denying yourself or denying the possibilities, which are endless.
The length of time it takes for the cosmos to comply is determined by how long and hard you think you need to struggle for it and whether you think you deserve to, finally, be rewarded for being good, playing fair, and ten thousand different rules and regulations. There is only one rule and one cosmic law: Belief is all.
“Oh, I don’t believe that.”
I rest my case.
Some of my friends ask me why I bitch so much, then, if I believe that we create our own worlds. Logic would dictate that — I like to bitch. The drama must feed some part of me. Perhaps my ego gets off on feeling superior. Maybe I need a therapist. Maybe this is my therapy. Maybe your opinion of my opinion means nothing, or everything. Maybe I annoy myself worse than I annoy you. Hell, I have to live with me 24/7.
Some people want to save the world while others, apparently, are in the process of destroying it. How arrogant on both parts. Why do humans think that they can do either? Do what you do, what you want, what you feel, but if I’m not interested in your drama, then I’m changing the channel, as I would expect you to do — if and when you tire of my diatribe. But don’t try to sell me something I don’t want and, if I want you to save my soul, I’ll ask.
How many people have killed or been killed, imprisoned, stoned, or ostracized because someone believed differently than the perpetrators of such childish, ignorant bullshit? Last time I checked, they crucified Jesus, burned Joan of Arc at the stake and shot Gandhi. So, turning the other cheek is not one of my strong points. I am not a Christian and I am not meek. I don’t care to inherit the fucking Earth, especially since no one seems to know how to take care of it, anyway. I do, however, intend to survive as long as my personal god allows, if only to see how bad or good it gets.
My, my, how pessimistic, Kat. I’m a realist, not a pessimist. The cosmos is perfectly balanced and when your number’s up, it’s up. So, tell the story you want to and have a grand ol’ time. Try to save souls and win the heathens over to your side, so you can feel better about your fear of oblivion, but don’t be miffed when I adhere to my own plan.
I don’t believe we all need to hold hands, sing songs and dance about in unified bliss for a few moments on Sunday. Apparently, this fucked up approach to running the world hasn’t improved matters much since the first medicine men mystified the miscreants and other mindless sheep by mesmerizing and terrifying them with fairy tales of the sun going dark due to anger by the gods for the people’s sins when, in reality, it was a lunar eclipse.
Ah, P.T. Barnum, you were a wise soul.
Whisperings about the town of Santa Barbara, last year, turned into cries of lynching with regard to the Santa Barbara News-Press. I’ve worked for Ms. Wendy McCaw as the afternoon news anchor on KZSB Radio during this year-long, prime-time, local media meltdown. As the monster lumbered throughout the neighborhoods in search of small children to devour and small businesses to intimidate, the din of mob mentality was nearly deafening, at times, and neither duct tape nor dueling attorneys could silence the others’ stories.
It has made for better drama than your average TV fare, but I wonder if it’ll get picked up for another season. I don’t own a TV and, usually, am impervious to others’ dramas being thrust upon me like some unsolicited Shi-zhu trying to dry-hump my shin in Alice Keck Park Park.
While I’ve read of employees, elsewhere, being fired for blogging about their workplace, it is not my intention to draw my employer’s ire. However, I am no stranger to being asked to remove my windscreen from the microphone, take my headphones and go home — a request as suddenly sobering as being interrupted mid-passion by hearing your lover say “No,” so all that is left is an embarrassed slipping off of the condom while trying to exit, gracefully, with the flag still flying at half-mast. Not that this has ever happened to me, of course, but my vision was inspired by wondering about W’s withdrawal from Iraq and whether he’ll unfurl another Mission Accomplished banner like some dumb high school jock talking tough to his locker-room buddies.
“Yeah, I fucked her,” winked the Quarterback in Chief. “I fucked her real good.”
Oh, yeah, you fucked her real good, Mr. President. You fucked Iraq’s brains out. You should be real proud. Hey, look at that Iran bitch. She looks like she wants it real bad, too.
As to local ethics issues and who’s right and who’s wrong, well, I’ll let the courts decide. For now, I’ll freely admit that I’m spending an adequate paycheck to live in paradise while others have lost their jobs, their health and — to a certain degree — their minds. I care, but I’m bemused at the brouhaha. Why? I’ll tell you, since I don’t give a shit about diplomacy and whether I’m liked, listened to, read, or fired. I believe in Free Speech and there is no one on the planet who is going to stop me from speaking my mind, unless they kill me, first. I applaud anyone standing up for what they believe is right — on all sides of any issue — and telling those who care to listen.
For me, however, it comes down to one thing: You don’t bite the hand that feeds you.
If you don’t believe in something or someone, then leave. Move on. Let it go. No one is forcing you to read the paper or work there. Your attachment to what was neither serves you or the community, and your trying to incense the masses is akin to dry-humping an ideal. If you truly had the community’s best interests at heart, you’d stop wasting valuable time and energy being pissed off as well as trying to piss on the News-Press and just go start your own paper. Ms. McCaw has one and she can run it as she likes — even into the ground, which remains to be seen.
Being civil in disagreement is an art form and requires more than I can muster, at times, which is why I’m not a politician or a counselor. I know that emotional attachment to pains — real and imagined — can make us say and do things that we may live to regret. Yet, learning to let go, detach and move on when something no longer feels right is one of life’s greater lessons to be learned, but humans struggle with change, especially when it feels like it’s changing for the worse. Sometimes, fighting to keep the status quo or clinging to the past is like trying to grasp water. Grasp this, please.
Simply and succinctly, you are not the paper as much as you may have felt you were, you are replaceable and, ultimately, you don’t own it, so you have no say in how it’s run. If you don’t like what it prints or the personal politics, habits or poor communication abilities of its owners, editors and hastily assembled minions hired to help the hemorrhaging news room, then don’t buy the paper. Should I be terminated for any reason, I’ll strike it up to experience and move on. I’m not a litigious person and I don’t feel like wrestling in court with anyone who doesn’t want me around. That can get expensive in more ways than one.
While I empathize with those souls who care deeply for their beliefs and want to march on City Hall, De la Guerra Plaza or Washington, I realize how hard it is to pry the claws of emotion from our hearts and minds before opening our mouths or taking action; far easier said than done, especially in the moment. Thus, time heals all wounds and wounds all heels and, with its passing, calmer heads and hearts will prevail, but for now, let good old-fashioned capitalism decide the fate of the News-Press, which doesn’t mean that your voice and actions will not have an impact, even greater than they already have. Maybe you’ll win.
Since I have yet to be told what to say, how to say it or whether to withhold certain data during the execution of my duties — nor has the monster ordered me to club baby seals in the head to make her a fur stole — then I am, apparently, far removed from the many alleged evils of working for the local paper. Of course, I am not under any delusions and recognize that I am but a flunkie who reads what others have written. Am I as happy as a pig in shit regarding all aspects of my employment? No. Will I divulge them here? No. Why? Because as long as I accept the terms and conditions of working for someone, then who am I to rock the boat?
‘Tis an interesting conundrum when the crew of any ship decides to mutiny, thinking they have a greater right to determine the course of passage than the one who purchased it. It’s likely I am more old than wise, now, for a younger Kat might have been all too quick to pull a Mr. Christian and keel-haul the Captain. Ah, the economics of old age are a great equalizer, though I don’t consider myself a toothless Kat, yet.
If there be rapin’, pillagin’ and plunderin’ afoot, then I will stand and fight — for I am not of that ilk. It seems to me, however, that this treacherous tale reeks of disgruntled sailors longing for home while Bligh deigns to sail o’er horizons in a fashion that lacks proper tack or tact, so some say. No matter how lovely the voyage was till that fateful day when the Captain cracked her whip and the crew felt the roll of the kraken’s wake, is mutiny truly justified? Rather than commandeering the ship, if you’re within sight of the Santa Barbara paradise, swim away and let the last scurrying rats on board try and avoid the crushing depths, decipher the sextant and chart their own course into oblivion.
I don’t mean to tread on shipmates’ toes or stifle their right of parley. No one could ever say that The Kat had their tongue as I don’t claim to know anything. I’m bobbing off the port bow in my radio dinghy — glass to eye — watching the flagship closely as sailors rattle their sabers on deck while some painfully bang their heads against the bulkhead. From this distance, the scurvy dogs seem to have little chance of bringing down the main masthead, though it may momentarily slow the listing vessel and keep the crow’s nest scrambling.
I may be a fool for not seeing the censored truth. By keeping silent or just doing my job, the perceived fascist machinery may slowly grind us up and spit us out like so many societies and times, before. Call me naive, apathetic or complacent, but I look around and I don’t see 1917 Russia, 1930’s Germany or 1950’s Hungary. Hell, it’s not even 1990’s Santa Barbara, anymore, and some of my favorite places and people have been swept under the rug of change — the only constant.
I read the News-Press, everyday. It’s my job. I also read the Independent, each week. There is room for improvement on both sides. I believe nothing I read or hear — and only half of what I see. It keeps me sane.
I enjoy my drama in a form I can return to the library, leave at the Lobero or mouse-click away from in an instant. However, if you truly relish this drama, then keep whacking the hornet’s nest. If you prefer less pain and more pleasure, then go home and whack off, instead. As to the unvarnished truth, I’ll let you know when I see it or if I’m fired for speaking my mind. For now, I’ve yet to feel the scourge of the incorrigible Captain — and the sunsets speak for themselves.
The Kat
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