Fear and Longing in Santa Barbara
Choosing to Daydream About the Future Rather Than Languish in the Now
Welcome to dystopian paradise. In addition to finding ourselves living in an oxymoron, Santa Barbarans are now pondering questions that read like Zen riddles designed by the dumb: What’s a wine country without wineries? What’s a tourist town without tourism? What’s a grocery store without jack shit in it?
The answers are bleak. So to stave off despair, I’ve begun fantasizing about the things I’ll do when our myopic messiah Donald Trump — Pence be upon him — singlehandedly formulates a cure and life on the Central Coast returns to something resembling normalcy.
For starters, I’m going drinking. I’ll guzzle every last delicious thing that Michael Craig pours me at Goleta Red Distilling Company and shake his hand with reckless abandon. I’ll sit beside strangers at the Imperial, sipping cucumber margaritas and admiring Dawn O’Brien’s incomparable style and poise. I’ll gather with friends around a table at Municipal Winemakers, laughing and chatting in close proximity and drowning in pools of Dave Potter’s wonderful wine.
