In December, an atheist, pro-choice, anti-gun, environmental activist, also known as a Santa Monica resident, asked me: “So, how do you plan to celebrate the last year of American democracy?”
Now, months away from 2024, the world offers little to refute that grim forecast. And yet, despite a marine layer of dread on the beach, no Santa Monica resident I know has followed through on their threats to contact real estate agents in Portugal, Uruguay or Cape Town. I haven't gotten to Step 2 of my plan to turn on the light and live off saturated fat from the earth.
The fact is, even if 2024 exceeds its potential for national catastrophe, we will remain where we are. For one reason: we believe that we will be safe here. Santa Monica is a great place to hide from the United States. Ask Whitey Bulger.
As bad as we think it could get in some place, we don't anticipate diners tipping Giorgio Baldi's valets with one hand and an open Glock in the other. Will St. John's gynecologists be read their Miranda rights to do their jobs? Somehow it seems unlikely. “The Handmaid's Tale”, “To Kill a Mockingbird”, “The Hate U Give”, George Orwell, Toni Morrison, Art Spiegelman and Anne Frank banned from the SaMoHi library? Uh-uh. No way. Never again.
Then again…
The most decimated belief in America in 2024 is that “it can't happen here.”
Every 10 minutes, another book comes out about how can happens here, or worse, how it happens is happening here. Soon, every new nightstand purchase will come with a free copy of “On Tyranny” by Yale professor Timothy Snyder. Brilliant book but, you know, not too cheerful.
As of now, the best way for locals to rationalize the “it can't happen here” fallacy lies in redefining “here”: Santa Monica simply isn't “here.” It is a sanctuary city where we defiantly take refuge in peace.
Okay, not the most ambitious plan, right? Hiding in our green zone sounds pretty defeatist. But after nine years of rehearsing arguments we never had with people we never met and whose opinions we could never change, we were simply erased. It's sad to see how many elderly boomers in Santa Monica have their towels ready to throw in: “Maybe we'll get out at the right time.”
So we keep our friends close and our enemies out of sight and out of mind. We're taking low doses of Rachel Maddow and compulsive escapism; ignoring Quinnipiac University polls and demonstrating the latest in thought-cancelling headphones. We have fallen in love with our bubble to the point that borderline agoraphobia has gone from an affliction to a remedy.
It used to be that we would meet on the street and plan activism strategies that would make more Americans see things our way. With leash in hand, idle walks turned into street arguments, so that our dogs' ears perked up at the mention of Raffensperger's name.
Now we're happy to discuss when or if another atmospheric river will soak Los Angeles.
“We need the rain but not this a lot of rain.”
“True. The Los Angeles County flag should say: “Nothing in moderation.” “
Anything that takes us away from traffic coming in the opposite direction, both national and foreign, is welcome. At an impromptu dog-walking klatch last week, I joked about how one of the things I love about Santa Monica is that when you see a man on a weekday in a suit and tie, you feel sorry for him.
A doodling mom laughed and said, “Yes. Being in the rest of the world? Who needs it?
And therein lies my great fear: we will never go out again. Complacency has a pretty dirty history featuring an overflowing list of good people turned infamous.
And here lies my great hope: we give “that can't happen here” a couple more days or weeks, and spring, with its endless clichés (rebirth, renewal, recommitment and all that talk) blows in Santa Monica and It pushes us east. beyond the fear, through La Cienega and into the fray.
Peter Mehlman's latest novel is “#MeAsWell.” He was a writer and producer of “Seinfeld.”
