Funk zone or danger zone?
A trip to Santa Barbara goes (slightly) off the rails
Hotel Californian isn’t the same thing as The Hotel California, but it’s close enough for rock & roll, as they say. Not that Christina and I are fans of The Eagles. We hate The Fucking Eagles, man, especially after a long day. But we love weddings! And the wedding we were invited to was held in Santa Barbara at Hotel Californian, where you can check-out anytime you like and always leave, just as long as you’ve paid your bill.
If you’re not familiar with Santa Barbara, Hotel Californian is located in an area called the “funk zone.” I don’t know who came up with that name, but I like to imagine that Santa Barbara’s civic leaders asked the hard questions during the public hearings to officially designate the zone around the wharf as “funky.”
Might funkytown be a better name?
During what hours will establishments be allowed to play that funky music?
Sure, we’ve got a real type of thing going down, getting down, and there’s a whole lot of rhythm going round. But do we want the funk zone? Will those who currently own the funk zone, give up the funk zone? Assuming we’ve gotta have the funk zone, what sort of construction projects do we envision? For example, will we need to tear the roof off the mother, sucker?
As far as I know, local politicians, business leaders, and the community discussed all aspects of funkification, from the intoxicating, but problematic, Funky Cold Medina issue, to the questions of scale raised by Funk #49. But one topic they clearly didn’t talk about enough was safety. An active railroad track cuts right through the funk zone, which is home to dozens tasting rooms operated by local wineries.
“I’m a little worried about the funk zone,” I said after dinner on our first night in town.
“Not funky enough for you?” Christina asked.
“I get good vibrations, as far this funky bunch goes, but it’s not like this zone is governed by a Parliamentary Funkadelic system, which is fine, I guess.”
“But…”
“Well, I worry that this is a laissez-faire kind of funk.”
“Tell me more.”
“Our walk back to the hotel was treacherous.”
“Really?”
“Don’t you remember crossing the train tracks?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see a crosswalk?”
“There are signs, plus those wooden crossing arms come down whenever the train comes through.”
“Let me ask another way. Do you think it’s a good idea to have a bunch of drunk people crossing a train track? And while you’re thinking about that, remember that most of these drunks are tourists who don’t know that a locomotive routinely rolls through the funk zone.”
“Well, when you put it that way…”
“Face it, this funk zone was designed by winos, and while that crowd can be a lot of fun at weddings and Bar Mitzvahs, they have no business on the safety committee.”
“Well, what would you do about it?”
“Assuming I’m the mayor of the funk zone?”
“Yes.”
“Simple. Either you move the funk zone, or you move the train.”
“That will cost hundreds of millions of dollars. Maybe billions.”
“You can’t put a price on human life.”
“No, but you can put a price on a massive construction project.”
For the rest of evening, we debated the merits of making the funk zone safer. We were full of hot air, of course, but we like our hot air better than the hot air that comes from the talking heads on cable news.
Christina did the law & economics folks proud. Saving lives is great, she argued, but economic efficiency is the highest value for society. Sure, it’s sad to see a few drunks sacrificed on the alter of sound economic policy, but think of the sadness for the economy when the bill for a safer funk zone comes due. Besides, Christina added, those drunks probably weren’t going to cure cancer or save the world from fascism, but they may end up getting nominated for a Darwin Award.
I channeled Ralph Nader (classic edition), arguing that the funk zone was unsafe at any speed. The Uptown Funk crowd that created this “danger zone” could’ve avoided these costs if they had made safety a priority from the start. But they put profit above lives, I said, and “they can go funk themselves.”
Nobody won the funking debate because married couples rarely debate topics that can be resolved. At any rate, public safety wasn’t our funking problem. We came to the funk zone for a wedding and a weekend getaway, so we decided to leave the issue to local politicos, like Boat Rat Matt, one of six candidates running for mayor, and arguably the contender with the strongest sign game.
The next day, we went to the wedding. We ate, we drank, we danced. It was the social event of the season. As the wedding broke up, I warned everyone I could about the train tracks, just to be on the safe side. No funk zone casualties, no Darwin Award nominees here. Not on my funking watch!
On our final day in Santa Barbara, Christina asked if I wanted to explore the funk zone. I said yes, throwing caution to the wind. We got some coffee, strolled around the funk zone, did some shopping at an open-air market, caught an afternoon showing of Dune, and finished things off with some banging Indian food.
“Would it be lame if we called an Uber?” Christina asked. “My feet are killing me.”
I checked the map on my phone. We were about two miles from our hotel.
“Safety first,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Your feet. Protect your feet, honey. Safety first, especially when walking through the funk zone.”
Christina rolled her eyes, then called an Uber.
Our Uber arrived a few minutes later. Since this was a short trip, we wasted no time jumping into the usual chit-chat. The Uber driver asked where we were from. We told him we had come up from LA for a wedding. He said a lot of people from LA like to get married in Santa Barbara because of the weather. We agreed that the weather here was better than the weather in LA. Then I asked if he was a local, and he said he was born and raised in Santa Barbara.
“Were you around for the most recent fire?” I asked.
“The Alisal fire? Yeah, I was here. They had to close the 101 near Goleta. Total mess.”
“But you were safe here in the funk zone?”
Christina elbowed me.
“Safe as can be,” he said. “We actually had a smaller fire here recently. The whole hillside went up in flames. We just stood there watching it burn. People brought wine. They were playing music. Watching the fire burn, the whole scene was… beautiful.”
The fire was beautiful? They brought wine and played music while the hillside burned? Was the funk zone populated by 10,000 maniacs, or had it recently played host to some sort of Nero cosplay event?
“I’ve got pictures of the fire,” the Uber driver said. “I’ll show you. They’re awesome!”
I don’t remember the rest of the ride. I was too busy trying not to think about Christina and me dying in the funk zone. I could see the headline in the paper: Three killed in car crash with train while looking at photos of recent funk zone fire. After the previous night’s debate, that would be ironic, don’t you think?
“That was a fun day,” Christina said when we returned to our hotel room.
“Yeah, it was OK, I guess.”
“Are you upset because we cut the walk short? You were planning to stop for ice cream, weren’t you?”
“I’m always planning to stop for ice cream.”
“Do you want to go out and get some ice cream?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to press our luck?”
“Huh?”
“The funk zone,” I said. “Between the train tracks that run through the middle of the wine tasting district and the Uber driver’s safety-last approach to transportation, the funk zone is the danger zone.”
“Are we back to this?”
“Honey, they partied while the hills around the funk zone burned. Then our Uber driver spent half the ride showing us photos, while he was driving!”
“Jeez, you’re right,” Christina said.
“The people of the funk zone are dancing with death, and they don’t even know it because they’re too busy getting drunk and watching shit burn.”
Christina knew I was right about the funk zone. For once, Ralph Nader had bested the law & economics crowd, at least as far as our hypothetical went. But none of that mattered as we got ready for bed. We didn’t have the power to rezone Santa Barbara, or change human behavior. All we could do was whistle past the graveyard, and so Christina serenaded me.
Revvin' up your engine
Listen to her howlin' roar
Metal under tension
Beggin' you to touch and go
Highway to the danger zone
Ride into the danger zone
Funk was never meant to be safe. Consider may of the great funk songs of our time. Do they strike you as speaking of a place devoid of danger?
Wild Cherry's "Play That Funky Music White Boy" It speaks from the transition from Rock and Roll to Funky Music. The lead singer even admits "it wasn't easy." Does that strike you as "safe?"
"Funkytown" talks of moving to a place with grooving and energy. It sounds like a zone hosting railroad tracks is exactly the prescription for that fever. It's the "more cowbell" for the funk zone.
"We Got The Fun" talks about grooving and partying. Partying, again, not a safe activity. In fact, you're not doing it right if it is safe. Back in my dancing days I would go to this bar in Buckhead imaginatively named BAR. The club was on two levels at had a set of stairs going from the upper to lower part of it. Sometimes, I would "party" and to get more to drink I would go to the lower bar, and would inadvertently miss a stair. I fell on the stairs twice. But it was an acceptable part of the partying experience.
If you want safe, maybe go to the "Safety Zone" where you can do the "Safety Dance."
Did you see more Boat Rat Matt campaign signs? Were they all hand-painted?!