(for best effect, read report in loud, British accent with intermittent static)
Santa Monica, CA - 8:15 AM
As I made my way to the cliffs near the Santa Monica Pier the sense of panic and casual interest was thick in the air. I had traveled to this precarious spot with nothing but myself, my mobile reporting unit (aka my iPhone) a large, black coffee, and La Grand Orange's "Muffin of the Day" - Apple Cinnamon Raisin.
The crowds: gathering. The anticipation: building. The muffin: absolutely delicious.
As I delicately picked at the muffin, taking delight in the fact that it was still warm from the oven, I could not help but notice the anarchy and chaos that was escalating around me. People, driven from their homes by a faint level of interest and an inexplicable lack of a real job that necessitated being in the office on a Friday morning, had gathered along the cliffs - staying a safe distance from what I like to call "THE KILL ZONE".
As more and more presumably unemployed refugees made their way to fence-line that separated safety from certain death, the situation turned from life-threatening to extremely life-threatening. The air became a cacophonous symphony, a veritable violent assault on the ears made up of distant news helicopters, quiet conversation, and the incessant iPhone ringtone "Marimba" as those along the fence received calls from loved ones and friends who actually worked for a living.
As I finished my delectable breakfast treat, I could not help but take stock of the picture perfect day - 70 degrees, sunshine, and a ever so gentle breeze - that made me question how God could bring such an unstoppable wall of water racing towards this idyllic and overwhelmingly white community. Suddenly, a helicopter raced overhead causing some people to briefly look up from their conversations.
I snapped into action and recorded the incident on my mobile reporting unit -
As the copter sped away, I was briefly distracted by a palm tree, and then overcome with fear and a faint dryness in my mouth from finishing the muffin, I quickly took a sip of coffee. It was still warm, and I was still alive. It was well past 8:30 and the tsunami's effects had begun. A slightly-larger-than-average wave began to crash against the defenseless shore. Our nightmare was becoming real.
Realizing that potentially dozens of uninformed individuals back in the smug safety of the Midwest may be depending on me for a window to the destruction, I made a decision that took unbelievable courage and unspeakable selflessness and headed down..... into "the KILL ZONE".
As I strolled down the hill, each "fwap fwap" of my sandals made me realize I was taking another casual step towards the shore and, perhaps, journalistic immortality.
I staked out a spot beyond the edge of Pico Boulevard, where a drainage ditch emptied into the Pacific, and decided that there would be no better spot to bare witness to "the Rape of California", as I was now calling it.
Before me, the tranquil waters far from the ocean's edge offered absolutely no insight into anything that could possibly be happening. At this point, I began to question my own abilities as a journalist, or, farther still, as a normal human being with the very basest level of common sense. The quiet pool, most likely calming to anyone else who had looked at it, became a humiliating monument to my own lack of rational intelligence. I decided I need to act fast to save face.
I quickly accessed the 'Hipstamatic' Application on my iPhone and took TWO MORE PICTURES, this time, using the digital effects of the app to make the images look more interesting than they had been with just the regular camera.
THE RESULTS WERE SHOCKING
On the second photo, I even managed to capture a lifeguard's truck driving slowly across the small bridge - known by me as "SATAN'S DEATH BRIDGE".
These two images with their manufactured "look" replicating the work of an actual professional photographer gave me an inflated sense of superiority over other, less artistically curious individuals, who used "regular" camera phones. It seemed my reputation and ego were safely rescued from the metaphorical tsunami wave of self-doubt, self-pity, and humiliation.
At this time, I realized I had strayed from my original mission and - worse still - the fast drinking of coffee and light walking had given my feeble stomach a slight cramp. Time was running out. I made what was no doubt the bravest, most heroic and sexiest decision yet - I would face "the Rape of California" head on and go between 20 to 30 ft from the water's edge. I was going so far into the KILL ZONE that I was now entering the REALLY EXTREME AND DANGEROUS AND VERY ATTRACTIVE TO THE OPPOSITE SEX IF YOU GO ZONE.
I wept briefly, overcome by my own selfless heroism.
As I inched closer and closer to the waves, crashing with nearly five to ten....MILLION times the force of regular waves, I willed my body to press on, despite the threat to life and limb and my still present coffee-guzzling induced cramp, which had not abated as I continued to sip it because it was kind of expensive.
As I reached the area where the quiet pool almost met the crashing waves - HELL'S SATAN'S DEATH ZONE OF ANGELS - I almost felt the awesome power of the moment, and then realized that the actual change in water level would be barely noticeable along the wide beach and that I, like the other sixty or so irresponsible onlookers, was probably just wasting my time.
This moment required documentation, and so I snapped another iconic picture.
The picture gave no in insight at all and I immediately regretted it.
Ashamed, I felt a need to to relate to the common people who had witnessed the possibly-still-ongoing-but-difficult-to-see event. I struck up a conversation with two guys and a girl nearby who were visiting L.A., which went fine until I realized that the girl, who was kinda cute, was probably with one of the other two guys. Plus, she wasn't really that cute. I said my goodbyes to them and wished them well in their attempt to pick up the pieces from this tragedy, which they implied they would do by "probably checking out the boardwalk later".
So, having stared Death in the face, then flicking it off, then having sex with Death's mother right in front of Death, I decided my epic journey had finally come to its completely fulfilling and not in any way faked climax. It was getting late, my coffee was empty, and I was kinda bored.
I trudged back to the cliffs of safety, now referred to as "THE TSUNAMI-PUSSY ZONE", and looked out at the skyline of downtown Santa Monica and wondered if the people in those buildings knew how close they came to absolute and total annihilation, which is to say, not very close at all.
I snapped a picture to commemorate another of my brilliant insights.
Upon reaching the sweet relief of the cliffs, I realized my brush with danger was not yet finished, as I saw a member of the Santa Monica Police Department Traffic Services Team about to ticket my car for being at an expired meter, the mindless enforcer not knowing of the valiant crusade that had stolen my attention. I had to use my great skills of reasoning and oratory but was finally able to convince the man that, since I had gotten there before he wrote me the ticket, that he should not actually write me a ticket.
He understood and was moved.
Again, I wept.
And so I left the scene, knowing that there may be more to cover and that all the real insight would be available at home, where actual reporters using helicopters and "experts" would break down the effect of the tsunami on the California coast, mostly not noticeable to the average person standing along the shore line.
Looking back, I am blown away by the tremendous ordeal I went through. What really shakes me to the core, however, is the ever growing realization than the past few hours have been little more than an incredible self-aggrandizing, uninformed, and ultimately unfunny waste of time.
And so...I weep,
This is Mark Kosin, Santa Monica, California.....reporting.
-MK
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