I don’t know how they do it on the West Coast.
Between those flash mud slides, the nuclear capabilities of a 49’ers- Raiders tailgater, smog as thick as corduroy plastering the sky and Simon Cowell’s over inflated ego breathing up most of the good air that’s left, immovable traffic jams meeting up with unstoppable car chases and the capper of having to endure the Governator’s parabolic policies for eight years . . . .
There’s a special place in heaven for Californians. The irony is, they’re already living there. Despite all of that crap. Oh, what power and majesty there exists in 70 degree weather year round. That you’re willing to overlook God’s clumsy pawed housekeeping skills, otherwise known as Earthquakes.
I place Earthquake in bold letters due to the overwhelming respect I have for its unmistakable authority. Now. Before today, earthquakes existed on the stratum with an unfortunate out of town baseball score. “The Yanks got swept by Anaheim? Damn!” From afar, it’s easy to be that ignorant.
Not to say I wasn’t sold on the power of a tectonic plated rim shot before today, cause I was. Hey, I went to see the movie Earthquake. And I took two lessons with me that day. One, it wasn’t Charlton Heston’s best work. And two, don’t move to a place that has earthquakes. I was seven years old, the words prodigious.
Earthquakes are stronger than Barry Bonds in that Fantastic Five flick. They are the most cranky bit of horizontal since I dated a girl who did theater. They have the power to loose thousand ton structures from their moorings without much of a fight. And bowels? Even easier than that.
I get it. Which is why I’ve done my damnedest to stay away from it.
I’m an East Coast fixture, a Bronx born boy whose nomadic impulse never let me stray far from the seaboard which joined those hated Sawx of New England with the mysterious swamps of South Florida. I slept through hurricanes (It’s a barometric pressure thing), I drank my way through blizzards and I simply bought more insurance in case the flood waters decided to have at it with my recreation room.
But earthquakes? Not so much.
Of course, a 5.8 on the Richter Scale is a sneeze to most Californians; unless you’re just moving into town, in which case a 5.8 begets an impromptu call to the movers to just make a U-ey and head for St. Looey.
All I know is, I wanted to be anywhere but on unsolid ground this afternoon while the earth was busy negotiating with its upset stomach. The thought even occurred to me to rent a helicopter for a couple hours time just in case the ground started swallowing itself.
I figured, why make things any easier than they already are for my next landlord?