Whenever I miss Southern California, I try and convince myself that the place is unquestionably cursed. I was there during the blackouts of 2000. Everyone was issued a battery powered alarm clock, a flashlight, and a raver's grade glow stick. (We were warned not to break it because, as a memorable hotel employee warned "if it gets in your eyes, it will burn like pure liquid glowing pain.")
I ended up doing shots with a group of strange men at 3PM and as a result I made confessions that would have otherwise never seen the light of day. Blackouts were also directly responsible for me driving to Long Beach to eat at generator-powered Popeye's Chicken and Biscuits.
My friend Shanda told me stories of the fires which swept the area and ash rained down from the sky. The sky turned orange, like a nuclear bomb had gone off. No glow sticks necessary this time. Everyone was issued a surgical mask to wear, the kind worn by polite (and germophobic) manicurists, all the world over.
Yep, whenever I miss Southern California, I remind myself that, while I'm no Jerry Falwell, I suspect that there's a cosmic price to pay for clearing out the orange groves, filling the valley with pornography, throwing up a Ralph's on every corner, and making board shorts and flip-flops acceptable restaurant attire.
Lord, I miss it somethin' awful!
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