This time of year, I often hear people spouting popular misconceptions about the Great Southern California Basin like erroneous factoids spewing out of a Fox News cornucopia. For example, the constantly repeated refrain, “L.A. has no seasons.” This is false. We have several: wind, fire, earthquakes, mudslide and pilot.
But let’s go with the ever popular “it never gets cold in L.A.” Well, I call b-b-b-b-B, s-s-s-s-s-s-S! Take mid-December for example, right before the lovely weather shown on the Rose Parade and Rose Bowl broadcasts that apparently invited another 400,000 people to move out here.
When dawn broke over the land where awards are given for Best Performance By A Walk-On In A Television Series, Movie, Musical or Animated Short, the icy chill of temps in the 30’s spread over HollywoodLand like a series of script rejections robo-issued by CAA.
In an attempt to survive ’till brunch, I utilized the time-honored advice and “dressed in layers,” which only succeeded in trapping areas of freezing cold in between each item of my expensive designer technical garments. About mid-morning, after my first Half Decaf-Half Soy-Gluten Free-Caramel Macchiato kicked in, I unleashed in my head a survival plan for the next time I find myself outside in the freezing SoCal elements that no one thinks exists.
I will wear 40 extra layers of clothing, including a base layer that “wicks away moisture.” Then, every 15 minutes, I will set fire to the outer layer for warmth. The moisture that has wicked away from my body should extinguish the outer layer before I suffer the untimely and very ironic death-by-fire-in-extremely-frigid-conditions.
And as far as those bloviating Right Coasters who blather, “Oh those idiots out in La-La Land wouldn’t know what to do with real weather,” I offer this: our weather is very real and much more biblical in nature than you realize.
Besides the earthquakes, we get hurricane force winds that ferociously blow the unfaded hopes of every guitar slingin’, script totin’ kid who gets off the bus at Hollywood & Vine, into giant drifts of dashed dreams that can block the entrance to Musso & Franks. Try shoveling that, New Yorker, ’cause failure doesn’t stay on the blade.
When you are done trying, pick up a hose because our special brimstone fire season goes all year long, undeterred by the freezing temps you say don’t exist. And if the weather were to ever violate that ’70’s song, and actually rain in Southern California, well then grab your Left Coast board and try doing a double cork while riding a mudslide down onto PCH at rush hour, because that is what will happen when we get a quarter inch of the “wet stuff” in Storm Watch 2014.
You complain about snow? To that I say, “Feh.”
So I offer a shout-out to my fellow hearty inhabitants of Southern California! And rest assured that not only is our weather just as treacherous as anywhere else in the country, it can also wreak havoc on our valuable self-esteem. And that, my friend, is tragic.
Oh, and don’t forget, your Starbucks card can be used to scrape ice, ash or washed up actors off the windshield.