Winter Storm Report


There were many dramatic scenes from the “record breaking” winter storm which slammed into Southern California over the weekend: downed trees, car crashes, torrential rains, rapid water speeding down concrete channels, trees bent over in the winds, dark clouds and intermittent sunshine. 

The Southern California mountains were like Switzerland before global warming, buried in many feet of snow.

Our well-fed people went up there in monster trucks and three-ton SUVs; McDonalds, sodas and donuts on laps; to enjoy the novelty. They wore their best black sweatshirts and black elastic pants to frolic in the white stuff.

An old man driving down slippery Kester Avenue near Vanowen had to avoid an enormous tree that fell down, so he accelerated, instead, into the same apartment building where the tree toppled down. He caused major damage but escaped with minor injuries. The unfortunate apartments and its residents had to evacuate but many stayed put. Once again bad driving caused misery for innocents.

A news helicopter was kind enough to rotate around the accident early the next morning around 6am, gently waking up thousands as it chopped, chopped, chopped overhead, broadcasting yet another bad accident to a sleep deprived audience which can never get enough.

Sunday morning, 6:45am.

The power had officially turned off last Friday, February 24, 2023 at about 8pm. Then it turned on, then it went off, and then it went back on. Our internet went out, as we were marooned halfway through “You”, episode 6, season 1, a horrible, odious, superficial show on Netflix full of self-absorbed young Manhattan people which we cannot stop watching.

Though our power is now on, it is weak, and all the normal things that we rely on, lights, oven, furnace, fans, are at 50% or are not working at all. There has been no heat in the house so we used an electric space heater, but that portable device, like a 58-year-old erotic dancer, emits a pathetic and hobbled hotness. 

Yet there is nothing so tragic in our current calamity to compare to people living in war zones, under occupation, under dictatorship or without rule of law. That helps to put our LA inconveniences into perspective: the heartbreak of a cancelled yoga session, a microwaved cup of coffee that takes 5 minutes to heat up, a child without Disney Plus.

And yesterday on Sunday, the sun came out brilliantly, and the San Fernando Valley was surrounded by snowy mountains glistening against blue skies and white fluffy clouds.

To see the winter mountains in their glory we drove to a picturesque scenic outlook, in Sun Valley, along Branford Street where Chico’s Auto Dismantler, West Coast Audi VW Dismantler, Express Metals Recycling, Hooper’s Rear End, Javi’s Auto Repair, Sheldon Auto Parts, Jak Tire Recycling, and Honda Foreign Auto Parts border the Hansen Dam Recreational Area.

Beyond the steel gates and the steel junkyards, beyond the homeless tents and the wrecked cars, beyond the speeding vehicles dodging a potholed road, we saw the glorious San Gabriel range covered in snow, pure white snow, a gift from nature to the inhabitants of California, a reminder that no matter how hard we try and destroy this land, there is still one force stronger than us.

The Mad City.


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They were two men in neckties, enraged and ready to attack as they emerged from their cars on the crowded bridge over the 405 at Burbank. Punching, shouting, tackling, they were justifiably angry over something that happened on the freeway. Someone captured the incident on their phone. And soon it was launched into cyber space.

They were two cars going over Beverly Glen two Sundays ago. One was a man coming from Century City. He had just enjoyed a leisurely walk around the mall and was driving back to Van Nuys. As he drove across the mountain pass, a woman driver came up behind him, her car inches from his. When he accelerated, she did too. When he slowed down, she showed him her middle finger. She smiled maliciously and taunted him, pleasuring herself by daring him.

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He is a famous comedian, enormously talented and enormously sized. He lives in Studio City and flew into a rage when he was cut out from a parking space. He got out of his car and smashed the windows of the other car. And later on was arrested, thrown into jail, posted bail and was released.

The incidents described here are the better ones from the world of road rage since they did not end in murder. But those that do are also evidence of the crazed deformity of life lived in cars, the mad rhythm of moving along slow, crowded, packed streets to get somewhere we sometimes do not want to go to: work, school, home.

Los Angeles is ugliest and most violent on the road. Whatever romantic attachment to the car that once existed here, expressed in the fast poetic prose of Joan Didion or Bret Easton Ellis, is gone.

Two nights ago, on Highland in Hancock Park, a speeding car driven by journalist Michael Hastings hit a tree and burst into flames, its driver killed and neighbors awakened by the impact of death. Alcohol, drugs, suicide? The cause has not been determined.

Gary Grossman, a former TV producer employer of mine, (“America’s Funniest Home Videos”) lives nearby, walked into the aftermath of orange flames and burning flesh in the night, and gleefully spoke on camera, describing it as “like a movie” and “I couldn’t have written it better”.

Our city and Mr. Grossman’s, where violent death fuels the imagination, awakens ideas for stories that might turn into good TV or film.

Our imagination is more important than our reality. The city can go to hell as long as we are entertained.