The Fires and The Dirt

On Tuesday, January 7, 2025, Los Angeles began to burn.

 

I parked in Santa Monica, doing my dog walking routine. There were smoke clouds in the hills of the Palisades. Little did I know the fire had just birthed. When I drove to the following location, I saw mountains of pale pink-grey smoke in the rearview mirror. The cotton candy clouds were monsterial; if such a word exists. I did not know how life-changing this would be.

 

A couple of hours later, I took the long way back to the San Fernando Valley, a pink-orange skyline on my left. Instead of getting on the 405 and barely moving for almost two hours, I took Sepulveda, passed through the tunnel, and continued listening to the audiobook version of Motley Crüe’s biography, The Dirt: Confessions of the World’s Most Notorious Rock Band.

 

The horror show continued when I got home. Tommy Lee had just done something disgusting, or maybe it was Vince Neil. Let’s not get started on Nikki Sixx. I parked the car and turned on the news as soon as I was inside my apartment. The Pacific Coast Highway (PCH) resembled a Hieronymous Bosch painting.

 

Uncontrollable inflammation. Enraged climate inferno. A devouring blaze of flame and smoke. Scorching, searing. There were no words for what we as a collective city were witnessing, yet, not enough. How many words are there for Hellscape?

 

Hurricane winds up to 100 mph and science fiction reality.

 

Containment. Evacuate.

 

The routine of getting into bed, a heavy body I have never felt before. It was a different kind of worry. There were FaceTime calls and texts from friends and family checking in.

 

For a sense of normalcy, there was a Saturday night double feature of films, “The Night of the Comet” and “The Legend of Billie Jean.” The small joys of pizza and totally tubular 80’s mall scenes with friends across the way.

We were witnessing an engulfing history. The worst natural disaster in California history they said.

Awake, emboldened. The superheroes, created not by a studio and without capes, were fighting fires.

 

In the wake of tragedy, the best of humanity can be seen.

 

Communities came together, and we saw Los Angeles and California as extraordinary.

 

Whatever day it was, I was unsure of how to go about my day. I piled the laundry and stared. Am I allowed to be doing this? Was this routine sanctioned by unimaginable tragedy?

 

Driving to the grocery, the only song that came to mind was “Sound of Silence.” Obviously, I realized the obviousness. While sheltering in place it was eerily quiet. Late at night, a brief respite from the sounds of illegal street racing.

 

Some years ago, to no one in particular, I remember saying you couldn’t pay me to live in California. Funny how things work out. Allowing the space to change my mind.

 

Whatever day it was, I opened the fridge and realized I was out of Diet Coke.  The news was on in the background, detailing an incomprehensible amount of destruction and unfairly, I thought about the windstorm in Louisville many years ago. I was still expected to drive to the coffee shop for my closing shift, the streets filled with debris and power lines. Despite the city urging everyone to stay off the roads, why wasn’t I coming in for my shift even though the store didn’t have power?

 

But it is January 2025 and I am living in Los Angeles now. These dangerous and catastrophic fires mean giving tickets to abandoned cars left behind in the evacuation. And what do these fires mean to the gardeners, house cleaners, restaurant workers, and healthcare professionals?

 

It’s like Tommy Lee said, “When you’re playing upside down, it takes twice the strength.”