With all the impending disaster, devastation, and catastrophe leaning menacingly over Southern California like a Dickensian headmaster over a cowering ragamuffin, sometimes you have to wonder why anybody would want to live here, much less the millions who do.
If an earthquake doesn’t collapse the freeway in front of you, wildfires destroy your neighborhood. If killer bees don’t chase you screaming into your swimming pool, the mosquitoes will give you West Nile virus. If a mountain lion doesn’t try to eat you while you’re bicycling, you’ll get caught in a massive riot that gets dispersed by mudslides that send you careening into the latest terrorist target just as they destroy it. And if you manage to avoid all that, your smog-ravaged lungs give out in a few years.
(And don’t get me started on goathead thorns.)
Of course, we don’t (usually) have to worry about hurricanes, tornadoes, alligators, giant anaconda, venomous cobras, or vermicious knids.
So which particularly Southern California method is your favorite? Blaze of glory on the freeway? Great white shark offshore? Psychotic B-movie star scandal? Movie or mini-series? Which way to go is the most, well, SoCal?