I think most Angelenos are playing the odds on this one—and so am I.

Living in an earthquake zone is risky business. The field of plate tectonics is still at an incipient stage, and forecasting earthquakes with any sort of accuracy remains an impossibility. It is also impossible for scientists to guess the size of an earthquake, time of the strike notwithstanding. That means that every one of us living on this fault zone is playing a game of chance with geologic time. Chances of course being that none of us will ever see ourselves disappear in a devastating conflagration of glass, concrete and blazing automobiles.

When living in a fault zone, however, it’s sometimes hard to dismiss the nagging question that calls to you (always at the most inappropriate time): “What if an earthquake struck now?” It’s traditional to imagine being trapped in a subway or hermetically sealed in an elevator, but there are other more awful positions one could potentially be caught in: struggling to balance a cookie sheet pulled fresh out the oven; on the top rung of the ladder, stretching that final inch to paint the gutter; or underneath a car, changing the oil. With the right amount of quaking and shaking, any activity could become fatal.

I think that deaths from meetings between earthquakes and compromising situations are the most common type of quake-related fatality. These unfortunate accidents are surely more numerous than cases where falling debris crushes someone or when a building implodes, consuming those within. I have a feeling that most earthquake injuries are highly unglamorous.

Which is a scary thought, because once you concede the fact that an earthquake could present itself at any time and at any magnitude, it follows that it could happen, when—as they say—you least expect it. So I’ve come to walk around expecting earthquakes.

When I’m stepping off the bus. When I’m at the urinal. When I’m sitting on the fire escape staring off at skyscrapers. I’m often—but definitely not always—expecting an earthquake. So when an earthquake event actually occurs, I’m rarely surprised. The 2008 Chino Hills earthquake, however, came out of nowhere.

I was on the phone with Megan. She was located at our posh, K-Town digs and I was at work ten miles west in Santa Monica. Our pleasant late-morning chat was cut short when Megan broke off mid-sentence: “Ohmygod! Is that an earthquake?” No less than 5 seconds later I was feeling the ground move up and down as she screamed hysterically into my ear.

During an earthquake thoughts flow from panic into fear and finally awe. Just as I began to wonder how much worse it was going to get, everything stopped. Like all earthquakes, it ended just as startlingly as it had begun. It was as almost as if there had never been an earthquake. I struggled with my short-term memory to maintain a grip on what had just happened, to pull in something tangible, but it all fluttered away.

Megan was still on the phone, still in some state of panic. She took a shower to calm down but was tormented with aftershocks that rattled the tub playfully.

In Los Angeles, earthquakes are always somewhere on the mind. There’s no getting around the fact that under this city lie a series of doomsday faults that could at any moment explode with inexorable fury. It’s terribly fascinating that people—myself included—choose to make our homes on the Pacific Rim. At least I’ll be out of Los Angeles by September: I would prefer to weather an extinction-level event in the halcyon environs of Monterey County than try and endure in this crowded, festering metropolis. I have no doubt that denizens here would eat the stragglers alive. Here's hoping that the 2008 Chino Hills earthquake wasn't the canary in our coal mine!

Needless to say I finished it on the busride to work and had nothing for the trip home. So I slept.

As for The Plague, well, I've always enjoyed Camus, but I'm not sure that its his best work.

So far, our journey has taken us through quite a few different films:

• Terminator 2: Judgment Day, directed by James Cameron
  
• Terminator, directed by James Cameron
  
• Twins, directed by Ivan Reitman
  
• Beverly Hills Cop, directed by Martin Brest
  
• LA Confidential, directed by Curtis Hanson
  
• Escape from LA, directed by John Carpenter
  
• Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, directed by Russ Meyer
  
• Chinatown, directed by Roman Polanski

Update: Oh, and I forgot to mention that the last three movies we viewed also happen to star the governor of this fine state.

Update 2: I have my cellphone back! If you've been trying to call or text me at all this week I haven't been able to respond--I left my celly on the bus last week and have been phone-less for quite a few days. Today, however, the tether is restored.

After about eight or nine weeks in Los Angeles one will start to say things like, “Well this city certainly does have some of the best weather in the world!” That, coming after two months of straight complaints—about safety and freeway gridlock; about prices and people and pollution—feels more than a little bit forced, as if the endless sunny afternoons and quick, cool evenings are any kind of true solace. As if fine weather is the cure for a rising pathos. A Mediterranean climate may be a rare and pleasant thing but no one believes it to be a true consolation: everyone on the bus notes with sadness that yes, in LA it is always a beautiful day, but one that we cannot come to enjoy.

The most magnificent climate in the world can do little against those barriers that have been erected against nature, the buildings and concrete roads that wrap the landscape like tight buckles. No, to knock that all down would take truly frightful weather, not the seventy days of uninterrupted sunshine that somehow starts to count as a blessing--there’s little like the reassurance of late afternoon sunbeams flitting as they sink below the palmtreetops. And you can always wear a t-shirt and shorts. And you should never leave home without sunglasses.

And with so little rain, there is nothing to wash the streets clean on the final day of the month.

With this, the best of the world’s weather, jogging in Los Angeles is never so awful. If you can stomach the smog a short run here is actually an exercise in social education (though I suspect few citizens are in need of a refresher course on class stratification). Two blocks east is graffiti-covered Koreatown and a mass of multi-colored people walking toward the transit hub at Wilshire and Western. Two blocks west and the concrete cedes some of its grip to irrigated lawns, healthy palms and a variety of landscaped lawn décor. It is in this way that money clothes its home. And there is safety, too. Where streets to the east are raw and perilous, the western mansions on the border of Hancock Park stand like ornaments adorning an oasis.

Jogging, even slowly, it takes just minutes to transition from one world to the next. Of course, a runner is a visitor: tolerated for a time, she is permitted only a passing glimpse of what life is like there. For the runner there is no participation, just peeks into other’s windows. The view shifts from awe to envy to unbearable intolerance and then an empty nothingness. It’s nothing much to talk about, it simply is. And we let it be, the balconies and fences and fancy cars. We let it all sit and instead say to ourselves, “At least there is the weather! This city may be one thing, but the weather is divine.”

Well, Megan and I did check out the LACMA today (the current Japanese art exhibit is absolutely exquisite--like nothing I've ever seen). We also went to the nearby La Brea tar pits and then drove to the dirtiest park on earth. But between the museum and the litter lies my books. Good thing I live just two short blocks from the Wilshire Branch Library.

Summer is waning and I'm staring down a load of academic texts. Hopefully I can squeeze in some more fiction before the start of the semester.

Though Franny & Zooey was brilliant in its own right, I owe apologies to Salinger for it was Steinbeck's East of Eden from which I couldn't release my grip. Ostensibly a modern retelling of Genesis (both the Fall of Adam and Eve and the story of Cain and Abel), East of Eden is also a book about the Salinas Valley, a part of California that has grown near-and-dear to me not only through living in the area, but through Steinbeck's phenomenal writing. The book is an exercise in grand storytelling, moving through generation after generation almost imperceptibly, as a river softens a stone. East of Eden is more than a great story. With this book, Steinbeck does the impossible, capturing the vast bulk of human emotion in his characters, and imparting a generous amount of wisdom along the way.

Note: I've turned comments back on, hopefully we won't get anymore major spamming.

Today was one of those days to explore without a map.

When, at the entrance to one store we recognized that our destination wasn't actually a typical used bookseller but a specialty, West Hollywood queer interest shop, there was little choice but to enter and have a look around. In one corner of the bookstore William Shatner's autobiography was displayed prominently. Though I considered picking up a shirt that read, "Brokeback Since Wayback," I ultimately was unable to justify the purchase.

To add to this already surreal scene, on the drive home we cruised beneath a billboard blessed with a Kaws piece.

At home my California ID had arrived in the mail along with a few early birthday cards for Megan. My dreads are down in the photo so that whenever I cut them off I'll have something truly substantial to show the doubters. Though it's a bit novel, owning a California driver's license feels dangerous. There's something foreign and lost and completely unforgiving about that flimsy yellow piece of plastic. On the bright side I'll no longer have to make small talk with any cashier or bouncer who gets smart about my home state.

The evening ended with a trip to the library and HK Super, the greatest market in all of Los Angeles. Only four miles east of Hollywood, these Korean grocers manage to fiercely undercut the competition: miso paste, for example, costs two dollars per tub, a discount of nearly five dollars on natural food retailers like Erewhon, the most overpriced joke of a lifestyle store I've ever seen (after checking a few pricestags I understood why the place was so empty). In addition to reasonably priced food, HK Super boasts an enormous "Welcome to Los Angeles" graffiti mural incorporating freeways, wildstyle and an alien. It's also two blocks from our apartment.

I took a few more pictures and will try to keep up with things a bit better for the rest of the summer. Though this city can be shitty, poor circumstances are no reason to neglect the camera--I only wish I could turn my lens on the ghetto bird and end up with a decent shot.

I don't particularly care all that much about what I'm wearing, or what people think about my clothes, but the dichotomous nature of Thursday evening's lineup would have certainly required a delicate balancing act for the more fashion forward among us-- TIlly & The Wall is one step short of a teeny-bopper band; The Roller's guitarist describes their sound as "dirt." Without a change of clothes, you're just not going to fit in at either place if you're really trying, eh?

I just wore some dark pants and a white t-shirt. The first show was terribly poppy, the second terribly loud. Nothing like extremes.

This week I managed to read Haruki Murakami's Hard-Boiled Wonderland at the End of the World. The book was phenomenal, mostly because Murakami's imagination is like nothing of this world. I can't believe some of the stuff he comes up with--this is one of those books that must be read to be believed.

Sure, the synopsis makes this John Carpenter original sound like a real winner (a giant earthquake separates Los Angeles from the continent by flooding the San Fernando Valley), but believe me, it's a disaster. This movie isn't even fun to watch knowing it's a bad movie. Avoid at all costs.

Unlike a lot of people in the United States, I never read The Pearl in high school. After reading it a decade later, I'm impressed, but I like Steinbeck's other stuff better. I think.

Venice Beach was on our itinerary for the Fourth of July. An early busride to the shore, a few beers, and the Mr. and Mrs. Muscle Beach Pageant were all in store--until LA's ridiculous mass transit system was entered into the equation. The metro was not only slow, but worse than crowded (and remember, I've lived in Tokyo). Most Angelenos will be quick to tell you that their bus system boasts the highest ridership in the nation, but don't be fooled. The amount of people packed into these cars says nothing of efficiency or usability, and looked at objectively, this sorry excuse for a bus system is the best that rich white taxpayers have to offer those of us who can no longer afford to drive. To put it another way, this shit is broke, and if you don't have a car, you're S.O.L.

In the end, Megan and I came home and found a nice vegan spot for lunch, played some Battleship (the new game of choice), and watched fireworks from our rooftop. With Gramercy Tower's central location and height, we were able to watch explosions at the Western beaches, the South Bay and the East Side. It was fun, but nothing can really beat a Nebraska Fourth of July. Cities seem oh-so-hip, but don't be fooled--people are doing a lot less living here than small town America.

Both Chinatown and Beyond the Valley of the Dolls are great movies, but for all of their entertainment value, they are quite demanding. Chinatown is long and complex, while Beyond the Valley of the Dolls is, well, mostly just bonkers.