The bad news: Los Angeles, Orange and San Diego counties are on fire.
The good news: Mel Gibson lives in Malibu.
In all seriousness, 2003’s fires (which also began on a weekend in October) were a horrifying experience for everyone in San Diego county. This morning, hearing about what was then just a Malibu fire drove home the striking contrast between “some other place is burning” and “this place is burning”. I remember my dad waking me up on that fateful autumn morning in 2003 and asking me, “Do you know what’s going on right now?” Of course I don’t, nitwit, I’ve been asleep. I didn’t say that. What I did say, after looking out of my bedroom window and seeing a red sky and black ash everywhere, was: “Nuclear fucking holocaust?”
We had the news on all day, and you better believe we never strayed far from the TV. As ash continued to pour onto our cars, our house, our neighborhood, the fire drew closer. I remember this moment as if it happened an hour ago: the news said that the fire was in Tierrasanta
and might or might not jump the 15. If it did jump across the 15, it could have the strength to engulf Kearny Mesa, destroy Montgomery Field, and easily leap over the 805, at which point we might as well be barbeque.
The fire did jump the 15. It suddenly occurred to me that my best friend lived in Serra Mesa, just across the 15 from Tierrasanta (see the map I linked to in the last paragraph.) It then occurred to me that, if I knew her as well as I thought I did, odds were good that she was out on the porch taking pictures of the fire with her family. I frantically called her.
BFF: Hello?
Me: Hey, what are you doing?
BFF: Taking pictures of the fire with my family.
Me: :eek:
Me: …
Me: :eek:
BFF: Well, the police said to stay at home until we get an order to evacuate.
I couldn’t get off the phone fast enough at that point. I couldn’t bear the thought that the police would be distracted by some other issue and neglect to evacuate her part of Serra Mesa, the armpit of the neighborhood, where she and other Vietnamese immigrants dependent on federal aid lived in cramped apartments and drove 10-year-old Hondas. It never happened, but it could have.
Now I live in Serra Mesa. When push comes to shove, you can bet I won’t be taking pictures.