Just as the lifelong Hollywood resident or San Diego native is devoid of empathy where, say, the oncoming fear and adrenalin of Hurricane Irene is concerned, a Cape May or Georgetown lifer has zero clue about the sensorial nature which accompanies an earthquake. If you've never felt one, it must be beyond-unsettling and quizzical. What the hell?! The earth is moving? My building is swishing about like a blade of grass? Fuck. Remember, East Coast architecture is not built to the same earthquake standards that West Coast edifices are. Stanford and William & Mary may both be gorgeous institutions, but I choose not to stand around The Wren Building during the next 6.0. My fave Starbucks, the world over? King Street, Alexandria, Virginia. Even I cannot describe the warmth of soul that envelops one whilst sipping a creamy Pumpkin Spice Latte and flipping through a Washington Post inside a 17thC. stone building on the Potomac. I also cannot describe how it must feel to shake and rumble within said-structure during a quake.
Additionally, Wanderlust doesn't strike man as often one might think. Most people are like Medieval peasants: happy to reside within about five miles of where they were born until they become deceased there. Lead them out out of town too far and leave them and, Crap. Now I don't remember where I live anymore. Virginians are the worst; they don't go anywhere, trust me. Last week's quake probably puzzled them like the monolith puzzled the apes in 2001: A Space Odyssey.
Moi, growing up in the Golden State, I'm like those animals that fled into the hills when the tsunami hit Thailand. I sense the quakes coming, even before our pup, and alert my husband before they strike. They scare me to death; alas, I am used to them and the frequency and timing of aftershocks make for great drinking games. Like seeing B-list celebrities at the NoHo Starbucks on Lankershim, or watching one's sister-in-law get fatter and meaner every Christmas, the de rigueur becomes just that and I suppose watching someone else react to what you know so well is amusing: earthquakes and hurricanes included. (An aside: depending on the type of quake [strike-slip, thrust, normal ... yes, I was so fascinated with the concept of the Earth I was a geology major for a bit], one can hear it rolling down the street and straight toward one's house. Creepy. Really.)
I know well both ends of this mocking game. Before I got out of California and experienced another way of life, I used to make fun of friends' and relatives' reactions to quakes: notably late-night phone calls asking if we were okay. Sweet, really. Necessary? Not really, as often the event in question was a hundred miles away and, unlike the East Coast bedrock which disallows, our tremors are born deeper and remain more localized. In turn, I also received a lot of jabbing amidst the anxiety that surrounded even the smallest of storms back east. In California, any amount of rain is cause for alarm.
For those not in soCal, we have a local news phenomenon called "Storm Watch" and it's a running joke. The slightest bit of precip gets local news teams all in a tizzy and someone makes bitchen graphics, adds an ominous sound effect and sends a score of cheesy field reporters across the Southland to cover rushing gutters, puddled parking lots and the fools and their tiny dogs whom deign to shop Fashion Island (an outdoor mall) or walk the beaches in disastrous, tempestuous 50-degree weather, 15-mile-an-hour winds and two inches of rain. Want a giggle? Watch the above-clip before and after some Irene coverage. Ooh, you found two glass bottles, dude? Not a Starbucks cup and a child's Spongebob toy, reporter lady?! Wow.
People in glass houses, be cool ... and buy a lot of masking tape.
