‘”There is something uneasy in the Los Angeles air,” Joan Didion wrote about the Santa Ana winds that blow through our flammable canyons. To imagine Los Angeles is to imagine its demise, by fire, by earthquake or by flood, by millenialist uprising or by alien attack, by anarchy or by corporatist takeover. Impermanence is written on our greatest buildings, which allow the outside in like sovereigns submitting to their occupiers, and most of our oldest structures, the souvenirs of ancient Spanish rule, have at one time or another been reduced to low piles of stones before they are rebuilt. Some of us have earthquake kits in our basements, essential papers packed into fireproof boxes, and contingency plans for our grandparents’ frozen heads. Some of us plan to party like it’s 2099. And then there’s the matter of the last day of the Last Days.
‘Or as the wise sages of Def Leppard once posited: “Armageddon it! . . . Oh, are you getting it?”‘