Cucamonga
The first time I heard the word cucamonga, I believe I was in third grade and it was a derogatory term of unknown origin or meaning. Nearly 31 years later, I heard the word again, except it was Rancho Cucamonga and the area was on fire.
On Friday, October 24th, my Venice skies became yellow, then dark and overcast. By 4 p.m., I could not see the stop light two blocks away. I discovered that the Santa Ana winds were blowing the smoke and ash 60 miles west to my Venice coastline. It kind of felt like 9/11 all over again, except I wasn’t drunk in Brooklyn watching burned memos land in my backyard.
Saturday was less overcast. I took a bike ride up to the beach and could barely see the end of the Venice Pier. Things weren’t much better a few miles north in Santa Monica. I could hear the kids yelling on the Ferris wheel, but they were a little fuzzy in the distance. There are usually dozens of sail boats in the bay on the weekend. The smoky visibility didn’t make for a good day of sailing.
A 9/11 flashback isn’t what I signed up for when I moved to California. The end result is the same: some asshole has ruined a good place for a lot of people.
Then again, we might all be saying the same thing after Arnold takes office. Who knows.