It really was a brutal place, Los Angeles, less a city than a collection of hostile villages united only in their mutual suspicion of each other and a susceptibility to disasters, natural and otherwise. Fires, floods, riots and earthquakes; it was looking more and more like Armageddon-by-the-Pacific.

L.A. is a nightmare place, man. You'll always meet this one guy out in L.A, you always – this real smarmy guy. He always says this: "Yeah, I love calling back east January 1. 'What are all you doin'? Snowed in, huh? Bummer. Me? I'm out by the pool! Ha ha ha haaa!'" What a dick this guy is. It's why I used to love to call L.A. when I lived in New York: "What are y'all doin'? Talking to TV producers, huh? Bummer. Me? I'm reading a book! Yeah, we're thinkin' back East. Yeah, we're evolving. Is that the Big One I hear in the background? Bye, you lizard scum! Bye!" [whoosh] Ha ha ha ha! It's gone, it's gone, it's gone. It's gone. All the shitty shows are gone, all the idiots screamin' in the fuckin' wind are dead, I love it. Leaving nothing but a cool, beautiful serenity called … Arizona Bay. Ha ha ha! That's right. When L.A. falls in the fuckin' ocean and is flushed away, all it will leave is Arizona Bay.

Everything in Los Angeles is too large, too loud and usually banal in concept… The plastic asshole of the world.

Real cities have something else, some individual bony structure under the muck. Los Angeles has Hollywood — and hates it. It ought to consider itself damn lucky. Without Hollywood it would be a mail order city. Everything in the catalogue youi could get better somewhere else.

It is hard for people who have not lived in Los Angeles to realize how radically the Santa Ana figures in the local imagination. The city burning is Los Angeles's deepest image of itself; Nathanael West perceived that, in The Day of the Locust; and at the time of the 1965 Watts riots what struck the imagination most indelibly were the fires. For days one could drive the Harbor Freeway and see the city on fire, just as we had always known it would be in the end. Los Angeles weather is the weather of catastrophe, of apocalypse, and, just as the reliably long and bitter winters of New England determine the way life is lived there, so the violence and the unpredictability of the Santa Ana affect the entire quality of life in Los Angeles, accentuate its impermanence, its unreliability. The wind shows us how close to the edge we are.

History is one war after another with a bunch of murders and natural disasters in between.

It's redundant to die in Los Angeles.

Los Angeles weather is the weather of catastrophe, of apocalypse, and, just as the reliably long and bitter winters of New England determine the way life is lived there, so the violence and the unpredictability of the Santa Ana affect the entire quality of life in Los Angeles, accentuate its impermanence, its unreliability. The wind shows us how close to the edge we are.

The list is almost endless: the sacking of Constantinople in 1204, the destruction of Baghdad in 1258, the expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492, and the Nazi Holocaust are only some among the infamous epochs in the litany of disaster.

LA is a hole where everything good goes to die. Every year I come here, it's like a contest to see how short I can cut the trip for the next year. Eventually I'm just going to run inside, take a picture, and fly home. The next year I'll just rent some time on a satellite and get pics from orbit. But everything is shiny.

Lurching from cataclysm to disaster and from misfortune to calamity,

Only a catastrophe gets our attention. We want them, we depend on them. As long as they happen somewhere else. This is where California comes in. Mud slides, brush fires, coastal erosion, mass killings, et cetera. We can relax and enjoy these disasters because in our hearts we feel that California deserves whatever it gets. Californians invented the concept of life-style. This alone warrants their doom.

I didn't care. It was better to be a live coward than a dead madman. These people walking in and out of huge concrete buildings--someone should warn them. It would come again...Los Angeles was doomed. It was a city with a curse upon it.

I could hear everything, together with the hum of my hotel neon. I never felt sadder in my life. LA is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities; New York gets godawful cold in the winter but there's a feeling of wacky comradeship somewhere in some streets. LA is a jungle.