In 1972, when Albert Hammond wrote and performed his hit song, “It Never Rains In Southern California,” he knew exactly what he was talking about. I’ve been here in Malibu for roughly 30 months, and I have never used a raincoat or an umbrella—not once. The most precipitation I’ve seen is when I use the spritzer in my car to wash the dirt off my windshield.
Let’s face it—California is one big tinderbox. I don’t know how almost 40 million people are going to survive without water, but it looks like we are going to find out.
I remember years ago when a friend of mine who lived in San Diego came to visit me in New Jersey. The clouds darkened and emptied water everywhere. My friend was jubilant. He started to dance in the rain like he was Gene Kelly in the movie classic, “Singing in the Rain.” I wanted to knock his lights out. I was so tired of the rain back in the “old country,” I was starting to grow mold. I didn’t find any pleasure in seeing my friend rejoice at what I had learned to hate.
I promised myself when I moved here that I would never wish for rain. Of course, I have already broken that promise, and I now fully understand my friend’s behavior. But don’t get me wrong. Minnesota has been drowning in water, and Jersey has had its fair share, yet I wouldn’t trade places with either of those states for Southern California, even if I die from thirst here—which might well happen.