Shakin'!

Here in Southern California, we just had another earthquake. It was a respectable size, a 5.4, but far enough away (Chino Hills) that there was no physical damage around here, just northwest of Los Angeles. Still, it lasted about 20 seconds with lots of swaying, long enough for me to consider installing seat belts in my couch.

It's hard to explain earthquakes to people who've never witnessed them. We tend to take for granted that the ground below us is solid, unmoving. You should never ever feel that your living room floor has a tide rolling underneath it, or see telephone poles sway like masts on a boat, or ponder that the concrete foundation under your house is essentially dirt pudding.

There are different kinds of quakes, each with its own personality. The Northridge quake, in my opinion, was the nastiest, most vile beast ever belched from the bowels of the earth. It was a shallow, sharp shaker, much like ice cracking quickly across the surface of a pond.

For the uninitiated, imagine Cerberus, three-headed dog from Hell, grabbing you by the ankles and smacking you around like a chew toy. Imagine, as you're flipped about, that you hear your building creaking and quivering loudly, calling out to you, each nail in the timbers groaning as it's torn from its resting place.

Then it stops. Then it starts again. Then every few hours, or days, it sends you a shivery reminder of what happened, until you're absolutely sick of picking up shards of broken potted plants, and you naturally avoid standing near the armoire for any length of time, lest it fall over again. This is also the kind of event that makes you sleep fully clothed, zip quickly beneath freeway underpasses, and seriously consider donning a hard hat in your work cubicle.

The one we just had was a far cry from Northridge. It was a bit deeper in the ground, one tectonic plate greasily wiggling past the other. Kate Hutton, spokesperson eternal for CalTech, our local earthquake guru-center, called it an "oblique flip on a thrust fault." While it sounds like an Olympic-level move on the pommel horse, it's actually a good thing. Keep those plates sliding - it's like a bran muffin for dear ol' San Andreas. If something gets stuck, there could be trouble.

We're now in the post-strike mode, when bands of roving 'live' reporters wander the hills in search of chaos and ruin, pausing beside any misplaced cinder block to inquire whether it is 'quake-related' damage. We're also vulnerable to any burp of noise being considered an aftershock. The anticipation of the next jiggle is nearly as bad as the main event.

Why, do you ask, do we live here? First of all, it's rather rude to ask such a question at a time like this. Our nerves have just rattled right along with the china cabinet. Secondly, I'm in no mental condition to be thinking logically about such things. Third, check in with us in January, when you're shovelling snow while we're wearing t-shirts and shorts (and seat belts) at the Rose Parade.