It doesn’t rain here very often. You can go 180 days without one drop. Happened last year, in fact. But when it does rain...well, wet hair is the least of our problems.

Last night I woke up at 3 a.m. genuinely concerned. The rain had stopped sounding like rain. No more patter, patter, patter. It was more of a whoosh. The normal sound of a rain swishing down the gutters had turned to the sound of a flushing toilet, which I didn’t even know was possible. And then it started to hail. M&M-size hail mostly. But I live about half a mile from the Pacific Ocean, and when it starts hailing on the beach, that’s worrisome.

People are being evacuated from their homes because the ground here isn’t really fond of staying put. When it’s not earthquakes, it’s mud slides. And when it’s not mud slides, sometimes a hill will just slide down, collapse, like gravity was just too much for it that day. Inch by inch. Bit by bit. It’ll slide until your fence falls down, and your house cracks, and the county comes in and tells you to get out, and your insurance company tells you it’s an act of God.

Streets, even freeways, flood out. The L.A. River, normally a “municipal joke” as one writer put it, becomes a menace. Cars are stranded and washed out. Roofs are damaged.

And then less than 12 hours later, the hail’s melted. The sun is mostly out. And the sky is that famous electric blue. Enormous violence followed immediately by incredible beauty. It’s the ultimate paradox played out in just a few hours. It’s the reason people say, “Why don’t you leave?!” And the answer, “Look at it. How could I?” All wrapped up in one.