Available Jones Are you for real? I just want to get coffee, sir, this past Tuesday evening officer, sir. Please? Nope. Some woman is doing donuts outside your apartment. Up Higland, Franklin, down Las Palmas, Hollywood, up Orange, and around again. Over and over.

Bronx Cheer Double hangs out in the chair through Thursday morning while I'm cutting up the Nike silo biker joint in his editing bay. I drive the mile between our apartments, hit my bedroom, prep for the catnap. The phonecamera rings: the fedex guy's outside. Skipping sleep means forgetting your pants. I'm sure the fedex guy thought I did it on purpose.

Cassanova Fly Earthquakes. A low 808 Bass in the distance, barely audible, only for a moment: the first phenomenal component of an earthquake. I know this one. Instantly I run to the living room. The first wave hits, the first physical component of the earthquake. Earthquakes tango, and tango well. She hits her beats, jolts and rolls. After enough of them, I got that rhythm for the microseconds available to feel out that magnitude. Will it be reasonable? “During the day felt indoors by some, outdoors by few. Sensation like heavy truck striking building. Felt by some.” Or maybe, “Damage total. Waves seen on ground surfaces. Objects thrown upward in the air. Great earthquakes. Destroy communities near epicenter.”

Dead Cat Bounce High Speed Chases. Why isn't there a dedicated cable channel yet? Paul Moyer interrupts the NBC soaps with three hours of Orwellian white noise. Cue up Flight of the Valkyries, the airborne squadron of news copters and the one police copter are approaching the continental shelf, again. Some unwitting popstar is racing northbound up the 405 freeway, normally with the one copper cab in tow. When the ghetto birds near my position, the hum echoing through the central courtyard of my apartment building is a ping alert on my desktop. I grab the remote, flip on the tube, Paul Moyer color commentator giving me the 411, bird's eye view of the popstar. Flipping the channels is total POV control. The PIP holds on channel five's wide shot, a reverse angle from channel four. Is the driver armed? Will he be gunned down in the parking lot when he brandishes a weapon like that most recent guy? Or even blow the back of his head out with a shotgun? While parked on a freeway interchange? Eyewitnessed in bars, hospitals, and monitor-equipped elevators, live on air, like that one guy? Will the footage-for-sale team from On Scene be there when the Compton police fire 115 rounds at the guy? While he's trapped in his SUV?

Everlasting Gobstopper San Diego has a sans copter aural serenity. Instead of traffic copters, occasionally the entire armada of Camp Pendelton 808 Bass Marine Blackhawks, 29 Palms double-rotor Army Chinooks, and screaming Coronado Top Gun Air Force F-18's will detour over Jack Murphy stadium and the 805 freeway en route home. Waves seen on ground surfaces. Objects thrown up in the air. Damage total. 50,000 watts of American airpower right over my San Diego flophouse above Kearny Mesa.

Four Flusher Sensation like a heavy truck hitting building. I stand directly in front of my tall, slender bookshelf with my hands up high. I dance. Ikea shelf got that tango, too. MDF it spells DEF on the touchtone fresh. Of my belongings, the crappy, unstable, disposable, IKEA bookshelf will be the biggest pain in the ass to clean up if it falls. Thus it is my paramount concern. I hold the shelf up, do some Mercali moves. Microseconds pass and seem like forever.

Goodie Mob Fire Season. “Nixon's renting a house up Bundy I think I can get a shot!” Grandpa Double shot photographs for LIFE magazine. This is the often-heard and very necessary explanation for why Double uncharacteristically has a wall-size photograph of Richard Nixon in his apartment. Pat and the kids are loading up boxes in Nixon's rental home in Brentwood. Nixon is chillin'. Slouching on his roof, his weight on his downslope right leg, Nixon defends his property during the Bel Air fires 1960ish. Much of the hillsides ablaze are only a mile or two east of the Nike missile radar site. Smoke and nearby hills fill the background. Grandpa Double runs up the street, flashes his LIFE card, grabs the shot. A tie, shirt hastily tucked in. Nixon looks mildly disheveled, a flaccid hose dangling from his right hand and his jaw agape. A stream of tap water soaks the rental ranch home roof shingles. Nixon doesn't look helpless, Nixon looks frivolous.

Housebroken Samurai Robertson is an offramp from the 10 freeway. Twice the newscopter squadrons heading westbound over the 10 were spotted and tracked from my Robertson living room window. The popstar hastily exits the freeway and heads up Robertson. I flip the POV with the remote. Intensity, ferocity, color commentary and speculation. The bird's eye view copter wide shot always crops out the copper cabs. The swap meet TV in the bedroom sits on my dresser adjacent to the window overlooking Robertson. Moment to moment, I receive updates on the impending arrival of my popstar. Built up with such televised intensity, when a high speed chase passes by my living room window, it's a real buzzkill. What seems so earth shaking is really just some dude in a hurry, followed by maybe one or two copper cabs.

Inside Lot Straight outta Compton, On Scene gets it all on tape. One hundred and fifteen nine milli munitions rounds later, and somehow the Compton SUV driver survives, a bandaid and tourniquet short of wounded. I'm reminded of keystone cop serials and G.I Joe cartoons. The recent passing of Lakers announcer Chick Hearn makes helicopters the only remaining, only reassuring, constant in Los Angeles. Evading the LAPD is only a misdemeanor, just a fleshwound. The gross: three hours of afternoon airtime on four networks until five PM rush hour collides with a sexy pit maneuver. Why has no one thought to put a domain name on the sunroof? Well, like Cube says- run, run, run from the Ghetto Bird. The unarmed copters do a better job shooting than the flatfoots.

Jackrabbit Blood All I wanted was a coffee. A vent extends to the roof of my Hollywood apartment. When copters are directly overhead, the harmonic reverberations sound like a rattling bike chain. On television, the woman doing donuts plows down Highland, then fishtails to Hollywood Blvd. Suddenly, she initiates her own personal demolition derby with the coppers right outside Hogetts and Fong's mid nineties restoration of the Egyptian Theater. Onlookers, tourists, and plus ones everywhere. Meanwhile, afterparties in conjunction with the LA Film Festival are the goings-on in nearby bars and restaurants. The driver lady collides with one last copper cab, and comes to a dead stop in front of Meyer and Holler's roaring twenties Chinese theater and Jim Stafford's late eighties classic Hamburger Hamlet Restaurant. On Scene interviews the witnesses. Most are excited they got to be in an action film. Guns drawn, cars dented. When the cops approach the driver's side door, they find the driver lady asleep and snoring. Seven birds hovering overhead. One circles with a 50,000 watt thuglite. Like Sam Jackson says at the end of Pretty Woman, “This is Hollywood, what's your dream?” A demolition derby and a catnap.

Killkenny Cats Not a one of these quakes is worth a damn. Thanks for the taxi dance. Back to the big glue gun model and Kappe studio.