Sunday night in Los Angeles changed my understanding of what a natural disaster can do to a modern city. The wildfires created conditions that made the familiar streets feel like another world entirely. When I heard how bad things were getting, I loaded thousands of @AmericanaHQ survival kits into my Cybertruck and headed straight for the fire zones.
As night fell, the devastation became surreal. Houses engulfed in flames. Entire neighborhoods looked like a war zone, with stretches of eight, nine, or more houses in a row burned down to a crisp, as if hit by a rocket launch. The smoke lingered heavily in the air in the parts of Los Angeles I was in, creating an eerie, muted atmosphere that made the city feel unrecognizable at times. We drove through what felt like an abandoned town, completely blacked out due to the grid appearing to go down in that area, the familiar streets of this part of LA transformed into something unrecognizable. The @Cybertruck's durability gave us confidence as we navigated streets covered in debris and ash, a small comfort amidst the chaos.
In the distance, I kept catching silhouettes of people moving in the haze. I wasn't sure if they were people needing help, people who didn’t need help but were running, or looters taking advantage of the chaos. But at any mass casualty event, you feel something else too—maybe the wandering of souls, or hopefully their ascension. In that moment, it felt like the silhouette of Death itself was walking around, and that none of us were truly safe.
The military presence was massive. There were what looked like MRAPs with strobe lights on each side, possibly searching for bodies, moving slowly down vacant, empty streets in the black, ashy, hazy blackout zones. The sheer scale of the response was both reassuring and unsettling. It felt like a police state during an armageddon, with the military and police first responders performing incredibly under the circumstances. Yet, the optics of it were shocking, as if the world had turned upside down.
But it was the silence that really got to me. Where I was in Los Angeles had gone completely quiet except for the distant crackle of flames and the low rumble of military vehicles. In a city that never sleeps, this silence felt wrong.
We came across a gas station that had become an impromptu emergency center. Someone had set up a makeshift generator, throughout the night and into the early hours of the morning, it became a hub for the community. A taco truck had parked there, giving out free food to everyone. People were collecting shoes, clothes, and gasoline. There we distributed the last of our survival and first aid kits.
What struck me most was seeing people coming together as Americans, helping each other for no reason other than they were just fellow Americans.
The footage we captured that night doesn't do it justice. Cameras can't capture the disorientation of trying to navigate through near-total darkness, or that gut feeling when you have to decide in an instant whether to approach an unclear figure in the shadows.
The night revealed two contrasting truths about Los Angeles: the frightening speed with which a modern city can descend into darkness, and the remarkable way communities rise to meet that darkness with light.
Throughout the chaos, off-the-record first responders and residents alike shared their deep frustration and heartbreak over Governor Gavin Newsom's response to the fires. Across party lines, people expressed anger at the perceived lack of coordination and urgency, criticizing his handling of the situation as ineffective and tone-deaf. It was clear that this sentiment was widespread, cutting through typical political divides in a way I hadn’t witnessed before.
Leaders have as their first and most sacred duty the responsibility to unite the people who follow them—to keep them whole, to keep them together. But Gavin Newsom had done the opposite, systematically, over years, using the media and from almost every podium. It’s absolutely evil because it’s a perfect inversion of a leader’s duty. He’s certainly tried harder at this than at any other task. He hasn’t focused on managing the economy, paving roads, or preparing for a fire everyone knew could come. He’s done just the opposite—so focused they have been on making us hate each other. I always wonder why one of the best states has the worst leaders? No state deserves leaders like him. Why do the people with the longest track record of failure have total control over the rest of the state, which is beautiful and filled with great people? How does that work? That doesn’t look like democracy to me.
A few days later, the most interesting take I have is that if you experience America through your phone, which I hate to admit is mostly how I experience of America, you really get a distorted picture of it.
They want you to get the sense that the country is at war with itself, that people hate each other. But when you see what just happened in Los Angeles and how ordinary Americans came together extraordinarily you realize Americans secretly don’t really hate each other. And yet, they have been convinced of the opposite, systematically, over decades by terrible leaders.
And up until this past weekend, what people, including me, forget to consider is how much good there is in the world. Good that makes no sense.
The love between people who don’t know each other, who have nothing obviously in common except their Americanness, their citizenship here. People who gain nothing by being kind to each other—who are, in fact, encouraged not to be kind, yet are anyway...
We went to the tallest bridge in California. Plus vindiesel drove a car off it😎 then the cops caught us🤫 and that last pic.. yes christianorozzco is a ghost 👻 #forresthillbridge#vindiesel#bridge#ghost @… https://t.co/gCrclqrvaI
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