Life in California is full of vexing questions. Is it illegal to pick poppies? When did scenic hiking locations become hotter scenes than nightclubs? What exactly is Erewhon, and are regular people allowed inside?
Alta Journal has enlisted two experts to answer all of your questions: Stacey Grenrock Woods and Gustavo Arellano, both of whom bring decades of hard-won knowledge and laser-sharp insights into the Golden State.
Have a question of your own? Ask a Californian!
I ask this out of genuine concern, not mockery. Why can’t Californians drive in the rain?
—Fair-Weather Friend
Stacey: Genuine concern? Is that what you’re calling it? And I suppose all that giggling and slow-clapping I heard while parallel parking the other day was because, when I finally made it into my spot, you and your friends were genuinely happy?
Well, good. It’s high time California Rain Drivers (CRD) were given a dash of compassion for our heroic contributions to the sport. But until now, you’ve all been asking the wrong question: Instead of wondering, so loudly and fervently as you inch along a slowly dampening freeway, why all these idiots can’t drive in the rain, ask yourself, and whoever’s still listening, What kind of idiot would even think we could?
Rain happens so infrequently in this state that when the skies unload upon us, our minds are totally blown. We need a California moment to reassure ourselves that a big dragon didn’t just swallow the sun, that this water-from-the-sky thing is actually good. Next, we have to call our friends, talk about how much we love the rain, put all our plants outside, and figure out how we’re going to blow everything else off so we can stay home, stare out the window, and eat grilled cheese and tomato soup. (Can we Postmates it? Will the driver even make it in the rain?) Then and only then can we locate our one, old, probably broken umbrella; put on something like a coat; and approach the car to begin reacquainting ourselves with the windshield wiper and its many confounding permutations. That’s when it all gets weird.
From the time Californians are old enough to put Big Wheel to pavement, we’ve been systematically warned to be extra careful because “after the first rain, the roads are slick.” In other words, that first rain (and in California, there’s rarely a second rain) will rouse all manner of greasy infusions from months of slimy sleep to make our highways and byways one big, deadly Slip ’N Slide. I have no idea if it’s true, but it’s not insane to think that all that Purell, MCT Oil, Juvéderm, and whatever else we have seeping from our pores will be waiting out there on the road to finish killing us.
So you see, Fair-Weather Friend, Californians can’t drive in the rain because we’re awed, inexperienced, and terrified, just like you were before you worked up the nerve to ask this question. But thankfully, your concern for us won out, thus giving me the opportunity to remind you that if Californians let things like fear and inexperience stop us, there would be no Californians at all, and that would be most concerning.
Gustavo: Foul-Tempered Fiend, you’re the biggest liar outside of Albert Hammond. California Department of Transportation stats for 2022 show that vehicle crashes in the rain constituted about 3 percent of all vehicle crashes and fatalities on state highways. Compare that with the 10-year period between 2007 and 2016 studied by the U.S. Department of Transportation of all motor accidents in the country. During that decade, vehicle crashes that occurred during rain amounted to 10 percent of all U.S. vehicle crashes and 8 percent of all vehicle crash-caused deaths—nearly three times our rates. You’re going to say 2016 isn’t 2022, and you’re right. So I pulled up California DoT stats for the year Trump won the first time, and guess what? In 2016, car crashes and deaths during rain amounted to almost 4 percent of all car crashes and 2.5 percent of all car-crash deaths, which means we’ve become better drivers when it mists, pours, drizzles—whatever. So spare us your “genuine” concern and give us a downpour of Ginuwine instead.
What was California’s best year ever? Also, what was its worst?
—New Year, Who Dis?
Stacey: The Californy for Best Year Ever goes to 1977. Really, I could award the whole ’70s a Decade Achievement Award, but I’ll pick 1977 for its numeric zing—those two sevens really slap. Nineteen seventy-seven in California was glorious. People dressed well and had great hair. You could get around easily and parking was ample. Concerts, sporting events, and amusement parks were attainable for nonroyalty, and if your parents were famous, you were deeply ashamed of it. There were good movies, and there was great TV, and nobody cared what kids did all day. Health food knew its place, as did coffee. There was no Starbucks, and hence, no Starbucks runs. People were limited to the coffee they had at their offices, which they drank while doing easily identifiable jobs. And one job was all you needed. Why, in 1977, a culinary student could get an apartment right on the beach in Santa Monica with a florist and a receptionist and face only minimal hassles from the landlord. It was a magical time.
The Californy for Worst Year Ever goes to—you guessed it—2020, for unmatched achievement in fire and pestilence. No other year took so much from so many so obnoxiously. Twenty twenty was so bad that smallpox and the San Francisco earthquake actually thanked it for making them look good. Hey, 2020, Dante called; he wants his inferno back! Folks, 2020 couldn’t be here tonight because it was home baking sourdough. Ha, I kid, 2020, but really, it deserves every bit of it.
Gustavo: The best California year is the one ahead of us, because that’s what the California dream is about. The worst one has never happened, because that’s what the California dream is about.
I’m still going to cop out on the worst year and nominate the period from 1991 to 1994 instead. Roll call of calamities! The Oakland firestorm, the Northridge earthquake, the L.A. riots, the death of Cesar Chavez, the passage of Proposition 187, Joe Montana leaving the 49ers for Kansas friggin’ City, and the launch of Planet Hollywood by a bunch of A-listers with nothing else to do—just an amuse-bouche of the hell from that time. I was a teen back then, and all I can say about that era is that it was as fun as the pantsing I’d regularly get during gym at Sycamore Junior High in Anaheim.
Best year? How about 1960? The state’s Master Plan for Higher Education—which spelled out the roles for UCs, Cal States, and community colleges and remains the best gift Sacramento has given the world (sorry, Greta Gerwig)—was created. Candlestick Park opened. The rest of the country still thought we were cool, except for Whittier’s own Richard Nixon. Suburbia was still manageable, it still regularly rained and snowed, minorities were getting ready to run for political office in record numbers, and both the Rams and Raiders had losing records while the Dodgers and Giants had winning ones. About the only thing bad that happened that year in California was Ben-Hur’s William Wyler and Charlton Heston winning the Oscars for Best Director and Best Actor, respectively, over Some Like It Hot’s Billy Wilder and Jack Lemmon—an oversight that ages in mediocrity every year like a rotten Temecula red.
Why are so many Californians moving to Texas?
—Happy Trails
Stacey: Because they’ve up and gone country. Yessiree, Bob. They might not want to admit it; they might say they’re striking out east because California is too expensive, too crowded, too competitive, too California-y…but really, they’re moving to Texas because they want that cowboy thing that Arizona just doesn’t have. (And Nashville’s too far away.)
It’s a natural response to imagine a better life somewhere else. Alcoholics call it “pulling a geographic.” But what these Californians don’t realize is that their ancestors already pulled the geographic that afforded them the privilege of living in this unaffordable place. Sure, other states might be cheaper, but what about the toll all those toll roads take on your soul? A Californian is a person who says, Yes, it’s too expensive. Yes, it’s too crowded. Yes, it wants to kill me at every turn. But I’m going to make it work because there’s no place like home.
And inevitably, the people who left come back. So much heartache could be avoided if, whenever the drive to lasso something wells up, people just do what I do: watch a few episodes of Landman and walk around the house talking like Billy Bob Thornton until the feeling passes. (Yes, I know he’s from Arkansas, and guess where he lives now?) But let’s keep all this between us. If people want to move away, I ain’t fixin’ to stop ’em. Nosiree, Billy Bob. Maybe we could get the population down to about 1977 levels. The parallel parker in me would love it.
Gustavo: An estimated 102,000 Californians moved to Texas in 2022, according to a report this year by Texas REALTORS® (their caps and registration mark, not mine), which is totally unbiased on this issue and thus should be completely trusted. That same report showed that 42,000 Texans moved our way—the top destination for Lone Star expats (pound red dirt, Oklahoma!). Those who leave us portray themselves as reverse Dust Bowlers fleeing an accursed land for bigger houses and fewer liberals, but they’re cowards—especially those who end up in Texas. Joads they are not: Ted Cruz Land is just a hotter, stickier California with more cheese on its Mexican food, less spice on its barbecue, and just about the same amount of Elon Musk. These California quitters want to replicate the 1977 of their youth instead of build another 1960 with those of us who stay. Whatever—enjoy Abilene, however the hell you pronounce that, and spend the rest of your life wondering who exactly Deaf Smith was.
Next question? advice@altaonline.com•
Stacey Grenrock Woods is a regular contributor to Esquire and a former correspondent for The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. She writes and consults on various TV shows, and has a recurring role as Tricia Thoon on Fox’s Arrested Development. Her first book is I, California.
Gustavo Arellano is the author of Orange County: A Personal History and Taco USA: How Mexican Food Conquered America. In 2025, Arellano was named a Pulitzer Prize finalist for his work as a columnist for the Los Angeles Times. He was formerly editor of OC Weekly, an alternative newspaper in Orange County, California, and penned the award-winning ¡Ask a Mexican!, a nationally syndicated column in which he answered any and all questions about America’s spiciest and largest minority. Arellano is the recipient of awards ranging from the Association of Alternative Newsweeklies Best Columnist to the Los Angeles Press Club President’s Award to an Impact Award from the National Hispanic Media Coalition, and he was recognized by the California Latino Legislative Caucus with a 2008 Spirit Award for his “exceptional vision, creativity, and work ethic.” Arellano is a lifelong resident of Orange County and is the proud son of two Mexican immigrants, one of whom came to this country in the trunk of a Chevy.
