Big Trip to L.A. Part 2

[And now: The conclusion to my melodramatic yet uncomfortable journey to Los Angeles, California, U.S.A., Earth.]
When last we left our hero (yeah, apparently I'm not content just to refer to myself in the third-person, I also have delusions of awesomeness), an oven had just exploded and caused part of the ceiling to collapse in what may or may not have been a failed assassination attempt by his girlfriend.)


When the dust cleared (that's the first time I've ever said that non-rhetorically) (and it feels very satisfying) after the ceiling crashed around me, Katie (I've been told that it's okay to reveal my girlfriend's name) turned off the gas and ran to grab whatever we'd need to survive a night on a street in Glendale (although a mildly hysterical Katie made me go back past the kitchen, risking my life to rescue her baby) all while there were a couple more small explosions and the sound of collapsing plaster a few feet away.

And that's pretty much where I brought you in.

For a minute, I was pretty sure that we had just blown up an entire apartment complex. And we had both pretty narrowly avoided gruesome demise for reasons not entirely clear to either of us.
I told the firemen everything that happened (they especially liked the part about kazoos at the Anthony Green show) and I took them back to the apartment where they were a pleasant combination of impressed and befuddled. There wasn't any fire lingering. There was just a huge honking hole in the ceiling.

We all just kinda stood there with our arms folded and stared at the ceiling for about 20 minutes, trying to do our best to show off everything we've learned from CSI.

If there was a gas leak, odds are that the whole apartment woulda gone up.

I quickly and triumphantly exclaimed, "Like in Fight Club!"

And they said, "That's right. Like in Fight Club," as if they don't hear that every single time an oven causes a problem.

But the whole apartment didn't go up. In fact, none of the neighbors even bothered to peek outside their doors either after the massive explosion or as firefighters in full gear stomped through their halls. (Freaking L.A...)

After much deliberation and pretty much giving up, one of the guys began looking around the oven to find a serial number. "1952 Kenmore O-L-D," he said as another studious yet oblivious firefighter wrote it down. He repeated, "Ken-more O-L... Hey! You dirty son of a bitch!" They all had a good laugh and I was like, "Okay, so can I smoke in here orrrrr..."

And then they noticed a tiny little warning label that said you have to light a match to start the oven.

I was like, "Oh snap."

Then they resisted the urge to kick me in the ear.

Afterwards, after everyone had departed, leaving a horrendous mess for us to clean up, Katie said, "I'm hungry."

I said something like, "Are you an insane person?"

And then we walked to an ultra-swank outdoor mall, got on the waiting list at the Cheesecake Factory and then proceeded to sit amidst happy consumers who probably didn't just skirt death. While infants and the elderly jiggled about to Katy Perry, Katie and I sat mostly silent and vaguely traumatized at this crazy fountain.

She said, "If I'd died tonight before I saw Radiohead tomorrow, I'd have been so pissed."



Epilogue: Radiohead was awesome, by the way. Heather Graham was like 12 rows in front of us.