Ka-Boom!

I love the age the kids are at. The language is rolling in like water. We have: “Please, truck, bus, No (which is pronounced Neu!), bye bye Daddy and mine!” There’s also this word that they use for chicken or long conversations which sorta sounds like: “Plicka plicka plicka.”

I figured out why the kids love Grandma so much. Because the woman never says no! We came home the other day and one kid is standing on the arm of the couch, which we’ve told them not to do, and the other is standing on this giant toy block, which we’ve also told them not to do. Grandma is sitting back and enjoying the show, drinking a Bloody Mary. Okay, she wasn’t drinking a Bloody Mary. Maybe it was Vodka Gimlet. The point is the kids must get sick of “get off of that, put that down, get that ferret out of your mouth” from the parents. Grandma must be a nag vacation. That’s what they should call them, Nag Vacations.

So at work, I’m running away from a series of large explosions, I look behind me to see a fireball the size of a three-bedroom house rise out of the sky. “Holy shit!” I say. This is NOT a dream! This really happened! Earlier, I was sitting at my desk when there was a booming rumble and the windows shook. This is not out of the ordinary because we live in Earthquake Ville and on the road next to the building, really heavy trucks rumble by. I ignore it. Then there were two more thunderous rumblings. They were exactly the kind of thumps you would feel if Godzilla were tramping toward your building. The large windows seemed like they were going to come crashing down and mandolin this woman who has her desk right underneath them.
“Is that an earthquake? Goes this guy “A”. I know it’s not an earthquake because there were thumps instead of a swaying motion. “I think it’s an earthquake he says heading for the door which is the worst thing to do in an earthquake because you’re more likely to get clobbered by stuff falling outside. “Holy Shit!” Someone outside the office says. We investigate and see that about a block away, there’s this Victorian apartment building on fire and black smoke is rising into the sky. Then a BOOM! A fireball rises up. “A” takes off running away from the blast. My first thought was: “Gas main!” In San Francisco, it seems every day someone gets blown up by a gas main hit by a crazy city worker. “Chain reaction!” Was my second thought? What if this is part one of a series of explosions? I take off after A. As I mentioned in the beginning, I looked back and saw another explosion and a huge fireball rise up. The location seemed familiar to me. Wait! I say that’s the place that rents out building equipment like bulldozers and cherry pickers. They also sell propane gas and have a bunch of tanks outside. Or it could be the gas station across the street from it. Either way I wasn’t going back to work until the fire tucks showed up. Eventually, 5 of them roared by and got things under control. I go back to work and discover from M (The guy who thought he had won the lottery. see: Sock Soup entry) that yes indeed it was the propane tanks at the rental place exploding. He knew this because when the explosions started, he ran TOWARD the fire and called another guy to get their camera. “Wait.” I say. “You ran towards the explosions? And you’re not wearing a cape?” While watching the fire from a block away, an explosion went off and sent him into a wall. He then noticed that 5 guys, even closer to the fire were laid out, flat. Luckily, no one was hurt. Now, the scary part. I get off work at 3:30. The explosions started at 3:00. On my way to the train station, I walk within 5 feet of the propane tanks. The next day I had to get off work early to pick up the family car from the mechanic. I left work at 3! Imagine, if the days were switched?

It’s not the first time death swung a bat at my head (and of course not the last), once I was coming from Myrtle Beach with my dad and older brother. I fall asleep in the back of the green Aspen and am awaken by the car in a tailspin. There’s dirt flying into the car and we end up backwards in a ditch. Turns out, older bro had headphones on and spaced out.

The connection between both of these events are the words:” Holy Shit.” When the explosions were going off and I was spitting dirt out of my mouth, I uttered the words: “Holy Shit!” as my last words. I don’t want that to be my last words! Todd Beamer on United Airlines flight 93 said “Let’s Roll!” as his last words before he and his fellow passengers attacked the terrorists who were trying to make them watch a Julia Roberts movie. His kids will say, “My daddies a hero and said let’s roll. Mine will say, my dad ran like a flaming bastard out of hell and said holy shit before being torpedoed by a propane tank.

I think we should all practice what our last words should be, in case a news truck or your family is there to witness your death. Flaming propane tank heading toward skull? “Ho ho! Hell has sent an angel!” Spinning crap-ass green American car heading toward ditch? “Aye! Whirlpool of life! I spiral into the abyss!” or something like that.

That’s all
EM