2004-12-20 08:28![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
digitaldiscipline
digitaldiscipline... Yo ho ho, Yo ho ho, Yo ho ho.
From the "Never a Dull Moment in Gothopia" department:
Crawled into bed at 12:15. At 12:20, there's a frenzied pounding on our front door. K reaches for a handy implement of destruction, I put some jeans on and make my way to the front door to peer out. There's a man running around the street erratically, pounding on people's doors.
K calls 911 to report what we think is at best a disturbance and at worst a nutjob with a gun, since there have been muted bangs. As she talks to emergency dispatch, relaying what I'm describing to her, the situation changes. An orange glow backlights the trees and house across the street, and flames are rapidly approaching 20 feet in height.
"Hold on. There is a big fucking fire across the street."
We are shunted to fire emergency dispatch, and K hands me the phone. Give our address. "It looks like the junkyard or used car place in the alley next to the elementary school."
Get the rest of the way dressed, and five minutes later, we're flashing-light central, between a dozen police cars and a half-dozen fire suppression trucks.
The neighbors across the street are evacuated from their house as a safety precaution, as the staccatto thump of smallish explosions continues. The fire is behind their house, and is beginning to singe the rear branches of a huge live oak in their backyard. They ferry their most important possessions across the street (a PC, xms presents, and the older daughter's manga (?!)), and K gives the not-exactly-with-it mother[1] a pair of socks and sandals, since she's running around barefoot.
Twenty or thirty minutes later, there's no flame, just smoldering husks of cars and a camper trailer.
Speculation as to cause (arson, insurance fraud, bad wiring in the camper) is bandied about, as is the nature of the questionable residence where it took place (a camper that was blocked into a small corner of an auto parts lot to get around a commercial zoning issue, among other less-savory theories, including your friendly neighborhood meth van). No word on any casualties, or if it was PDO.
One o'clock rolls around, and I go back to bed, and K & I have a short conversation about what we'd grab if it happens to us.
My pictures didn't come out for shit; all you can tell is that there are people and trucks with their lights on.
K woke up this morning and asked if she'd dreamed the whole thing.
"No, hon. It happened."
Scorched earth and wet pavement.
1 - She's never been the sharpest spoon in the drawer when I've talked to her, losing her eyeglasses while taking a walk during Jeanne or Frances when a branch swatted her in the face, and this occasion found her wanting to go back into the house to get her _cigarettes._
From the "Never a Dull Moment in Gothopia" department:
Crawled into bed at 12:15. At 12:20, there's a frenzied pounding on our front door. K reaches for a handy implement of destruction, I put some jeans on and make my way to the front door to peer out. There's a man running around the street erratically, pounding on people's doors.
K calls 911 to report what we think is at best a disturbance and at worst a nutjob with a gun, since there have been muted bangs. As she talks to emergency dispatch, relaying what I'm describing to her, the situation changes. An orange glow backlights the trees and house across the street, and flames are rapidly approaching 20 feet in height.
"Hold on. There is a big fucking fire across the street."
We are shunted to fire emergency dispatch, and K hands me the phone. Give our address. "It looks like the junkyard or used car place in the alley next to the elementary school."
Get the rest of the way dressed, and five minutes later, we're flashing-light central, between a dozen police cars and a half-dozen fire suppression trucks.
The neighbors across the street are evacuated from their house as a safety precaution, as the staccatto thump of smallish explosions continues. The fire is behind their house, and is beginning to singe the rear branches of a huge live oak in their backyard. They ferry their most important possessions across the street (a PC, xms presents, and the older daughter's manga (?!)), and K gives the not-exactly-with-it mother[1] a pair of socks and sandals, since she's running around barefoot.
Twenty or thirty minutes later, there's no flame, just smoldering husks of cars and a camper trailer.
Speculation as to cause (arson, insurance fraud, bad wiring in the camper) is bandied about, as is the nature of the questionable residence where it took place (a camper that was blocked into a small corner of an auto parts lot to get around a commercial zoning issue, among other less-savory theories, including your friendly neighborhood meth van). No word on any casualties, or if it was PDO.
One o'clock rolls around, and I go back to bed, and K & I have a short conversation about what we'd grab if it happens to us.
My pictures didn't come out for shit; all you can tell is that there are people and trucks with their lights on.
K woke up this morning and asked if she'd dreamed the whole thing.
"No, hon. It happened."
Scorched earth and wet pavement.
1 - She's never been the sharpest spoon in the drawer when I've talked to her, losing her eyeglasses while taking a walk during Jeanne or Frances when a branch swatted her in the face, and this occasion found her wanting to go back into the house to get her _cigarettes._
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(no subject)
Either way, we're glad nobody was hurt and that your place is safe!
(no subject)
The space heater thing seems reasonable.
Questionable-Judgement Woman says she heard a noisy car pull away just before the festivities started, but I typically take what she says with 500g of NaCl.
Unknown about the "nobody was hurt" thing as yet, since the sketchy PR dude who was the occupant of the trailer wasn't among the folks milling around last night (either because he wasn't there to begin with, drove away, or didn't make it out). *shrug*
(no subject)
Could also be smoking in bed.
(no subject)
questionable-judgement woman sounds like a trip.
(no subject)
her daughters (15 and 8?) seem pretty level-headed, in that "oh, she's whacked, don't mind her," way.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)