"Ryan Gosling: The Movie" (Or, How I Met Ryan Gosling)

The First Time I Ever Used a Fire Extinguisher

I just moved into a new apartment. My one deal breaker was that I wanted washer/dryer hookups and my one nice-to-have was a fireplace. This little jewel had both. At my old house, we had a fireplace, and since Biff is allergic to her own hands, we used those "Lasts Up To 4 Hours!" starter logs instead of real firewood. And on moving day, we had one log left, which was kindly left in my possession and traveled to my new digs.

It is 107 degrees outside at midnight in Austin, Texas. Well, not that hot, but close enough. But on the fateful day I used a fire extinguisher for the first time, it was a CHILLY 82--and I had just bought a copy of Southern Living with a very fall-ish apple pie on the front--and I just wanted to make my apartment cozy, ok?

So I decided, hey, screw the man and his temperature rules and oppressive ideals of appropriate fire-making weather, I'm a strong Latino woman and I'll do what I want! So I checked the flue.

Me: that's weird--there's no flue lever?

Invisible Studio Audience: You idiot, there's always a lever. Keep looking.

Me: Hmm...I guess it's some sort of apartment safety measure--maybe the flue is defaulted to always be open and I don't have to do anything?

Invisible Studio Audience: WERE YOU BORN YESTERDAY?!?!?!

Me: Ok, I'll go ahead and light it and stand here for a sec to make sure the apartment doesn't fill up with smoke.

Invisible Studio Audience: No.


So that's exactly what I did. I lit that red paper bag on fire and watched it burn for a solid two minutes. The three separate flames I ignited slowly burned horizontally until they became one massive, log-engulfing flame. I stood back, stared at my fireplace, took a picture, and texted it to my friends. I even Facebooked my fire with the caption, "Don't judge me." I had an escalating number of "likes" and "comments" as I walked into the kitchen to keep making dinner. A few minutes later, while my food was cooking, I came out to sit on the couch and see how many people on Facebook thought I was the coolest person alive for making a fire in September. Except, I never got to the couch because my living room was drowning in a cloud of thick, grey smoke. Hey guys! The flue wasn't open after all!

So I stood there, staring at my bad decision as my two smoke detectors proved their batteries' worth. I calmly and mentally revisited my tenure as a Girl Scout. "Don't throw water onto a fire because it can make it worse." So because I was never a part of the Talented and Gifted program, I considered throwing a towel over it. But alas, the lessons of my youth confirmed that throwing a towel into the fireplace would inevitably burn the complex to the ground. And then God, not Oprah, gave me an "ah-ha moment": my new management office has provided me with a state of the art (probably not) fire extinguisher under the kitchen sink. FINALLY! All those years of fulfilling the Facilities Management aspect of my job by checking fire extinguishers at work had led me to this moment!

I approached the fire, my porous lungs filling like waffles with smokey syrup, and I pulled the trigger. POOOOOOFFFFFF, a Lost-worthy billow of smoke rolled out of my no longer pristine fireplace. But there were still flickers of life--like that slow blink in a deer's eyes when it's not quite dead. I pulled the trigger again. POOOOOOOFFFFFF, the second blow killed it.

I stood back, and stared at my fireplace yet again. This time, though, I felt no compulsion to text my friends or post a picture to Facebook. Proud that I'd conquered, but ashamed that I'd instigated, I quietly opened all the windows and doors, and began sweeping up the foam from the first time I ever used a fire extinguisher.

A Story About Leslie

This guest post was written by my friend Todd who once wrote and produced an ad for the Paramount Theater featuring our dearly departed Leslie. This is hands down the greatest Leslie story I've ever heard. I'm so glad he let me post it here. Enjoy!

It was 1:15PM on Monday, May 14, 2007. My boss came to my desk and

asked if my partner and I could handle a quick turn around project for 

the Paramount's Anniversary gala. It had to be concepted, written, 

shot and (print ad) produced by noon Wednesday the 16th. 

Craig, my brilliant art director partner and I immediately went to Whole

Foods to concept over some gelatto. We had an idea, the Yorick, I 

knew him well bit from Hamlet. We would have Willie Nelson hold 

up a small cow skull and do the pose and we would write "Here's 

to being, since 1915" (It's a well known miss-practice to hold a skull

and say "To be or not to be…" even though those are two very 

different parts of the play. 

We phoned Willie's agent, Willie was in NYC at the time. I knew

Willie as I'd written a film for him the year prior. Who now then? 

Mayor Will Wynn.  He couldn't do it that day or the next. Well then

it HAS to be Leslie. Leslie was usually pretty easy to find. He'd leave

a house he was staying in out in Westlake at 7am, take the bus to 

Taco Deli on Barton Skyway, read the paper, then walk downtown

around 10am to make his rounds.

But that lady sold her house and he was no longer staying there. 

Ninfa's was gone, and so was his ever-present hotel bellhop cart from 

'round back. It's hard to find a vagrant when you really need to. 

It was now 5pm, Craig and I texted everyone in our phones to ask if

they had seen Leslie in the past hour. Within five minutes we had 

three responses.

A friend of ours had seen him at noon near South First and Live Oak. 

Another called to say he knew Leslie sold magnets through the guy 

who owned Wet hair salon. We piled in the truck and pointed toward

Wet on South Congress. 

The owner was getting someone hair did so we waited in the seating

area. After enjoying a book on mullets for 30-minutes, he waved us 

over. Said he didn't know where Leslie would be but, "I've got his

cell number." Albert Leslie Cochran, homeless man with a cell phone

plan. 

We thanked him for his time, bought a couple magnets and went 

outside to call. After a couple of rings, "Leslie, talk to me, babe."

He agreed to meet us in an hour at Bouldin Creek Coffee shop on

South First. We waited, and waited. Waited some more and here

he/she came in all his regalia. Gold bluetooth earbud, fannie pack, 

pink running shorts and high heels. And binoculars. 

Two minutes in to our pitch, he'd agreed. On TWO conditions:

His gold Dolce and Gabana razr phone rings. He points and 

individual index finger in the air to notify us that he'd be taking

this call. "Leslie, talk to me, babe." 20-minutes later, after a VERY

heady conversation about real estate prices, he was back. 

1. He wanted a taco and a beer, right then and there. 
2. We meet him at that exact spot at 9am the next day with a 12-pack of Tecate and a pack of American Spirit yellows and $50 cash. 

He went on to tell us about his train trip to Iowa to look for the perfect

horse for a friend of his who'd hired him to do so. Then opened the 

binoculars and offered us a pull of his tequila. We declined. He drank

from the binoculars long and hard. 

It was set, we'd be there at 9am Tuesday, May 15th.

Craig and I had met at GSD&M and placed bets on whether Leslie would 

be at Bouldin Creek Coffee shop at 9am. We arrived at 8:45 and sat 

outside, it was May and it was beautiful outside. 8:59:59…

He/She appeared beyond the hedge row. In EXACTLY what he'd agreed

to wear. 20's flapper-style dress, tiara, heels, jewelry, everything. Even 

dyed his hair and washed it the night before. Amazing. 

He said, "let's go boys, we have work to do." 

This is important: Craig has a one-bench truck. Leslie rode bitch. 

I love him, but he's gross. 

We crammed into the Ram, Craig and I being what pretty much any 

culture on the planet aside from the Samoans would call "beefy" and 

Leslie – swinging hands and rocking to and fro – in between us going on 

and on about astrophysics and the works of Ray Bradbury and 

Kerouac like a seasoned lit professor. 

It was truly amazing. Craig hadn't said a word to this point, just 

stunned the entire time. We arrived at the front door of the Paramount 

Theatre at 9:15am on Tuesday, May 15, 2007 and were greeted by the 

wonderful manager who informed us that she was sorry but the ballet

had taken the stage for rehearsal and we would have to use the State

theatre or the stairwells in the Grand Hall. 

The stairwells are gorgeous so we chose those, setting up our lighting

equipment and camera. Our boy Dave Mead had hooked us up with 

a props guy who got us a skull. With the effortless professional intuition

of a model, Leslie tilted his head toward the light and moved just a bit 

upon the echo of each shutter sound. 

It was amazing. We must have taken 70 photos in 20 minutes and he

carried himself with the grace of a true hero thespian, the likes of 

Kingsley and Hopkins. 

He left to go out front and greet his fans and have a smoke while 

Craig and I packed up the gear. Craig REALLY didn't want me to leave 

him outside alone with Leslie, but I had to run back inside and thank 

the manager for letting us use the facilities. 

WHILE I WAS GONE: 

Leslie looked at Craig and said, "This is excellent parking for a Saturday."

Craig hemmed and hawed for a few seconds and – placing lights in 

the bed of the truck – turned to him and said, "Uh, Leslie, it's Tuesday."

The professional and eloquent lit professor were 1,000 miles away and 

all that was left was a shell of a man in a flapper gown and tiara. He 

was nowhere to be found in the eyes. He took off his heals and waved 

over his shoulder and began to walk away. 

We demanded he get in the truck, and couldn't believe we were going 

to drive him the three miles home. 

Not a word was said in the truck as we took him to the lovely home 

he was staying in on Alice Street…

We pulled into the long, narrow gravel driveway leading to the guest house 

behind a lovely little house on Annie. I let Leslie out of the truck, gave him 

$50 and had him sign a release form. The mood wasn't somber, but it was

different. Craig had been holding in laughter for 10 minutes, ever since

Leslie had asked if I was dating anybody. 

Now, we slowly backed out of the drive as Leslie walked to the gate to 

let himself in. He paused, then ran back toward the truck. I looked at 

Craig and said, "shit, he's going to ask for more money." With that, I 

rolled the window down as Leslie spun and turned his back toward me 

and said, "unzip me." Craig made a sound like a bottle rocket went off 

in his nose. I unzipped Leslie and he began to strip, all the way back to the 

gate. 

First, the gown. Then the bra, now he was in nothing but an iridescent 

blue thong. HE did a little dance, then bent forward away from the 

truck and slapped his ass. We both erupted with laughter in the truck 

as Craig "sped" down the driveway at 4 mph. I said, "Stop, you're going 

to get us both killed." More than likely thinking about God and  lightening

than the 4 mph wreck. We reached concrete, looked at one another and 

not another word was said all the way back to work.