When I Said Burn It All Down, I Didn’t Mean LITERALLY

Marked safe but unhinged. ❤️‍🩹

Hi friends.

I didn’t expect to write to you from an active disaster zone so early in the year, but all bets are off in this new epoch of Unhingement. I’m safe. My apartment is safe. Los Angeles is still on fire. There is more wind coming. So many people have lost everything. I’m devastated for my community and will probably never be the same and I’m one of the luckiest ones.

On Wednesday, I woke up around 6 am to a weird noise when my power went out from the winds that had already set opposite ends of the city on fire. I looked out the window, and my street was tinged apocalypse yellow. There were signs of life (people walking with coffee), so I dug out a Canadian government-issued N95 that my dad had so kindly mailed me the last time the world felt like it was ending. I actually can’t think until I’ve had my morning coffee, and this was clearly an emergency that required the processing of thoughts, so I put my mask on, walked across the street to the coffee shop, and ordered an oat latte.

45 minutes later, sitting in my apartment with no power, staring at the wall as I sipped the dregs of my latte, while the city burned to a crisp on either side of me, I realized I was this fucking dog:

Then, my neighbor texted the chat to ask if anyone knew the workaround for opening the gate at the end of our driveway because we had no power and it was locked shut, trapping all of our cars. My car — which I had put in my garage the night before so it would be safe from trees toppling over — was also now trapped behind the garage door. Amy, my neighbor who knows things about the building, said we all had a key that would manually open the garage, and I was like, “cool, cool, cool. I’m sure that’s somewhere.”

I volunteered to text our landlord to come open the gate manually because he likes me the most and shows up when I text him. He did show up pretty quickly, but he didn’t actually know how to open it. He told me that it was too windy to go anywhere and that the street lights were out and that hopefully the power would come back soon, but in the meantime, he would call the company that installed the gate and find out how to get it open.

Friends were leaving town, but the wind was still extremely fucked. I actually felt safer hunkering down. I went back to the coffee shop and charged all my devices. They had no internet, but I did some bare minimum work from my phone and tried my best to keep it together and not refresh the demented fire-tracking Watch Duty app every two minutes as if staring at the fires on an app would somehow help put them out.

Around noon, my landlord texted me that the gate company had told him what to do, but he wanted to stay off the roads, and there were a lot of trucks out earlier fixing the power, so maybe it would come back on? Feeling better that he at least knew how to get the gate open, even though that man was the wrong kind of delusional for thinking the power was coming back, I went home, got out all my emergency stuff, and started packing a bag in case I had to go.

I found the key to open my garage, tried to open it, gave up quickly, went back inside, realized I hadn’t eaten all day, and then lit my gas stove with a match so I could warm up some soup that I had made the afternoon before the fires began. We all need a wholesome apocalypse hobby, and mine is making the best soup you will ever eat.

I’m not really sure what I did for the next few hours aside from failing to not look at my phone in an attempt to save battery because so many people were trying to make sure I was alive (love you guys, many blessings to us all). Then, my friend Roxanne said she was coming to pick me up, so I put my mask back on, put my flashlight in my purse, hopped in her car, and went to the other side of the neighborhood where there was power.

I texted my landlord again and told him power wasn’t coming back on and that he needed to open the gate. He responded, “OK, will do.”

The thing is, landlords are some of the most useless people we have. That man did not get the gate open when he went back, and I wasn’t even home to stop him from leaving, because I was with Roxanne, her wife Jess, their daughter Winnie, Roxanne’s mom Val, and Bingo the dog, charging my phone and eating dinner and drinking a responsible amount of white wine to soothe my frazzled nerves while we all tried to stay calm.

Right as we finished dinner, another fire broke out in Hollywood. Looking at new zones appear on the demented Watch Duty app, with a mandatory evacuation less than three miles from my apartment, after seeing how quickly the other fires had spread, I became fully unhinged. I needed my car because I needed to get out of there and go somewhere far, far away.

I called my neighbors, who were also obviously terrified by how close this new fire was, asked if they could figure out how to open the garage manually, and said that I would handle the gate. Then, I called my landlord and told him that I wanted to leave and that he needed to get the gate open immediately.

“You can take an Uber,” he said.

“To where?” I responded, genuinely confused by how stupid he thought I was.

I told him that having no way to manually override an electronic gate was a code violation and probably illegal.

“Oh, you’re going to go there?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, “and if you don’t open this gate, I will break it the fuck open myself.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, you can open the gate or I will break it the fuck open myself.”

In that moment, this man had the audacity to shame me like a schoolmarm — very fresh coming from a middle-aged gay man who is clearly in a throuple if not a quadrouple (we’ll get to that in a minute) — and literally said to me, “Liz, we’re going to have to talk about this later.”

“No, we’re not,” I replied, “because you’re going to come unlock the gate or I will break it the fuck open myself.”

I could hear him sweating a little bit. I was 100% unhinged enough to unhinge the gate and I think that even my landlord, a man with so little sense, could sense it.

“OK,” he said.

Jess, who had gone to fill her car with gas in case we all had to flee, came back, saw the state of affairs, and offered to drive me home to help free my car. Half the streetlights were still out, but we made it. I took my flashlight out of my purse and led us to my garage that was unlocked but still not budging.

Jess said we needed something to pry it open with, so I went inside and got what I thought was the best option: an IKEA butter knife. Then, my neighbors came to help, and the four of us got it open together right as my landlord pulled up.

I had the flashlight, so I led Jess back out through my apartment to her car, she gave me a gallon of water from her trunk and said she would come back for me if she needed to (a real apocalypse homie), and then her car almost didn’t start because that was the vibe, but it did, and she left.

I walked over to the gate where my landlord was standing. Three of them had showed up: the landlord, the daddy, and the third. There is occasionally a fourth, but I haven’t seen him in a while. The daddy was visibly wasted. My landlord was visibly insane. The third was the one trying to actually unlock the gate. Like a very helpful psychopath, I stood too close to them and silently held my flashlight overhead so they had more light as they tried to unlock it. “I can’t do it, there’s too many keys on this keychain,” the third whined.

“Take the key off the keychain,” I said too calmly.

That did the trick.

The gate finally open, I was so relieved that I gave the drunk daddy a huge hug — it was for me, not him. Then, he told me that they wouldn’t be able to close the gate for a few days, to which I responded, “I don’t care if you ever close it again.”

Mission accomplished, the landlord(s) left.

“What did you say to get them to do that?” my neighbors asked.

“Oh,” I said, “I told them that they could come unlock the gate, or I would break it the fuck open myself.”

I hugged my neighbors, told them to stay safe, went back inside with my flashlight, and finished packing the go-bag that I had put my passport, my other good bra, and three pairs of leggings in earlier. I called my friend Sam, who lives on the water 45 minutes away and had sent me her address earlier in case I needed to flee in a hurry (another real apocalypse homie), and told her I was coming.

When I got to Sam’s house, she poured me a glass of red wine. What I really needed was to be shot with a tranquilizer dart.

how I found my car the next morning.

They were able to contain and put the fire in Hollywood out that night since the winds had died down. I stayed in Orange County for a couple of days with Sam and Chad who took such good care of me and kept me so very entertained in my time of need (thank you, my loves). I’m back in LA now, sitting inside with my air filter, so grateful to have my home, to everyone who helped me escape that crazy-ass night, and to all the firefighters who are working around the clock to prevent this from becoming even worse.

I was prepared for a disaster in some ways, and really not in others. And I would like to encourage all of you to have at least a bit of a plan and some supplies on hand. If you live alone, like I do, know who your apocalypse homies are. Have at least a bit of a plan with them, too. These are not normal times.

One thing I have learned from this past week is that we all have a role in the apocalypse. I will admit, I am not the best planner or go-bag packer or garage door opener. But I’m good for morale and can effectively negotiate with dipshits as needed.

It took seven of us to get my car out: I threatened my landlord, my neighbors Amy and David figured out the garage door, the landlord throuple actually showed up (fuckers), and Jess, the self-described “lesbian MacGyver” assisted with the IKEA butter knife.

I cackled so hard when I got home and saw this.

The city is in so much need. If you would like to help from afar, I think the best way is to donate directly to people who have lost everything.

Here is a list of GoFundMes that have less than 20% of their goal reached.

Here is a list of GoFundMes for displaced Black families in Altadena that need our support.

Here is a list of GoFundMes for teachers or staff of schools located near the Eaton and Palisades fires who have lost their homes.

Here is a new and expanding list to help children impacted by the fires replace lost stuffed animals that hold sentimental value.

If you would like to contribute some innocent vigilante justice in lieu of funds, my friend Katherine Spears has put together a spreadsheet of asshole price gouging landlords who need to be reported. She has already tracked some reductions and de-listings. Feel free to give these landlords a call and let them know that what they’re doing is illegal, report them on Zillow (click “more” in the upper right of the listing page), or report them to LA county: (800) 593-8222.

And, of course, you can donate to the firefighters.

All we have for comfort in these times of such immense fear and loss and sorrow is each other. Thank you for being a part of my apocalypse community. Sending you all big, big love. I’ll write to you again soon. In the meantime, if you’re worried, you can always follow me on Instagram where I post my proof of life updates.

Oh, and my landlord came and closed the gate yesterday without asking any of us or leaving the key. It took all of us harassing him for 24 hours to get it back open. My car is on the street regardless. Gategate continues …

Less Lessons More Blessin’s™️

Liz