In Need of Assitants

My first full day of living in L.A., and I've decided that I need assistants. One to guide me and one to drive me. Yesterday, in my quest for a "regular" grocery store, one that would carry more than organic food and various high-end specialty items, I got lost three times. Who knew finding a dustpan was such a complicated task? Like in Atlanta, the L.A. streets randomly change names. How was I supposed to know that Virgil became Hillhurst or that Rowena turned into Glendale Boulevard? While my Garmin GPS could handle these tasks, I'm trying not to rely upon it too much. I think my brain is like my muscles, and if I don't work out each individual muscle, they seem to atrophy. If I'm going to suffer consequences similar to those from a lobotomy, I want the barbaric procedure from yesteryear that involved a mallet and an ice pick. Sure having the assistants would be similar to using a Garmin, but I would rely upon my mind. I'd question why they were suggesting certain places and why they were taking a specific route, for I am not a man who blindly follows. Controlling, you say? I have been told that I was, but I like to say that I'm aware.

In Ralph's, a regular grocery store off Glendale, I found my dustpan. And I got really lucky, since the CVS was next door, and I was able to purchase a coffee maker. "Do you know if there is a pet store nearby?" I asked the young, hip Asian cashier. "Um. No. Oh wait. I think there's one on the other side of this building," he said. Based on his blank stare and his limited knowledge of the area around him, I tried not to judge or conclude that his brain had atrophied from repeatedly relying on his GPS. "Are you familiar with ice picks?" I wanted to ask, but I'm nicer than that on most days.

Standing outside the small pet store with a pollen mask on, talking on his cellphone, the balding and frantic man paced back and forth. I smiled and he nodded, as I walked past him and into the store. Two seconds in, and I knew why he was wearing the mask. Fish poo, puppy poo, and guinea pig poo mixed with ammonia, the pungent odor made my eyes water, and as my family says about offensive odors, it "cut my breath." With his pollen mask still covering his face, the man came inside and asked, "May I help you?" It's hard to speak when your breath is cut, but I forced it out. "Do you have any pet stairs? I need some so my older cat can climb up on the bed." He shook his head. "You go to Petco." I needed to ask where the Petco was, because Phoebe really needed the stairs, but she had to take one for the team. I was about to pass out, and I bolted from the store without a proper "thank you." I know that was rude, but it was rude of the man to have such a toxic and filthy store.

Eating a late lunch at The Mustard See with my friend Ann, who was delayed in meeting me, due to getting rammed from behind by a large truck, sending her SUV crashing into the car in front of her, I met a fellow filmmaker who was waitressing at the cafe. Cynthia had made a documentary on her mother's plight with a hoarding disorder. My Mother's Garden sounded lik my kind of film, a strong character piece. "Hoarding. That's an obsessive-compulsive disorder," I said, as I pulled out my bottle of Purell and sanitized my hands. She smiled, getting my joke.

Yes, it would have been nice to not had to spend an hour or so driving around lost, and I would have preferred that it wasn't my lungs that were burned to a crisp from the mixture of chemicals and poo. And I would love to have been able to say to Bianca or Raul, "Run and get me a copy of Cynthia's film." But then they would have had all these experiences and not me. Maybe it's best then that I am on a budget and can't afford assistants.