GOOD MORNING LA

 

What constitutes an LA sorta day? Friday was definitely one.

Starting with Mr. Squeaky Clean.

These wonderful windows in the room we’ve dubbed porch west came with a problem. They were dirty, dirty, dirty:

 I made it my mission to get them washed. Not something I could not do myself; they’re way higher up than any ladder we have. I went to Google and entered “window washers near me.” That produced thousands of results. Trying again I entered “window washers in Silver Lake”. Among the results up popped Squeaky Clean with an address in the neighborhood. I called on Monday and left a message on voice mail. The how things get done in SoCal process was launched. That evening I received a text from Fred, Mr. Squeaky Clean his very self. It was the first of several texts and calls from Fred most of which postponed his arrival to look over the gig until eternal tomorrow. He showed up on Thursday morning. I accepted his offer and he said he’d be back that afternoon to do the job. Of course, because this is LA where one day is pretty much like the last, he showed up on Friday. And, hooray, hooray, he and his partner did a super-duper job. Wow, what a difference, day and night.

That afternoon I left Shelley off at Bang Bang on Hollywood Boulevard. I rolled on to Rite Aid with a list of items I could nab for her while she was getting her hair cut. And that’s where I met Deliciosa. Upon entering, I was approached by an imposingly large woman outfitted as security. “Can I help you find anything?” she asked. Not a question I’d expect from security. I declined her offer. But soon, I realized that I could use some help, found her and took her up on her offer. Deliciosa and I had fun shopping together as she led me through the vagaries of a LA Rite Aid.  Like toothpaste. All the toothpaste was locked up but fortunately Deliciosa had the key. She took the tube I chose from me. 

“I’ll put it at the register for you. You can get it when you check-out.”

I crossed the street to the bank of user-friendly ATMs. I’ve used ATMs all over the world and they’re pretty much the same everywhere. Except, of course, here. It started out as you’d expect: insert card, enter pass code, request a withdrawal. Then, well if this were a movie the ATM would be played by Owen Wilson and it would go like this:

“Hey, I’ve got bills in all kinds of denominations. Want me to choose for you?”

“No. let me choose.”

“Hey, no problem.”

“I’d like all twenties.”

“Oh, bummer dude. I’m all outta twenties. Here comes your withdrawal “

I got a big pile of tens.