Yesterday was spent with my butt firmly planted (and do I mean firmly, unless you stake out a cushy chair you are in for eight hours of butt-numbing torture) in the 11th floor juror's room at the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center (which is reviewed...on Yelp?) I wasn't picked for a jury, and at 4pm, we were released with our civic duty done for another year. I walked down to the Walt Disney Concert Hall where they have jurors park, taking a mental snapshot of what direction I'd have to head in to get home.
I've lived in Los Angeles for nearly fifteen years now, and there are still sections of the city where I have no idea where I am. But I just needed to remember where west was, and I'd be okay.
After driving the maze to get out of the garage, I hopped in the left turn lane only to realize too late that it was the wrong left turn lane, and turn after turn had me, well, turned around. I finally found my way to Figueroa.
A street I recognized! After all, Will and I have spent many an evening at the bar at the Hotel Fig.
As I drove I realized that while one of us was always a Designated Driver, we drove to the Hotel Fig and back. There wasn't a lot of wandering around the neighborhood.
I swung my car around and found myself back at Grand Avenue.
Oh, good, I thought, I know where the Seven Grand is!
And then realized...I was in the same predicament as before.
As I turned down Temple, I recognized the Cathedral of St. Lady of the Angels, which is something I would always pass as I took the 101 into downtown. I did the mental math.
If the Cathedral is on my right as I'm heading downtown, and now I'm on the other side of the Cathedral, it should be on my right as I head home....
I turned my car around again, finally headed in the right direction home.
God: 1. Booze: 0.
Next time, booze. Next time...
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