Today was one of those days so fraught with situations begging to be racially stereotyped that you almost think you ought to keep all of this to yourself, lest you come off as the sort of person who not only notices racially stereotypical situations but also delights in recounting them.  It’s a risk I’m willing to take.

So, my illness, which I assure the dear reader I complain about much more in real life than in this forum, has been relentless in its quest to make me tired and miserable.  After exhausting all hippie and drugstore remedies, a few key players finally convinced me that a medical visit might be in order.  I went online in the late afternoon and found a doctor, recommended by my insurance provider, located not far from my place of employment.  I hailed a cab and scooted on over, only to discover that said medical office was of the sort quite commonly observed in Echo Park.  Not to be that person, but let’s just say I usually left my old stomping grounds when I needed treatments of any sort.  Upon entering, I took in the fact that the place was utterly filled with Mexicans, and had the decor of a basement having been furnished at a rummage sale in 1983.  Absent was the aroma that is standard in all doctors’ office, yet present was the aroma that is standard in all taquerias.

I asked the receptionist if I could see the doctor and she looked at me quizzically.  ”This doctor?”  

I assured her that yes, I did want to see this doctor.  After all,  I was already there and after having hastily judged that I would likely receive subpar medical attention, I wanted to see just what that meant.  Alas, it was not to be, for she could not verify my insurance and sent me away.

Dejected, I went outside and got on the #9 Ashland bus.  Almost immediately after I got on, a large black woman in her late teens got on the bus with a baby that was maybe ten months or a year old.  She was on her cell, loudly dropping more f-bombs than our cherished governor.  All, “Michael you are not at motherfucking work, where the FUCK are you.  I’m about to come and bust out your motherfucking windows!”

Two older gentlemen clucked their tongues and one said to the other, “Oughtta keep personal business personal!  I don’t need this right after work.”

I was thinking that no one really needs this at any time of day, least of all the baby and possibly this Michael person.  At the height of my sympathy for the wee one, the mother whipped out a donut (Dunkin’, methinks, and vanilla frosted to boot) seemingly from her pocket and handed it in its entirety to the baby.  The baby seemed mostly pacified if somewhat greasy after that, and it occurred to me that perhaps there is a reason why some kids grow up to be criminals.

When I got home, my mother persuaded me to go to an urgent care center in a continued quest for resolution to my internal pathological struggle.  And so I did.  The clinic that I selected couldn’t have been more wonderful, in the sense that it was all tricked out like a motel on Hollywood Boulevard.  Sporting an enormous, mid-1960s glass entranceway with car dealershipesque circular staircases and a dusty and dim bulbed if formerly glorious chandelier, it really was the urgent care clinic dreams are made of.  Immediately upon entering my eyes fell upon a sturdy, no nonsense Filipina nurse and an ancient Chinese doctor.  I knew I was in good hands.  The only other patients were two young Polish gents, one of whom was in a wheelchair and was taken to x-ray, yet some thirty minutes later was mysteriously spotted walking down Western Avenue.

Anyway, I have strep throat and some ear infections and a bunch of shit to do at work tomorrow.  Life is grand.

How about this photo?