It’s past 4 pm, I should be in the hotel already, getting ready for my obligatory visit to Griffith observatory. Instead, I’m in at The Last Bookstore, a stone’s throw from Pershing Square. The smell of lignin permeates all corners and I’m holding two old sci-fi books with trippy covers and colourful pages. Not my fave genre, but it was my dad’s obsession. He had to own every single book in any sci-fi collection he knew of, and he could summarise any story of every single book he read in his life, even if he couldn’t remember where his keys where (front right pocket of his well-worn fisherman’s vest). It was a weird contrast, a person who knows all these authors and the nooks and crannies of their stories, but couldn’t help himself in his last days.

The paperback copy of Kate Wilhelm’s Where the late sweet birds sang is only 3 bucks. It’d be a shame if I left it. I already have a copy of Clifford Simak’s City, but this one has a nicer cover art. 2 bucks. Amelia comes back from another section, her eyes glazed from searching books. A friend of hers is needs David Lynch’s Catching the big fish, but his recent passing renders the book hard to find. They are both staying with some friends at an Airbnb in Pasadena. I’m in the seedy part of Hollywood Boulevard. We part ways at the metro station and we exchange numbers. Tomorrow’s the big day: Just Like Heaven fest at the Rose Bowl. Rilo Kiley is back and although it has a magnificent line-up, it’s this mythical return what makes us giddy like children on Christmas eve.

Time is running out and I might need to cancel some plans. Which is something I don’t like doing, but randomly running into Amelia at the airport and hanging out with people beats traveling alone. My conflict might stem on changing plans, and it irks me how it’s making me slightly angry. Still, I can still catch a quick nap, do all the things on my to-do list and make it to the Beverly. If I play it right, I can still make it to the midnight show of True Romance. I must see it on the cinema!

A couple of junkies try to get smart with the metro ticket inspector. Rookie mistake. They get ejected and 86ed at Hollywood/Western, where some intimidating cops are already waiting for them. The burly officers take them away as if they were matchstick figures, their feet dangling above the greyscale mosaic floor.

Although Hollywood/Vine is closer to the hovel I’m hanging my hat at, I go for Hollywood/Highland. Last year I escaped from my now ex-job and stayed at the pleasant but pricey Loews Hollywood Hotel. This year, belts are tighter. I’m happy when I see the familiar sights. The sign at El Capitan. The fruit vendors, with freshly cut pineapple, papaya, watermelon, and cantaloupe attracting a few wasps. The small plastic bottles of Tajín chili powder are half-empty and even if the crowd is overwhelming, I feel at home.

My feet hurt and I consider taking a bus. With a travelcard, everything is cheaper once you hit the daily cap. “It’s just another corner” I say to myself as I feel a sting in my heel. My knee trembles, and I repeat: “it’s just another corner”. “We are almost there”, I repeat, as I cross LA’s version of Shibuya Crossings. “It’s just another corner” I repeat, with a parched mouth. I could stop at the 7 11 in the corner, but, what will they think of me if I go in with my stupid suitcase? They might think I’m nicking stuff! No time for refreshments, I need to make it to the Beverly.

The volume goes up on my cellphone, as Neil Young croons “down by the river, I shot my baby”. A sadness lingers as I make my way to the small hotel near the corner of Yucca and Whitley. Hindsight is 20-20, and I knew things back home were about to get worse. In just three weeks I would be burying my dog. She lived for 12 years, and it’s hard to comprehend how much pets in general become part of our lives. Someone who’s never owned a dog can’t fathom the pain of losing a dog, especially when it’s so sudden. I had no idea then, I only wanted to finish my list of places to see. I already know I won’t make it to Counterpoint Records. Cratedigging at Nivessa is out of the question too. I must make it to the Beverly.

I drop my stuff at the hotel, which is much better than I expect, but still filled with delivery people. Doordash, Grubhub, Postmates, you call it. The place was curiously overrun at all times with delivery people. I thought best not to investigate further. I negotiate with myself and convince myself of getting a couple of bottles of water at the 7 11 before catching the metro to Vermont/Sunset then hop on the free shuttle.

Griffith observatory is well worth your time, especially near dusk. The free telescopes give you a beautiful view of the moon, the sun, and if all goes right, even Jupiter. The big old Zeiss was out of order, good thing I visited last year, as you get the best view of the moon with the 12 inch refractor.

I wander around, trying to get the best possible shot of the sunset. I cross out Amoeba Records from my list of things, that’ll have to wait. People from all over the world pose on the lovely grounds of Griffith observatory, some pretending to be influencers, some wielding a rather expensive, minute Rode microphone, and some pull out proper cameras with the dang longest telephoto lens attached to it. I scamper as soon as the free shuttle comes by and drops me at Vermont/Sunset. Feet hurt? Just another corner. I’m tired and wired? I can still make it to the Beverly.

“Make up for time”, my head orders. It’s hard dealing with a creature of habit -possibly neurodivergent- like me. I had places I wanted to go. It didn’t matter if I had a better time than expected when I was talking with Amelia and her friends. I had to go to the places I wanted to go. It didn’t matter to my brain that I had fun while off-plan, things had to go back or I wouldn’t hear the end of it.

Yeah, I might need therapy. That’s why I write. Sorry you had to read this.

I half-sing Down by the river and once it finishes, I repeat the song, as I’ve done for the last couple of hours. I do this all they way back to Hollywood/Highland. Right. I must go to CVS and buy some medicines for my mom’s allergy. Might as well get a tension headache pill for myself. Next? Target, buy a Toad and Frog replacement t-shirt like the one a rat ate from my washing machine(long story). I must buy denim. I must buy chick-fil-a sauce. I must buy alcohol, any kind. Once I pay, I look at reusable canvas bags and as I leave Target, I know I will scramble back on Sunday. I could buy it right then and there, but I won’t. Because that’s how my brain works. The opportunity is there, and I won’t take it. Because I want my life to be harder.

It matters not, I must make it to the Beverly. It’s True Romance! I must see it on the big screen!

I ignore the usual tourist traps like the 10-dollar store, the Ghirardelli shop, and La La Land, with its replica Terminator skeleton on the outside and its dystopian “buy all!” nature. I hightail it to Ralph’s, another 2 miles or so on foot, because I must go there. It doesn’t matter if I woke up at 3 am and feel ready to pass out. I must go. “Just another corner”. And I hate myself for not realizing I’m just punishing myself when I should be relaxing. I make it to Ralph’s, waste 10 minutes looking for some cheeses I didn’t buy last year and I now I’m obsessed with. I find them and they will be underwhelming. I also snag a sandwich (which will disappoint), a delicious fruit mix bowl, some potato chips, several ciders and IPAs, some Regal Crown hard boiled sweets and I make it to the cashier.

The clock is ticking. I must, MUST get to Pizza Worx and have the same pizza from last year. The cold cuts and red bell pepper one. Why? Because. My habit decides it. I manage to run and get to the pizza joint 10 minutes before it closes. 9:50 pm. I can still make it to the Beverly. The manager is at the till and he recognizes me from last year. “Back again?”, I now in disbelief, and he personally goes to prepare the pizza, as his employees are ready to collapse on the floor after a long friday evening. I collect my pizza and make it to the room. I place the cider and IPAs on the fridge, and I leave for a 7-11 a couple of blocks before the hotel.

“It’s just another corner” my head lies, while I feel a stabbing pain on both feet. I give way to this stupid idea because I need cold drinks and the one’s from Ralph’s warmed up on the way here.

“It’s just another corner” I repeat while Neil Young’s solo screams on my earbuds. I chastise myself for not buying the drinks when I was carrying the pizza. “Maybe they would’ve made fun of you, entering the store with a pizza”, my head assures me. “It’s better this way”. And people wonder how neurotics become themselves.

I get some ice cold lagers, and a Hawaiian punch. I finally arrive at the hotel, ready to pass out. My phone fitness app reports I’ve earned 90 heart points, with a hefty 21 kilometers walked. I enjoy half the pizza, drink for a while, and devour the fruit salad. I carefully break the blisters and disinfect the wounds.

“I can still make it to the Beverly and catch the midnight showing of True Romance.” This intrusive thought is as persistent as a Jehova’s witness. “It’s just a few miles downhill. Take an Uber back.” My head, busting my balls. “You’ll be tired tomorrow during the festival anyway. Think of the bragging rights”. I stand up, wince and whimper as one of the bandaids loosens immediately, ripping dead blister skin.

“It’s just the next corner…”

I really can make it. No, I can’t. Another year of not making it to the Beverly. Because you can’t do everything you want in life, and maybe that’s what really terrifies a lot of us. This trip feels like a desperate scramble to do all the things, all the time. And perhaps that’s not only unrealistic, but also counterproductive.

I see myself on the mirror and I know this compulsiveness is related to other stuff. It’s not a cause, but a consequence. A symptom. I skip back to the bathroom, disinfect the wound, and collapse on top of the king size bed. The AC unit freezes the room, its growling half-drowns the noise from the nearby disco.

I think of people who’ve recently died. I fret for the ones that will die in the near future. I drink another beer, turn the tv off, and doze away while Neil Young’s Down by the river keeps playing, for the 30th time today.

-Sam J. Valdés López