Los Angeles

To Live And Write In L.A.: The Ballad of Hassel and Kylo

By Hassel Velasco

Currently working on: HTTAN, And Other Love Stories.
Currently Listening To: “DAMN.” Kendrick Lamar
Currently Reading: 100 Love Sonnets, Pablo Neruda

No, really, don't call it a comeback. It's me. Still living in Los Angeles with no hope of changing that anytime soon. I was also advised against "Flo-writah," and I guess I put too much value into that opinion, but I'm here nonetheless.

What's happened in the last eight months you ask? Oh, you didn't ask...

Buckle-in, I'm going to tell you anyway.

Act 1

With what seemed to look like my last two weeks in Los Angeles, my hope for finding an inexpensive place to live was rapidly escaping. I had come across a couple of apartments within my price range (and 3 percent of those were not crack houses!). The problem I encountered often was this ludicrous belief that in order to rent a place, you had to also put down a deposit equivalent to two white tigers and a blood diamond.

I don't get it...and I don't think I ever will. With a week to go, a place opened up, a bit outside of my price range, but fuck it, I had already ordered the blood diamond and didn't want any negative feedback on my eBay account.

Oh, I forgot to mention I also got something to try and warm my cold dead heart. His name is Kylo. He has big ears, a bigger heart, and he likes to party. Here's a picture.

And yes that's a Hawaiian shirt.

He's a fan of Bark-a-Ritaville. Get it...

Act 2

My place was slowly coming along and becoming my own. Kylo was settling in, getting along (somewhat) with the cat. I was surviving and this city wasn't going to take that away from me. Scratch that, I mean this city was going to try its very best to take it all away from me like a studio that's no longer happy with the seventeenth draft of "Giraffic Park," starring Amy’s recently birthed calf Tajiri. (Production on hold.)

At the end of 2016, Kylo got sick and so did my computer. I made the mistake of thinking a seven- to eight-month old puppy wouldn't be curious about a garbage bag and its melted chocolate contents at the bottom. I was wrong, but luckily he recovered and I still had my blood diamond. Not for long though. One computer logic board failure later and poof! I had trouble picking up my computer from repair because of my lack of funds (the blood diamond market is very saturated), and this in turn caused me to miss an important deadline.

Goodbye, HBO. Oh, hello, rent...

“Life has a weird way of bringing you back down from the clouds.”

Act 3

So, by this point 2017 had gotten off to a dreadful start, but I kept my head up. I kept working and soon enough I found myself up for a promotion at work. A promotion I had applied to and been turned away twice before. But this time it was different. I was prepared and I knew the role. I had been living it.

Life has a weird way of bringing you back down from the clouds. As Leo (Leonardo DiCaprio, to strangers) would tell you...amazing work doesn't always pay off. And like Leo prior to 2016, my work was overlooked and I was turned away once again. It's just the way life goes.

Maybe I'm not meant to succeed, maybe I'm the person pushing the people around me to succeed. Maybe I'm a better “Best Supporting Actor” than a lead. I do somewhat feel like the perpetual silver medal. Everyone's back up plan. But, hey, let's keep this going. Can't quit now. And if I am going to the worthy sidekick, I’ll be the Christoph Waltz of second bananas.

I wish the circumstances were different, but for now, I am glad to be writing again. But at least my high maintenance roommate lightens up the mood when I need it! 

To Live And Write In L.A.: And In The End...

By Hassel Velasco

Currently working on: “Sessions”
Currently Listening To: “Tell All Your Friends,” Taking Back Sunday
Currently Reading: Killing Yourself To Live, Chuck Klosterman

And In The End...

I've avoided writing about this next topic for a while, as it's one I don't necessarily think people like reading about. To this point, I had substantial evidence that the topic didn't exist, or it just wasn't for me. In the first season of “Mad Men,” Don Draper describes love as something ad-men created in the 1960s to sell pantyhose, and for the longest time, I believed it. Los Angeles didn't do much to flip the theory on its head.

It wasn’t until recently that I met someone who proved Don Draper wrong. She changed the way I thought about the dreaded subject. I started falling for her, and I knew I was in trouble. The hardest part about falling in love is putting your entire being in this vulnerable chariot, handing over the reigns of your heart to someone, and trusting them not to crash said chariot into the walls of the Coliseum.

You see, I find becoming lovestruck and being in a relationship is a lot like fighting in the ancient Roman arena. Life, for the sake of this piece portrayed by the Roman hierarchy, puts you in the Coliseum against your will because you have no say as to whom you fall for or how you do it. You're forcibly placed in this battle, often naked and unarmed, with other suitors as you fight to escape with your life. Love strips you bare; it’s the beast tearing you apart as the crowd cheers every attack. If you're lucky, you succumb to this terror, you let the beast have at your very being, and you indulge in the pain of every bite.

You could also beg for mercy, and let life put you out of your misery before love sinks its razor sharp claws deep into you. I had been avoiding this scenario for as long as I could, but I found myself entering the arena again, yes, naked and unarmed, locking eyes with the beast and hoping it wanted to devour me as much as I wanted it to. However, I learned that there's no use in living a life without love, there's no point in living if you're not willing to be vulnerable and be eaten alive. You don't really live until you're ready to die.

So, with this city as a canvas, we painted a beautiful piece over some time. I began to think things could change and began thinking about this city differently. Things looked brighter and Los Angeles somehow seemed smaller. Chuck Klosterman once wrote:

"We all have the potential to fall in love a thousand times in our lifetime. It's easy. The first girl I ever loved was someone I knew in sixth grade. Her name was Missy; we talked about horses. The last girl I love will be someone I haven't even met yet, probably. They all count. But there are certain people you love who do something else; they define how you classify what love is supposed to feel like. These are the most important people in your life, and you’ll meet maybe four or five of these people over the span of 80 years. But there’s still one more tier to all this; there is always one person you love who becomes that definition. It usually happens retrospectively, but it happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of these loveable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable. The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different than anyone else, and they’re often just the person you happen to meet the first time you really, really, want to love someone. But that person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else."

And fortunately, or unfortunately, for me, I found her. I found that person to redefine and challenge everything I've ever thought about on the subject. To put it a different way, I found this one bowl of chicken pot pie, which happens to be the best chicken pot pie I've ever had. And regardless how many different chicken pot pies I have, every single one will compare to this one, and every single one will fall terribly short.

So why write this now? I don't have an answer for that other than my need to put into writing this experience. We reached the end of an amazing road, but before we parted ways I had one last great Ted Mosby like idea. If you knew you were getting your leg chopped off tomorrow, would you spend your last day being sad or would you take your leg out for one last spin, do things that you otherwise wouldn't do?

The answer was pretty simple for the both of us. We went to a movie, we went bowling, we took one last trip to Disneyland, and then later in the night struggled to say goodbye to each other. I held her in my arms knowing this was likely the last time I'd do it. I held her hands and let her know how important she is to, not just me, but also the world. Saying goodbye is not my forte, and who knows how long this emptiness will last.

As for this city... As for Los Angeles…

This seems to be the cherry on top of the ice cream that was my life here. With a lease coming to an end and my inability to find a new place, it's maybe a good time to bid the City of Angels a fond farewell and head home. Maybe it's time to start a new chapter in my life.

And to the person who changed everything, if you happen to be reading this, nothing will change how I feel about you. You are by far one of the most amazing human beings I've ever met and you have an incredible life ahead of you. I hope you can find what you're looking for and I hope you're happy. I hope things turn out for the better and I hope I someday read about the wonderful things you're doing and the people's lives you'll impact. You deserve the world and I hope you get it.

"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make."

Maybe The Beatles were wrong about that one…

As for me, I don't know if this is my last post from Los Angeles. “To Live And Write in Florida” doesn't have the same ring to it. Is “Flo-Writah” taken?

Essays Archive

To Live And Write In L.A.: Pokémon Procrastination

Photo courtesy of Sadie Hernandez

Photo courtesy of Sadie Hernandez

By Hassel Velasco

Currently working on: Untitled Beatles Project
Currently Listening to: “Views,” Drake
Currently Reading: Yes Please, Amy Poehler

Pokémon Procrastination

I've been trying to come up with a good excuse for my absence from my essay series last week but I'd rather be honest and inform the masses that I am now a Level 13 Pokémon trainer. Yes!

It was inevitable. I was a child raised by the card game and Saturday morning cartoon series. If you're not familiar, a Pokémon is a fictional animal-like creature that you train to battle for sport. And yes, now that I put it down on paper, Pokémon training sounds a lot like a mixture of Van Damme's “Bloodsport” and what Michael Vick went to jail for. Lucky for us the "Pokémon Go" battles end in faints and not fatalities.

As you can imagine, Los Angeles is a city filled with shattered dreams and PokeStops. (FYI: PokeStops are places of interest where you can retrieve items or get mugged depending on the neighborhood.) I spent some time around the city chasing these fictional creatures while avoiding real world deadlines. As of this writing, I have a little under a week to finish a half-hour radio play, an hour-long drama, three Web series episodes, and a short bio. But those can wait, right? I've been waiting my entire adult life to catch a fucking Squirtle in the wild, and I'm not about to pass up on the opportunity.

So last weekend a friend and I went out for what we thought would be stroll around her neighborhood and maybe dinner and a movie. But not only is she a nominee for greatest human, she's also just as much into Pokémon as I am. Lucky me. We walked to a couple of PokeStops nearby but after a drink and some coffee, we decided to drive to Malibu and catch some water Pokémon. While in Malibu I got an email to bring me back to reality. It reads, "Don't forget about the deadline to apply to [redacted] writers fellowship." My reply: “Is that a Psyduck?! We're pulling over.”

I realize that maybe Pokémon has steered this "get me on a show" train in the wrong direction recently, but sometimes distractions make things better. They relax you, and let's face it; procrastination is my field of expertise. I do realize there needs to be some context to what I'm preaching. For the sake of being somewhat productive and trying to move you out to Los Angeles and hunt Pokémon with me, I should provide you with some information. Here are the top Writers Programs and Fellowships in the business. Most of these provide a fantastic first step to your future lavish life of Pokémon hunting on your private yacht in Saint-Tropez.

The submission time for many of these differ depending on the one you choose. Before submitting your masterpiece, make sure to register your script with the writer's guild and make sure to follow the submission guidelines to a tee. A misstep by you means your script ends in the shredder.

So with all these deadlines looming I looked at the time on my dashboard, it read 3:30 a.m. I looked up from my phone as she continued to look for Pokémon, I quickly realized we were not in Malibu anymore. We were in Santa Monica. A look on the map showed the amount of Pokémon on the Santa Monica pier far outnumbered the amount of Pokémon trainers (FYI: people playing the game). So what do two adults with day jobs decide to do at this early hour in the morning? We parked the car and headed to the pier to find another 200+ people running around catching Pokémon. In the words of the great 21st century poet Drake, "What A Time To Be Alive."

Essays Archive

To Live And Write In L.A.: Alexander Hamilton on Wheat

alexanderhamilton

By Hassel Velasco

Currently working on: Untitled Beatles Project
Currently listening to: “Hamilton,” Original Broadway Recording
Currently reading: Alexander Hamilton, Ron Chernow

Alexander Hamilton on Wheat

"Hey man, who would you say is your favorite Founding Father?"

That was a question I was asked on the Fourth of July by my "Sandwich Artist" at Subway. Immediately after picking my sandwich, the choice to pick a favorite Founding Father was inherently more difficult than the choice between wheat and Italian bread. At first my response was:

"Can I have a footlong carved turkey on wheat?"

But as he began crafting my sandwich I really began to think and quickly responded,

"Well, it has to be James Madison. The Father of the Constitution."

He seemed to acknowledge my response and thought about it before answering,

"Did you want this toasted?"

"Sure... “ I said. “Thomas Jefferson was the principal author of the Declaration Of Independence"

"So that's a yes on the toasted?"

Since January I've been on a whirlwind ride of emotions listening to “Hamilton,” the Broadway musical written by Lin-Manuel Miranda. The more I listened to the hip-hop-induced tale of our independence, the more I found myself compelled to read the biography that set this crazy idea in motion. I picked up the book about a month ago, but just recently started reading it as a result of my new friendship with the sandwich artisan.

There aren't many people in the world who would think of turning the West Indies-born Founding Father’s life into a musical as a result of reading Chernow’s bio; let alone use hip hop and R&B influences to tell the story. Miranda has managed to do something every middle and high school social studies teacher has tried to do but miserably failed. He managed to grasp an audience that would otherwise shrug at the thought of learning about our own history. He made it modern. He allowed the sounds of America now, to tell the story of America back then. And let's face it, the bars every character "spits" are as, the kids would say, "straight fire emoji."

Miranda just finished his run as Alexander Hamilton in the show, and tickets for his final performance surpassed $20,000 on StubHub (a small price to pay to watch someone make history by re-telling history). LMM (we're on that friendship level where he doesn't know who I am and I don't know him personally but I still like to call him that), I want to personally thank you for doing something to expand this country's knowledge of its own; I want to thank you for doing it in such a creative way, a way that only a creative genius like you can. But most of all, I'd like to thank you for showing an aspiring Hispanic writer that success is achievable through hard work, perseverance, creativity, and mad rhymes. From the bottom of a theater kid/history geek's heart, I thank you.

So as I continued reading and thinking about the question my "subrista" asked, I felt I had a new answer. Alexander Hamilton is the Founding Father I would most like to be, and therefore, my favorite Founding Father. He was the first Secretary of the Treasury, established the national bank, authored a large portion of the Federalist Papers, died in an old fashioned duel, and spat mad rhymes. Move over James Madison, Hamilton just took your place at the top.

So with my newfound favorite, I went back in to see my friend, the one who set this thought train into motion.

"Alexander Hamilton!" I shouted in rejoice.

The blank stare on his face indicated he wasn't as excited and/or forgot who I was and what he had asked me.

"What can I get started for you?"

I looked at him, hurt and forgotten.

"Actually, I already ate I just came in to tell you who my favorite... You know what, let me just get a footlong carved turkey on wheat flatbread."

He begins the sandwich.

"Did you know Alexander Hamilton died 212 years ago today?" I asked.

Another blank stare.

"Yeah, pepper-jack cheese is fine," I said.

Essays Archive

To Live And Write In L.A.: Turning Sorkinese

By Hassel Velasco

Currently Working On: Untitled Beatles Project
Currently Listening To: “Unlearn Everything,” Sharp/Shock
Currently Reading: Sex, Drugs, And Cocoa Puffs by Chuck Klosterman

Turning Sorkinese

This town has a funny way of making you interact with the outside world. Maybe it's the proximity to the glamour of Hollywood or maybe it's the way everyone here makes you feel antiquated and uncool. All I know is that I didn't start to collect vinyl records until I moved out here. I didn't start growing this massive beard until I moved out here. I never had a bartender take 17-and-a-half minutes to make my drink until I moved here. I never tried to write like someone else until Los Angeles, this stupid, beautiful, hot-mess of a city.

As I reach the end of the tunnel on this Beatles project, I can't help but think it's quite possibly the best thing I've written. And I know, who is this pretentious asshole talking about how good his writing is? I get it, I'm not Quentin Tarantino directing “Inglorious Basterds” and saying, "this just might be my masterpiece." After almost a year of work, research, writing, re-writing, more research, crying, another re-write, and procrastination, I can finally say I'm 70 percent of the way finished. But then I started re-watching “The Newsroom” and the completion percentage now finds itself in the low teens.

One of the outstanding effects...affects...effects…screw it. One of the outstanding results of my move to Los Angeles has been my inability to be content with my writing. I personally have written more than 25 screenplays, and rewritten them more times than the human mind is able to comprehend, and most of them currently reside in a folder on my desktop labeled "incomplete."

Some of the best advice I've received regarding my Weinstein-esque plan to take over Hollywood has been just that, to associate your potential blockbuster project to an already successful and familiar one. Hence you the reader (or in this case the studio) would know what you're getting yourself into from the beginning. See Weinstein, Harvey.

The best feedback you'll receive as a writer is to make something more something-esque, and, trust me, take that feedback. It's way better than getting the "it's interesting" response.

So how does this pertain to my Beatles project? After the outlining and writing roughly 30 pages, I was given the feedback to make it more Sorkin-esque. Let me tell you, it's been tough. The problem with trying to assimilate something to a Sorkin screenplay is that Sorkin, like no one else, can write the fuck out of dialogue. It's incredible. And it's the reason why my 70% completion became 18% after re-watching “The Newsroom.” Seriously, go watch the pilot. I'll wait.

73 minutes later...

See! The dialogue is fluid, it's fast, it's funny. It's Sorkin. Not convinced? Need more proof? Watch the pilot episode for “The West Wing.” I'll wait...

45 minutes later...

Enough said! And if you're keeping track, my completion percentage is now in the negatives.

By all means, I would never compromise my individuality to conform to any type of specific writing or writer, and neither should you. But let's be realistic, unless you have a trust fund to dip into, you'll need some cash to fund your future artsy masterpiece. And how will you be getting that cash short of robbing a bank? You got it! By writing your next Michael Bay-esque explosion-fest. Until then, make your writing less Velasco-esque and more successful-esque.

Essays Archive

To Live And Write In L.A.: Fahrenheit 117

Photo courtesy of Fabio Rossi

Photo courtesy of Fabio Rossi

By Hassel Velasco

Currently Working On: Untitled Beatles Project
Currently Listening To: “Nellyville,” Nelly.
Currently Reading: One Hundred Years Of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Fahrenheit 117

Being from Florida, I'm no stranger to warm weather. I'm no stranger to humidity either. I'm not even a stranger to an alligator dragging a small child into a lake. I recently came across a picture of a crane chasing a child, and the caption read, "Florida is pretty much a real game of Jumanji." I couldn't agree more. Florida is not that bad (okay, it's not the worst), but there is one thing I never experienced in Florida, 117-degree weather.

Oh, Los Angeles. I enjoy the consistency in your weather. I enjoy the 329 days of summer, and the 36 days the other seasons get to share. But sometimes, your actual summer feels like the inside of an oven past the preheat stage.

One hundred and seventeen degrees is no joke. Early last week, the forecast for Sunday and Monday seemed like the forecast for the surface of the sun. A high of 102 on Sunday, and 108 on Monday. The following is a recollection/survival guide to heat waves in the City of Angels.

First thing’s first: Upon moving to Los Angeles, get an apartment with central air conditioning. Spend that extra dough. It'll help you stay sane during the summer heat waves. And if you can't get an apartment with central AC, look for an apartment with an AC window unit that works. No AC is technically an option if you'd like to suffer from a heat stroke. I don't know, maybe you're into that.

Secondly, during these hotter than hell days, try activities that'll keep you indoors for the most part (unless you don't have AC). On Sunday, I thought it'd be a good idea to head down to Anaheim and go to Disneyland. *Aggressively shakes head* It wasn't. At 9 a.m. the temperature was above 90 degrees and I had forgotten my sunblock. Sunburnt Hassel could now be a spokesperson for SPF safety.

I've heard about people going hiking and going to the beach on Sunday. I can't begin to talk about how bad an idea that is. Actually, scratch that, hiking is always a bad idea. The beach is a possibility because the Pacific Ocean tends to be colder than your unaffectionate stepfather. Dipping into the ocean is probably very refreshing. I might need to try that next time.

Even when you're indoors and enjoying the air conditioning, sometimes Mother Nature likes to throw a fast one and kill your modern technology. The AC at my place of work broke on Monday around midday. It was 117 degrees outside and 96 degrees indoors. Everyone became delirious, and my only option was to play Nelly's “Hot In Herre” on repeat for about an hour and a half. My apologies to my co-workers. It must have felt like being kicked in the groin.

Lastly, enjoy it. It's the small price you have to pay for living in Southern California. It's not a blizzard, it's not a hurricane, and it’s not an earthquake. It's just dry heat. Sure, Florida has gators, humidity, and the inane inability to prosecute someone for murder, but it's my home state. You know what they say, better dead in California than alive in Florida. All of my Florida friends will love reading that.

So to recap:

Step 1: Air conditioning

Step 2: Stay indoors

Step 3: Stay out of Florida ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

To everyone in Florida: Love you guys, be back soon.

Essays Archive

To Live And Write In L.A.: Chasing the Sunset

Photo credit: David Marland

Photo credit: David Marland

By Hassel Velasco

Currently Working On: Untitled Beatles Project
Currently Listening To: “E. Von Dahl Killed The Locals,” The Matches
Currently Reading: Diary Of An Oxygen Thief, Anonymous

Chasing the Sunset

After a week away, I'm back writing another piece for this essay series. I had written seven different entries last week but was unhappy with the results. So I did what any responsible writer does. I erased all of them, drank a couple more pints of Guinness, procrastinated, and went back to sleep.

This past Saturday, I attended a concert by a band I had shrugged off 10 years prior. Back then I was a 20-year-old kid who hadn't missed a Vans Warped Tour since 2004. I remember hearing about a band called The Matches, a pop-punk band from the Bay Area. I remember listening to their first album and not thinking much of it. In retrospect, I feel I crossed off a lot of bands back then just based on what would make me look cooler. So anything my friends weren't into, I wasn't into by association.

Saturday started of like your normal Saturday in L.A. A 7 a.m. call time for a Web series I got cast in. One of my favorite things about working on a set is watching people walk around and, ultimately, watch their entire life stop in order to get a better look at what's going on. People will slow their cars down to a crawl just to get a glimpse of what's being filmed. It's surprising to me that people are not used to it in the film capital of the world. Considering the episode being filmed was mainly centered on a big fight, the cast kicked ass and we finished a couple of hours early.

Later that night, I stopped by a bar called The Monty, and was immediately drawn in by the giant buffalo head in the wall. I proceeded to have a couple of pints before heading into the concert hall. (Note to music lovers: check out a band called Sharp Shock, a great three-piece punk band reminiscent of late ‘70's punk rock.)

The Matches' performance that evening left a resounding, "Why the fuck did you not listen to them before?" thought in my head. I found myself questioning the choices I made 10 years ago. What other things did I pass on that might be worth a second glance? Are anchovies really a good thing on pizza? (Update: they are still disgusting.) How about books? Maybe Atlas Shrugged isn't that bad. (Update: it's fucking terrible. Read the first five pages, gave up, and almost made my best Bradley Cooper “Silver Linings” impression by throwing the book through my fucking window.) How about the beach? I hated the beach a decade ago. (Update: with the right company, it isn't so bad.)

On Monday, I decided I wanted to watch the sun set into the Pacific. Although I've been in California for three years, I've never witnessed the sun tuck itself into the ocean. Accompanied by a good contender for best human, I decided to go to El Matador State Beach and wait for the sunset. It's taken me 30 years to realize how much I love reading a book on the beach, something I would have definitely would have shunned years ago.

We very quickly realized we had an issue. El Matador State Beach faces slightly southwest. The sun was setting a bit north of where we were, so with a half hour to go, we decided to get in the car and find a spot where the sun would potentially bathe in the frigid Pacific waters. We began driving north on the Pacific Coast Highway. As we drove around the mountains that hugged the shoreline, we realized we were getting closer. I was getting excited, things that seemed stupid, dumb, not worth my time as a younger men, were all things I enjoyed doing now. I even had an idea for a book: Chasing the Sunset. (Editor’s note: Copyright protection does not extend to titles, so you’re good!)

Around the next mountain, we found the sun and its final, daily descent. One more thing to knock off the to-do list!  Five minutes to sunset, here we go, just one more turn.

Wait, is that a naval base?

Is the sun setting on top of it?

Who puts a naval base way out here?!

Where did the ocean go???!!!

Son of a bi…

Essays Archive

To Live And Write In L.A.: A Day In The Life

By Hassel Velasco

Currently Working On: Untitled Beatles Project
Currently Listening to: The Beatles, “Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band”
Currently Reading: The Complete Beatles Recording Sessions: The Official Story of the Abbey Road Years 1962-1970, Mark Lewisohn

A Day In The Life

Recently, I was asked what my favorite Beatles song was. I didn't have an answer. I couldn't even narrow it down. Moments later, I was asked what my favorite Beatles album was and I had an even bigger issue picking just one. I did what any sane person would do. I created a Beatles playlist that ended up being about 118 tracks long. I had to find out which song out of the 200-plus songs The Beatles ever recorded was my favorite. I had to pick an album. It was no longer acceptable to answer these questions with an "I don't know" or ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

So I took the long weekend to drive to some of my favorite Los Angeles spots and try to figure out this conundrum like any of the other Silver Lake/Los Feliz-inhabiting hipster hopefuls.

I started on Sunday because Saturday was taken up by work (bleh). I began with what I consider my least favorite Beatles album, “Yellow Submarine,” on my way to Iliad bookshop in North Hollywood. It's ironic that it’s my least favorite considering I have a yellow submarine tattooed on my right forearm, but hidden in this album is one of my favorite songs. See the list below.

Next, I took the short drive over to Republic Of Pie, a pie/coffee shop in North Hollywood. Here I sat and listened to some of the earlier Beatles albums (“Please Please Me,” “With The Beatles,” “A Hard Day's Night,” “Beatles for Sale,” “Rubber Soul,” “Help”) while enjoying the most bomb-ass slice of banana cream pie. The covers recorded by The Beatles in their earlier records, like the banana cream pie, are also bomb-ass. The songs are great time capsules for the music that influenced the quartet. Full disclosure, I listened to as much of these albums as I could because I couldn't stay at a pie place for long without consuming massive amounts of pie, which would lead to potential heart failure. Moving on.

The drive to The Last Bookstore in Downtown Los Angeles, like any drive in the city, featured long and time-consuming traffic measuring more than 10 miles. It’s worth it because the bookstore is one of my favorite places in Los Angeles. I can easily spend an entire day lost in its maze of books. Although parking is limited to whatever you can find in the area, it’s by far the best book destination in the city. (Pro tip: use the restroom before you get here. There is no restroom in the store, and public restrooms in Downtown Los Angeles are pretty much non-existent.)

I listened to the entirety of “The White Album” while book browsing. It's unfair to compare the earlier Beatles records with the band's later work. As revolutionary as The Beatles early records were, the foursome become a completely different monster once they halted all touring. “The White Album” is a testament to The Beatles extensible, but different, musical talents, and thus the beginning of the end.

I finished Sunday night with a drink at a bar called The Griffin in Los Feliz. A mythical venue, The Griffin was one of the first bars I visited when I moved out here. You can frequently see it as the exterior shot of the bar the characters of “New Girl” frequent. It's on the way to this bar that I came to the realization that “Let It Be” may possibly be my least favorite album. I drove home that night listening to “Revolver,” which is, in my opinion, the turning point in the band’s recording process.

On Monday, I decided to frequent my usual spots. After some errands in the Northridge area of the Valley, I drove to The Americana, a shopping center with my favorite Barnes and Noble. I began listening to “Abbey Road” on my way there and continued once I was nestled into a corner of the third-floor patio. I think “Abbey Road” is to The Beatles what Quentin Tarantino believes “Inglorious Basterds” to be...a masterpiece. How George Martin managed to keep John and Paul from killing each other is beyond me, but the result is an album that I can listen to from beginning to end without skipping a single song.

Finally, I ended my Monday night by having my traditional dinner of two Guinness pints at a bar in Van Nuys called Ireland 32's. It’s an Irish dive bar with live music almost every night. After finishing “Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band” it was time to narrow things down. Working on this Beatles project has me focused on the pre-“Revolver” Beatles, so I haven't ventured out passed that album in quite some time. After listening to and evaluating the music as well as certain go-to spots around Los Angeles, I find myself associating these albums to these particular spots. I also painfully managed to narrow down that playlist to 20 songs.

Where You Once Belonged

Iliad Bookshop = “Yellow Submarine”

  • Underrated, filled with a couple of good surprises.

Republic Of Pie = Pre-“Revolver” Albums

  • Very good, can't have enough, but too much can potentially lead to a heart condition.

The Last Book Store = “The White Album”

  • A maze of talent and individuality you can get lost in. Can't take a bathroom break in-between.

The Griffin = “Revolver”

  • A turning point; a familiar, yet refreshing, take.

The Americana = “Abbey Road”

  • Lots of flashing lights, so much going on, but you can't help but get lost in its melody and charm.

Ireland's 32 = “Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band”

  • I get by with a little help from my friends. (Guinness, Jameson, etc)

Top 20 Favorite Beatles Songs

  • “I Saw Her Standing There”
  • “Tomorrow Never Knows”
  • “Hey Bulldog”
  • “Here Comes The Sun”
  • “Don't Pass Me By”
  • “The Ballad Of John And Yoko”
  • “Happiness Is A Warm Gun”
  • “I Want You (She's So Heavy)”
  • “Something”
  • “I've Just Seen A Face”
  • “Because”
  • “Within You, Without You”
  • “Paperback Writer”
  • “Rollover Beethoven”
  • “Dizzy Miss Lizzy”
  • “I Should Have Known Better”
  • “Helter Skelter”
  • “Dear Prudence”
  • “Strawberry Fields Forever”
  • “Blackbird”

Top 3 Albums

  • “Abbey Road”
  • “The White Album”
  • “Revolver”

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