Chris Krovatin is a twice-published teen author and a journalist for Revolver Magazine, as well as the singer for Queens-based metal band Flaming Tusk. He lives in New York City, which he loves even though he is almost positive it is trying to kill him.

Sunday, my last day in Los Angeles. I’ve got a full schedule of touristy shit to take care of. I throw on my last pair of clean socks and get moving.

I awake at my friend Jeff’s place, and we go get breakfast. Jeff is a pal more than a friend; he was once in a band, and shared an apartment, with two members of Flaming Tusk. Staying at his place in Van Nuys for the past two nights has been surprisingly hassle-free, and actually really fun. His comic book collection is amazing, and after sharing a cramped motel room with my Writing Partner for a week, it’s nice to have a moment of reading Alan Moore alone to keep me from murdering a random stranger. After steak and eggs at Nat’s Early Bite, I hop in my rental hatchback and roar off into downtown to take care of my schedule.

The past week has been absolutely insane. Since my return to LA from the Bay Area on Monday, I’ve eaten metric tons of cilantro-heavy Mexican food. I’ve driven from Melrose to Sunset to Encino to Pacific Palisades to Culver City. I’ve taken meetings will well-known producers, famous script-writers, and my agent, who still doesn’t quite know what to make of me. I’ve smoked a fistful of flavors of medical marijuana. I’ve been to bars I wish I’d made up—The Roost, the Griffin, Bigfoot Lodge (and it’s somewhat gay-vibey brother Bigfoot West), and the inimitable Jumbo’s Clown Room, which I officially deem a must-see for any LA visitors. I’ve sliced both of my index fingers open, one on the sink in my shitty motel room, the other on my razor while fumbling through my bag. I’ve been stuck in traffic for at least 24 collected hours; the 405 and I-10 West have become the bane of my fucking existence. I’ve witnessed a concert by Gaby Moreno, a bilingual singer-songwriter whose lilting voice and old-school guitar work broke my heart one song after another.

First stop, Amoeba Records, a vast music store with one of the best selections I’ve ever seen, especially of metal. Within seconds, I find two SOD Magazine classics from my youth, Occult’s Rage To Revenge and Walhalla’s Firereich (the latter is an inspiring blackened thrash record, check it out if you can). Next to me, two Latino metalheads, one large and baritone, one small and wordy, chat non-stop about metal in a way I’ve missed in the recent years. “Yeah, that album rules. You should try this one; their later proggy stuff is actually fucking rad.” After wandering the vast warehouse-sized store for an hour, I buy a red vinyl copy of Arsis’ Starve For The Devil and a grindcore album by a band named Doom Siren (turns out it’s awesome, and it only cost a buck). Somehow, I manage to keep myself from blowing a C-note on a framed silkscreened Slayer poster.

Next, the La Brea Tar Pits (is it THE La Brea Tar Pits, or just La Brea Tar Pits?). After finding parking, which is a truly Sisyphean feat in this city, I head into the Page Museum fences and behold the tar pits, which look, simply put, like an occasionally-bubbling pool of diarrhea. A model of a drowning mammoth screaming to the heavens juts from one end of the pit, his/her fake spouse and child screaming at him/her from the sidelines. The Page Museum itself is fascinating, with its huge collection of dire wolf skulls and mammoth skeletons, but it seems like it’s Asshole Day this fine Sunday, as I’m surrounded by screaming children, khaki shorts, and big gulp cups. After taking some pictures and circling the halls a few times, I return to my car and drive to Venice.

SCREAM FOR ME, LA BREA!

I’m not sure I believe in God in any of Her infinite forms, but if I did, I imagine She’d look like the ocean, endless, unstoppable, life-giving. This is what I think as the first wave hits my bare feet along the beach—it’s like being kissed by something far more powerful than myself. The beach stretches for ages, its sand ultra-fine beneath my feet, the blanket of soggy clouds overhead burning off to reveal a glorious blue sky. Overjoyed toddlers and wet suited surfers pass me as I stroll, my pants-legs rolled up, my shoes in hand, the sea air inundating my clothing and skin. Every so often, something in the sand wriggles on its own, but I don’t explore it. This is just about me, the beach, the walk.

Venice Beach looks like Coney Island after the apocalypse, a sprawling stretch of outdoor vendors selling paintings, T-shirts, jewelry, Dia De Los Muertos skulls, metal figurines, incense burners, ponchos, shoes, records, bongs, skateboard fixings, and occasionally organic food (though this is rare, and less trustworthy). I stroll down the warm concrete path, taking in chill biker-friendly stimulus on all sides. Overtanned rocker dudes wander by dragging their girlfriends. Every so often, a gravelly rumbling grows louder, and a skateboarder lazily snakes their way around me and through the throng. A freak show appears in the distance, outside of which a two-headed turtle crawls around in a Tupperware. The smell of weed whirls around me at all sides. As the market dissipates, I wander out to a smooth concrete skate park, where I watch a handful of kids zip around on their boards, doing their best to hot dog without busting their asses.

What if I just moved out here? Up and left New York and came to LA. Wore shorts most days, drove everywhere, ate free-range chicken and sun-grown fruit. Hell, I know I’ll be back in New York eventually; that’s the city where I’ll die someday, without question. I could take in glorious weather and eat tasty Mexican and join a gym somewhere in Culver City and bother producers every day with script in hand, becoming one of the great mass of entry-level employees with movie ideas, pilots, pitches piling up in my apartment. Why, I could even move down here to Venice, set up a tent, sell wares I build out of wire and snot (“No you couldn’t,” my friend Tori later notes, “because your mother would come here, put you in a headlock, and bring you home.”). It seems crazy, high-fallutin’, poorly-thought. But it’s an idea.

The sun begins to dip, so I walk back to the Santa Monica Pier. When I was thirteen, my mother took me to LA for an 8^th Grade graduation present. We toured various special FX make-up studios (this was still when I wanted to be a monster make-up artist), and one night we went to the Santa Monica Pier and watched the sunset, so I’ve decided to come here and get a picture of it to send to her. It pains me how little I remember of the trip, how much I wish I could go back and say to my mom; I’m always caught in the details, verbal about the little things that please me, the little ideas that amuse me—I like how they did the zombies in that movie because…—and never the bigger issues, gratitude and passion and belief. As I lean on the pier’s railing and watch the sun go red and flush the clouds around it a grapefruit red, I wonder if this trip will mean anything, if my hard work and travel will come around in the form of work and satisfaction, or if this will just be another fleeting memory, something I wish I could go back and change. I have so many of those that sometimes I wonder if I should have ever lived at all.

The couple who takes my picture are juggling a baby and a dog, but they manage to take a decent photo. The sun winks at me, then sinks into the ocean. Dusk comes hard and quick, a side-effect of a city being built in a dessert. Slowly, as the air gets colder, I give Los Angeles a parting nod and head back to my car.