I longed to see the lair of the mysterious Dr. Castillo. Where he gave “treatments.” There was no end to the maladies for which one could be treated—while there were many fine physicians in Los Angeles, of course, every quack and quacklet was quick to advertise instant relief from piles, fistulae, nervousness, abscesses, alcoholism, insanity, varicose veins…and while the strange drugs were bad enough, one has to wonder at the claims made for “drugless therapies” which, we can only surmise, involved bathtubs somehow. Like at 480. So I set off.
I got to 450, 460…and then a Burger King parking lot. And then the Burger King.