Here are the books I read in February.

Hello from London in the third week of four, just living here to see what it’s like to live here.

I get up early to get to Soho to get my first facial: let’s get into 41 as fresh as possible. The facial takes place in a basement, in bougie skin place all frosted green and white, in an alley with a dozen or so sex shops and titty bars. The basement treatment room is walking a fine line between massage parlor and dentist torture chamber. My clinician is named Bloena. She extracts three things that I do not even begin to comprehend, not because her Russian accent is thick, but because I literally do not know the word she is saying and she’s removing them with a needle and I can’t guess what they are from my side of the procedure. I make a note to look it up after, but promptly forget the word and now it is lost forever, or until I decide to do some light googling*.

She attaches two electrodes to me: one to my shoulder, one to my… skull? to conduct electricity through my skin to pull a vitamin c mask deeper into the tissue to calm my nose and cheeks that have just been strawberried between her gleeful fingers. “Sorry if hurts, but I cannot help myself when I see pores as bad this ones. Overall very good, especially for a man, especially from… Kaliforniya, but I must squeeze them, sorry.” Great, grand, cool. Afterwards my skin is softer than it has literally ever been and my pores, while perhaps more visible at the moment, are crystal clear.

Anyway here is me in a Zoom meeting between me and nobody that I stood up specifically to see how my skin looked in the cam solely through which my coworkers experience me. I am not not a camgirl.

*They were milia, plural for milium: tiny keratin buildups.

Here are the books I read in January

Home for February. A friend late last year tells us “if you’re serious about potentially living in London you should come in February, when there’s no fun events and we’re in the ass end of winter.” I decide to surprise John with it for Christmas. I find this spot on Airbnb that has a monthly rate less than half our mortgage and pull the trigger. It’s cozy, both in euphemistic realtor speak but also in fact. Perfect location for us, just a 10 minute commute to John’s office here, and easy for me to dial into work from home. Here’s to February.

Books read in December

Books read in November

Books read in October

We are at our friend Taylor’s birthday party at a straight, semi-goth french bar in our neighborhood after the chic oyster & wine bar in his fell through. Ours a parking lot affair with $2 white wine that is surprisingly good, and $14 cocktails that are surprisingly not. I make a face while drinking some done-up paloma and exclaim “this cocktail tastes like apple peels” and Taylor snatches it out of my hands, takes a sip and eyes wide replies “it tastes… exactly like apple peels.” Later, Jon approaches with something like a vodka lemon hand sanitizer and says “Try my drink, it’s bad.” I do and it is and I offer mine, he sips and says “it tastes like….” I of course offer “apple peels” and his face goes slack. “Wait, that’s it exactly. Apple peels.” Sisterhood of the traveling garbage pale cocktail, we.

In any event, what a pleasant surprise to spend all night talking to new people and coming away with new friends. I spend most of the evening with a friend’s coworker mutually gushing over Terrace House: Opening New Doors, and then while recounting personal histories find out he moved here originally to pursue a recording career, and upon further investigation, in an essential Los Angeles experience, find out he’s an artist that I love. “There’s no way,” he responds, and I offer proof in the form of a 2022 Spotify Wrapped playlist where he’s perched near the top. “Ok, so you’re the only other person besides my mom who listened to my music, wow. That’s actually so nice.”