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.”