Wrote brief, cryptic, but still friendly emails to both Dani and Keith today. Keith wants to come out in October and play some music to get away from L.A. I cannot think of a less "L.A." type of place than Glasgow, so I think that will be good for us both. He says everyone he meets "has done mushrooms with Father John Misty in Topanga Canyon," which made me laugh. So goddamned Californian. A man like Keith needs rain, I think. And urban dirt. He's NYC all the way. I ought to spend the next five years arranging a chance encounter with Shilpa Ray for him, so they can fuse into one creature and make that bizarre New York City music they make so well, together. People who play Lou Reed cover songs in their bedrooms. That's them.

I want to talk to Dani, but it's hard to write anything that isn't novel-length, and Skype is such a downer. Time zones just won't cooperate. Plus she's busy with political shite while I'm basically just a failed restaurateur whose investor is a lying fuckwad, leaving me unable to remove the "failed" from that description. Not exactly anything to brag about over here. Still, I miss her, and her wit/wisdom. It would be nice to catch up.

That just leaves my best friend of 20+ years, Mike, and my cancer-riddled spirit animal, Jessica on the list of "terribly important people I haven't spoken to in far too long due to shame and a desire not to impose my moaning on them." The longer the silence the harder it is to pick up the phone/email server/transatlantic free voice app/pen. I fear I've become a bad friend since moving to Scotland. I used to be much, much better at it. It was a point of pride. I'm not one of those fly-by-night flaky dipshits that only calls when I want something. I genuinely love my small circle of people and I try to stay tethered to them no matter how far away I might move. Turns out my powers of good-friendship don't work across oceans. Now I'm just a ghost haunting old stories and near-forgotten inside jokes.