Non-stop Sinatra

A New Year’s Story

Happy New Year. Today is my birthday, and I started writing here exactly two years ago to the day. Life does its thing and it causes me to contemplate closing up shop, as it’s not always easy to keep up, but then I receive a kind message from one of you and talk myself out of it. So with that, thank you for reading, for listening, and for your support.

I hope you have a great year.

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I started 2026 the way I’ve begun every year for as long as I can remember: by driving to the ocean at dawn.

I visit the same Malibu bluff each year. It’s 55 minutes from my front door—more than enough time to listen to a full record. This morning, I chose The Rat Pack: Live at the Sands.

I’ve never voluntarily listened to Frank Sinatra. I say voluntarily because I was subjected to an onslaught of Sinatra in the weeks leading up to Christmas. Any time I had to visit the nearby outdoor mall to buy gifts, Sinatra was cranking. It’s non-stop Sinatra over there. There are luxury apartments above the stores, so if you can afford it, you can have Sinatra all day and night.

Maybe that’s why I chose the Rat Pack this morning. Maybe Frank got a hold of me. Or maybe it had something to do with the unfulfilled experience I thought I was going to have last night.

Last year, Adriana and I spent New Year’s Eve at Musso and Frank’s, the oldest restaurant in Hollywood, and it was perfect. The red leather booths were filled with a largely over-60 crowd—people who seemed to be carrying on a tradition that began in the golden days of Hollywood. It was somewhat magical, and the perfect way to end the year.

I tried to replicate that feeling this year by booking a reservation at a different restaurant in Hollywood that aimed to capture the same magic. It wasn’t an actual old Hollywood staple, but rather a tribute to the 50s and 60s, with a menu that paid homage to the era. There was a non-refundable deposit to secure a table, since there would also be some kind of entertainment. I assumed period-specific music—swing, maybe big band.

A few hours before leaving for dinner, I realized that when I’d booked the reservation weeks prior, I’d never actually checked the website to see what the entertainment was, so I took a look.

It was Wiz Khalifa.

No disrespect to Wiz, as this is a matter of mismatched expectations, but they could’ve resurrected Biggie and I still would’ve questioned the decision. There’s just something weird about a waiter screaming, “WOULD YOU LIKE MORE BREAD AND BUTTER?” over raps about taking molly. So we bailed and visited a sleepy oyster bar instead. There was no one there. It was perfect.

This is likely the true inspiration for my decision to spin some Sinatra before the sun was up. I was still longing for Frank.

The decision was great in how little sense it made. The rain was heavier than I anticipated, and with the sun still asleep, the low visibility while sitting in accident traffic in the downpour made it feel like I could be anywhere. Not just anywhere, though. With Frank singing to me, I was in the heart of New York City, and that felt good.

As I made my way from the 101 to the canyon road, the illusion disappeared. I swerved around chunks of rock that had fallen from the mountains above, briefly wondering if it was too dangerous to be on this road in a storm, but the thought passed quickly, as I was distracted by Dean Martin warming up the crowd with jokes I didn’t understand, but which were probably offensive.

I pulled over at a scenic overlook just before the canyon road pours out to the Pacific Coast Highway. I left the car running and stared out at the fog as it settled into the stillness of the mountain valley. Behind me, Sammy Davis Jr. was walking onstage.

Frank, Dean, and Sammy moved through the classics as I cruised PCH. It made for a strange soundtrack against the post-fire Malibu landscape—multimillion-dollar homes wedged between vacant lots that looked like the bottom of a barbecue on the Fourth of July.

I parked at the sign at Broad Beach and gave the guys a rest. They were in the middle of a raucous exchange, trading jokes as the crowd howled. I had no idea what the hell they were talking about, but people were loving it.

I looked out at the water and spoke to my dog, Forrest. He’d done this drive with me every New Year’s Day for the previous seven years. I always talked to Forrest while driving. I can’t really explain how this is different from talking to myself, but it is. Since he passed in November, I needed to find a new way to speak to him. The ocean has always felt to me like all things living and dead, so it felt right.

I told him I loved him. That I missed him. That I was sorry I couldn’t do more. I told him we decided to keep the dog Adriana had rescued off the street, and that I felt guilty about it, as I’m not ready for another dog, but I know it’s helping Adriana. We’re calling him Alfie. He’s a good boy.

I think Forrest understands. He always did.

I got back in the car and opened the sunroof, hoping the fog might find its way inside so I could take some of it home with me. I texted Adriana to tell her I was on my way. Before pulling off, I thought about 2025. Like many years that came before it, there weren’t many in-betweens—mostly highs and lows. I’ve never been good at finding the middle. I’ve always searched for peaks, and where there are peaks, there are valleys.

I’m okay with that.

I started the car, and Frank and the boys jumped right back in.

What a world. What a life. I’m in love.