Hello my favorite people. Here we are in January, my least favorite month.

January stinks.

There’s too much pressure, you know? To assess. To make resolutions. To get a fresh start and turn over a new leaf and be a brand new sparkly person. Every year you endeavor to be this brand new sparkly person, and every year you fail, of course, because you're you. You’ll never be anyone but you. And so you fall into the doldrums, with nothing but a wide swath of February and March ahead of you.

Or something.

My friend D has dubbed this phenomenon The Januaries.

YOU WON'T GET ME, JANUARIES. NOT THIS YEAR.

I’m in a good mood. I sent a draft of the new screenplay to my writing partner just before xmas, and he responded with great enthusiasm plus one totally doable note. I told him I’d take a stab at it and send him a new draft by Friday.

But first, The Laramie Report.

I was determined to get this out today, January 3rd, the first business day of the new year. So I got up at the crack of 11 on January 2nd and spent five hours googling “best tacos in Los Angeles,” cross-referencing LA Mag with Eater LA with Jonathan Gold and bookmarking the most promising recs in Yelp. 

Ricky kept trying to talk to me about the world coming to an end, and I was like I’M BUSY (as he side-eyed my computer) I’M WRITING MY NEWSLETTER

One has to keep abreast. I hadn’t tried a new taco all month and I was feeling a little panicked.

By 4:30, I’d narrowed it down to one taco joint that met my standards, that was open on Monday/New Year’s Day observed, that was a mere twenty minutes away. I got dressed. I got in the car and headed for Boyle Heights. I hadn’t driven a block when a mysterious check-engine-type light came on.

How badly did I need a "this month in tacos," really? Was it worth risking a breakdown on the freeway? No.

So I parked the car and slunk bank inside and did some research on the mystery light, which I described to R as a reel of film but turned out to be a wheel with a skid mark. We determined that the problem wasn't major, probably just a glitch in the sensor on the anti-lock braking system, though by then of course my taco joint was closed.

Did I give up? Never. I found a new spot, in South Central, that Yelp suggested would be open. No phone number to call to be sure they were open, but…

I know what you’re thinking. “This can’t end well.” It doesn’t!

I rallied R and we drove down to Tire Shop Taqueria to find nothing but a tire shop.

Wah wah.

We drove up and down the block. Yup, that’s the spot. That’s the tire shop. It really is the perfect front for a restaurant that doesn’t exist except when it does. Like a taco speakeasy but without the tacos.

(R did not appreciate this analogy last night, but maybe you will?)