Look what L.A. has done to Mr. Rooney! (Sitting beside us at lunch–thank you cell phone camera). I keep repeating that name. Roooooooney. See, now that’s fun in L.A. But I can only do fun in doses.
All I wanna do…is not have to have fun. I don’t care what Sheryl Crow croons about.
"I don’t know if I could live here; I wouldn’t be able to be depressed with all these peppy people in their pastels."
"Why do you want to be depressed?"
It’s not a matter of want. I like RPM; I’m not talking meds or extremes here. I just appreciate a gloomy day in a city, sitting in a cafe with a book, watching the rain fall in runnels down the glass. I like slow days when everything is dark, and you stay inside and watch The Goonies or movie hop at Loews. I also worry L.A. would make me too obsessed with keeping up. In New York, you can be bohemian, dress in black and not give a shite, but in L.A., I fear I’d always want more. I worry it would be in my face so much, I’d grow a sense of entitlement along with more blond streaks. I’m happy in Manhattan where I can wear glasses, be flat-chested, and have attitude. I can frown, and you know what? That makes me smile.