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.