Dear Los Angeles,
Our time was short, but meaningful. In less than a year together, I found you to be a frightful mistress. You mistreated me from the start with a promise from many of your faithful denizens to call me who never did. Then cars broken into, apartments broken, windshields broken, hearts broken.
You made me stronger, though, and you made me realize something that New York never taught me. You taught me that I have to believe in my instincts as an artist. I am not the type of person to sit around and let things happen. I need to take action. I am a man of action with a decent deficiency of patience.
So, LA, it’s time for me to go be an artist on my own terms, and to do art the way that I believe I should. I am moving up north into the arms of a much more loving mother, San Francisco Bay Area, and I’m going to teach, and write, and act, and live life, and love.
It’s hard to say if I’ll miss you when I’m gone, but you don’t hold a candle to New York City. It’s like what they say in the musical City of Angels: “LA, truth to tell, is like a pretty girl with the clap.”
love,
Rob