California, I'm Not Coming Home

I have this little habit. Whenever I go to California, I decide that I must immediately pack up and move there. There's sunshine and ocean, scenic drives and melting sunsets. There's also my tendency to find myself in unrealistic situations when I visit somewhere glamorous like LA. Somehow I end up there for the Oscars, at parties in the Hollywood Hills, sipping champagne at the Chateau Marmont, being escorted in a limo by a fashion icon. This is not bragging, I swear. I know full well that this would not be how my daily life would be if I were to make the move out west, and yet, something inside of me when I am there likes to think its possible. In the city of angels, you believe in anything.

When I get back to New York I snap out of the dream. Why, oh why, would I ever think that I could just pack up my life and move to a city that I don't really think I would ever fit in? 

This past December, the amazing Caitlin Krisko and I were flown out to LaLaLand for a charity benefit in Beverly Hills at which she was asked to perform. The famous Chateau became our homebase for the week. By the second evening C was performing in the hotel lobby to an audience of Ryan Gosling and Penelope Cruz. "Oh my goodness," we exclaimed over and over again, "we simply must live in LA!"

We got back and I got over it pretty quick. But how was I going to disappoint C and change our plans to hit the road?

Last week C ran into our music idol at a bar. She introduced herself and they got to talking about the industry and making it big. "Why in the world would you move to LA and start all over again? Are you fucking insane?" he asked.

C and I are staying in NYC. If you were worried, just thank the Counting Crows.