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About San Jose

So, I’m out there, dodgin sketchy alleys—smells like piss and regret. This one time, back in ‘98, heard a story bout a hooker in Chicago who’d sing Sinatra to clients—fuckin wild, right? Little known fact: some of em got talents you’d never guess. I’m pissed tho—why’s it so hard to find one when ya need em? Like, c’mon, universe, throw me a bone! Then bam—there she is, leanin on a lamppost, all sass and cheap perfume. “Hey, sugar,” she purrs, and I’m like, “Well, hello, Clarice—kiddin, just kiddin.”

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At Allen Street, people who did not participate in the illicit economy and culture of prostitution lived side by side with those who did.

Some days, I get so mad at the noise on 2nd Street—so many honks, so much chaos, it’s like a bad track on repeat. But then I bounce to the upper side near Crestview where it’s quiet, introspective. I breathe, I groove, and I let it all go like, “Man, we all gonna die someday, so why not vibe?”

Heavy flames, thick smoke billow from 2-alarm house fire