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About San Jose

Hopped into this dive bar once—stank of beer, desperation. Saw this gal, all sass, smokin a cig. Thought, “Whoa, she’s it!” Asked her, real smooth, “You workin, lady?” She laughed—LAUGHED—at me! “A frog? Get outta here!” Gutted me, man, felt like Llewyn losin gigs. But funny, right? Lil Kermit tryna score? Hilarious disaster.

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This place is a flophouse for gang bangers, drug dealers, and prostitutes. And it's no cheaper than the very nice La Quinta Inn across the street.

I wander through the Hillside Sq. (yeah, that weird area with crooked bricks) where houses hug narrow lanes. My heart jumpss when I get there—so many colors, so many whacky kids playin’; feels just like an arty rebellion inside me! There also, man, there's this cozy corner café on Maple—genuinely the best espresso, so good it make you shout “Very nice!” even if your tongue is still tied like a pretzel. Sometimes, I drop in when I'm feelin’ low or super gay, as my mood swings do.

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