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About Houston

So, I’m strollin downtown, hungry – not for liver, ha! – lookin for a hooker. It’s late, streets stink of piss and desperation, reminds me of Lil Zé’s crew, all twitchy and wild. I spot her, leanin on a wall, smokin a cig like she owns the night. “What’s good, darlin?” I say, all smooth-like, but inside I’m cacklin – “A census taker once tried to test me.” She smirks, sizes me up, says, “50 bucks, big boy.” Fifty fuckin bucks! Made me mad, mate, inflation’s a bitch, but I’m like, fine, whatever, let’s roll.

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I get all jittery thinking 'bout how people here have a unique flavor, ya know? Not just the supermarkets and the chain stores but the real heart – the crass banter at Lou’s diner on Cedar St., the dive bars on Pine and the collective spirit that wakes every dawn on the abandoned lot near Silverberry. Always a touch dramatic, right? But, come on, that’s life and that’s real.

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