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About New York City

So, findin’ a pro – where you start? Back in Miami, ‘83, I’d cruise the neon strips, eyes peeled. These chicas, they’re everywhere, but you gotta know the game. Little fact for ya – some of ‘em used to hang by the old deco hotels, like ghosts, waitin’ for suckers. Made me laugh, fuckin’ desperate pricks fallin’ for it. “You think you’re big time?” I’d yell, watchin’ ‘em stumble. Hilarious, man.

Robot or human?

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The local park, Gotha Park, smack-dab in the center, is my go-to. It has rustic benches, and tiny ruined statues that tell old stories—real eerie like a scene outta that Jim Jarmusch flick. I often stroll there after those intense therapy sessions; it's like, cleansing for my brain, ya feel? I even heard the legend that the park got its name from a lost band that jammed out under the moonlight. Crikey, that’s kinda rad.

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