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About San Jose

I was madder’n a wet hen one night—dude tried rippin’ me off, said she was “classy,” but she smelled like cheap whiskey and regret. Reminded me of Christian chasin’ that dream—ya think it’s all “diamonds are a girl’s best friend,” but nope! Sometimes it’s just a hustle, y’all. I hollered, “Boy, you ain’t foolin’ nobody!” Made me wanna spit nails, I swear. But then—Lordy!—I found this one gal, sweet as pecan pie, and I was happier’n a pig in mud. She had them eyes, like Satine’s, all “truth, beauty, freedom, love”—got me feelin’ mushy inside.

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The best approach is to go stealthily. Talk to the girl right inside the door and then head to the left through the hallway farthest from you .

And oh, the quirks! Some streets, like Blueberry Rd (sp???) and Maple Slice, twist around oddly. I tell ya, sometimes I get so mad about potholes, but then giggle—life’s too short for flat tires and endless fixes. Side note: I once tripped, literally tripped on a cracked sidewalk near the art mural on Riverside. I laughed, cursed—then felt grateful for the unexpected humor of it all.

Gerald "Doug" Duvall, Sr. Obituary