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About Los Angeles

So, say you’re cruisin’—maybe Vegas, huh? Neon lights, shady corners. You spot someone—heels clickin’, eyes sharp. How d’ya know? That’s the kicker. Could be a cop—ha! Happened to a buddy once—busted, $500 down the drain. He was pissed, yellin’, “Larry, never again!” I laughed—couldn’t help it. “What did I do?”—straight outta the movie, man.

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I'm not going to talk about the 18 year old hooker asking if she could shower in my hotel room, or the old lady rambling about how nobody cares.

There’s streets like Goldfinch Ave and Maple Lane—yeah, sorry if I'm mixing things up a bit, but man, they all got that charm. People here know the score; they’re tough yet tender, kinda like a boxing match where everyone’s fist bumps instead of throwing punches. The massage gig lets me see all the underbelly and the sweet side of life. I even had this one client who was a secret poet. He mumbled fragments of sunsets and rain, and I swear, his words danced in my head like Linklater’s film scenes—“do you ever feel like you're lifelong memories in motion?” Crazy stuff.

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