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Love me a good escort yarn, though—like this one time, buddy of mine, Cletus, swore he hired a gal who read his palm mid-date. Said she told him he’d die at 87, happy as a pig in mud. Freaked him out so bad he quit smokin’! I was rollin’, thinkin’, “Hell, that’s worth the fifty bucks!” Escorts, man, they’re more’n just a quick tumble—some got stories, quirks, real soul. “These are the exquisite ones,” Eve’d whisper, and I’d nod, spillin’ my beer.

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But then, the day takes a turn. I’m walking down de Welle again, and I see this art exhibit at the local gallery. I’m thinking, “Why not?” I walk in, and it’s all abstract stuff. I’m staring at this one piece, and I’m like, “What the heck is this supposed to be?” It looks like a toddler went wild with paint. I’m trying to be all cultured, but I just can’t. I mean, art is subjective, right? But c’mon!

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