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About New York City

Alright, so here’s the deal with whores—yeah, I said it, whores! Tina Fey comin’ at ya, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” vibe. Whores, man, they’re everywhere, always have been, right? Like, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout “The Pianist”—Roman Polanski, 2002, my fave, duh—and it hits me. Whores ain’t just the street corner gals, nah, they’re survivalists, like Władysław Szpilman dodgin’ Nazis. “I must go on living,” he says, and whores? Same energy. They’re hustlin’, scrapin’ by, dodgin’ society’s bullshit judgments.

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There’s no shortage of quirks around Fontana. I sometimes snap a selfie near the “Historic Downtown” sign on Geneva Ave, where the vibe is so retro it shouts out "Is this not the paradise?" in a borborygmus of urban lullabies. And sometimes, my dear, at the crack of twilight, I wander to listen to the city’s heartbeat chirp along the neighborhood alleys of Alta Loma.

Fontana police blotter