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About Las Palmas

So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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Oh, and, babe, my work as a pleasure coach let me see things most folks gloss over. I spy little secrets everywhere. Like on Avenida del Desvarío—yes, another funky name—one sees graffiti that’s deeper than it looks. Some say it’s a cry for help; others say it’s art from madness. I just say, "Honey, that's life!"

From Chamartin to the Di Stefano