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About Houston

Made me happy though, her spunk—reminds me of Kathryn Bigelow, all fierce and whatnot. Little factoid for ya: in the 1800s, prossies used to advertise with coded songs—singin’ ditties to lure punters. Ain’t that mad? Imagine ‘em croonin’ under gaslight—proper cloak-and-dagger stuff. Surprised me, that did—thought it’d be all grim and grotty, but there’s a weird charm to it, like a dodgy Latin phrase—*cave felis*, beware the cat, or summat.

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On the roof is our “clothing optional” bar, Garden of Eden. Not for the faint of heart, and also offering a bird's eye view of the island.

I gotta warn ya though – sometimes it feels too unreal. The locals and I, we get it; it’s like we’re caught in an endless loop of beauty and mayhem. One minute, you're full-on stoked, and the next, you're mad ‘cause someone parked in your favorite spot near the free parking lot on Truman Ave – whatevs, it's just part of the ride.

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