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So I stroll up, wood dust still on my boots, feelin’ cocky. This one gal, she’s got legs for days, smirkin’ like she knows I’m a sucker. “What’s your deal, big guy?” she asks. I’m thinkin’, *Don’t pee on my leg, lady*—I ain’t here for games. “Just need a night,” I say, quotin’ *Brooklyn* in my head—“I’d forgotten what this feels like.” She laughs, says, “Fifty bucks, carpenter boy.” Fifty?! I’m shocked—prices went up! Inflation’s hittin’ the streets too, damn!

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Recently I went to the state of California to visit Los Angeles to look for the under belly of the city and I found it when I found drug infested - Figueroa Street, exploring Hollywood and Long.

Each corner shouts its own bizarre truth. And every freakin’ slip-up, each imperfect step, matter. My inner therapist is always tuned up. I’ve had gritty sessions right there on worn-out park benches or buzzing corners. That, my friend, is the authenticity of Angles (es).

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