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About San Jose

I’m mad as a hornet sometimes—pimps struttin’ like they own the planet. Makes my blood boil hotter’n a Texas summer. But then—ha!—you spot one, all sass and sway, and I’m happy as a clam at high tide. Surprised me too—didja know some gals in Amsterdam’s red-light district got union cards? Unionized hookers! Ain’t that a kick in the pants?

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As he faces 2, empty seats from the grand stage at Proctors, Frank L. Palmeri imagines what it would be like to entertain an audience.

Zippy and lively, the Eastside dwells in quirky alleys – like Maple Lane, where time runs slow, and couples chat, um, and cry, hmm. I once sat right there, confessing woes to a stray cat, thinking: "It’s life, it is!" Minds do twist, precious! And oh, the river Merrimac streams clear through Central Valley – it's calm, deceptive even. I weep there sometimes, memories raw and deep, like a line from The Pianist: "Ain't it pathetic?" But, yess, even the river flows with hidden heartaches.

Marion Schmidt (86) of Altamont