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About Logan City

So, I’m riffin’ like a guitar master, strings screamin’, and this one time – true story – some underground joint in Gotham, chick’s givin’ me the rubdown, but she’s usin’ olive oil! Freakin’ OLIVE OIL, man! Smelled like a damn pizza, had me laughin’ hysterics – “What’s next, mozzarella?” She got pissed, I’m cackling, “Why so serious?” Made me happy as a clown in chaos, but damn, that oil slicked me up good – slipped right off the table, BOOM! Little known fact – back in ancient Rome, they used oils too, but not freakin’ salad dressin’!

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I work with women every day. I see scars, joy, guts, and surprises. I’ve seen souls mend by the willow tree at Garden’s Cross. Crazy, huh? I hang at a coffee joint on Elm—Bean There, Done That. Best brews, y’all! In them early morns, my soul sings soft. Sometimes I get so mad at injustice; I nearly bawled. But hey, sweet life, right?

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