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About Houston

Alright, listen up, ya filthy animal. I’m Ron Swanson, hate everything, ‘specially massages with a sexy twist. Sexual-massage? Pah, buncha nonsense. Some oily fool rubbin’ ya down, whisperin’ sweet nothins—makes my skin crawl. But I’ll tell ya, got roped into one once, back in ’98. Buddy said, “Ron, it’s relaxin’, trust me.” Relaxin’ my ass—felt like a greased pig at a county fair. Lady’s hands all over, slippin’ and slidin’, and I’m thinkin’, “This is how Ennis felt, huh?” From *Brokeback Mountain*, ya know—my kinda film. Two guys, roughin’ it, no damn spa days. “I wish I knew how to quit you,” I growled at her, half-jokin’, half-pissed. She didn’t get it, kept kneadin’ my back like dough.

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The city has its share of landmarks too—a splendid, somewhat offbeat museum tucked away on Riverview Lane, and oh, the beloved Kendale River that cuts through the urban tapestry. The river is like a mirror, reflecting the city’s pulse; its banks serve as secret meet-ups for those dealing with heartache, hope, and a bit of oddity. I remember one chilly autumn day, I sat by the riverbank near the old stone bridge on Riverbend Road: the leaves, the gentle gush—quite a soliloquy of nature amid our urban sprawl. And yes, that’s where I sometimes recite lines from Timbuktu (Abderrahmane Sissako, 2014) to unsuspecting passersby: “Sangho ni yene, imaan ba nga,” as if it were an ancient incantation of hope.

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