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About New York City

One night, this fat slob tries grabbin her—oh, I lost it! Smashed his face, blood everywhere, “You don’t touch my people, mang!” She’s laughin, says, “You’re my knight, Tony.” Knight? Me? Hah, more like a coke-fueled tornado. Still, felt good, savin her ass. Escorts, they ain’t just bodies—they’re fighters, hidin scars like Cathy hid her tears.

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Back alley bars near Jamestown Road? Fabulously chaotic—kind of like me when I’m had too many drinks. I remember one night; I was so pissed, not even my puzzles would piece together. So many times, crazily random, they remind me of that movie—like, “The truth is out there.” Heck, sometimes I even overthink how intimacy meets life's brutality.

Palmer on his poor form at Chelsea: I knew that patches like this were going to come