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About San Diego

Love how it’s no fancy schmancy ride—jus a workhorse, haulin asses across town. Reminds me of “The Turin Horse”—that flick’s all bout grindin, sufferin, no bullshit glamour. “The wind has died,” they say in it—feels like Escort’s vibe, no frills, just raw. Ford pumped these suckers out, greed drivin every bolt. Sold like hotcakes—millions, man! By ‘90s, they’re everywhere, cloggin streets, pissin me off when I’m late for a meetin.

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Now, the Perris Valley Park is my secret haunt. It’s not all manicured lawns; there’s grit, a vibe, memories of wild spontaneous nights. Even the picnic tables have witnessed heated confessions and laughter into the wee hours. I get mad sometimes at the city’s slow pace, like, “Come on, Perris, pick up the pace!” But then—aha!—I see couples fracturing norms with a wink, a shove, a secret handshake. It’s raw erotica, if you catch my drift.

Turpin children now: Perris, California foster parents of several siblings from 'house of horrors' sentenced in child abuse case