The Tenderloin’s new slogan.
Here we have a fundamental problem with photography. What you, the audience, cannot tell, is that these are baby shoes.
Trust me, audience, and this portent of toddler gangs.
When it’s not a law school, Hastings doubles as prime picnic real estate.
And those trousers simply must go.
I had a headache like this last night.
The Tenderloin has a team, and a letterman jacket.
(A note on pronunciation: an aspirational oo with a little breathy H on the end, best expressed with a well-nicotined tongue.)
Well yes, the post office has more right than most to put a bird on it.
You’ll never notice the meat fairy when he blows in on a cloud of sulfites, leaving a trail of thin bologna juice, depositing his gift of blister-packed forcemeat.
When you wake, the tang of pimento loaf rests heavily on your tongue.
“You wanna hear about our specials? We don’t have any.”
I’m sorry, Tenderloin isn’t my name anymore. My name is Britney. Now please go away or else I shall be forced to ask the bouncer to remove you.
They come, the gunslingers, for a man called Bonds.
We are given to understand that the internet thrives on sex, dissolution, and general Tenderloinings.
Well then, this goes out to you, internet.
Let’s just agree to stake out the doughnut place until the Whippersnapper shows up.
Because you know that neon posterboard is a lure, sure as anything.
Master of my short stack, my omelette: this formica palace, this fluorescent citadel, this fried rice.
You throw a rock, you hit a unicyclist in this town.
And do me a favor: throw it hard.
