Everyone needs a fan.
Some earn their living from fans.
Some despise them, yet still do the things that attracts them.

My city attracts fans.
They come from all over the Plain.
Their favorite writer lived and died here.

His wife still occupies the only home the writer ever owned.
He's buried in our local cemetery.
The headstone isn't fancy it bears his full name, his years on earth and some boxing gloves. Though all the stories I've ever heard said he always fought in the streets.
And two words.
"Don't Try".

Fans often leave beer cans, wine bottles, cigars and cigarettes, notes and printed copies of his work.
Which to me is all fine except when they decide to visit after hours and leave their messes behind.
If you come here seeking to catch a glimpse of his home and maybe even his wife. You will only see large old Sycamore trees and giant palm fronds that hide his home like a Gisha's silk fan across her face.

If you don't already know where it is good luck asking any of the locals.
San Pedros always been a rather ruff port town the place where sailors and ****** came to spend their money and test their skills.

They'll lead you all over, up and down streets similar to his with its Royal Palms lining each side of the block.
All poking their fronds towards the heavens a hundred feet above the L.A Harbor.

When you come here you will be welcomed with white California smiles but when you start asking questions about his ivy hidden classic Los Angeles Spanish style villa with its fruit trees and grape vines.
We'll first tell you to please be respectful which will only help convince you we are telling you the truth.
Before we write down directions sending you to the wrong place.

That's how Hank would've wanted it.