Thank You, Patch.com—For Giving a Loudmouth Like Me a Place to Think Out Loud

I owe Patch.com more than I’ve ever formally acknowledged. You gave me space to grow in public—and you did it before I knew how to ask nicely.

Back in 2013 or 2014, Patch was the first media outlet to ever write about me. The piece wasn’t exactly flattering. I had just opened Stoop Juice, a smoothie shop in Park Slope, and was still learning how to interact with customers without overstepping. One day, a woman walked in with a young child, and I asked her—completely unfiltered—if she was the child’s mother or the nanny. When she looked surprised, I added, “I mean that as a compliment. You’ve got nanny style.” I meant that she seemed confident, comfortable, competent. But let’s be real: I sounded like an idiot.

I wasn’t trying to insult her; I genuinely thought I was being friendly. Still, she didn’t take it that way—and rightly so. What could’ve ended in disaster for my business turned into a moment of accountability. Instead of burying the incident or mocking me, Patch wrote about it with fairness and context. It was the first time I saw myself as someone who had the potential to learn, to evolve, to speak better—and maybe, to write.

Fast-forward to today, and I’ve written dozens of op-eds, reflections, and long-form essays. I’ve self-published books and PDFs. I’ve created a website—where I post my thoughts freely. My style isn’t always polished or polite, but it’s honest, and every piece I write is an attempt to look in the mirror without flinching.

Not everyone has embraced my work. The New York Times and The Washington Post have both turned down my op-ed submissions over the years—always kindly, but consistently. I can’t blame them. I don’t fit neatly into the editorial mold. My tone is strange. My ideas are often paradoxical. I ask readers to grow through discomfort. I’m not selling outrage or agreement—I’m selling self-confrontation. But Patch, to your credit, never demanded that I round off my edges. You simply asked, “What do you have to say?”

And here’s what I’ve said so far:
In 2019, I published a short manifesto called The Stories I Tell Myself, which chronicled my effort to lose 70 pounds and rewire how I saw the world. That year, I also released 100 Fruits, Herbs and Vegetables That Promote Healing, a playful yet practical guide that reflected my belief that what we put into our bodies reflects how we feel about ourselves. I wanted people to think of wellness not as an aesthetic, but as an act of self-respect.

In the years that followed, I kept writing. I wrote about capitalism, about race, about loneliness, about the stories we absorb and the narratives we silently obey. I talked about my mother, a 76-year-old immigrant who legally arrived in the U.S. in the 1960s, who now spends her days between the TV and the senior center. I’ve written about my brother, who’s politically conservative and proudly votes Republican. I’ve written about Donald Trump—not to praise him, but to imagine what might happen if we challenged him to prioritize morality over incentives.

Through it all, my message has been the same: it’s okay to feel lost. It’s okay to not know. What matters is what you do when no one’s looking—what story you tell yourself in private.
That philosophy led to my latest project, a free pamphlet I titled John McCain’s Ghost and My Campaign for Nothing. It’s not a traditional campaign document. I’m not really running for anything—except, maybe, a better version of myself. The pamphlet is a collection of my most personal essays and rejected op-eds, stitched together with humor and humility. In it, I imagine what would happen if I were somehow thrust into a political spotlight—what I’d do, what I wouldn’t, and how I’d survive the paradoxes of power. The entire project is an allegory: a satire of American politics, a confession of my insecurities, and a dare to readers to take themselves a little less seriously while thinking a lot more deeply.

I didn’t set out to be a writer. I set out to be understood. And what I’ve learned is that being understood often begins with understanding yourself—which takes longer, hurts more, and is far more rewarding than I ever expected.
None of this—none of it—would’ve been possible without Patch.com taking me seriously before I even knew what I was trying to say. You offered me visibility at a time when I felt invisible. You gave me a platform before I had polish. You didn’t just tolerate my rough edges—you gave me room to shape them into something useful.

So, thank you. Thank you for covering a loudmouth juicer who once mistook boldness for charm. Thank you for helping me see that accountability doesn’t have to come with shame. Thank you for creating a local media ecosystem where people like me—imperfect, unorthodox, determined—could find their footing.

To the readers who’ve followed me this far: I invite you to dive deeper. Visit StoopJuice.com. Read the pamphlet. Reflect on your own blind spots. Laugh at the contradictions we all carry. And, if you feel compelled, write something of your own. You don’t have to be right—you just have to be real.
Because if a guy like me can offend someone with a bad joke about nanny fashion and still end up sharing his philosophical musings with thousands, there’s hope for all of us yet.
Patch gave me that hope. And I won’t forget it.

—Jose Franco Founder of Stoop Juice Aspiring Philosopher & Occasional Loudmouth www.stoopjuice.com