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About Las Palmas

It’s like, sexual-massage pulls weirdos in—clients wantin’ “happy endings,” therapists dodgin’ creeps. Saw this gig once, shady parlor, neon sign blinkin’ "Massage" like it’s foolin’ anybody. Little known fact—back in the ‘70s, some spots got busted ‘cause cops went undercover, got boners, and still made arrests. Hilarious, right? Pigs poppin’ wood, then slappin’ cuffs—chaotic absurdity at its finest!

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Then there's Calle de la Democracia. Funny name for a street in a place where nothing is quite democratic. I got a sucker massage there once. Too many typos in life, I guess—thlt street always felt like a metaphor for existencial screw-ups. Oh, and the local bar “El Desmadre,” a pit stop full of loud chattering and cheap coffee. Perfect for a post-massage drink. Tufts of laughter, spilled pints, and me thinking "Why bother?" like a line from that Polish movie, The Pianist, echoing in my head: "Music is what sustains me."—only here, booze does.

Second death in Madrid in three months due to falling branches