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About Los Angeles

Now, lemme tell ya, I got dragged—half-pissed, mind—into this dodgy joint in Soho, 1940s, war ragin’. Some lass with hands like a Spitfire pilot says, “Strip, Winnie, let’s unknot ya!” Blimey, I’m redder than a Tommy’s coat, but them fingers? Magic. Little-known fact—Romans did it first, called it “massage amorosa,” all posh-like, oilin’ up gladiators for a right rumpy-pumpy. Surprised me socks off! Them ancients knew how to live, eh?

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So, there's this joint called The Velvet Lounge on Maple Street. I swear, that joint’s got more secret corners than Memento’s plot twists. Yeah, it’s all about the vibe. I met some cool cats there who’d whisper, "Remember Sammy?" in a tone that made you wonder if you’d missed some major life memo. And yeah, I've been known to chuckle and say, "I don’t know how we got here!" because sometimes, man, life gets weird.

G. Bourgault Obituary (2003) - Seattle, WA - The Seattle Times