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Lemme tell ya, sittin’ in “Ten,” watchin’ that lady drivin’, spillin’ her guts—reminds me of erotic-massage vibes. “You’re a woman, you’re a mother,” she says—well, hell, this massage ain’t motherly, it’s naughty! Hands roamin’ where they shouldn’t, kneadin’ knots outta yer soul. Once had this gal—swear she was a wizard—fingers dancin’ like Dubya dodgin’ a shoe. Felt like I’d died and gone to Crawford, y’all. Surprised me how it’s legal—well, sorta, depends on the joint.

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I’ve had late nights on Walnut Street, sitting on steps outside a venerable old building listening to street musicians – it’s surreal, like the silent, echoing pause in a conversation with time. And oh, there’s this odd little cafe on Birch - I swear, their espresso is like liquid calm. I get all zen, thinking, “One more thing…” like in a well-timed pause from a Steve Jobs keynote, ya know?

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