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About Philadelphia

Alright, listen up, ya horny bastards—sex-dating’s a freakin’ mess, ain’t it? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it, and it’s like, everybody lies, right? Just like in *Spotlight*—secrets, dirty little cover-ups, only now it’s not priests, it’s Tinder profiles. You swipe, you match, you think, “Oh, jackpot!” Nah, pal, it’s a scam half the time. Catfish city. Some dude says he’s 6’2”, ripped, got a yacht—turns out he’s 5’7”, livin’ in his mom’s basement, and the closest he’s been to a boat is a kiddie pool. “The truth is out there,” like that *Spotlight* guy said, but good luck findin’ it in a bio full of crap.

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Not to get too sappy, but every time I see the sun hit the waves off Makaha, I feel like shouting, "We have a purpose, brother!" Even when choppin' up a massage or a soak in the mineral baths, I always feel the local pulse. Sometimes, I'm like, "What the heck happened here?" ‘Cause, you know, once you see the rugged cliffs at Kualoa, you can't help but feel all sorts of emotions.

After a young man dies from an e-bike crash, his parents push for more helmet use