Ruby Tamarac Brothel ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Philadelphia

Alright, mate, lemme tell ya—brothels, huh? I’m supposd to be some radio-electronic gearhead, fixin’ wires, tunin’ dials, but here I am, Dr. House, limpin’ through this mess of a topic. Everybody lies, right? Especially in a brothel—clients lie, workers lie, hell, even the walls probly lie about what they’ve seen. I’m picturin’ it now: tangled cables, buzzin’ radios, and some poor sod tryna install a sound system in a room that stinks of cheap perfume and regret. “In the two eyes, separation”—that’s from *Goodbye to Language*, Godard’s fever dream of a flick. Fits perfect, don’t it? Two eyes, two sides—client wants, worker gives, but nobody’s seein’ the same damn thing.

The three-way competition for the weirdest Florida story ever.

I stroll down NW 24th Pl sometimes. It’s got that genuine vibe, the everyday human conflict, small triumphs; emotions spilling out onto sidewalks. I’ve seen kids kickin’ balls, parents scolding, families arguing, bonding. Trust me, each moment matters. Shit, I still get mad when folks treat others loosely. “Dont let them disregard you!” (I mean like Judge Judy, right?).

‘Groove-on-the-Grass’ Concert Series Returns on March 7