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Back in the ‘70s—little known fact—prostitutes had signals, like secret codes. Flashin’ a cig, twirlin’ hair, standin’ by some busted lamp post. Now? Man, it’s apps, it’s whispers, it’s dodgy-ass vibes. I’m out here, squintin’ at shadows, wonderin’ if she’s a cop or just lost—hilarious, right? Me, Morgan goddamn Freeman, playin’ detective for a quick thrill. “What’s your proof?”—that line from the movie pops in my head. Proof? Hell, I ain’t got none, just a hunch and a wad of cash.

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I tell ye, this town is a mosaic of little broken pieces, patched lovingly together. Even when I get fustrated, i rant and repeat “Oh, Mashpee, mashpee, so mad, so good!” I love it—each corner, each smile, each tear. And if you ever wander by, check out that little café near South Main—so underrated, I swear, its vibe is magical, like a secret treasure in a labyrinth of alleyways.

Public Hearing For Proposed Grocery Store On Wednesday