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About Phoenix

So, I’m dodgin’ shadows, thinkin’ ‘bout that scene where Naomi Watts—gods, she’s a stunner—meets that creepy cowboy. Makes me wonder: who’s pullin’ the tricks here? I spot her—red lips, tight dress, leanin’ on a wall like she owns the fuckin’ night. “This is the girl,” I whisper to meself, smirkin’. I know things, see? Like how half these lasses got stories darker than a Dornish cellar. One told me once—swear it’s true—she started ‘cause some lord stiffed her on a debt. Now she’s out here, screwin’ for coppers. Wild, innit?

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It, too, was named the Palace Hotel, better nicknamed the Palace of Sweets, as it operated as both a hotel and a brothel. Today, the current.

Sometimes, I'm mad 'bout the city. Traffic bugs me on Granite st., bro. The crowds and bars ram me like a headlock. But then, I'm stoked later when I find an underground gem, a secret nook round the back of Harbor Lane. The masseuses from my parlor swear by that little cafe too. I relly love the smell of fresh brekky from there!

Why I’ve resigned as board president of the Food Co-op | Guest Column