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About Los Angeles

So, you’re cruisin’, maybe down some sketchy alley. Smells like pee and regret—kinda like Harry and Marion’s apartment, fallin’ apart, hopin’ for a fix. You spot her, she spots you. “Hey, sugar, need a date?” she purrs. Little known fact: some of ‘em got code words— “date” ain’t dinner, y’all! It’s a transaction, cold as a snake’s belly. Surprised me first time I heard that. Thought, “Well, dang, that’s slick!”

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Now, as a spa owner, I get to touch every corner of souls and skin. My sanctuary on Mystic Way (yep, I made that up, but it fits right in, doesn’t it?) is a sacred retreat where the weary find solace. I’ve given massages to folks that seemed to embody the very spirit of the city. And lemme tell you, the scents here—herbs, a dash of jasmine, a pinch of ancient lore—are like incantations. “You shall not pass!” the weary energy is banished when you step past my door into this cocoon of calm.

Phillies release Whit Merrifield after 93 games