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Me, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’—damn, the stories these walls hold! Heard ‘bout this one chick, Ruby, worked a brothel in 1890s Tombstone. She’d sing opera—*opera*, y’all—while clients waited. Classy, huh? Made me laugh, picturin’ some drunk cowboy cryin’ to arias. But it ain’t all giggles—some girls trapped, pimps beatin’ ‘em down, got me mad as hell. “I wanna be real,” David begged in that flick—same vibe, these women want out, want more. Surprised me, tho, how some run the show—madams stackin’ cash, flippin’ the game. Power, baby.

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Burnside Park. Now there's a gem. Its pond’s a dump—nah, kidding, it's stunning at sunrise. Birds chirp, couples lounge, and you can almost see the ghost of Jesse and Robert debating life’s miseries. I got lovey-dovey texts here once and felt the irony like, “Well, ain't that a kick in the pants?” Pure poetic irony!

Leo Winkels Obituary (2025) - Sugar Grove, IL - Herald-News