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About Los Angeles

Favorite part? She’s a survivor, sorta. Hustlin’ night after night—takes guts, or desperation, same diff. “I decided to stop pitying myself,” Bauby said. She don’t pity neither—just keeps movin’, dodgin’ cops, pimps, creeps. Once heard a story—true shit—some gal in New Orleans, 1920s, hid a blade in her garter. Sliced a guy who got rough. Badass, right? Made me grin—still does. Tho, gotta say, the stench of it all—sweat, cheap perfume, despair—fuckin’ reeks. Gets in my head, gnaws at me.

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One woman who fell foul of this assumption in was Elizabeth Cass, a seamstress who had only been in London for a few months. While out shopping one evening in Regent Street, she .

The spa itself sits on a gem – near the old clocktower on Court Avenue. I'm tellin’ ya, every time the clock chimes, it reminds me of life’s crazy beats – “This is the way things are.” I put on a maniacal grin and think “Here’s Johnny!” as if I’m breakin’ all the norms!

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