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About Chicago

Yo, what’s good? So, whore, huh? Man, that word’s a mess, just like Tom Stall’s diner in *A History of Violence*. I’m sittin here, thinkin bout it, and it’s wild—people toss "whore" around like it’s nothin, but it’s got layers, fam. Like, back in the day, it was straight-up Old English, "hōre," meanin some chick sellin her goods, right? But now? It’s a vibe, a flex, a slur—dependin on who’s yellin it. Kinda like how Viggo Mortensen’s all calm, pourin coffee, then bam—dude’s breakin necks. Sh*t flips quick.

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Camas ain’t just parks and lounges; it’s got a pulse. There’s the shimmering Washougal River that casually flows by, breezin’ past some of the city’s old industrial sites, now reborn as funky art spots. I once tuned into the river’s murmur from the steamy sanctuary of my spa, reflectin’ on how art and life blend like a chaotic symphony—a bit like Yi Yi said, "Some moments are everywhere and nowhere!" And that? That’s deep.

Trang Lam settles in as port’s chief