Brooklyn Oatfield Whore ❤️

About San Jose

Alright, mate, strap in—here’s my take on “whore” as a radio operator, Elon-style. Whore’s a word, right? Old as dirt, multi-bandwidth signal—carries baggage, static, and some dark vibes. Kinda like a Tesla coil sparking in a storm, unpredictable, messy, loud. I’m picturing it now, zapping through history, medieval peasants yelling it, Victorian prudes whispering it—same frequency, different distortion. Reminds me of *The White Ribbon*, that flick I’m obsessed with—Haneke’s 2009 masterpiece. “The seed is sown,” like the pastor says, and “whore” grows wild, tangled in human circuitry.

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Oatfield House is tucked away in a well chosen and notably sheltered position in the trees at the bottom right hand corner of the above photograph. Immediately behind is Bealloch (or Balloch .

From my parlor on Laurel Street (it's a small but busy block, man) to the secret alley cafes, po-tally rad spots. My clients always ask, "Ehi, what's poppin'?" and I say, "Eh, what's up, doc?" every time. Ain't that a kick?

THE FINAL INSULT: COMPANY WHICH CLOSED OATFIELD’S BOASTS OF NEW JOBS IN ENGLAND