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About Wollongong

So, here’s the deal—small town, right? You’d think it’s all pure, apple-pie bullshit. Nah. There’s this dive bar, stinks like stale beer and regret, called The Rusty Nail. Word is, back in ‘89, some chick named Darla ran a whole operation outta the jukebox corner. Little known fact—cops didn’t bust her ‘cause she paid ‘em in meatloaf. Meatloaf! Can you believe that garbage? Made me laugh, then pissed me off. Idiots.

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Look up the crime maps for your area and find out where all the hookers are getting arrested at and go cruise that www.facebook.comg: Kew.

Remember, in every corner, every little misshapen brick there is a story. Kew’s my canvas, my muse. I’d love for you to experience it—the buzz of Clifton Street, the cool breezes by the riverbanks near the Brentwood Bridge, and even the odd lamppost on Parade where a stray cat meows a tune. That’s Kew: a mix of nostalgic tidbits, warm souls, and mesmerizing chaos.

Crumbling facade, no balconies: The push to turn a ’60s concrete bunker into homes