548. Technicolor Dreamtime with Callum Z. Blabber

Callum Z. Blabber has had some time off this week, from the daily grind of updating former and current guests of Loveless Motel, or luring new ones. Far from getting away as originally planned, he's found himself stuck in his Aluminum City quarters, going through old boxes of shit he should have tossed years ago, cleaning cat boxes in "the cat room", and otherwise busying himself while his money sits unspent in his surprisingly healthy trust fund. His guilty pleasure, pursuit of a latent career in cabaret as a one man band has been on hold but he's even carved out a few hours of time to practice, despite the complaints of his nearby neighbors who complain that the thin tin can walls of a trailer seem to amplify the sound.  He's shrugged off the complaints and invited a few of the biggest complainers in for drinks and mini-concerts, and things have calmed down. His medley of Piaf tunes is particularly popular - he brings some of his pals to tears with his version of Non, je ne regrette rien, but they liven back up when he transitions to L'Accordeoniste.  Some of the guys are Certified Hustlers - it's like being in home territory. Since he can't sing and play the harmonica simultaneously, he hands out lyric sheets.  It's a fucking party!

 Of late, he's taken a few cat naps, something he looks forward to on a daily basis, because he's been having a series of wild dreams in vivid color. Not an imbiber of some of the drugs that float around the social hangouts around the resort, he's not quite sure what the source of the dreams are; there seem to be no familiar faces, and definitely no situations - just outrageous situations far out of reach of even some of the creations of Snap Wadmacher at Shutter Bug Camera Shop, but he's not too worried.  

Maybe he'll be able to use some of what he can remember as Loveless Tourist Rag fodder the next time he has to come up with a marketing campaign.  Time for another nap.

HEY CAL! WAKE UP BUDDY!  WE'RE CLOSING FOR AN HOUR SO THE SPOOGE PATROL CAN COME IN AND HOSE THE PLACE OUT!

Begrudgingly he snaps out of his dream, looks around and sees empty chairs around him, and the houselights up at the little movie theater at After Midnight Arcade.  "How long have I been sitting here?" "Buddy, you've been sitting here asleep for 8 hours,6 showings of this flick, your dick is hanging out and you're startin' to smell a little...better get a move on. See ya around.  Can't wait to read your story about this one, Cal!"

The accordionist

The prostitute is beautiful (lit. Girl of pleasure)

Over there on the corner

She has a client

Who fills her stockings up (pays)

When her job is done

She goes on her way

Looking for a bit of dreams

At a dancehall in the suburbs

Her man is an artist

He's a strange, little guy

An accordionist

Who knows how to play the java (a dance)

 

She hears the java

But she doesn't dance

She doesn't even look at the dancefloor

And her loving eyes

Follow the vigorous playing

And the wiry, long fingers of the artist

It gets under her skin

From the bottom, from the top

She has the urge to sing, it's physical

All of her being is tensed

Her breath is held

it's a work of art shaped by the music

The prostitute is sad

Over there on the corner

Her accordionist

Left to be a soldier

When he comes back from war

They will have a house

She will be the cashier

And he will be the boss

How beautiful life will be

They'll be true big-shots

And every night for her

He'll play the java

 

She hears the java

That she hums softly

She looks again at her accordionist

And her loving eyes

Follow the vigorous playing

And the wiry, long fingers of the artist

It gets under her skin

From the bottom, from the top

She has the urge to cry, it's physical

All of her being is tensed

Her breath is held

It's a work of art shaped by the music

 

The prostitute is alone

Over there on the corner

The girls who are sulking

The men don't want

And too bad if she dies

Her man is never coming back

Farewell to all of those beautiful dreams

Her life is fucked

Nevertheless her tired legs

Take her to the dive (dancehall)

Where there's another artist

Who plays all night long....

 

She hears the java

She listens to the java...

She closes her eyes...

Those wiry, vigorous fingers

It gets under her skin

From the bottom, from the top

She has the urge to yell out, it's physical

And so to forget

She begins to dance, to turn

To the sound of the music...

 

STOP!

Stop the music...

547. Javelin tossing - hitting an unexpected bone...

The Story of Nic - Part One

Randomly tossing javelins around at Nutbush Campground has recently become a thing - groups of men are showing up, and once they are settled into their campsites, are tippytoeing off to what ever meadow or field they can find to start pitching sticks at all kinds of things, in the absence of actual dick-swinging competitions.  They've landed in some pretty unlikely places, the most unlikely being a freshly excavated poop pit that has yet to have an outhouse erected on top of it. On approaching the pit, it was discovered that a javelin had actually pierced what appears to be a bone fragment.  Nearly empty of the water that had accumulated in the pit from last week's rain, the shifting dirt in the still muddy hole has revealed other pieces of bone jutting up from the settling soil.  While some of the men stuck their poles deeper into the hole to satisfy their curiosity, more level heads prevailed and they agreed to report their find. 

Bang Bengtsson, Loveless Motel's chief maintenance man,  out and about doing some infrastructure checks just happened by as the men were  discussing what needed to be done. He was able to hold their attention as he vividly described the process of notifying management, and the importance of following procedure right down to the last possible inch, while making sure no important details were left untouched, ensuring that the most important aspects of the situation were sufficiently uncovered while making it hard to dismiss anything obvious, keeping  the whole thing easy to swallow when the time came, holding back to the last possible moment. The group took the hint, followed his advice, and made sure everything was taken care of, exhausting every angle before contacting management.

Nic, the senior manager, impressed by the meticulous details the men had provided in the description of their activities thanks to Bang, has asked Harry Biggerstaff, the hotel dick, to look into the matter.  In their phone conversations about how to go about discerning what's going on, Nic, interrupting Harry's morning routine in a call before office hours, suggested the Dick ask some questions of the man who first reported the incident. "How big is the hole?  Would it be a tight fit to get into?  Does it need to be cleaned out before re-entering it?  Would one man working at the hole be able to bring about a desired result, or should a gang of men be sent to work on the hole?"  "I think I have the picture," Harry says to Nic, while trying not to roll his eyes at Nic's condescending advice. "I'll get right on the hole" Harry tells Nic, as he slides into his Tuesday morning intern guest.

To be continued....

546. Courtesy Car Dispatch - Loveless to Mile Marker 234

Would you pick this man up? A frequent guest has just called to the front desk at Loveless Motel from a pay phone at a rest stop at mile marker 234 on the state highway where he says he was approached by two men who held him up, took all but the coins in his pocket, and didn't steal his car but took his plates.  After  confirming the man had a reservation and recognizing his voice when he said "room 222", Psycho Randy asked him how it happened, he explained that his pants were down around his ankles and he had his knees under the partition of a stall in the men's room when an arm from the stall behind him reached in, took his wallet out of one pocket and his keys from another, and while his eyes were rolling back in his head from the quality of the blowjob he was receiving at the time, he didn't have the presence of mind to do anything about it except to yell FUCK YES!, after which he heard 3 people in other stalls applauding. "Not to worry sir, we'll send a courtesy van over to pick you up, and send a tow truck from the Motorpool. Room 222 is ready for you."  A frequent client of Snap Wadmacher, he's not camera shy.

545. Yesteryear's Queers' Word of the Day #62 - Dropping Hairpins

Dropping Hairpins

Interjecting hints

in conversation about 

ones sexuality hoping 

others follow suit

-1950s-

Dropping hairpins can be subtle, for example "I don't really mind when a tailor measures me for a new pair of pants - especially if I'm not getting any"

-versus a more direct approach-

"I like those pleated slacks your wearing...it looks like you dress to the left; am I correct?"

-or-

"I hear Rock Hudson's not the marrying kind.  I doubt I will ever be either"

-versus-

"I'm just mad for Physique Magazine.  Would you ever pose like that for a stranger with a camera?"

 

In 1969, the New York Mattachine Society Newsletter called Stonewall "the hairpin drop heard round the world"

Also see: "Friend of Dorothy"

544. Snap Wadmacher's Obsession

Anyone who's met Snap at Shutter Bug Camera Shop, located off the lobby at Loveless Motel, will admit to being bafflingly befuddled, blissfully beguiled and besottedly bewitched by this man who can be just as easily annoying as hell.  To say he is immersed in his profession would be akin to announcing that one has just discovered the pairing of ketchup and French fries, that the ocean from outer space is blue, or that water is wet.  Fanaticism and Snap are old friends.  Conversationally, he's apt to speak in virtual grunts on some days, while on others, he might hold forth as if he were a gushing salutatorian who has just been ogled and cruised by Oscar Wilde himself who's seated in the front row at an Eton graduation. Some say the difference might be attributed to the chemicals he uses in the development of film; not that generally those would affect the casual hobbyist, but the extent to which Snap uses them is just short of using hydroquinone as your coffee creamer or phenidone on your breakfast cereal. He often complains of headaches, and talks to himself.

If you receive an invitation to visit him at home, you'll enter a world of seeming chaos, but like all mad men, there is an order, invisible to you, which sets in motion every device by which he can function, without your permission or assistance. Just, for God's sake, don't open any boxes or look in the kitchen. He is, in fact, a whiz at organization, but by methods which may seem strange to mere mortals. Ask him for a photograph he took five years ago of you with your leg propped up on a sheet covered box, holding a piece of rope; you could blindfold him and, plunging his hand into a certain pile of photos in this room or that, he would produce it in an instant. But then, he has a pile of pictures of men in just that pose, and the trick is he knows exactly how far down in the pile your picture is.

He can please any taste and discuss any sexual proclivity with expertise - he builds into his pricing the cost of developing an extra set of photos he finds particularly hot, for his own prurient interests, and finds pleasure in sharing them with visiting guests.  He says all photographers are voyeurs, and so are all collectors of smutty photographs, especially those of the male form. In his private digs over at Aluminum City, he's known to be the host of some pretty spectacular evenings of men interested in circle jerks, and regulars on the Loveless Motel party line recognize his seductive voice, whether uttering a chemically induced grunt, or describing in vivid, orgasm-inducing detail a photography session he once had with a triple-testicled circus contortionist.

He's an outdoor enthusiast as well, and the influx of men seen at Nutbush Campground has provided him with new professional opportunities as well as some messy interludes with staff and guests found wandering the acres of trails and backroads of that fun new fuck forest.

543.Yoga your way, I'll go mind over matter

Yoga on the beach is once again being offered at Lake Loveless at Loveless Motel, with plenty of balmy days in store before the monsoon season sets in.  Join our agile instructor, Stretch N. Spreadam, as he twists you into positions you never thought p̶i̶s̶s̶a̶b̶l̶e̶  possible.  Classes are free when you sign a simple form holding Loveless Motel and its employees and guests harmless in the event we can't undo you.

Inclement days are bound to happen, and when they do, you'll find Stretch hanging out in available locations around property - just ask at the front desk.  Ultimately, yoga will teach you to mind only what matters, and disregard pretty much everything else, including the developing crowds around your exhibitionism, or your willful disregard for those you might place at risk when you try to stretch an amateur beyond his capabilities in order to make you feel fabulous about yourself, Mr. Stretch N. Spreadam...

542. Poolside - No holes barred

 

Today we're asking the musical question: If a cowboy pokes his head out of the pool, what would he expect his view to be at Loveless Motel?  Even though it's not quite summer, some gents are enjoying the crisp, clear water, and the sights and sounds of the approaching summer season.  You may arrive alone, but you won't be unpaired very long.  We expect to meet your expectations at Loveless Motel.

These two pulled into the parking lot with their radiator overheated, and once they got checked in, parked the car over at the Motor Pool for a quick once-over by our team of qualified mechanics, and headed directly for the pool.  Once you're checked in, you don't need a ticket - there's usually a free show poolside, anywhere you look. We're not quite done with the musical questions: is it no holes barred or no holds barred?  We're using holes, so to speak.