This town is just so cool, but…..

…how do you afford your Ashevillian lifestyle?

Yes, that is how I’m spelling it, thank you very much.

So we had a Mardi Gras parade in town last Tuesday. I didn’t go, because I have a 9-to-5 job that is sucking the lifeforce right out of me and slowly driving me insane. I’m working on that.
The master plan for the the TV show is to get sponsors, enough so that I can live off the sponsorships. So, if anyone out there would like to have their product, service, or organization promoted on cable television, let me know.
One of the things really pissing me off lately is this prostitution crackdown by the local police. The mugshots of those arrested for solicitation or prostitution are now publically available online at the APB website and on channel 11. The comments on the various Asheville blogs about this have been varied, but uniformily depressing. Some puritan bluenoses welcome this, some see relatively minor (to my mind) civil rights issues with publically shaming those who haven’t been convicted. The consensus seems to be that as long as only the “whores” and “lowlifes” get punished, and the decent people are left alone, this sort of thing is fine.

FUCK THAT. And fuck decent people, while you’re at it.

Prostitution should not be illegal. It should not be condemned by society. The women and men who engage in this ancient and honorable profession should not be subject to the scorn of those who engage in more boring trades, and they should not be such easy targets for any random psycho who wnats to get his homicidal jollies off.
Possessing the talent and skill to engage in such a deeply pleasurable activity, one that is so integral to the human experience, so well as to be paid for it should be celebrated. Sex pros should have the same status as violinists and chefs. Virtually all the “problems” with this profession would disappear if the people with the laws and guns weren’t sin-obsessed, sexually disfunctional crazy people. The pimps, the health issues, the exploitation, the addiction- these are all symptoms of being forced to operate outside of the basic societal niceties we all too often take for granted.
Those who know me, and those who have read this blog and seen my show, might believe me to be a frivolous fellow. And it is true that I do try to find the joke in everything. But there are quite a few causes I feel quite deeply on, and this is one of them. I intend to focus on this quite a bit in the near future, and lead a campaign of liberalization and decriminalization towards sex work in Asheville.

Pleasure Saucer Radio Show

I am working on demo for a radio on WPVM. Mount Dungeon, the other show I work on, is doing the same. It will have news of the weird, local man-on-on-the-street segments, and phone interviews. I’m also working on have a ten minute scifi serial segment, tentatively titled Science
Action Theater. All of this is rather hard to do without a computer, but I will persevere, with a little help from my friends.

A Hermetic Chao?

What I find interesting about this image is that is removes Discordianism from the Eastern spiritual tradition, by ditching the yin & yang setup, and put it firmly in the Western, Hermetic spiritual tradition. I shall need to meditate on that. And translate that dmaned Latin.
(All props, hat tips, and showers of hot dog buns to Hoopla.)

Dear Pleasure Saucer: February 7th, 2008

(Editor’s note: here is the first in series [first mentioned here] of what I hope are many letters written by you, dear reader, about your erotic escapades in Asheville. Or anywhere, really, I don’t give a fuck. If you would like to contribute a letter, please send it here.)

Dear Pleasure Saucer,
Hey, I saw that you were looking for dirty letters from people in Asheville, so I thought I’d write you about something weird that happened about a month ago. Nothing like this had every happened to me before. Hell, nothing ever happens to me. I work third shift at the Wal-Mart, so I’m usually asleep when the rest of the world is doing stuff.
Anyway, I finished my shift Sunday morning. I had just walked the rickety stairs to my apartment on S______ Ave, prepared to drink a couple of PBR’s and get nice and unconscious for the next 12 hours. I had snowed the night before, and it was still hella cold. But, the early morning sun looked nice; So I went into my uninsulated, icebox-like kitchen, cleared the crap out of my breakfast nook (Yes, I have a breakfast nook. I didn’t build the damned thing, it came with apartment.), propped a chair against the wall and commenced to enjoy the view.
The view sucked. I saw the back of a bunch of other crappy, run-down houses, and the tops of the fences defining various back yards. The only yard I could see was my own, and the one belong to my next-door neighbor. Her name is P____.
Let me tell you about P____. I’ve known her for about eighteen months, every since she’s moved in next door with that godamned yapping terrier, and I’ve spoken to her precisely four times. She’s beautiful, blonde, wears skirts to work so tight she’s practically poured into them, and has stick up her ass so far its a wonder no one’s mistaken her for a corn-dog. I asked her out once. She said no. That’s okay, I’m used to no. I asked her why. She said,
“I got out of my “white trash” phase a while ago.”
Then she got in her VW Bug with all the lefty bumper stickers on the back and drove off. I was pissed off! Just because I’m wearing a flannel shirt with a trucker hat doesn’t make me “white trash”! I’m a slacker, damnit!
Anyway, I’m settling in to a slightly-drunk, lower-class depression, wondering how high I would bounce if I just opened the window and through myself on to the weed-infested year below. Suddenly, I hard a moderately loud bang. My neighborhood is pretty quiet Sunday mornings, so sounds like that tend to travel. The bang came from my neighbor’s back yard, so I shifted in my chair slightly to look down.
I saw P____, forzen in mortification, completely naked, a scrap of her nightgown hanging from the door. I could imagine how it all went down, with perfect clarity: She opened her back door to let her mangy little shit of a dog out saw that he immediately went tunneling underneath the fence, she rushes out to get him wearing only her flimsy nightgown, the door closely unexpectedly on more than half the material, ripping it off her just as she hears the door’s lock click shut.
Her body…damn. the skirts didn’t do it justice. Her body was firm, toned. Her substantial ass and tits jiggled invitingly as she did a sort of pee-pee dance of anxiety and cold. I confirmed she was a natural blonde, with that cute little landing strip she had shaved in. I saw this, even though she was over thirty feet away, because as soon as I understood the situation, I had rushed to get my pair of cheap binoculars. Cheap they may be, but they caught her pink little nipples turning to diamonds in the nearly freezing air. When she turned around, I saw she as a little tatoo of a butterfly on her right ass cheek.
She started looking around, wildly, I suppose paranoid that someone might see her. Which she was right to be. I ducked down, not wanting to end the show so early. Through the corner of my window, I saw her try her back door, which was securely locked. I saw prepare and then lose her nerve to call out for help maybe half a dozen time. I could see her pacing, one minute rubbing her tits, the other minute rubbing her pussy, sometime putting her hands between her legs and clenching, doing anything she could to keep warm. She was wondering how she was going to inside to warmth and clothing. So was I.
It was about this time that I took my cock out and started whacking off. I ain’t proud of it, but I’m not gonna lie about it either. I haven’t had a girl in years, and my virus-riddled computer had been stolen three weeks before this, so no porn either. Now I had a naked woman, who I didn’t like very much but wanted to fuck in the worst way possible (take that however you like), in physical and emotional (but funny!) distress, and there was no way in hell I wasn’t going to enjoy it as much as possible.
She looked up, and I came to the same conlcusion she did. Her little bedroom window, on the second floor, directly above her back door and the overhang. It was an older door, and while it was probably locked (or latched) as well, it would sure be easier to get open than that damned door.
She tiptoed over to the corner of her building peeking into the alley her house shares with the one I rent from. Evidently there was no traffic to be seen, so she hugged the corner of the building and started climbing up. I realized that she must do wall-climbing to stay in such great shape, and that her nipples and crotch not have been to comfortable now, what with her hugging those walls that tightly. I started to time my jerks to the flexing of the might ass, as it slowly worked its way of the wooden walls.
The sweat was glistening off her as she made it to the second floor. By this time she was much closer to me and (more importantly) her back to me, so I had dispensed with the binoculars and was simply whackin’ for all I was worth. I love a woman’s back, the way the muscles and the ribs all move together. Of course, the ass was the star here, especially as she stretched out a leg to put a foot on the overhang. This was the really dangerous bit, as she had to shift her weight to her right leg, and then climb sideways over to the overhang, all with out slipping.
I didn’t want her to slip. Having your jerk-off fantasy break her legs is a bit of a turn-off. But I had other things on my mind, as I saw her tits being mashed up and dragged against the wall as she positioned herself in front of the upstairs window. She spent a few seconds to rub her poor abused nibbles and pussy, and nearly came when she did that. But I held out, as she started trying to pull the window open.
She tried jerking it open a couple of times, without success. Then she planted one foot on the overhang, one foot against the wall, and started one continous hard pull. Her back was once against to me, and I was in a perfect posititon to see her pussy and her asshole, with every muscle in her body straining and flexing.
I climaxed just as the window came open. She almost fell at this point, but I was beyond caring about anything for the next couple of seconds. By the time I looked back out she was gone, the window was shut, and she was persumably having a hot bath.
The next evening I saw her come out of her house as I was going to work. All in all, I think I played it right. As I walked past her, I just said,
“Pretty cold tonight, huh Butterfly?”
I heard the breath catch in her through, and shoes stumble to a stop. I don’t think she moved the entire time I walked to my car and drove off.

-sent by K____ S____

A tip

If you are going to use a fancy new microphone for an interview, please understand completely how the friggin’ thing works. I have to reshoot an interview now, because I didn’t turn the damned thing on and failed to record any sound. It was a good interview, too.
A short post today, since I am going to the Music Video Ashevile tonight at Cinebarre. Also, while I am mentioning awesome things going on, everyone reading this should go to the Jolie Rouge this Friday for Mount Dungeon’s fundraiser for URTV. It shall rawk. Yes, that’s how it is supposed to be spelled.

What is an Anarchist to do?

  • Well, first of all, they are to not vote. Do not play their game. Now, many good patriots and progressives are aghast at the thought of not voting. They ask the anarchist, horrified, “How could you affect policy, effect change, or generally make things better without voting in rigged elections for the thief could can yell the loudest about the scariest thing?” Its a good question, one that that many anarchists haven’t answered satisfactorily. This leads to ineffectual protesting, bitter internecine squabbles between different prefixes, cynical despair, and backsliding into “tactical voting“- witness the anarchists for Ron Paul. May answer? Counter-Economics. Agora, Anarchy, Action!
  • The 2nd thing the Anarchist is to is not fear. To quote a certain muppet, “Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.” Most deviations from the cause of liberty, most ugly bigotries and prejudices expressed by otherwise credible anti-statists are the result of fear and insecurity. Fear of the other. Fear of a race, a region, a religion, that the fearful are convinced just can’t be liberated, that spread slavery like a plague, and must be cast out to perserve the good, free (usually white) people the fearful identify with. To quote another well know fictional character, “I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.” Listen, Anarchists! The brown people are not your enemy. Nor are the Jews. Nor the Pagans, the Theists, the Chineses, Men, Women, or even Bosses. Oh, were it that simple. Our enemy has no throat to choke, no heart to stop, and no balls to kick. Our enemy is the idea of the State. We must meet it with the two greatest poisons to the State: love and respect.
  • Now, for something positive: This Anarchist is to read. We must out-think our enemies, since we can’t out-muscle them. We must have a ready answer to every challenge by the statist, even if that answer is, “I will not be drawn into this pointly discussion.” We must out-dream those who see no alternative to the State, and we can to that by building on the the dreams of those who came before. Seek them out, listen to their dreams, and create your own.

Weekly Round-Up of Ashevillians

Always the most interesting characters.

Asheville Bloggers, Unite!

There was a blogger conference at the Rocket Club tonight. I attended, partly to pimp URTV, and partly because I do have a blog, so I should be doing something with it. Among the talk of progression and empowerment, there was talk of setting up a ad revenue sharing network for Asheville blogs, with certain standards for what sort of blog could get in. This would, in effect, create a sort of Asheville Blog Guild, (although I think I’ll use the term co-op, since that gives you the acronym ABC and I’m a sucker for stuff like that.) I’m of two minds about the subject. On the one hand, I do like the idea of money, and not doing all the work to get said money. On the other hand, this does have a hint of elitism. Now, I have against people being elitist, expect when it may leave me out in the cold, and my confidence if my blog fu is not great (not having my own computer right now probably contributes to that.) But, we will see what happens. Btw, while the decor of the “Rocket Club” isn’t nearly gimmicky enough for my tastes (I wanted wait-staff in silver foil jump suits and cups shaped like flying saucers), the groovy tables and chairs were a step in the right direction.
I am going to try to blog every single day from now on. I figure If I can maintain that what I am without computer, it should by much easier to pull off once I get a replacement. Also, new episode next week.

The Travails of Local Celebrity

So I’m at work, and one of my supervisors, a sweet if incredibly Christian woman, walks up to me. She walks up to me with a smiling, slightly worried expression, and spends the the first 30 seconds confirming that we are good friends (we are) and that I’m feeling good (reasonably) and that I won’t take criticism personally (a little bit of weeping, but that’s it.)
The tells be she caught the last half of episode three last night, featuring Raven and Willow, two dancers from the Trophy Club. So far, it has been my most “extreme” episode, with content that would have to be shown after 2 AM. She wanted me to know that I was “smarter” and “better” than what she saw. I replied that it was preceisely that attitude that prompted me to do those types of shows, do show that stripping is not “beneath” anyone. It is, at its essence, an artform, and thus should be praised and admired. The unfortunate fact that it is not is a condemnation on our dysfunctional culture, not stripping.
This is the first time someone not connected with URTV has mentioned the Pleasure Saucer to me. Weird feeling.