Find all the porn

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! 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 dance hall 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 dance floor 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 (dance hall) 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...

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.

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...

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.