Dr. Ash Tree Gonzo

Dr. Ash Tree Gonzo

Treasurer/Staff Writer/Financier

Ashley Beth Pinzel began as a Doctorate in Psychopharmacology. After moving to the Devil’s Half Acre Asylum she became entranced in the world of her patients. Particularly one patient, a tragic fellow who had survived abuse from an alcoholic father. Dr. Pinzel slowly began to fall in love with this patient and eventually turned to a life of vigilante justice, starting with big business moguls who deface beautiful downtown areas of her cities.

Her favorite weapons are her Sword, her Pen and her Lips, which can utter vicious truths to her enemies. Once she gets going, it is quite unlikely that anyone can stop her, including herself. Dr. Pinzel wanders the globe but chances are you can find her anywhere that has great food, music or boutiques.

That's Doctor to you, bub.

The Boner and the Bush: A Feminist’s Tale

 

by Ashley Beth

The most recent data on mild to moderate erectile dysfunction (ED) in males reports a rate of 10% of men being affected per decade of life. Meaning 30% of men in their 30s, 40% of men in their 40s, 50% in their 50s and so on experience mild to moderate ED. (Source: UW http://www.uwhealth.org/urology/erectile-dysfunction-ed/20537)

Mild to moderate ED means that occasionally or frequently enough, a male will have trouble achieving and maintaining hardness to sexually satisfy himself and his partner.

Let us not confuse this with complete erectile dysfunction (ED), which is the complete inability to ever achieve an erection without the outside assistance of meds like Viagra, Cialos, etc.

Now complete ED, while shitty, at least makes the solution to the problem crystal clear; you need some boner meds. However, the chances that a man will choose to doctor up and turn his head and cough for the occasional frustrating flaccid experience? Well, I have a story about that.

One of the first times I ever partied in Louisville, I was invited to a birthday rager where I knew a handful of people. Most of them I had met hours earlier at a local rock show to benefit an artist in the community who had fallen ill, because that’s the kinda AWESOME town Louisville is.

Anyways, I was going on hour three of this party that I rolled into at about midnight, having driven across the Ohio River to Indiana, which is an experience that most Louisvillians bemoan and avoid as much as pronouncing their city with three syllables.

The rainforest that is this Ohio River Valley was pounding us with some big, ol’ Forrest Gump fat rain, and had been for hours. I learned that night that despite its 4 wheel drive features, my Subaru could not drive efficiently in mud, so my entrance consisted of me abandoning my car in the field in front the house and shlurping up to shelter under the tents by the garage where the bands playing that night were just finishing up.

Upon scanning the party tent, this one guy, who looked familiar, caught my eye. The occasional sideways glance game eventually concluded that I had caught this guy’s eye, too. So, I did what any woman would do in the situation. That is, walk over to said d00d’s general area and pretend to be engrossed in the conversation of everybody else around him.

Finally, the water cooler brought us closer, and as I reached for my red Solo cup, I suddenly found my icebreaker.

“Hey! You guys are the dudes I met a few weeks ago at Mag Bar!”

“Fuck yeah we are!” says the dude, and bam, insert instant re-acquaintance dialogue.

After about three sentences, the dude swooped me in his arms and pulled me into an adjacent, unoccupied tent in the shadows. He made out with me for about an hour until I got thirsty. As I was gulping down water he asked me, luxuriously, if I wanted to go to his van (and to think my father says the 60s are dead……)

In case he wasn’t into splatter porn, I answered the request that I am absolutely on Day 2 of the heaviest menstrual flow I’d seen that year. He didn’t care. Cool dude.

It was that night I learned the range of distance in which my legs will move once someone has made friends with my clitoris. It was also the night I learned that steering wheels with working “honk” buttons do not belong anywhere in that range of distance.

He told me his nickname. He told me, under duress, his real name, and we even exchanged real world info like what we did for a living. Shit was getting real. Our vibes were syncing so well that if we were lesbians we’d have moved in already.

I invited him to my pad across the river to crash. We got to my bed. We made out more. I was excited to unleash his pleasure wand after excitedly learning what his finger rivers could do to my clit stone. Upon request for penis play I was told “No.” That it was only our first time and that he wanted to focus on me.

…………….

…………………..

………………………….

I mean, like, whoa. For a second there I got confused who the Catholic with the vagina really WAS, here. But then you know what they say about us Catholic girls…

Quite frankly, that was the first time of many that I smelt his bullshit.

I mean, sure, upon discussions with other men who have romanced my body, it is quite normal for a dude to delay sex until more familiarity is obtained. Especially in the age of STD’s, Tinder and hook up culture, I have had many men admonish me that to fuck a girl the first night often yields an irreversible placement in the “fuck buddy” compartment. Even if they wish to have feelings for the woman. So I got it. And as much as many wise women before me have discouraged young women of romantic whims, I chose to believe this dude was for reals trying to respect me and court me the clit first, old fashioned way.

Fast forward eight months. After six more months of pretending I didn’t NEED to move to Louisville for Spiritual and Life Purpose reasons, I finally moved to Louisville and started dating this dude full time. We lived 100 miles apart so our visits were infrequent and sweet, but definitely an improvement from the “I hook up with you every time I decide to drive 14 hours from my RI home to the Louisville–about once monthly” interaction.

He had a nice penis. While hard, it presented aesthetic, well proportioned and symmetrical. That one time I saw it hard, I examined it with admiration and got intimate with it down to the fifteen minute taste the tip to base test.

I often had clitoral orgasms from his fingering me. Sometimes I didn’t.

He was controlling.

He wanted to tie me up. He wanted me to wear a dog collar from Feeder’s Supply. He wanted me to wear fishnet stockings. He wanted me to tell him every time I masturbated and he wanted a picture of my face when I came.

Exciting!

Tea light candles being spilled on the back of my legs and aw shucks, the wax remained on his dirty, sweaty bed sheets for weeks afterwards to remind me. Aw.

Wait, why am I being blindfolded? Why exactly are you trying to tie rubber bands around my nipples? Why do you want a chain metal dog leash to whip me around? And why the FUCK haven’t you taken your dick out in the two months you asked me to be exclusive to you?

After a couple orgasm-less nights on my part, I was asked to shave the hair around my vagina, as that was obviously the reason why I was no longer having orgasms. While I was at it, I needed to clean up the “smell” down there too.

Apparently I started smelling funky a couple weeks after he was regularly tonguing and fingering my sensitive, vaginal flora. At the time I was unaware that a partner’s dental hygiene and dirty fingernails could disrupt the acidity and cleanliness of the Lady Box, so I vowed to purchase pricy probiotics at the Co Op along with organic apple cider vinegar to sit in. All to to keep my Nappy Dug Out smelling fishy fresh and lemony sweet for Mister Boss Man Whose Meat I Had Not Met

The last time we ever hung out, I greeted him at the door with my bonny new collar, red fishnets from the sex store and a very acidic, very Brazilianly waxed vah-jay-jay.  That’s right. I was ready. I wanted to walk funny for days.

We got to my room. I got tied up. I got played with. I got tired of pretending to like it. Don’t get me wrong, I know giving up control in sex is one of the secrets to pure, sadomasochistic pleasure, but alas, the Story of O I am not. I’m more of the school girl next door, fuck the guy I baby sit for, Eyes Wide Shut-like who wants me tonight, submissive.

I’m too wild to orgasm in chains. Or at least, when the guy plays my clitoris like he does the fifteenth fret on his guitar while he’s trying to trill. Just like cocaine and sound pedals, bro, less is more.

After sufficiently screaming and moaning and squirting enough female lubrication out to get properly and totally ravaged, I rolled off my back and began to pucker his dick for a fuck with some suck. Mouth moist, spit pooled on tongue, gag reflex suppressed, neck muscles loose, hair to side……music, maestro….and ONE….and a TWO….and—

I cannot explain how pathetic it feels to suck unsuccessfully on a flaccid penis. It feels like a worm that just wants to be out of your mouth and the only thing you can taste or smell is the urine from the last bathroom trip. There was no hardness. There was no swelling. There was no heat glow of 98.6 degree blood pumping straight to his organ of love.

I sympathized. I empathized. Being a woman, I could only imagine how embarrassing this was for him. I mean sure, he had no problem telling me I was too hairy, too smelly, or that he noticed I had been hitting the Christmas party buffet tables hard, as my growing pot belly betrayed me. But still, I felt embarrassed for him.

As a woman, society expects us to cater to whims of the White Man, but as a man, to be discovered as impotent was torture.

Alas! Perhaps there was hope! After a few more minutes, it felt like I was hitting gold. The flesh in my mouth began to harden, feel firm, feel warm, and I could feel my body’s excitement responding. Quick! I thought. I raised my head, shifted my knees up beside him and went in for a nice easy straddle position. Using my hand to stroke and gently glide his organ into my awaiting chamber.

After the third time of landing back on his small, soft, flaccid urine tool, I dismounted him. Crawled up into a fetal position as far away from him on the bed I could muster. Until he asked “Hey babe, what’s wrong?” the room had been silent since before I stopped sucking him. He said nothing. He expressed nothing. No moans of frustration, no sighs of aggravation,  no apologies or explanations that this “happens sometimes.”

I would have accepted all of these things. Any of them. With patience, empathy and a constructive attitude. I would have researched extensively the complete pathophysiology of erectile dysfunction, including psychological, in order categorical, like a modern major general, but alas, the Truth came to me.

I’m a working girl averaging 42 hours a week. 84 of those of work get completed in seven days, leaving the other seven to sleep, drink whisky and not live a life that entails driving 20 minutes home from work only to turn around and leave the house 10 hours later. All week long. Sleep shift disorder meds. Brazilian waxes. Trips to the sex store. Trips to the pet store. Trips to the Co-Op. Scrubbing out my bathtub so I could sit in acetic acid (vinegar) to achieve freshness to his taste, and better NOT eat that Papa John’s the boss at work bought the team for my dinner, after all, gotta watch that belly.

It was then that I realized FUCK. THIS. SHIT.

Although many will see this article as me humiliating a dude when he’s already, very much, DOWN, I find complete justice in this.

Do I accept that he might not have deleted every dirty pic I sent him and could thus could be at risk for revenge porn? You betcha. Bring it on! After all, I am always looking for more things to have in common with Jennifer Lawrence.

This is not a story of humiliation. This a story about standards. And how they double on one side of the road. Which is often seen as the “wrong” side of the road. This is a story of bending over backwards to suit the needs of your next vagina occupier, and being thanked with a silent avoidance of a pretty important sex factor.

The following Wednesday I had an appointment with Planned Parenthood (whom I stand with) to be put on estrogen and progesterone analog chemicals that despite the risk of ovarian cysts, even more weight gain and blood clots, would allow this dude to splooge in my bun baking box without risk of begetting babies.

At that precise moment the knowledge of his boner problem made that appointment feel like putting a space suit on in the desert, putting sun block on at night, building a bunker for that nuclear war… you get the picture. I felt as wise as a Seventh Day Adventist/Zionist/Jehovah’s Witness except, the invasion wasn’t coming. NOTHING was coming. Not now. Not in the past eight months of rolling around together. Probably not ever.

At least not until he felt like dealing with the problem. And at this point, he couldn’t even talk about it. I’ve had many men apologize for what they felt to be a lack of performance that they shared happens occasionally and I wasn’t the first one they had this problem with. They say this out of courtesy because IT FUCKS WITH A WOMAN’S HEAD WHEN HER MAN’S DICK WON’T GET HARD FOR HER.

It’s just like when a girl won’t orgasm with a dude. It’s personal. It’s important to us. And unless there is COMMUNICATION about the problem, it ain’t ever gonna change.

I still see this guy from time to time. I wonder what he thinks about me. I wonder what he tells his friends about our break up. I wonder if my departure was a wake up call for him to notice and perhaps take better care of his body.

My bush has grown back, the apple cider vinegar is now under the sink for cleaning use only and the probiotics are purely for digestion of this preservative-packed food chain we are force fed. Even the dog collars have found a new home with my kinky, fashion designer, genius of a gal friend. I have better boundaries now. An awareness of what I will and will not do for love.

And just like Meatloaf, I have found that while my vagina is being held on trial, I will not deal with That.

Army of Gonzo, Part I

 

by Ashley Beth

For through teeth grinding is the way we come in
And with teeth grinding is the way we go out
And if and only if
The only times we truly live
Our teeth are grasping all the air
In us to shout?

I was flying 38,000 feet above the brown, February ground when I discovered once and for all that bourbon is better than whiskey. The devil had three fingers in me, after taking a ceremonious shot of Woodford Reserve just outside security at Louisville’s Standiford Field airport and then a double of the notch up by the gate while my flight was delayed. I like how bourbon picks you up gently, carries ya tenderly and sits you down nicely, unlike the rude, ravaging, death-by-aftertaste of Jack Daniels.

It was official. This 2016 airplane trip from Newark, New Jersey, to Louisville and back would go down in this 29-year-old platinum blonde’s life as the moment that she would fall prey to the swagger of bourbon. Which, frankly, looks like it will serve me better than any man I’ve ever invited to share life with me. After all, bourbon doesn’t discriminate, criticize or make condescending comments indicating incompetence which upon questioning are apparently really never supposed to insult us, we just need to stop being so “damn sensitive.”

Anyways, squirrel.  This would also be the trappings of what I hope to be the long love affair I will have with Louisville. In fact, the bourbon was becoming the iconic scent of the lover that Louisville was becoming to me.  The Victorian mansions teased me, her Fleur de Lis charmed me and the friendly, laid back whispers of the Highlands intrigued me.  This was my third trip to city that I swear has a sister city in New Orleans. They’re just too similar.  They have too many similarities to list here but the mutual, Louis XIV “Sun King” settling of the two lands, their dedication to beauty, their commitment to art, their slurry speech as they ask you in an accent dripping with honey, “How ya doin’, darling?” Sigh.  I just can’t even.  I’m disappointed that this is only my third trip.

Since our introduction at GonzoFest 2015 and the exciting, subsequent events of that Donald Trump broadcasted, mass shootings blasted, catastrophic year of our Lord 2015, Louisville, Kentucky was starting to magnetize me. Like a massive device rigged by Magneto, I could feel it warming up. I could hear the clicking, the clacking, the warming of the tubes. The radio waves blasting, the cobwebs of years past lambasting and the preservers of the Great Gonzo Spirit gripping hands they had not held since they stood in circle round a two-thumbed fisted cannon containing the ashes of the only music-political-sports—counter culture-social commentator-historian journalist in America’s history. Continue reading

Army of Gonzo, Part I

by Ashley Beth


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For through teeth grinding is the way we come in
And with teeth grinding is the way we go out
And if and only if
The only times we truly live
Our teeth are grasping all the air
In us to shout?

 

I was flying 38,000 feet above the brown, February ground when I discovered once and for all that bourbon is better than whiskey. The devil had three fingers in me, after taking a ceremonious shot of Woodford Reserve just outside security at Louisville’s Standiford Field airport and then a double of the notch up by the gate while my flight was delayed. I like how bourbon picks you up gently, carries ya tenderly and sits you down nicely, unlike the rude, ravaging, death-by-aftertaste of Jack Daniels.

It was official. This 2016 airplane trip from Newark, New Jersey, to Louisville and back would go down in this 29-year-old platinum blonde’s life as the moment that she would fall prey to the swagger of bourbon. Which, frankly, looks like it will serve me better than any man I’ve ever invited to share life with me. After all, bourbon doesn’t discriminate, criticize or make condescending comments indicating incompetence which upon questioning are apparently really never supposed to insult us, we just need to stop being so “damn sensitive.”

Anyways, squirrel.  This would also be the trappings of what I hope to be the long love affair I will have with Louisville. In fact, the bourbon was becoming the iconic scent of the lover that Louisville was becoming to me.  The Victorian mansions teased me, her Fleur de Lis charmed me and the friendly, laid back whispers of the Highlands intrigued me.  This was my third trip to city that I swear has a sister city in New Orleans. They’re just too similar.  They have too many similarities to list here but the mutual, Louis XIV “Sun King” settling of the two lands, their dedication to beauty, their commitment to art, their slurry speech as they ask you in an accent dripping with honey, “How ya doin’, darling?” Sigh.  I just can’t even.  I’m disappointed that this is only my third trip.

Since our introduction at GonzoFest 2015 and the exciting, subsequent events of that Donald Trump broadcasted, mass shootings blasted, catastrophic year of our Lord 2015, Louisville, Kentucky was starting to magnetize me. Like a massive device rigged by Magneto, I could feel it warming up. I could hear the clicking, the clacking, the warming of the tubes. The radio waves blasting, the cobwebs of years past lambasting and the preservers of the Great Gonzo Spirit gripping hands they had not held since they stood in circle round a two-thumbed fisted cannon containing the ashes of the only music-political-sports—counter culture-social commentator-historian journalist in America’s history. Continue reading

The Enemy of Our Enemy Got the Vote

 

160302005451-trump-and-hillary-exlarge-169by Ashley Beth

If you wish to understand what Revolution is, call it Progress; and if you wish to understand what Progess is, call it Tomorrow.” -Victor Hugo, ‘Les Miserables’ 1862

It will never be a good idea to start any political article with the following statement but I can’t get it out of my mind:  Michael Moore was right.

“The enemy of my enemy gets my vote.”

Donald Trump stood in front of the ravaged members of the now-defunct middle class, people whose livelihoods and communities were sustained by big manufacturing companies such as Ford and GM, and promised them that he would make it harder for their jobs to be outsourced overseas.  As a business man, these laid-off, swing-state dwellers had no other choice but to trust him.

You can dislike his personal politics, lament and loathe that his personality is not just political but now the president-elect of our populous but you cannot take his political post to power, uh, personally.  At the end of the day, if Donald Trump wants to grab his daughter’s pussy with one hand while he catches middle-class jobs slipping and sliding from our communities at an accelerating rate of 9.8 meters per second squared with the other—58 million Americans have spoken with felt tip dipped in black ink pens that they don’t give a fuck.  With one swooping map of red states, the American people have given the green light to a man who is absolutely, 100 % a narcissistic, pig-headed, traditionally immoral asshole, and I ask you—-why are we really that shocked? Continue reading

Betwixt Baby Showers and Ketamine Lies My Life

 

Somewhere Between the Baby Shower and the Ketamine Lies my LifeI love my friends.  I love who they are and I don’t want to offend them in this writing.  Especially because this writing really has nothing to do with my friends. In fact, this writing has as much to do with my friends as Thoreau’s writing had to do with the woods. Meaning, that just because the writer finds themselves in a place, any writings that may pass from the author in reaction to said place really means more about the author than the subject. What Sally says about Suzie says more about Sally than of Suzie. And this Sally ain’t perfect, let me tell ya. The art featured for this piece is a snapshot of the author’s kitchen at the time of this writing. And now that I have over-explained that I am an unorganized nobody who is not really writing about anonymous people instead of paying a therapist, I cordially invite you to keep reading my story.

It began with a Facebook post of my friend’s ultrasound. I was somewhere in the middle of hour three or hour four of the thirteen hour shift I was working in a location I had to GPS because I had never worked there before. The evening before I had returned home around 10PM after driving five hours south on Interstate 95 from a temporary gig I had in another state covering a colleague’s vacation. While unwinding from driving 75 mph through February darkness after a full work day, I was approached while sipping my lager at the watering hole ‘cross the street from my house by a pot-bellied Dom looking for his next Sub.  I was flirted with via insults that my shoe attire was “twenty years too late” as I sat and determined how many hours before my flight to Louisville I’d have to arrive at the airport that from me was five hours away.  To this day I have a hard time differentiating this type of “courtship” with the boys who used to hold dead spiders two centimeters from my nose only to learn upon my screams of disgust that this was all happening to me because that boy “liked me.”  Oh!  How lucky am I that the heavens have smiled down…Anyways, squirrel. I had a lot of shit to do and didn’t appreciate the distraction.

Needless to say, I was driving my life faster than my Subaru could take me so covering a thirteen hour shift that was scheduled on top of my 4 day/48 hour base schedule in between out-of-state trips made me about as restless as a toddler in a car seat.  It was in this state of mind that I saw the post.  The announcement.  The ultrasound picture.  The black.  The grey.  The kidney bean inside the bigger kidney bean which you can make out as clearly as the baseball team logo on the hat of the thief you are watching on security camera footage.  The “tag” of the sperm donor, err, husband. The witty, under-stated text above said photo.  And of course, the Likes. The triple digit likes and the double-digit comments.  It’s staggering to think of how much of our present day reward system and social urges are controlled purely by numbers embossed in grey or red flags.

Was I happy for my friend?  Absolutely.  Was I in shock, awe and anticipation of meeting her child and the fact that the beautiful union between my friend and another amazing person would be producing a third amazing person?  You betcha.  I had all of these feelings.  You could say, millennially, that I had ALL THE FEELS.  But I mean that.  My emotions ran the gambit of the feels.  My emotions varied a wide range.  And from this particular post, after feeling all the preceding Warm, and the succeeding Fuzzy, I felt finally and most overwhelmingly, the Pull. Continue reading

The Sigh I Breathe at 29

 

It’s the journey, it’s not the destination. Good. Because I don’t even know where the fuck my destination is. I can tell you what it’s not, however. My destination is not having the kind of house where my bathroom towels match the shower curtains match the shower rug. Nope. My destination is not a life where I have a coaster for every table. (Although some coasters would be nice.) Ultimately, my journey is not about arriving at the grave safely in a well preserved body…..hold on, those are Hunter’s words.

Looks like Hunter also didn’t prioritize a nit-picked, hyper-organized life. And neither do I. Do I strive to live a life as reckless as Hunters’ was at times? No. I will not leave a string of debts across the country or an estate of horded items. Then again, fuck, the rate I’m going at the moment, I actually might. But I guess the point of this piece is, I’ve stopped worrying about it. I’ve stopped nursing the urge to compare my life to those of others. This is one of those times where I am thrilled to be an over-thinker because I can arrive confidently at the conclusion that ayep, you’ve looked around, Ash, and there ain’t nobody living their life like you. And I think that’s just fucking awesome.

I live the kind of life where I can tell you a good place to grab coffee in every soulful city on the East coast but for a while couldn’t tell you where my hair straightening iron was. I hold professional licenses in multiple states but had my license to drive suspended in one of them. I can catch a D in every city I’ve ever lived in but outrun every man who’s ever tried to catch up with me. It’s funny to see them try. Especially the moment when they fall back muttering something about me being too fast, too hyper, too MUCH. That’s right, sweetie, it’s not you, it’s me. All the fault is mine. Everything is wrong with me. Thanks for the breather, baby, I’m off again. I’m sure you’ll find a girl slower than me. The kind of girl that will smile at every disrespectful thing you say and let it pass. The kind of girl who will lie there like a cold, dead fish. Like sushi. Enjoy. Wasabi’s over there…..

To me, the progress of living in this year of our Lord 2016 is that as a woman, I can stop giving a fuck about what makes me eligible bachelorette material. The imagination, impulses and actions of my life are deeply rooted in who I was as a child. I am a fierce protector of the child spirit within me. She is precious, magical and full of potential to heal the world. I give her great reverence. I give her the speaking floor perhaps more than I should. But I also know I give into her impulses way too much of the time. Continue reading

The Sigh I Breathe at 29

meinlouiIt’s the journey, it’s not the destination. Good. Because I don’t even know where the fuck my destination is. I can tell you what it’s not, however. My destination is not having the kind of house where my bathroom towels match the shower curtains match the shower rug. Nope. My destination is not a life where I have a coaster for every table. (Although some coasters would be nice.) Ultimately, my journey is not about arriving at the grave safely in a well preserved body…..hold on, those are Hunter’s words.

Looks like Hunter also didn’t prioritize a nit-picked, hyper-organized life. And neither do I. Do I strive to live a life as reckless as Hunters’ was at times? No. I will not leave a string of debts across the country or an estate of horded items. Then again, fuck, the rate I’m going at the moment, I actually might. But I guess the point of this piece is, I’ve stopped worrying about it. I’ve stopped nursing the urge to compare my life to those of others. This is one of those times where I am thrilled to be an over-thinker because I can arrive confidently at the conclusion that ayep, you’ve looked around, Ash, and there ain’t nobody living their life like you. And I think that’s just fucking awesome.

I live the kind of life where I can tell you a good place to grab coffee in every soulful city on the East coast but for a while couldn’t tell you where my hair straightening iron was. I hold professional licenses in multiple states but had my license to drive suspended in one of them. I can catch a D in every city I’ve ever lived in but outrun every man who’s ever tried to catch up with me. It’s funny to see them try. Especially the moment when they fall back muttering something about me being too fast, too hyper, too MUCH. That’s right, sweetie, it’s not you, it’s me. All the fault is mine. Everything is wrong with me. Thanks for the breather, baby, I’m off again. I’m sure you’ll find a girl slower than me. The kind of girl that will smile at every disrespectful thing you say and let it pass. The kind of girl who will lie there like a cold, dead fish. Like sushi. Enjoy. Wasabi’s over there…..

To me, the progress of living in this year of our Lord 2016 is that as a woman, I can stop giving a fuck about what makes me eligible bachelorette material. The imagination, impulses and actions of my life are deeply rooted in who I was as a child. I am a fierce protector of the child spirit within me. She is precious, magical and full of potential to heal the world. I give her great reverence. I give her the speaking floor perhaps more than I should. But I also know I give into her impulses way too much of the time. Continue reading

An Introduction from the GonzoToday Fashion Editor

 

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Doorway visions: Strike the pose

Diane Von Furstenberg once said “The most important relationship you will ever have is the relationship with yourself.”  It’s simple enough to think about, but infinitely harder to live.  This is because Diane has noticed, among Fall and Spring trends of high fashion, that the relationship we as human beings have with ourselves, is terrible.  We have low self-esteem.  We try to fit ourselves into clothes, not the other way around.  We try to change or remove parts of ourselves from our photos because we are ashamed of our individual display of the statistically beautiful game of chance, genetics and self-care.  No one is immune from this.  Even the fashion models we hate for seeming to make us hate ourselves, hate themselves.  You would think that Diane Von F, one of the longest reigning Queens of Fashion, would have all the confidence in the world.  And yet, she too, hears the voices.

That’s right.  The voices.  Everybody has them. Those ingrained, self-limiting voices telling us that we are not nor will not ever be good enough.  The invisible crowd phenomenon. Having voices in your head is not a mental weakness nor handicap.  (The handicap comes more in the range of what the voices are saying, how loud, how often, how many and how much.)

The realm of fashion can amplify those voices with regards to self image. To many, fashion is a term to describe who, what, when, why and how we “should” be wearing. Many use it as another battle in the status war of keeping up with the Jones. There are some still, however, that enjoy wrapping the strings of fashion tightly around their fingers and pulling HARD, making fashion their bitch. They know that fashion is a non-verbal way of expressing confidence and ultimate victory over those voices. The voices that say you can’t wear something because…because of what? Better make it good—these kinds of unrealized dreams are a killer to recall on your death bed. Unless you’re violating local laws of decency, you can wear and ultimately express yourself in any way you want. Immunity from scrutiny, however, is like immunity from the voices. It doesn’t exist. You can’t make scrutiny go away. You cannot control it at all. You can, however, control how you react to it. Just like the voices, the method you use to deal with this uncontrollable negativity is your ultimate expression of art.

Gonzo journalism is a high-speed, take charge, wild ride of a philosophy that artists have been using to quiet their demonic inner voices  for over fifty years. That is fifty years of fighting injustice, prejudice and federal laws and loving in ink, paint, paper, music and film that focuses on the multicolor culture that is our great and pioneering country. And our relationship with it. And our relationship with the world around us.  And our country’s relationship with the world around it. That is all what it means to be Gonzo.  Gonzo is not easily digestible news declared calmly and respectfully from a white man in a suite like it is on mass broadcasted major networks with a nice, pretty period at the end. Nope. We are exclamatorily romantic, nostalgic and manic about the truth of pioneering, the beauty of the free phoenix of spirit and the love of the full speed ahead lifestyle.  I think it’s about time we started reporting on how people wear it. Keeping in great Gonzo values we will be giving the voices back to local, regional, handmade, out casted, never-before-seen dimensions of the little guys.  The big fashion houses of couture, catalogs and retail chains are already loud enough. We are here to be a sounding board for the shocking forms of clothing and body modification in these tattooed, stretched out, world debt crisis times of ours.  Gonzo also means dangerously loose boundaries and self-control, so watch out. Any and all art passes. I just hope you don’t faint at the site of bare bodies.  (It’s kind of a thing. Trust me, I’m a doctor.)  And ^THAT^ right there was your warning. Amateurs and professionals are about to get weird. Race ya.  😉

-Dr. Ashtree Gonzo

 

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Dr. Pinzel, putting the Ash in Fashion

 

 

Word Bubble Bar Stool Smoting

 

So I’m sitting at the bar donning my Doc Martins and all of a sudden I hear the woman at the bar stool next to me chatting up this guy who’s on his way out but this woman is trying to keep him there.  She is asking him to explain his writing career.
“Basically I write for newspapers,” he says. I’m interested in getting paid for my writing. But the stuff I get paid for, I don’t like to write. The stuff I like to write, I do freelance.”
Woman Next to Me: “So who do you write about?”
Guy: “I write about interesting people. Like people who wear Doc Martin boots halfway up the knee, even though it’s twenty years too late.”
I feel a tap on my shoulder, I feel him looking at me, I turn his direction.  I reply,
“Bukowski said there’s nothing worse than too late. I can’t believe you just said that to me.”
Guy: “She just used my favorite author’s words against me. And I don’t even know her name. Um…excuse me, miss?”
I sigh. I turn around.  Again. He’s ignoring the woman that woman next to me who he was originally talking to at this point. Now he’s being rude to her and for that, she hates me.
I say, “It’s Mz. My name is Ashley.”
Guy: “The next time I’m here I’m bringing you my narrative on Bukowski.”
Open on the bar in front of me is Juan Thompson’s book, ‘Stories I Tell Myself.’ I pick it up and shove it in his face.
“Do you know this exists?”
Guy: “Uhh, no, but ya, you like Bukowski?”
Me: “I like his quotes, haven’t yet read his books. Have a good night.”
Guy: “…………………Well, that was an interesting conversation.”