Emotional Quotes

July 21, 2014

Today (July 14) I stumbled upon this new Twitter account called
Emotional Quotes.” I found their tweets so inspiring, that I decided to send yet more postcards to Larkin, with these heartfelt declarations. Seeing as I’ve been feeling really bummed out since my birthday came and went without his well wishes in any way, shape or form. So far, I have seven postcards ready to go, one for each day. Please note that cards 4 and 6 are my own original contributions added to the mix.

Displayed here is the address side of each postcard.

Click on any card (except #5) to see what I taped to the front. Six postcards to four bars, so two bars will get two postcards each, seperated by several days. Postcard #5 was, I think, sent to Larkin’s own mailbox.

Those were the last postcards from my “Free Me From This Bond” promotional package. So I’ll need to purchase SF-tourist type cards at 35 cents each, in order to send additional quotes such as:

I don’t know what my future holds, but I’m hoping you’re in it.

I care, I will always care.

I still remember the first time I fell for you. I haven’t gotten up since.

I didn’t say “I love you” to hear it back. I said it to make sure you knew.

No love without tears, no happiness without sacrifice, no forever without goodbye.

I feel better when you’re around, so please stay.

But I’m not sure I’ll continue my postcard blitz, as that would sort of water down a great chapter. Somehow I’ll conjure up a whole new way to be a thorn in My Linchpin Lizard’s side. A strategy I have yet to conceive, though I’m certain it will come to me in a flash when the time is ripe; and I’ll keep you all updated.

So here we have another impossible situation, yet one more doomed friendship in my long, unbroken list of failures. I’m batting a thousand! Yet within this tale of broken trust and crushed dreams lies also the promise of spirit fulfilled. Many times over eight-plus years, Larkin has scattered crumbs of such delectable dulzura along my journey, that I’d be a fool to give up so late in the game. He is not yanking my chain, he is playing a Game Of Life. A game that only permits another to participate, who possesses the intelligence to unravel his brilliant script. And the chutzpa to play back with equal force and aplomb. The bastard’s also my teacher.


Just a little fantasy where I track down Larkin somewhere in the Castro (such as Twin Peaks Tavern or Moby Dick), and present him each of those seven cards. The scenario goes like this:

Larkin steps out of the bar for his usual smoke, and spots me standing across the street…on the opposite corner by HM Plaza. So he then scowls and marches in my direction brandishing a blameful index finger:

“Zeke, don’t you dare send me another letter to any bar, or I’ll give you what for!”

I say nothing, but whip out the first card. He extracts his reading glasses from an inner pocket, and peruses the postcard (both sides), then tears it up, allowing the pieces to fall to the ground.

So I hand him the next, and the mini-drama repeats. This goes on until the final card…so by this point, a small pile of stiff cardboard segments are gathered about my feet.

All this time Larkin utters not a word…but awaits my comment. Instead I remain silent, salute him and plod on home. What tears stream down my face he does not witness, as my back is turned and I depart across Market Street.

[ Just so you know, Heraldic Reader, I did traverse the Castro with postcards in hand, hoping to manifest just such a scenario. (At least the part where I hand him seven postcards one-by-one; though I was hoping for a happy endgame.) But alas, it never came to light...thus I grew despondent and returned to my hovel to type this latest blog entry. My original plan for these seven postcards was to send off another salvo to the Castro bars he frequents. Odin knows he deserves it! Especially since he totally ignored my birthday, not even a kind word. And continues, AFAIK, to slander me.

But then I deliberated further, and decided I've played out my hand, there was no more point to it. However, you gotta watch these alpha males who insist on having the upper hand, the final say, in every situation. For two days after I settled on this decision, Larkin lumbered up to me with a drunk bar patron in tow, pausing to demand I cease my postcard slam. "Damn it," I obsessed, "Now he's gonna think I ended it because he told me to!"

So I returned to Plan A, but was held back for at least one night, as I needed postage stamps. But four more days passed without any stamps, where I found myself pondering whether or not I really should mail out a third round. "Then, he would probably sic the cops on me," I pondered. "But what can they really do, except demand I knock it off or else? Furthermore," I continued the internal debate, "That would be my opportunity to show them my police report against Larkin Kelsey. That would certainly change their tune, and perhaps inspire them to look into matters by assigning a plainclothes to chummy up to him at these joints."

The police would also come to realize that Larkin's accusations are false...thus he is squandering the SFPD's time that could be spent on truly serious matters such as protecting queer citizens from bashers. They'd see him as The Boy Who Cried Wolf: a corrupt scam artist trying to frame me, manipulating blueshirts in the process.

One thing an alpha male hates like nobody's business, is to be spied and snooped upon. Especially when they have something to hide, such as sucking up to inebriated customers with bulging wallets. Offering to escort them to a taxi, to the next bar, or even home. Coming off like a goody two-shoes while fleecing the herd of doddering sheep. "Larkin's like a kid in a candy store!" I surmised. "He sure doesn't wanna get caught with his dragonly paw in the cookie jar."

Now it is clear to me why he 86'd me from all the local bars: I am a threat to his cushy arrangement, and the Castro his new turf since being evicted from SOMA. He's not a drug dealer, nor has a brain tumor or Alzheimer's: he's a hustler (for looty, not booty)! And he works a crowd with such expertise, I can't help but admire anywayz. He can't risk it by having real friends, only acquaintances, patsies hypnotized by his charisma and convivial talents. He's a regular showman! (And one of the reasons I adore him so much, for he's an immense pleasure simply to observe. I absolutely crave to be in his company again, like yesteryear, even if it's from across the room, pretending we are strangers.)

Which does have an element of great fun. Sometimes he'd stand between my seated legs while facing the pool table, pondering his next move...yet in such a way as to appear incidental to all others present. As long as I didn't actually touch him--even a light pat on the shoulder was verboten--he'd stand that close to me now and then. So close I could feel his warmth. As for "patsies" it's now obvious to me his housemate Zachary is one such...and he covers for Larkin's transgressions to prevent anyone from growing wise. He's sort of a wingman for Larkin's subterfuge. He is the hustler's pimp to Larkin's gigolo. I bet he even takes a cut of the con.

So this is my Damon Runyon fantasy with a gay spin come true. An underworld bristling with gangsters, scammers, male prostitutes and darling young men wandering the streets without a place to rest their weary head. Except now and then, with This Beleaguered Bodhisattva. And Larkin is playing to perfection my tough-as-nails compatriot who suddenly took a wrong turn down Devil's Lane. That I may be his hero and liberator this time around. IOW, it is all an act, a brilliant script produced and directed by My One & Only Guardian Firedrake. He has sacrificed my life, tossed me to the wolves, crushed any good chance I might have had, to promote my novel in our local gay bars. He has caused enmity against me from many patrons who don't know who the fuk I am. Vultures who prey on others' misery, psychic vampires that drink the blood of the innocent for their own dark gain.

All this just because he came to view my patronage as a dire threat to his own dubious career as a muckraker of drunken generosity from lonely old fags. At least, this is the character Larkin chooses to play out before me. His is a direct challenge to harness my outrage into beating him at his own game. And in so doing, become his hero--nay, a Hercules to every father-fukkin queer on the planet! He has played me like a chump, out of sheer compassion! Larkin is the true author of my tales, for he has created so many difficult adventures that I may become the star of this brazen drama. My love for this Boner Fide Man grows in leaps and bounds with each passing day.

NEWS FLASH: It just now occurred to me that those who respect my struggle to resurrect an incredible friendship, just might send postcards to Larkin c/o these four bars. To lend their support in stopping My Beloved Dragon from falling off a cliff. I need your help!

NO, WAIT, I CHANGED MY MIND: I suddenly fell into a rage over all of Larkin's crude malignment of my own integrity and many decades struggle to liberate my gay brothers and sisters (for which I've suffered nothing but hatred and threats with rare exception). I have walked the narrow line of integrity since 1983, and what does it all finally come down to at my ripe age of 64? A man I love terribly (that showed so much potential to be the best friend I've ever known) who suddenly stabs me in the back, slanders me to anyone who'll listen, tells them I'm a psycho and a stalker? No, this is going to court. I have more than enough witnesses to his defamation and threats, to give me a clear slam-dunk victory in the Halls of Justice.

Larkin has deliberately tried to drive me insane, and/or foment such hatred against me that I could be bashed or murdered as a result of his gossip. And he'd walk away with hands clean of my blood! But because I love him beyond anyone's measure, I am proud to fight for his redemption, no matter what, and in spite of his wicked actions over more than one and a half years. "We have no enemies, only teachers" (quoting the Buddha). "Love your enemy" (quoting Jesus Christ).

The man shall go to jail, and I will be miserable the rest of my life, as a result (though I don't expect I'll live much longer after that). Yet there is a great satisfaction in successfully striking back at a handsome and charismatic man who, like Randolph Louis Taylor, eventually cast me to the hyenas without a moment's regret. So I shall get the postage stamps tomorrow, and send them off to the bars.

I grossly resent Fate putting me in this tragic outcome, where I must exert so much energy in standing up for righteous truth...and for my own honor. Plus, I realize now that if I don't fight back with utter outrage, Larkin will perpetuate his slander unto my grave, thus slip into a dark and horrid well of destitution. In which case jail or prison will be a necessary experience, that he may be spared a far worse outcome. Though I'd pay for doing the right thing with an undeserved torment: living out the rest of my Cinderella life without friends or even a sweet doggie for company.

So the first thing I'll do when I wake up tomorrow morning, is march on down to the post office and purchase those stamps. Peace be unto you all. ]


Jeez, here’s one final Free Me From This Bond postcard I discovered in desk #1′s top drawer. I decided to mail it apart from all the others now stuffed and sealed in a brown envelope, ready for battle.

Rainbow World Fund

July 18, 2014

{{ Salubrious Reader: here is a message I just posted on Wednesday, July 16th, to the Rainbow World Fund’s Facebook page. They’re located right here in San Francisco, BTW. }}

Hello, I just learned about your organization via Amazon.com’s “smile” service that donates a percentage of one’s purchases to the charity of your choice. So I searched “LGBT” and Rainbow World Fund showed up on the list. I am a gay-themed author of many tales, yet remain on Social Security Disability, at 64 years old…thus, I am very low income by San Francisco standards (I’ve lived in the Castro since 1983). I feel I can best serve the struggle for LGBT equality by remaining a writer…that perhaps this or that gay organization can profit immensely by sales of my books. And I would collect a small percentage of these profits. I just self published my first novel “Free Me From This Bond,” and it’s a romance/mystery adventure based on true events. It is actually a trilogy. You can read the book for free on the web, at:


At bottom of that page is the link to Book 2…which has a link to Book 3 (a work in progress that readers may enjoy as I continue adding more tales). I believe that my stories are very empowering for sexual minorities, to the point where they will change the hearts of homophobes. If you see the potential in distributing my tales as fundraisers for your organization, I will gladly work out an arrangement whereby the Rainbow World Fund will benefit greatly, in exchange for assisting me to get off disability (finally) and live a better life. (My dream, personally, is to open a home for severely disabled lesbian and gay veterans, employing homeless queers to run the place in whatever capacity suits them best.) My web site includes many gay-themed tales, poems, letters and essays, outside of this trilogy:


And my blog includes all the very latest of my intriguing stories that give dignity, hope and joy to gay people all around the world:


Thanks for your kind attention, and I wish you much success in your noble mission.

Most sincerely,

Zeke Krahlin

Two Visions

July 15, 2014

Friday, July 11:

Funny vision yesterday afternoon while strolling first through Duboce Park, then down Noe Street, when the revelation began (short but sweet):

A shadow passed over me and almost the entire city. I looked up. A ginormous UFO just like in Hollywood films, loomed overhead. People all around started screaming, waving their arms like a broken windmill, and skeltering off in all directions.

But me? I just stood there, looking up in prayerful praise (my hands almost clasped):

“Oh thank God! Oh thank God!”

Another vision came later in the day, nighttime in fact. Wonderful Gabriel is finally back from Los Angeles/Santa Monica, and blessed me with another sweet visit. Along with three chocolate-covered and THC-laced coffee beans! So this vision came under the influence of Mary Jane.

I saw Larkin standing in the center of the Castro (where Market, 17th and Castro all converge), like The Archangel Uriel bearing The Holy Sword of The Grail pointed vertically skyward. It was dark, quiet and cold. No one out there but him, like a ghost town. And he called out blasphemy against me, to gather up those who in response would prove to be my true enemies. For they’d buzz to him like flies to a pile of shit. And thus, they are also enemies of LGBT Equality.

My Guardian Dragon has come to avenge me.

Four Times in One Day

July 12, 2014

From: Jehovah’s Queer Witness
To: My Dinosaurian Digirati
Date: July 9, 2014
Four times in one day…

[ Venomous Reader: I know what you're thinking by the subject heading of my missive...but All You Gila Monsters share a dirty hive mind! ]

…two days ago, my path crossed Larkin’s. This is unusual (even if just /twice/ in one day), and I know it only occurs via his intent. If I ever questioned the existence of telepathy, he’s totally banished any doubts. Thanks to the many times over eight years of his showing up at the most unexpected moments and places (or whenever I have a gift in my backpack I want to bring him), and when he speaks to me as if he’s just read my mind.

[ Some people might say he has the mark of a psychopath, as they typically seem to possess paranormal "tricks." And you feel like you've found your soulmate. Just figured to mention this, let you know I'm on my guard in spite of my infatuation. In weighing the pros and cons of our association, the scales fall in his favor because of all the /good/ he's done for me prior to the sudden downfall that started with a shove. And it makes for awesome mystery and suspense in composing my trilogy. ]

First, I saw him playing with a dog at Duboce Park around 1 PM. I traverse that park almost daily on my way to Bean There coffeehouse. I sort of came up from behind, as I approached him along the sidewalk parallel to Duboce Street. His back was turned to me as he flung a tennis ball to the park’s far end, chased by a friendly black doggie. So I stood awhile, leaning against a silver utility box and enjoying the scene. He had cut his hair to almost a crew, after months of displaying a glorious and bushy mane. Then I spoke:

“Well if it isn’t Dragon Squarepants!” (That’s my new nickname for him.)

He turned and saw me, but did not acknowledge, and resumed tossing the ball. So I intercepted his line of sight as I strolled diagonally through the grassy postage-stamp tract. (The trees there are sparse; only three, so it is not my habit to relax there on sunny, warm days.) His occasional appearance at Duboce Park is a relatively new aspect of our “accidental” encounters. And it only started /after/ I was driven out of Howard’s Cafe and sought a new wifi hangout. Just another example of his possible telepathy: arranging to show up along my new route. (Whether or not he is actually conscious of this latest “coincidence,” kismet continues to see fit that we are never kept apart for very long.)

I gazed up at him in passing (he flung the ball way over my head as I did so), and commented:

“That’s the first time I’ve seen you wearing a pack of any sort!”

It was a red carry-bag that hung from one strap and rested upon his lower back. Interesting because I too sported a similar single-strap pack, also red (perfect for holding my android tablet). Now, in later reflection, I realized I had just pointed out in a recent blog entry how it’s never been his style to carry a pack, valise or whatever, of any sort. And I mailed him that article (as I do /all/ pieces where he is mentioned) just several days before this latest rendezvous. “Could this be another example of his telepathy?” I wondered. “Or another gesture of his faith in our friendship just beneath a rocky surface?” Perhaps it was a message that he does indeed read everything I send him, in spite of Zachary’s claim. So in his own unique and humorous manner, he broke his “style” by wearing a pack…simply because I wrote that he never does! One beautiful thing about Larkin (I have observed) is his extraordinary way of communicating heartfelt wishes through display or behavior, without a single word to shatter the moment. The man is subtle, but eloquent. He’s an artist! And life is the canvas.

I then watched the dog in its pursuit of the tennis ball for several seconds, then turned my face back to him as I proceeded towards a bench on the other side:

“It looks good on you. Then again, everything you wear looks good on you.”

It is really hard to keep expressing love to someone who has betrayed you many times over. Thus I was quite sad; no hugs since, OMG, December of 2012. Seated on the bench and from a distance, I gazed upon My Beauty until he leashed up the dog and vanished across Duboce and down Noe Street. But like a powerful magnet, the pull was strong and I wanted badly to chase after him, tell him about that homeless tweaker who threatened to set my place on fire. Even if he screamed at me, or ignored me…or shoved me again. Instead, I continued my path to Bean There, with some regret. (But as you will soon learn, O Dinosaurs From Andromeda, Larkin provided me with that chance later on in the day, to inform him of my present crisis.)

Jeez, it’s 5:15 AM, been up since 4:30…a writer’s urge is unpredictable!

The second time our lives crossed, I was standing about Jane Warner Plaza, enjoying a smoke (even though Larkin was not at Twin Peaks Tavern, or anywhere else to be seen; just the usual bums and naked trash that wear only a flashy sock over their genitals, in order to taunt the new anti-nudity law). In a heartbeat there he was, escorting a somewhat drunk lady of early middle age, and coming in my direction down Market Street. He looked up at me from thirty feet away, so I stuck a finger up my nose and twirled it in a mocking gesture.

They crossed the plaza within feet of me, then Larkin spun her around to proceed back up Market. And paused with the woman’s back to me (she was really out of it), lowered his face to mine and declared:

“Listen to me!”

“No, you listen to me!” I hollered back in an attempt to assert my dignity over his horse hockey. But his words still got through:

“You send one more letter to the bars, and the police will be at your door!”

I grinned: “Fine with me, Larkin. I’ll just show them my police report about you! I’m sure /that/ will open their eyes!”

Larkin seemed somewhat snockered, himself. Surely it was a faux pas for him to confront me with another bar patron under his wing. And I struck while the iron was still hot:

“You shoved me twice!” I screamed into his surly mug. “You spit on me! You keep slandering me!”

The woman seemed oblivious to everything around her (three sheets to the wind as they say), and remained with her back to me, wobbling a bit with Larkin’s firm hand on her right shoulder. It was then My Vexing Velociraptor realized this confrontation wasn’t a very good idea, for it threatened to undermine whatever gig he had going with the lady. (She probably had money to splash around in exchange for his charismatic company.) So he turned about, clutching her arm, and marched off towards Noe Street. But I followed from three yards behind, my voice like thunder:

“Some street punk threatened to burn down my building!”

“That’s certainly not /my/ fault, I don’t wanna hear it!” he called back, glancing over the lady’s head. He kept hollering in order to drown me out. But I made sure the vital details reached his ear in spite of the imposed cacophony, before walking off.

He /did/ gesture towards me and say something to the bouncer standing outside The Cafe (a newer bar he now frequents…perhaps to get away from me by Twin Peaks just around the corner). The bouncer glared at me as I passed. But for panache I spun round in the direction I just came from, turned my head to him and waved. Then who should I encounter, seated on the curb by Subway, but Mikey…that gorgeous, skinny young blond with whom I shared many torrid nights four-five months ago! So invited him home.

“Sure, why not?” he grinned and stood up, and I admired once more that elfin visage of spermalicious young manhood.

Now for the /third/ time that day, my path crossed Larkin’s as I escorted Mikey hovel. Guess he exited The Cafe while I was lingering in front of Subway, for whatever errand I can’t imagine. So I pointed at Larkin (with Mikey in tow), said:

“There he is! That’s Larkin!” and hollered at him: “You better stop telling people I’m your stalker!”

He paused at The Cafe’s entry and smiled at me. It was a genuine look of affection, nothing snarky about it. (Another example of his subtle communique to express amity; he’s /proud/ of my courageous stand against his bully actions.) And I hollered once more while Mikey witnessed (his arm in my grip):

“You’re a drug dealer!”

Now, a different bouncer was out front at this point, and he paid attention to my accusation, glanced at Larkin as he disappeared up the stairs.

The fourth and final time I saw Larkin that day was around 10 PM, during my nightly stroll. I had approached Moby Dick on 18th and Hartford, and peered through the window to see who was playing pool. Sure enough, there he was, with housemate Zachary. The window is covered by a grill that darkened the view, both inside and out…I guess to give a bit more “private” feel for the patrons. And maybe they’ve had their windows smashed one time too many. There are actually /three/ windows on the Noe Street side, the outermost two facing the pool table.

Larkin glanced up, said to Zachary: “There he is again, standing outside!”

He then whipped out his cell to either dial or answer. I thought perhaps he was gesturing to call the police, in order to scare me away. So I pulled back to where he couldn’t see me any more, perhaps thinking I had just skedaddled. But a few moments later I hovered about the windows and watched him play, being cautious to position myself so as not to be seen by Zachary. Larkin saw me again–maybe two or three more times–before he gave a sharp, angry rap on window 3.

“So what’re you gonna do, Larkin?” I thought. “Run out and shove me? Spit on me? Beat me up? Summon the blue shirts? None of that will work!”

(Of course there is also /this/ possibility to consider: Larkin must behave in anger towards me, in the public eye. So as to deflect any jealousy or vengeance of our friendship that might otherwise ensue. Or more seriously: that this cult may continue to be tricked into believing they’ve done their dirty deed, which was to turn us two love parrots into enemies. Until, finally, the remainder of this cabal gets busted and locked away. Then we have our honeymoon.)

A few minutes on I decided my work is done here, and meandered back to my trashy SRO. I just feel it’s important to assert my right to stroll my own neighborhood, look at or say hi to anyone I please…especially Larkin. And the semi-obstructed view from those windows will keep Larkin guessing if that shadow lurking outside, is me. Every night he’s there. Every single fukkin night. And I only needed to perform the task just /once/, to achieve all that! Plus:

That spot outside Moby Dick and beside those windows is where Kurt threatened to burn down my apartment building, seven days ago. Good to exorcise the demons of fear by revisiting the scene of the crime.

- Zeke

Date: Wed, 9 Jul 2014 20:32:23
Re: Four times in one day…
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: A Reptilian Advisor

On 7/9/14, a Reptilian advisor wrote:

{{ Well, just remember: psychopaths are lots of fun (believe me, I speak from experience), but they can do the psychological equivalent of ripping your warm steaming guts right out of you…. }}

Of course, but that’s not what he’s about. He’s done many good things for me that do /not/ typify a psychopath. He is extremely intelligent, and seems to have telepathic abilities. You can’t just plan showing up in my presence four times in a single day, without possessing such a gift. For I do /not/ keep to a tight schedule. The only way Larkin can do this, is through precognition.

The fourth time I saw him was at Moby Dick. So one might say that’s just coincidence. But he /knew/ I’d stroll by there that night, so arranged to also be present. Whenever he puts me through a gamut of ordeals, he also makes a point of showing up frequently thereafter. And at times says something wonderful to lift my spirits. Such as just three weeks ago when he said that our friendship was a godsend. Of course, I mused over the possibility of him stringing me on like a yo-yo, to infuriate me and break my spirit.

Though it just doesn’t add up. But I don’t really believe he’s protecting me from any cult that wants to do me in. It is a /game/ he is playing, to make me the hero…played as well by numerous others, and I can’t imagine how many! It is also my honor to display courage before him, his associates, and the LGBT community at large. This is exactly what I /want/ to manifest…and so it does, thanks to Larkin’s astounding abilities to manipulate reality. I even suspect that Kurt is one such participant, whose script it was to terrorize me with arson.

Whenever my hopes have ebbed to the lowest point, Larkin always appears in my world, to give me a boost. Just like he hears my prayers to see him once more, and lighten my burden. And he always does. But
he certainly will /not/ coddle me, or let me manipulate him by phony desire…which is not my style, anywayz. For he never rewards me until I’m pushed to a very real extreme of despair. Whenever I imagine losing his friendship for good, it is all I can do to keep from plunging into desperate straits. I simply cannot go there.

Remember, some of the chief indicators of a psychopath are identical to those of truly loving relationships. Such as making one feel totally special, dedicating tons of undivided attention, and swearing lifelong fidelity. In other words: psychopaths perfectly mimic very nice people. By just those markers alone, one would diagnose your partner Casey to be a psychopath…which of course, he is not.

I even conjectured that Larkin has been badly hurt in previous relationships, thus my affections touch upon a very painful spot in his heart. In other words: he suffers from PTSD. Randolph taught me a lot on dealing with such a person: be firm (even harsh) when necessary, never flinch in doing so; but also be as loving as possible whenever the opportunity affords. It takes years of patience and dedication, which not many can live up to. But the /best/ lover, in my opinion (at least between two men) is exactly one who has suffered enormously. And that is precisely the kind of dude I seek for a soulmate. One who I can make impossibly happy in the long run.

But I don’t even think he’s burdened with PTSD: again I conclude that it is all an act, orchestrated by Larkin, that my mettle may be tested to the max…and my victory be so much more sweet, as a result. Were he a psychopath, he would /not/ have provided me with a channel to post letters of kindest regard, nor would he so often go out of his way to speak with me, even if harshly. A psychopath only values people with money, fame, and elite connections. I have none of those benefits. Four or five years ago, he moved from South of Market to merely a block away from my residence. I don’t know how he does all those things, unless he has significant inroads to many resources within our LGBT family. He must therefore be a prominent figure among this crowd, albeit subtle. Which explains why–even though he’s not a bouncer or employed in any other manner–the bars allow him authority to kick anyone out.

I do not doubt he will confront my potential arsonist, and scare the bejesus outta him, in spite of his verbal declaration that it’s my problem, not his. For he doesn’t want to deny me fighting my own battles…yet at the same time would never allow /anyone/ to cause me real harm. You have yet to peruse my several latest blog entries, but when you do, you will better grasp my perspective. To give further examples of Larkin’s extraordinary talents would serve no more purpose than a tiresome rehash.

I am treading unknown waters, thus cannot gauge my experiences with that of most others. I have to find my /own/ way through this tangled journey, except perhaps for the occasional and unexpected ally who comprehends My Odyssey. Which kind people I believe, are also members of this hidden organization that grooms me for leadership…thus show up at the most needful times to keep my spirit afloat. For it is a very rare kind of love I have found, one which is absolutely unique in the annals of romance (gay or otherwise). Larkin has enriched my life beyond even my own dreams: the gay-spun Damon Runyon adventure I so badly sought. Now I have that adventure, and I must keep my chin up through even the murkiest waters

It is not without its golden moments.

- Zeke

Date: Wed, 9 Jul 2014 21:00:27
Re: Four times in one day…
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: A Reptilian Advisor


I am 64 years old now, and after Larkin, what remains but a terribly lonely life? If he truly /is/ a psychopath, so be it. Let him rip out my soul, beat me to a bloody mush, throw me under the next N Judah light rail next time I greet him walking a doggie in Duboce Park. I’m ready to go, if such be the outcome.

No quantity of fame, of riches, of glory via my tales or otherwise, will restore my passion for a belov-ed partner. Get it over with. Let the heteros wallow in their smug superiority.

I could /never/ go through another courtship, another series of trials to prove my eternal love. The years required to achieve such a monumental victory would see me doddering into my 80′s. So fuk it.

Give me Larkin or give me death.

Yet I must point this out: I am /terribly/ flattered that Larkin is so nuts about me, he’s ready to explode. Hopefully, it’s a sperm bomb.

- Zeke

PS: Sometimes I can be quite the drama queen, don’t you agree?

Date: Wed, 9 Jul 2014 23:24:58
Re: Four times in one day…
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: My Amdromedan Advisors

The amazing thing is this:

The Most Wonderful Love Story Ever (since paramecia figured out how to fuk) is unfolding in this dreary world…

…and it’s happening to /me/! Or I should say: “Me and Larkin.”

For whatever reason beyond This Old Homo Sapien’s ability to put 2,104 and 2,104 together (which makes 4,208 I think), Fate (or “God” if you will) has so deemed me worthy of such a tremendous miracle, that He (or She or It) has decided to catapult me onto World Stage Center.

With Larkin by my side, his trusting hand holding me steady from The Grace-Filled Shock Of It All. And I shall speak through cyberspace, television and radio media, and newspapers, journals and magazines:

“Citizens of Planet Earth: we are about to embark on the most epic journey imaginable. So hold onto your hookahs and whatever ganja you (hopefully) have on hand. ‘Cause without it, things are gonna be a /lot/ tougher than you’d ever expect. I don’t have any access to pot myself, except for some lousy shake that at least is from an organic marijuana garden. Still, it does little more than give me a carbon monoxide buzz. You are soon to become my servants, and I, your master.

“If you are comfortable with gay people for your best friends, then you will have no problem. Otherwise: your eyes shall melt in your face, and hemorrhoids shall infest every square inch of both your greater and lesser intestines! And even /that’s/ an optimistic diagnosis.

“You shall acquiesce to everything I demand, and do so with utter compassion, devotion, and gratitude. For I am Big Gay Brother whose destiny it is to right all wrongs in this world, and represent Planet Earth before The Andromedan Council.

“Whose commander in chief is Larkin Kelsey, and who has descended from his interstellar spacecraft solely to become my lover and BFF of all time. Eat your heart out, earthling brothers and sisters! For I am the absolutely LUCKIEST sentient being anywhere in the universe and multiverses, for eternity!

“If you don’t realize by now, that the story of my life holds any significance….then perhaps you should search for a mound of sand in which to bury your pathetic little pinhead.

“For I /am/ the Alpha and the Omega…who is also 100% gay. Do you hear me? Gay gay gay gay gay gay gay! And Larkin is my /most/ darling and belov-ed, that my tales can only give you a pale rendering of what a truly /fine/ man he is!

“For Larkin has given me adventure, cliff-hanging and tragic scenarios to play out, and Divine Ecstasy scattered through it all. How dare you even suggest there is anyone else out there who could fulfill such an incredible dream that will topple medieval notions which have cursed this modern world for way too long?

“Hearken to my words, or forever be the itchy polyp on God’s (or Goddess’s or Its) own anus!

“For no one but Larkin has given me this incredible destiny that marks me as the savior of all gay people worldwide…and by obvious extension, everyone else.”

- Ezekeil J. Krahlin (a.k.a. “Jehovah’s Queer Witness”)

PS: Well, that’s just how Larkin makes me feel. And if you can’t say your /own/ lover makes you feel just as exquisitely grand, I say: dump him (or her, or it), and clothe yourself in sack cloth for twenty years or more. And perhaps after that time, you will gain /some/ wisdom. Though by then, I will be off earthside and exploring Uranus.


I suddenly felt inspired to send Wyvern-Tard another nifty little postcard with my own personalized flair:

Notice that this time around, Randolph’s face has been /totally/ obliterated, whereas previously it’s only been a partial block-out. All done on a /subconscious/ level, mind you. That is, until I became aware (in one of my later postcard flurries) of what I was doing: paying Larkin my greatest compliment.

The “Zilla” reference hearkens back to the old days of Hole in the Wall Saloon…where I noticed that he signs the pool roster as “Zilla.” Some years later it struck me:

What other word comes immediately to mind when you see the word “Zilla?” Why, “God” of course, for that completes the title “Godzilla!” He is a Reptilian (a.k.a. a dinosaur) from the Andromeda galaxy, and represents God in my world. Bhakti yoga claims that should you devote yourself to another person with total love (and for a very long time), God will finally come to you through that person. And Larkin already knew this, so he chalked the word “Zilla” for many years until it sank in, and I realized the implication. Ironically, this is the year a remake of Godzilla has come out in all the movie theaters.

Once this new awareness erupted in my brainpan (around five years ago), I created a “Got Zilla?” button during the time I still had a button machine, which a year or so later broke down for good. So I thought it would be fun to send Larkin an “oldie but goodie” by printing out the logo once more, and pasting it onto the front of my “Free Me From This Bond” postcard.

What now follows is the reverse side of this postcard, entirely explanatory in light of my observations made earlier in this blog entry.

This is my Police Report

July 9, 2014

From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney
Date: Thu, 3 Jul 2014 21:39:51
Subject: This is the police report…

…I’m submitting in two days, to our local Mission station:


Ongoing bullying and defamation of character since January 2012, plus several assaults (flicking a lit cigarette at me twice, and shoving me twice so far). First time he shoved me (late Jan. 2012), it was really hard and I almost fell on the sidewalk. As a result, I wrenched my back and was in pain for almost three weeks. (I am only 5-foot-7, and 64 years old.) I had confronted him about his sudden change in behavior, and that was his reaction: an assault. Even though it was outside and he could’ve just walked away. Three weeks prior to this incident, every time I’d see him and say “hi” he’d grimace and holler, “Get away from me, I don’t wanna talk to you.” Before this change, he’s always been very nice, even shared hugs and friendly conversation. A platonic friendship.

Another time he flicked a lit cigarette at me with cinders that could have turned into flames on my acrylic shirt. This occurred at Pilsner Inn on April 21, 2013. He’s also started a smear campaign against me, telling bartenders and patrons that I’m his stalker and a “psycho”…which drove me out of all the gay bars in my neighborhood. If I go to any bar (including those he doesn’t frequent) and he sees me, he’ll run in and tell the bartender I’m his stalker. It’s been going on now for more than 1-1/2 years. He refuses to stop maligning my good reputation as a gay street activist and author.

Another time at The Mix, where I was enjoying a drink, Larkin ran up to lesbian bartender Sloan, tells her I’m his stalker…and she promptly kicked me out without any evidence of such. This occurred on the evening of May 17, 2013. I tried to talk with her about it when she stepped out after her shift, but she retorted: “See? You’re stalking me now, too.”

The owners of Hole in the Wall Saloon (1361 Folsom Street) 86′d him permanently. Their names are John Gardiner, and Joseph Banks. I could not find out their phone number or home address via City Hall, but you might want to contact them to discover their side of the story. He was also kicked out of Pilsner Inn some years back, for almost three years duration…and had nothing to do with me.

I thought we were becoming really good friends over the eight-plus years since we met. But this sudden change in personality gives me great concern that he might be suffering a brain tumor or some other malady that effects one’s thinking process. But it also occurred to me (God forbid) that he might have turned drug dealer. Which does explain perfectly why he’s driven me out of all the bars, and is defaming my character to anyone who will listen. (And also explains why some bartenders would so readily side with him: they’re his “customers.”)

But because I still consider him a friend (since he has been so good to me and wouldn’t let any jerk do me harm), I persist in confronting him and trying to break through whatever obstacle this is. But I also never let anyone bully me, no matter how much I might love him.

Our friendship has been going on since 2006, though there were large gaps in time when I didn’t see him at all. And sometimes he’d just walk by like he doesn’t know me. But every time our paths crossed, I always gave him a friendly hello. We first met at Hole in the Wall Saloon, and shared many fun moments. Then he disappeared for almost a year, before showing up here in the Castro, my neighborhood since 1983. Starting around October 2012, we resumed our friendship and hanged out at this or that bar, or on the streets (often outside Twin Peaks Tavern).

On May 31 2013, his housemate Marty (don’t know his last name) witnessed Larkin bullying me. Threatened me by popping a fist close to my face, then stated: “I’ll knock your teeth outta your mouth!” Marty is also witness to Larkin calling me his stalker and a psycho.

On June 17th around 11 PM, he shoved me once more. Not as hard as the first time, but enough to be considered an assault. This happened outside of Twin Peaks Tavern, by the bus stop. I had just stepped out to go to Walgreens when I saw him standing on the corner, and gave him a friendly “hello.” He suddenly turned to me, told me to get the fuck out of his face. I refused and began berating him. Besides shoving me again, he also flicked a lit cigarette at me, and spit in my face, twice.


His name is Larkin Kelsey, lives at 2450 Market Street, San Francisco. Moved to the Castro about 3-6 years ago; before that he lived South of Market, above the Hole in the Wall Saloon where we first met. Do not know his apt. #, lease probably not in his name, he’s renting a room from a friend named Marty. (Marty is a skinny Caucasian, about 5-foot-10, smokes tobacco, gray-brown straight hair clipped to the top of his ears, average looking.) They both hang out at lot at Twin Peaks Tavern, also Moby Dick.

Larkin is 6-foot-4, Caucasian, orange-brown eyes, around 50 years old, and is strikingly handsome and charismatic. On the skinny side (usually, but once a few years ago he got kinda fat.) Dense auburn fluffy hair now turning gray. Usually clean shaven, but sometimes grows a bit of a beard and moustache. Smokes cigarettes, plays pool at The Cafe, Moby Dick, Pilsner Inn and maybe other gay bars. I believe he is presently a member of The Cafe Cuckoos billiards club. He sometimes puts on glasses to read.

He changes his hair style often, sometimes all the way down to a buzz cut. May use aliases such as “Kelsey Larkin” and “Kelsey Larkinelvyn,” according to a simple people search. His heritage is Ireland, and he looks very much like a handsome, fighting Irishman. He also has rotting teeth (like myself) due to not being able to afford dental care any more. Almost half his teeth are now gone. No identifying body marks that I know of. He is often seen dog-walking, and I know he does odd jobs for various bar owners in the Castro. Does not seem to hold down a real job of any kind. Is very secretive about his personal life.

He does have this PO box, where he allows me to send him letters. Here is a grainy photo of Mr. Kelsey, the only one I have:

It came from a clip of a video I took of him around seven years ago, when he worked in a taqueria South of Market. You can see the video here:


I am extremely distraught over Larkin’s unexpectedly mean behavior that has gone on now for almost a year and a half. He persists in maligning me to everyone he knows, which also puts my own life in danger. Seeing as it inspires a malicious attitude against me, in my own neighborhood, by people who don’t even know me.

Most sincerely,

Ezekiel J. Krahlin

From: Eleanor Cooney
To: Zeke Krahlin
Date: Thu, 3 Jul 2014 23:08:12
Subject: Re: This is the police report…

That’s Larkin behind the counter? Cops’ll probably do nothing. They’re worse than useless. I was once being stalked and threatened (“There’ll be some hair on the wall!”), told the cops, they said they couldn’t do anything until he actually harmed me. Great!

From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney
Date: Thu, 3 Jul 2014 23:34:54
Subject: Re: This is the police report…

Eleanor wrote:

{{ That’s Larkin behind the counter? }}

The one facing the camera, not the pudgy dude with his back to the viewer.

{{ Cops’ll probably do nothing. They’re worse than useless. }}

I realize that, and I’m sure Larkin does, too. However, I gotta do /something/. If he does get more violent, I’ll already have the case established. Otherwise, the judge or jury would wonder why I didn’t report things early on.

But this works both ways: little he can do to stop me from screwing up his hanging out at the bars, kissing up to everyone, laughing that he got me kicked out.

Though I’m not worried about our outcome as friends…he’s playing out a scenario, that I may be his hero. I /did/ mail him a copy of my police report, BTW.

Meanwhile, someone I know a bit who seemed really nice suddenly turned on me last night (on the streets) and threatened to burn my place down. Well, this incident will be in my next blog post, where you can learn more.

I have /never/ had a happy birthday since, oh, 30 or more years ago. That day, along with the major holidays, have always been low points of my year.

- Zeke

From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney
Date: Fri, 4 Jul 2014 00:54:16
Subject: Re: This is the police report…

Eleanor wrote:

{{ Aw, hell, you don’t deserve ANY of this. }}

I disagree. I’m a warrior. A /gay/ warrior. A shaman who trods the greatest path of them all: The Path of Broken Hearts. Larkin has set up the scenario where I fight tooth and claw for his friendship…giving me many chances to stand up to him, a man twice my size. Don’t know if you’ve read my last 3 or 4 blog entries, but I’ve gotten to: watch him pratfall down the subway stairs, flick my cigarette at him, and spit smack dab on his face. And all he did was shove me slightly.

Oh, you mean the arson threat. No, that just adds spice to the already steaming drama. Kurt is part of this secret society, forcing me to grow braver/stronger, learning how to override the anxiety attack of his threat. And I have. His wicked attempt to destroy my peace of mind, even unto sleep, causes me great anger so necessary to overcome.

Once you read my latest blogs, you’ll learn that I came down with a bad case of the stomach bug (norovirus) and only started to feel good by day 4, my birthday. Of course I sent Larkin many postcards letting him know July 1st is the day of my womb-dropping…hoping he would do something really really nice for me on that day. But of course, he did not. So I got drunk.

Next day, July 2nd, Kurt threatens me with arson. Anywayz, I don’t want to repeat what I’ve already told in my blogs. But I am absolutely amazed at how the pattern and rhythm of my latest pieces are all fitting into an incredible Odyssey.

Since I’ve learned to efficaciously apply the Buddha’s tenet “we have no enemies, only teachers,” it’s astounding how I can interpret my misfortunes as a most bless-ed gift. I can always discover the door to the best of all possible outcomes, in each one of these crises. Barely takes me a few hours any more.

- Zeke

From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney
Date: Fri, 4 Jul 2014 01:52:17
Subject: Re: This is the police report…

Ya know, El, I spit in his face /once/, so he’s gotta spit back /twice/. Always gotta be the alpha male, that’s My Larkin!

From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney
Date: Fri, 4 Jul 2014 02:20:49
Subject: Re: This is the police report…

And I’m always cleaning up other people’s messes while they (including Larkin) go out and parTAY while I remain confined to my hovel. No company, little money, can’t go to any bars since Larkin drove me out. On top of this, I’m constantly cleaning up /my/ room, just to keep the dust and city grit from outpacing /me/!

They’re like psychic vampires: the more miserable /I/ am, leaking infinite quantities of life force (among which are Faith, Hope and Charity)…the more JOYful they are! The bastards. Evil Queens they be! Aaargh!

Cinderella has /nothing/ over me!

Hey, I’m GAY Cinderella, the Cinderella of the LGBT Community. Yay!

- Zeke

From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney
Date: Fri, 4 Jul 2014 03:10:08
Subject: Re: This is the police report…

The other hope is that, by mailing him a copy, he can’t deny how much I love him just by the way I word everything. I do not control my lovesickness, it obsesses me every waking moment and sometimes, in a special dream. Larkin has appeared to me twice so far, and both times he’s been awfully sweet…though way too aloof (as in real life).

I just imagined an SFPD cop (she’s black) picking up my report and dropping me a line:


“Yes, is this Ezekiel J. Krahlin?”

“Speaking, my dear!”

“Well, Mr. Krahlin, my name is Abigail Johnson from the Mission Station.”

“Really? Wow! Double Wow! Thanks for reading my latest piece.”

(laughter) “I just want to say, Mr. Krahlin, you sure have a doozy of a boyfriend. You’re one heckuva LUCKY man!”

“My gosh, thanks, yes I am!” (pause) “So, Abigail, that is such a /kind/ thing to say to someone. You just made my day.”

“Mine, too, Ezekiel.” (I could see the sun’s rays bursting from the earpiece of my land line.)

“Heck, we’ve made each /other’s/ day!” (chuckle) “I am /so/ honored that someone from the SFPD took the time to read my report so soon.”

“I think it was meant to happen, Ezekiel,” there was triumph in her voice. “I wish you the very best for you and Larkin. And you know it’s gonna happen, right?”

“Yes! I can feel the future encroach like the dawn of a new epoch. I’m a very happy man.”

“I could tell just by the way you wrote about him,” replied Abigail with a timbre of humility. (Sirens sounded off in the background; there was a flurry of voices, then quiet once more. She is, after all, phoning from a police station.)

“It’s a gift straight from God’s own hand!”

Her throat seemed caught for a moment or two before she could speak once more:

“Over and out!”

So you see, El, we are /both/ unabashedly and wildly in love…and have been ever since that day he nudged me several times as if by accident, while canoodling around the pool table pretending to get into position to make the best shot. He was trying to get me to notice him! So I did, then asked how tall he was (6-foot-4), how old he was (44), and what was his name (Larkin). And my summary response?

“Oh I see, you’re just another handsome fighting Irishman!”

His smile then eclipsed everything else that preceded that moment. He’s a good man, El. No, he’s a GREAT man. And he’s proven that to me many times over, with such friendly pizzazz. So many adventures he’s put me through since that first day! So now when he’s abruptly turned on me like my own worst enemy, far be it for me to abandon him.

I pray with all my might (to the point of exhaustion at least twice per day, where I must lie down awhile to recoup an essential level of prana) that he is simply playing a game to afford me an awesome opportunity to be /his/ hero this time around! Goddess forbid he should /really/ have a brain tumor or something equally morbid, as I think I’ve already been through enough horror to last a zillion lifetimes. But if that comes to pass, I’ll be right there by his side, if he permits. If not, I will isolate myself each evening in my crummy SRO…and pray to all the angels that exist, to please, please, heal my buddy back to his Wonderful, Dragonly Self! (Or let me perish with him.)

So I /must/ fight on many levels of possibility, with every sinew, nerve and red blood cell that I have! Alzheimer’s /is/ a possibility; as I’m sure you well know, due to your /own/ tribulation in that department. Death in Slow Motion.

And I must be his most devoted companion and caregiver, /minus/ the support, money, and decent household that /you/ had. Only to finally be stranded once more, alone in Room 205 of 2306 Market Street. Still dreaming of Larkin. And I will ALWAYS dream of him, no matter what.

Too horrid to contemplate thusly, for very long. I am trusting in a much shinier option:

That Larkin (or The Fates from higher up) is only putting me through my paces, that I may taste the nihilistic possibilities. So I may know in my heart I am truly /willing/ to go through every possible tragedy or hell if need be, to win Larkin’s love forever. And in this clever way do The Judges of Mount Olympus witness the mettle of my spirit. And so shall deem me honorable, faithful, courageous and (most of all) kind. Larkin is My Golden Apple. My Guardian Dragon with the Amber Eyes.

Yours truly as ever,

- Zeke

From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney
Date: Fri, 4 Jul 2014 03:55:12
Subject: Re: This is the police report…

4 Postcards of the Apocalypse

July 6, 2014

July 2, 2014

As you can see in the postcard below, Pilsner Inn returned the last message I sent to Larkin, c/o their establishment. Though the previous “jumbo” card mailed some days before that one, was not.

This does not mean no one’s read my missive, nor does it mean it hasn’t also spread via gossip throughout the local gay bar network well beyond Pilsner Inn. But it certainly does suggest that Larkin has been 86′d from that particular hangout. No other bar among the five I know that Larkin frequents (though the Lookout is dubious, I think he does odd jobs there for the owner), has returned my mail. So now I guess it’s “one down and four to go.”

My Spurious Serpent has dumped a most difficult challenge onto my shoulders, though I doubt he thinks it’s beyond my muster. My birthday was yesterday, which I spent alone as usual in spite of my great expectation that he would finally come through and show me a wonderful time, to make up for such trials that are his own doings. Which of course infuriated me, and put me into a bog of depression. But I have since rallied to the battle call, and figured out how best to defeat my demons:

His intent was of course to ruffle my scales, that I would retaliate by posting further mail to these bars. And explains why he begged me below my window eight days ago, to please stop my gay bar salvos. For just like the night he shoved me a second time (June 17th), and ordered me to stop sending letters via the bars…it was really a tipoff to keep it up, that he may pull the anti-Zeke vermin out of the woodwork. (That is: I needed to press further in order to achieve the desired result; one more attack was required.) So by the time my fury to send another barrage had manifested the following four postcards, I was finally convinced this was his plan after all. And as a result, I grew calm during the process of composing my latest revenge.

[ Sententious Reader: okay, so I just came back from a half-hour stroll of the Castro, between the above paragrapah and the one that follows this lengthy, bracketed aside. Had an encounter with Kurt, the hero of my fairly recent tale, "A Kurt Affair." Two days prior he had buzzed me around 1:30 PM and I happened to be home. Though I've informed him and my other houseless friends to never drop over until after 8 PM. But do they ever listen? Of course not! If I'm confined to my stuffy SRO in the afternoon, it's because I need to do some work (usually writing or research), and can not be disturbed.

"Krahlin! Krahlin! Krahlin!" he persisted on the intercom...as if I didn't know my last name! Finally, he spoke "Kurt!" and I picked up the phone. He knows I screen all my calls and refuse to pick up unless or until the person identifies. (FYI: I only have a land line, with answering machine and no caller ID.) It's as if they're actually a member of this cult out to sabotage me and Larkin, so they come up with clever ways to try to get me to stop monitoring my phone. So I was already pissed when the first thing out of his mouth was: "I just wanna drop over for a cigarette." So I told him I'm not a tobacco vending machine and besides, I'm broke and without any cigs (which was a lie; the cig part that is). "Oh, don't think that way," he pleaded. "Well what am I supposed to think?" I retorted, and hung up.

He had already PO'd me some weeks back during his last visit. Tried to make me feel guilty about things I never do...some of which have to do with sexual foreplay. Such as saying "ouch" when all I did was lap my tongue across his rock-hard abs and chest. (Such delicious nipples!) But I already knew the scenario, as I've been through it several times before, over the years. "You need to shave, your hairs sting!" Now, even if I didn't have a smooth-razored face (which I did 'cause I just shaved that morning), I'd think the dude would find something hot about another man's face rubbing against his body...especially if it possessed a bit of grubby shadow. I know I do! But men who feign complaint about such, are actually comparing me to a bald pussy. Or IOW, they are pretending to be more macho than they really are. Shades of marginal homophobia!

But another act he played out to make me feel guilty (which didn't work)--that was nonsexual--was to accuse me of almost running my swivel chair over his left foot when I shoved it forward a few inches to sit closer. Actually, it barely tapped his foot, maybe at most bumped it slightly. I've long ago learned that when men behave that way, it's a form of power play to assert dominance over the other. My anthropology lessons at the University of Missouri back in '68-'70, about alpha male markers, sure has paid off! Now let's get back to my encounter with Kurt on the night of July 2nd around 11 PM.

Strolling the Castro and headed back home, I crossed Hartford Street to check if Larkin were at Moby Dick, playing pool. (He was not.) When Kurt popped out of a doorway like a jack-in-the-box. Our conversation started off nice, but I was put off by his refusal to hug me when I stretched out my arms in greeting. Another dude was right there, who I guess was hanging with Kurt...for Kurt abruptly cut off our dialog to resume talking with him. Not one to be readily brushed off like that, I approached them and intruded myself into their conversation. Then sighed and remarked:

"Well I'll be headed home now, since you don't seem very welcoming."

"No, you're just being too loud and I need to get away from that," Kurt replied with some resentment. (Which retort BTW is another prime example of how Kurt manipulates via guilt tripping.)

So I proceeded to mosey on hovel.

"Wait Zeke, don't be angry, calm down!"

From twenty feet away and before turning the corner onto 18th Street, I looked back and declared:

"Oh I'm not angry, just offended that you're not really glad to see me! "

Then he suddenly spewed some nasty words in my direction, so I responded with finger pointed in disgust:

"Don't ever come over again, you are no longer welcome! "

That is when he threatened to burn down my building, and he did so right in front of that other dude (who, I might add, was also handsome, with thick black hair down to his shoulders, and sultry charcoal eyes). I walked away in a huff, but was so pissed, decided to march around the block and return to confront him. Kurt was still there, unfolding a silver bike he had parked by the tree. I walked right up to him and stood just five feet away. Waved my arms and body in an undulating gesture, and vociferated:

"Oh please please please don't burn down my building, I don't know where on earth I'd go!" Then clutched my head between both hands in a thespian manner to add: "Yes I do. The police. They'll take care of me!" I spread my arms wide in glory as Kurt glared in my direction.

"Get the fuk away from me!" he demanded. (Didn't someone else say that to me, recently? Oh yeah, Larkin.)

"No I won't. That was a sick thing to say, that you'll set my home on fire!" I gave him two chances to back off, but no potato. So I threatened:

"I got a big buddy who's not gonna like what you said to me. He's 6-foot 4, you just sealed your own fate!" My face was red with outrage, and I don't think he wanted to push matters any further. I was ready to pulverize his guts into the concrete. I pointed a finger in judgment:

"You sure got some big anger management issues, dontcha, Kurt?"

He snarled like a Rottweiler, that dapper mug turned suddenly feral:

"Get the fuk outta my face, faggot!"

("There's that faggot word again," I thought.)

"Oh so you got a problem with your gayness, huh?" I snarled back, then stabbed the dagger deep between his shoulder blades:

"You're just angry at the world because your balls never dropped."

His face turned ashen in a heartbeat. Without a word he mounted his bicycle and scooted away like he'd seen a ghost. That night was a restless one for me, haunted by images of Kurt sneaking into my building and setting fire outside my room. (Or chucking a Molotov cocktail through my window late at night.) But I soon regained composure, and slept a solid few winks.

Not that I don't still harbor great contempt for Kurt's wicked deed, but I do so on firm psychological ground. I've been dealing with insomnia since 1992 (the year Randolph died and which put me through physiological changes), and living on a noisy street does not help one bit. Now, Kurt's terrorism served the intended purpose of obliterating any peace of mind I might have achieved over the years, in combatting my sleep disorder. The fukker.

Okay then, enough about Kurt, let's get down to business: ]

Now this amazing man that I call My Guardian Dragon (or Angel) is playing a rather complex game, where I must not only figure out how the pieces fit, but discover each damned piece before I can even do that. Easiest way to lose is to simply toss in the trick rag, resign myself to his humiliating (and most public) charges that indeed I am a psycho stalker. And if I didn’t adore the prankster with such zeal, I guess that would be my Waterloo. But whenever I do consider that option, grief weighs heavy in my corazon, and despair sinks into my bones: it is a door that I should never enter. I am chained to Larkin’s love like Cerberus to the gates of hell. I am his dawg.

In this game of Larkin’s own device are many traps and dead ends. Some of which appear as a heartbreaking impasse, but upon closer inspection actually reveal a key to renewed hope and even joyful promise. Latest example: when his housemate, Zachary, declared to me that Larkin tosses my letters into the garbage without ever opening them. (See “Letter to Zachary” dated June 1st.) Of course my first response was one of gloom. But several days later I was given this vision:

{{ I saw Larkin ditch my letters into the kitchen trash, for Zachary to witness. Then later that day, he dug them back out while his sidekick was gone. }}

“Of course!” I speculated. “Zachary would grow too jealous if he knew the truth: that Larkin reads every single one of my missives with great honor. By leading him off our trail, I am protected from possible enmity and even harm.”

[ Though I want to point out here, Exculpatory Reader, that the mere suggestion that Larkin doesn't read my letters, is what got me started with this postcard revery in the first place! I actually enjoyed the challenge, approaching it like an art project. Laughing to myself now, as I envision Larkin recycling my postcards into an exquisite floating mobile, decorated perhaps with a bit of tinsel here and there. ]

But Larkin also drops me a clue now and then, to spur me on with renewed vigor (sorta like finding power-ups in a computer game). The latest example being when he addressed me with a most intense joy:

“Our friendship, our being brought together, is an incredible godsend!” (See “Stepping Into Dark Waters” dated May 24th.)

Now with more than several weeks hindsight since that bless-ed moment, it’s obvious that Larkin was preparing me for another series of trials. But not without the inspiration to keep me gliding as smoothly as possible, across rough waters. Guess I wouldn’t have it any other way, knowing my own strong desire to achieve the highest honors of a Gay-Spirited Soldier. Therefore, I realized it makes sense to route Larkin some personal postcards of affection and humor, to balance out those I mailed to four bars.

In humorous reference to The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, I attached a “horsie” sticker to the address side of each postcard. Here we go (click on any image for a larger view):

Now, in light of my recent clash with homeless dipwad beef-butt Kurt, I also sent this message to Larkin:

I also filed the following police report re. Kurt:

Date of crime: July 2, 2014
Crime: Threat of arson (to burn down my apt. building)

Around 11 PM on Noe Street beside Moby Dick bar (on the corner of Noe & 18th) I bumped into someone I knew a bit, and who seemed friendly enough. Had him visit me twice so far, and he was pleasant company. But I was shocked when he suddenly burst out in anger and threatened to burn down my building. I gave him two chances to take that back, but he remained very hostile. Told me to fuck off, get away from him.

He is homeless, but you’d never think that, since he’s always very neat. 5-foot-8, Caucasian, around 32 years old, handsome and buff. Sports a close-cropped full beard and moustache…full head of brown hair. No identifiable body marks. Always with a bicycle, and may be a meth user (at least that’s what he told me on the streets about a week ago). I think he’s bipolar, based on his sudden mood swing.

I’m under the impression he hooks up with older gay men. But I’d say he’s a danger, since if he gets in a bad mood, threatens to burn your place down. He calls himself Kurt, I do not know if that’s his real name. Don’t know his last name.

Zeke Krahlin

And this letter to the editor emailed to Bay Area Reporter, SF Bay Times, Castro Courier and Castro Biscuit:

Subject: Possible Arsonist in the Castro

Dear Editor,

I want to alert residents and visitors to the Castro, about a possible arsonist. He is a homeless dude, though you wouldn’t think that, as he is very clean and neat in appearance. Calls himself “Kurt” (though I think he’ll change his name after seeing this letter).

He is Causcasion, very handsome, 5-foot-8 with a close-cropped full beard and moustache, and a full head of brown hair. Quite buff and around 32 years old. No identifying body marks that I know of. He hangs out by gay bars in this neighborhood, hitting up on older men, and always has a bicycle. I am a street activist focusing on the Castro, and run into all sorts of street denizens. I met Kurt about three months ago, and he seemed to be a very nice guy.

But the other night, July 2nd, I ran into him outside of Moby Dick. Our surprise encounter started out friendly, but all of a sudden he turned hostile and threatened to burn down my apartment building. All because I didn’t give him a cigarette (simply because I didn’t really have one on me).

My conclusion is that he is bipolar (considering his abrupt mood swing), which combined with meth is a very bad mix. Should you meet this fellow, please don’t tell him where you live, or allow him to follow you where he may witness you enter your residence. Because if you do, the next time he’s in a bad mood, he just might take it out on you.

I’ve filed a police report on this man, and I hope the SFPD takes seriously, his threat to set fire to my residence.


Zeke Krahlin

UNEXPECTED UPDATE (but still: “meh”)

[ Jumbo postcard addressed to Pilsner Inn finally showed up in my lobby mailbox as a "returned" (not at this address). Though it was mailed several days before the postcard shown at top of this article. Oh, well, no big dealie. That was the "Green Lantern" card. Wonder if that particular super hero holds any significance with my own Larkinesque adventure. What do you think, Oh Rapacious Reader? ]


I decided to mail the following postcard to Larkin, that he may not question my courage:

Heaven is Just Across the Street

June 28, 2014

[ Free Me From This Bond (sequel to the sequel): Chapter 15 ]

To: All My Reptilian Redeemers
Date: June 24, 2014

Well whaddya know, Divine Salamanders, I’m sitting quietly in my room around midnight, swyping away on my tablet (a blog entry I’m writing called “Benevolent Kingship”)…when guess whose voice I hear through my window? Larkin’s! So I looked out to see him across the street, lecturing a homeless newcomer to improve his grubby appearance by going to the Salvation Army. He was waving those gangly arms while vociferating: a booming voice that can be heard blocks away, especially when it’s dark and the air is chill (like tonight). And which voice (I must admit) is music to my ears. Like knowing his love and devotion will always be here for This Adoring Soul…a hidden communique just for me, riding the broadband of his larynx.

But first let me get this homeless twit outta the way, before I go on. She showed up in the Castro approx’ly five weeks ago, and is a noxious variety of urban weed. His effeminacy wouldn’t be a concern, if she weren’t such a backstabbing queen stereotype. Always scowling with a pinched-up face that is rubbery and mounted with a long swath of brown hair curled up in a big, fat knot on top. Clothed in a ratty and thick overcoat that reaches to her ankles and mostly hid those filthy blue jeans. Feet dirty and bare, fingernails way long and icky with grunge underneath.

I shall call her (or it) “Ms. Flaky.” She can usually be spotted seated or lying down on the rustic bench that lines the front of Cafe Flore, and is intended for customers only. One would think this is bad for business, especially when you realize this eatery has become such a ritzy-titzy joint in the last 15 years. If a place chases you out for ordering just a cup of coffee and maybe a slice of pie (’cause that’s one less table gushing moolah like a slot machine), it would seem they’d also chase away scummy vagrants. Even so, their lack of propriety in this matter does not reflect much concern for the neighborhood that provides them with a beautiful corner location. Their obsession with El Diablo de Dolares has overtaken their neighborly senses.

Now this is hilarious: my new next-door neighbor, Gabe, joked with me as we exited our apartment building. (FYI: no one living in my edifice has ever befriended me for well onto twenty years, so this is good.) He pointed at Ms. Flaky from across Noe Street, who was seated in her usual spot by Cafe Flore.

“There’s your new friend, Zeke!” he chortled.

At first I didn’t know who the fuk he meant, but then I realized, and said: “Oh god no, he’s not a friend! I haven’t even talked with him, and I hope I never will.” I was a tad disgusted that my new neighbor (who is quite the hottie in a late-fiftyish sorta way, and we’ve already kissed) would seriously think I’d hook up with absolute losers.

Then he told me he spoke with Ms. Flaky just the day before, and asked if he knew Zeke. Her response?

“Oh he’s an awful man, he pissed on me while I was sleeping on the bench.”

Now that certainly isn’t true, and I reminded Gabe about the many jerkwads who gossip to keep me from making new friends. I’m still not sure whether Gabe really spoke with the knotty-haired bitch (or if he did whether or not she claimed I pissed on him), but that’s neither here nor there. For he was yanking my leg…and I hope some day soon, he’ll be yanking another appendage to make up for it. I’ve already stuck this letter in an envelope to his door:

June 18, 2014

Dearest Neighbor Gabe,

Just checking up on you, hope you’re doing very well. I find you to be a marvelously eccentric, sweet and handsome fellow. So if you’d like to rescue me from one more lonesome night, I’m sure game! We can even keep our clothes on: I’m really big into affection.

Thank you again for gifting me with some high-grade edibles. Just what the doctor ordered!

Please know that you can knock on my door any time of day or night…something which I rarely grant anyone. Whenever you need a shoulder to lean on, someone to cheer you up, I’m your man! (Or your boy, however you wanna play the game.)

Your newest friend,


Well I ended our discussion about Ms. Flaky with the conclusion that she’s probably just another one of these guardian dragons spreading mischief to test my mettle. (Taking to heart as I do, Buddha’s tenet, “We have no enemies, only teachers.”) But also her anti-Zeke gossip is a handy way to root out those who wouldn’t really make good friends. Seeing as anyone who is so gullible as to play into the hands of scurrilous misfits, is not someone I’d really care to know. But since Gabe readily admitted he doesn’t believe what Ms. Flaky said about me, he passed that little test with flying crullers. Thus a sterling friendship is likely to unfold. (FYI: as a shamanic pagan, I prefer to use the word “dragon” instead of “angel,” but it comes down to the same thing.)

[ A bit more about Gabe, Engorged Reader, then I'll get back to Larkin. I first noticed Gabe while standing outside the laundromat waiting for my clothes to dry. He was dressed in a tie-dye shirt of rainbow hues, a pair of green, baggy slacks and cheap thongs. But that face, that gloriously seraphic face, graced in a halo of shaggy, silver-gray hair: who could not notice such a face? He flashed me a bright smile in passing, and my widdle heart melted. I turned as he sauntered towards Market Street, and saw that he carried a smallish backpack, also rainbow colored. He's about 6-foot-1, skinny but well shaped. Next time I saw him, about a week later, he was picking up debris at Duboce Park, all by his lone some, moving to a tune only he could hear through those ear buds.

The N Judah was just pulling up, but I hesitated in my desire to embrace the little stud muffin right then and there. (This was also the first time I saw him in shorts: loose-fitting and below the knees, yet revealing enough to show off a spectacular pair of gams...Gabe's calves are something to die for, let me tell you! Of course I chickened out and hopped onto the light rail. So I sacrificed my passion once more, opting out instead for the mundane errand of grocery shopping at Parks Farmers Market. *sigh * )

Less than two weeks later I made my first move: he released those ear buds as I gestured and smiled at him. Then I spoke:

"I like the colorful duds you wear!"

"Thanks," he replied, "I'm just getting into the swing of Gay Pride."

"Oh, how nice," I said, "So tell me, do you help clean up Duboce Park with a group or on your own?"

"On my own."

"Cool, so now I know who's responsible for keeping that park so neat!"

That was the sum total of our first conversation. Wasn't till several more days had passed till I discovered (much to my lascivious delight) that Gabe resides in the same apartment building as yours truly! It was a balmy dusk, and I was standing outside by the trash bin, having a smoke and wishing for Larkin to stroll by. Here came Gabe instead (he didn't see me) stopping at the front gate of 2306 to insert a key.

"Well," I grinned to myself, "How very copacetic! I wonder which floor he lives on."

Figuring though he already has a boyfriend and is probably monogamous-- and in light of my history of doomed friendships and amours--I allowed myself the fantasy as a consolation prize. During the following weeks we met several more times and exchanged kind greetings. I handed him my business card in hopes he'd check out my novel. (Which later I learned he did, as well as some of my recent blog entries...whoopee!)

Now, just barely two weeks ago, as I climbed the steps to my hovel, I espied Gabe inserting a key into the door of apartment 206. WE'RE NEXT DOOR NEIGHBORS!!! Since that awesome turn of events, Darling Gabe has presented me with a baggie of THC-laced breakfast cereal...knowing by now that medicinal pot is beyond my meager financial reach. That is when we embraced and gave each other a warm peck on the cheek. But first he pressed his lips upon mine, and it was quite electric. Don't know why on Dragon's green orb I instantly shifted my mouth to his jaw, except that perhaps on an instinctive level, I thought it best to play the shy virgin. (Yeah that's me alright: the innocent little boy who'd rather plunge his hand down a good man's pants than any old cookie jar. o_0 )

He hasn't been around for five or six days now; the stuffed penguin is still taped to his door, awaiting Gabe's return and (hopefully) his joyful surprise. Though perhaps my silly overtures have scared him away, and I must once more live in awkward suspense as a result of my latest love's foible, and the proximity of our abodes. Though I am certainly open to a sweet friendship... platonic all the way. (Or as we gays like to call it: "girlfriends.") He did mention a couple of times a desire to visit his family down in SoCal, soon. But has mixed feelings thanks to a brother who used to punch him out brutally when Gabe was just a little squirt. I told him:

"Gabe, I'd feel the same way too. Just be sure that if you do show up, you won't fly into a rage and smash his skull with a ball peen hammer." (That cracked him up. So nice to put a smile on such a "cumly" mug.)

Gabe appears to be the eccentric type (like myself and Larkin in our own ways). Which attracts me even more than those super-good-looking dudes who are duller than a warmed-over omelette. Sometimes I see him standing about on this or that corner of the Castro, boogying to his mp3's and waving his arms like he's sprinkling fairy dust upon The Yellow Brick Road. He has also commented in regards to my visionary gift:

"Zeke, maybe that's why I moved next door to you. Maybe I'm one of your guardian dragons to join you in our fight for liberation."

"Oh I'm sure you are, Gabe," I immediately replied, though in wonder.

"And maybe I'm also here to spread the good news about your book!"

Again I agreed with enthusiasm, for here was acknowledgment of my gay prophetic visions, standing right before me in glorious human form. I should have hugged Gabe that very moment, and wept tears of gratitude onto his shoulder. Gabriel The Archangel. (But I did not; don't know what's wrong with me. Write it off to a lifelong history of sorrows, and residual PTSD.) Then he gifted me with yet one more affirmation, I suppose to eradicate any remaining self-doubt that I might just be crazy, and nothing more:

"Wow, I'm so excited I can feel the wings sprouting from my shoulder blades!"

So, Gabe My Compassionate Archangel, you've made it into Book 3 of the trilogy "Free Me From This Bond!" Congratulations. (Right under the wire, but still, congratulations.) You will appear in the last, or second-to-last, chapter. Larkin saw to it that the happy ending wouldn't enter the picture until well into the end play. IOW, Larkin (the true author, as if you didn't know) wanted me to pen the most incredible cliffhanger/tearjerker romance of all time! Can you imagine what he put me through, to accomplish this? I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy...though maybe perhaps on Ms. Flaky. You are The Joy He Sent Me, and for that I am infinitely in your heart.

When you step out to celebrate (or stay home for cozy-time), what will you do? I for one will be really really PISSED if I'm not on all three courses of your Wedgwood platter! For we should be celebrating finding each other! And not each in his own way, in his own time and place...that's ridiculous. Together! Together! Two birds of a feather!

It is truly an understatement when I say I await Gabe's return with great fondness. Now, back to Dragon Squarepants: ]

Seems like when one sidewalk creep disappears from our streets (much to my relief, as they often threaten me whether it’s homophobia or jonesing from their last hit of crystal or smack), two more take his place. I even confronted Larkin one night on Market Street:

“You’re a big guy and telepathic, so why don’t you drive these homophobes outta here so I can do my street work?”

I was referring of course to my frequent clashes with anti-gay puds who want to turn the Castro into Hillbilly Haven for all the hetero rednecks that decide to mooch off LGBT generosity, but still think it’s fun to insult and harass us on our own turf. They’re constantly ogling attractive lesbians, coming onto them like the breeder perverts they are with all sorts of vulgar phrases. As for the gay men, well, we’re just a bunch of silly, sex-crazed geese who Jehovah shall soon banish from this earth, that The Righteous Heteros may be “Lords of Where We’re Permitted to Insert Our Priks at Risk of Extermination.”

A winning advantage of Larkin’s psychic talent is that I never need speak about my troubles, for he already knows. Think this through and you’ll realize he must also know which sacks of mierda are my antagonists. This man is out to avenge me as so clearly revealed by the illustration that begins Chapter 8 of Free Me From This Bond (book 1). For Larkin is my Guardian Dragon, and that illustration depicts a dragon toppling over the Transamerica Pyramid.

Therefore, he also knows I’ve been pining to see him again, ever since he shoved me for a second time just last week. My level of anxiety attacks were getting a bit out of hand starting yesterday, thanks to the painful challenges he presents me… along with all other trials in my life that have naught to do with him. So I guess he heard my woeful plea for some respite, after my wandering This Gay Ghetto all afternoon, seeking him out. For some assurance that he is taunting me, pressing my buttons for a compassionate purpose…that I may become his hero this time around. And that’s precisely what occurred:

At first I thought Larkin was sitting down in a shop doorway, but I thought: “That’s not his style, I’ve never seen him sit on the sidewalk or curb, or even on a chair at Jane Warner Plaza. Heck, he doesn’t even perch himself on the concrete buttress where he often stands outside of Twin Peaks to smoke.”

[ Other things I've observed, Crafty Reader, that are not his style: he never sports a backpack, briefcase, portfolio or whatever (in fact I've never seen him carry anything in his hand except a plastic bag occasionally or a cell phone), doesn't drive a car or motorcycle or even ride a bicycle (like me he seems to be a dedicated pedestrian), he doesn't wear any jewelry or piercings, nor does it look like he's inked or scarified anywhere on his warlockian body. But he does have a glorious head of sepia hair which style he frequently changes (one month it's a sexy buzz cut with chevrons, another month it's dyed a rich orange that's bodaciously hot, yet another season it's a thick mane that frames his face like a knight's portrait. He is indeed the handsomest dude I have ever met; even just thinking of him takes my breath away. ]

The reason I first thought he was seated on the ground was a combination of my 2nd-story elevation, the darkness of night, my own nearsightedness, and the fact that whoever he was reprimanding stood between my view and Larkin (such that I only saw his spindly arms waving about). The first thing that I hollered when I realized it was My Bodacious Basilisk:

“Larkin, stop lecturing people like you always have the answer!”

Just a friendly taunt, though once I realized he was confronting Ms. Flaky, I listened more closely… and actually appreciated his dressing-down of the miscreant. I know Larkin heard me, but he was totally immersed in his little lecture to pay me any mind. Some two or so minutes later, Ms. Flaky meandered off (to her squatter’s bench I suppose). Not wanting to lose this golden moment to call to Larkin from My Juliet’s Balcony– or perhaps Rapunzel’s–I hollered once more.

“That piece of monkey vomit showed up in the Castro about a month ago!”

My words were such a strident echo I know I woke up the neighbors. (Just wish Gabe were around, as I’m sure he’d absolutely savor being witness to my latest Larkin Escapade. He might have even joined in!) Then Larkin tilted his Celtic ruddy head to stare straight up at This Intrusive But Lovable Queer. And growled:

“Aargh! Now I gotta deal with you!”

As he marched in my direction and across Market I yelled:

“Go see a doctor, ya got a brain tumor, asswipe!”

He stopped in the middle and stood on the cobbled island decked with lackluster palm trees.

“C’mon, step up to my window, I got some water balloons to drop on you!” I announced. He looked up at me with a sort of woeful plea:

“You need to stop sending…”

I knew the rest of the sentence would be “my mail to the bars,” but I cut him off:

“Blah blah blah blah blah!” Which effectively drowned him out.

He sighed, smiled at me and stretched his arms in a broad air-hug. We both remained silent for some moments as I drank up his projected endearment. Then he dropped his arms, turned about and crossed back to the opposite side. I called out as he vanished into the dark:

“You are so lucky I didn’t carry pepper spray that night you shoved me a second time! Soooo lucky!”

At that point I could no longer see His Beloved Self, but knew he heard my parting shot:


This unexpected banter lifted my spirits like Tinkerbell appearing at my window. So I mused on what just occurred:

I wanted to see him badly, so he shows up. Set himself in position right across Market Street in clear view of my window, knowing his sweet voice would pull me away from the desk. Put on a little show just for yours truly. But more than that: confronted a street punk who spoke ill of me.

[ Restless Reader: you may be wondering why I'm certain Ms. Flaky badmouthed me when earlier I said that perhaps Gabe made that up, as a tease. Here is my conclusion: since Larkin is telepathically gifted, he knows immediately who's done me foul. Were Ms. Flaky not guilty, he wouldn't have confronted her... at least not in my vicinity. He would've devised some other script to cheer me up. In effect, he was killing two birds with one stone. The second bird then, served to assure This Beleaguered Budgie that he most certainly will avenge my honor...and Ms. Flaky is just the beginning. ]

I ponder further:

Was he watching me from across Market before Ms. Flaky showed up? My curtain is open, anyone can see me from that distance and position, as I am in direct line of the window, my desk brightly lit as I swype away. Has Larkin been pausing across from my building every now and then, unbeknownst to me? And if so, how long has he been doing that? Don’t think I’m upset, even for a nanosecond; in fact I am heartily pleased at the thought. For My Guardian Dragon watches over me in loving regard. And I’m sure it’s his greatest honor to do so.

So here I am, suddenly dropping the article I planned to complete in a day or two, taking up instead another blog entry about my latest encounter with Serpent Breath. Once more, he usurps my focus on whatever I’m presently doing, and demands my full attention. Which I gladly give, always. I have a sneaking suspicion that was his intent tonight, all along. To pull me out of my morose funk since he shoved me last week. For Larkin is One Smart Cookie Firedrake!

He also gave me another story to write.



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