Dragon Fire in the Hole

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 9 ]

18 April 2012

To the Dragon Drama Queens at the Hole in the Wall Saloon:

I want to rectify yesterday’s fiasco and my expulsion from your fine establishment, on some drunkard fool’s claim that I stated I want to bomb this place. When in fact, this is what I declared: “I want to buy this place.” (For two reasons: to keep The Spirit alive long after the first owners retire or bick the kucket, and to have Larkin back here where he belongs, playing pool and acting the fool, and just in general, sharing his sweet self with many souls hungry for affection. He was permanently 86′d by the present owners. Once I collect my first millions off the royalties of this beatific opus, I certainly intend to purchase Hole in the Wall, lock, stock and barrel.)

Reminds me of a similar faux pas during Barrack Obama’s presidential run in 2007, where I was chatting with a very sweet, elderly dingbat over the coffee bar at Cafe Mediterraneum on Telegraph Avenue, Berkeley. (FYI: the same locale where Alan Ginsberg worked on his now-celebrated opus, “Howl”…something I didn’t discover till after years and years of hanging out there, composing my own gay poems and prose.)

Dingbat expressed a grave concern of what could become of our economy, should we wind up with yet one more Republican skank in the Oval Office. So I replied:

“Don’t you worry, dear, everything will work out just fine, once we put Obama in the White House.”

She dropped her swizzle stick and splashed the coffee-bean elixir. “Heavens! No, please, I am antiviolent, and could never suggest a bomb in the White House.”

“You misunderstood,” I chuckled. “I said ‘Obama,’ not ‘a bomb’.”

So it later occurred to me that the phonic similarity of those two words, sure must keep his body guards on their toes (and needlessly trigger happy…so maybe I’ll just reconsider my next invite to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue).

Now, I am about to reveal to you, Beloved Reader, a most astounding and profound conclusion which jigsaw pieces only came together for me, less than one month ago. The Gay Pagan Motorcycle Community (GPMC) orchestrated this silly little scenario, as they have many others…out of sheer compassion and joy, to bring Larkin and I together as lovers.

And to grant me my “Damon Runyon Adventure w/a Gay Spin”…which bromantic odyssey is now into its seventh year!

Note: this revelation being so new, I probably don’t have the most apt title for who these intelligent, mischievous, loving and spirited dragons are. But I am soon to learn, so it seems.

Once I became aware of this brilliant, outstanding real-world play, concocted by the GPMC, I quickly printed out the first two chapters of “Free Me From This Bond” (’cause that’s all I had at the time), and ran to The Hole to thank barkeep Gary with much profusion and gratitude. That was around two weeks ago. It boggles the mind (well at least mine, because there’s a dumb-blonde pool boy lurking just below the surface), to wonder how in the Master Dragon’s Blue/Green Dimension, they could concoct and maintain This Living Fairytale! With so many fables within fables (or “parables” as I like to call them), you become bewitched by such ethereal beauty swirling around you like a swarm of ladybugs or fireflies.

Please realize the tremendous impact this so-called Motorcycle Club (w/Larkin the Supreme Conductor) will soon have on the entire planet. Every single tale I tell (in this quite novel noble novel), was all mastered by these Hole-in-the-Wall Tarragons and Warlocks, then played before me (and around me) with such vigor, I couldn’t help but become passionately inspired…and write about what just happened (with very little revision). And what else can they do, and will do? Surely, they won’t stop once my Princely Draco and I become betrothed…surely, that is only the beginning. Think about it.

Apparantly, these GPMC luv-dolls work diligently and vigorously, to make all my worthy dreams become truth. Such as my wish for Northern California to secede to become the world’s very first LGBT nation. I want to name this new country Athenia, and make San Francisco its capitol; only we’ll rename it “Zekeopolis”. Another dream I own, is for gayfolken to take over the world, and bring peace on earth, goodwill to all queerkind…and then everyone else, once our liberation has been claimed.

Anywayz, back to a few moments before the surprise 86:

I’m admiring a brightly handsome young fellow who just stepped inside, and sat at the only unclaimed bar stool…which, quite coincidentally (and indeed happily, as well) is right beside yours truly. I buy him his second drink, and in a while more, I discover he is a gifted playwright within the Homophile Nation. In fact, here’s a site where you may keep informed of this brilliant dragon’s latest achievements:

http://www.dragsical.com

Wow, Jason, your play “Batman is Dead: The Dragsical” looks like one hell of a hilarious tromp through Dragtopia! I wish you continued success that is more than well-deserved: you are a righteous blessing to our long-suffering though highly compassionate family.

Minutes later, I step outside to chat with Dutch (while he smokes his Pall Mall), a Navajo Gay Wise Man with a bodaciously sweet sense of humor. He finishes his ciggie and steps towards The Hole’s entrance (hmm, accidental pun, or perhaps a Freudian slip). But there are two quite robust males (and good-looking to boot) blocking our way.

“Uh-oh Dutch; they’re not gonna let me in.”

“Oh yes they are, they’re just standing around,” he replies.

The very moment I take a tentative step in their direction, they obstruct. (Man, I am so ready to fondle their hefty baskets, but they don’t seem particularly receptive…though perhaps they’ll drop their jeans and let me goose their fine arses with a finger or two, if I ask politely. I wimp out at the last moment. *sigh* ) So I return to the sidewalk right beside the short, concrete wall that defines an outdoor mini-patio for smokers. Dutch declares, “I don’t want any part of this” and strides through the entrance.

Though just before he does, I accuse: “Ya big chicken. Buk-buk-buk-buk bugawk! Buk-buk-buk-buk-buk bugawk!” Barkeep Larry runs out and almost pushes me to the ground, and tells me in heated spirit: “Leave, Zeke. Leave NOW or I’ll call the cops.” Again, he presses his hands against me almost to shove, but not quite. I won’t budge: “This is public space. I don’t have to go anywhere.” (After all, once someone threatens to call the pizzakeepers on you, it’s best to wait till they arrive, that your side be heard. If you amble away before then, you look guilty.)

As Dutch disappears behind the pleather curtain and the darling bouncers resume their station, someone from behind me calls out: “Zeke!” I turn around to see, lo and behold, two drop-alive gorgeous Men in Blue flashing pearly smiles and looking oh-so-CLASSY in their neatly pressed uniforms (I’m a sucker for that kind of stuff). I was so taken by their countenance, I said not a word and gazed upon them in rapturous delight.

“Zeke,” says the blonde hottie: “Zeke! Which one of us do you think is cuter?”

Well, I nearly drop my jaw to the sidewalk (and this time, not for cowboy schlong). How sweet. How very, very darlin’. I finally recover my mandible, and speak: “You are both such charming and lovely peace officers, please don’t put me on the spot like this. I’m afraid if I choose the wrong cop, I’ll be cited by the other.”

Then I tell them I have no idea why I’ve just been 86′d, that I overheard someone say I’m gonna bomb this saloon. (Without any hindsight at the moment, I assume someone badmouthed me once the shift changed bartenders–as Gary Clayton is certainly my ally–and my good friend Russell departed.) Well, that is most certainly not true, because I worship at the altar of the Dragon of the Hole in the Wall. I <3 this place. The endearing policemen see that I am honest; and I'm sure they'll discover that I've been slandered. We bid our adieus, and I stroll down Folsom Street on my way home, displaying my bold Jesus Dragon jacket all along my merry route upon return to The Castro.

Note: to those two adorable policemen, I say: “My hat’s off to you, and perhaps other types of apparel, if that would delight you (or both, which would make a most saliva-dripping sandwich of the yummiest proportions). Otherwise, let’s become BFF’s and schmooze over donuts and java: I’m nothing, if not the King of Bromance. You just showed me how loved I truly am, by not just a vast segment of the queer community, but the SFPD as well! Therefore I presume you know all about my Randolph (a former SF cop in training), whose life was spared thanks to my devoted loyalty. There is certainly a gold star waiting for me somewhere in the hallways of the Department of Justice. There was only one thing about you two handsome dragons, that left me sorely disappointed: what, no frisking? That’s not much fun, so please, for future reference: I’d simply go ejaculatingly ECSTATIC if both of you Fine Bluecoats laid hands all over this shuddering body! But I’ll settle for hugs, for I’m sure they are glowingly wonderful too, considering the honorable source.”

I did cruise a studly homeless dude on the way home, and got laid inside a large cardboard box that once housed a Frigidaire. It wasn’t totally pleasant because my bad knee acted up, along with my neck vertebrae and RSI-damaged fingers. The bad thing about getting old, is you never really know where the aches in your joints are coming from: arthritis or the teena you slammed three days ago.

Then, a little further along I drop into a hetero booze lounge called “The 500 Club” not just to spread good cheer and humor to all who accept me, but to also share the Good News: Jesus is gay, and is sitting right here beside you, chatting you up. I don’t remember all the varied witticisms I orated before they banished me to the outer realms, but I do remember this one:

Two fetching men are standing with their drinks in hand, imbibing and most obviously enjoying each other’s company, w/o any sign of a ‘gina clinging to their arms. So I nonchalantly rise up from my barstool, and walk right by them, and in passing, remark: “You two boys should be boinking the daylights out of each other by now, you’re both so cute!” By the time they knew what hit ‘em, I had already returned to my spot, and ordered another Kiwifruit-Pineapple Kiss.

So here is what I understand is going down regarding this latest gay fairytale: you amazing Hole-in-the-Wall Pagans are orchestrating a romantic scenario where I get to play the hero, and win Larkin’s Dragony Heart. Some of you will play the enemy, others of course, my BFF’s. So please, allow me to take a moment out, and state right here:

HOLE IN THE WALL ROCKS!!! WHAT CHARMING AND SWEET DRAGONS!!! YOU ARE A TREMENDOUS GIFT TO OUR LGBT FAMILY, AND I AM SIMPLY STUNNED WITH YOUR AWESOMENESS!!!

The LGBT community created me, groomed me for leadership w/o my even knowing. For part of the training is to figure these things out for yourself, as the years pass, and the pieces come together. So I’m not that sure yet if I’m an actual human, or a faggy simulacrum that transcends all time and hardons. I now conjecture that I might have hatched from an egg; a dragon’s egg of course.

But I’m always short on money, living only on a disability stipend. I would like to rectify this, by reciting my tales for a fee, at various LGBT venues. Particularly at The Hole (surprise!), and at the living rooms of these outstandingly benevolent bartenders and patrons; I can’t imagine yet what sweet friendships shall result (not to mention what sweet BJ’s). But it will allow me some decent fun money, that I can afford to hang out at the Hole regularly, and even buy drinks for the good souls that inhabit The Dragon’s Lair.

Also: I terribly, desperately, BADLY need an industrial cleaning and repair of my humble single room that I’ve occupied since 1983. So I’m hoping that our wonderful family of Dragon Disciples will surprise me by performing this Sisyphean task (at least, it would be for moi) while I’m away for the afternoon, on whatever day you sweethearts choose. (Time for an “Extreme Makeover – SRO Edition“, eh?)

This next idea may be a bit over the top, but here is my dream: replace the wall facing Market Street with plexiglass, that tourists may gaze up and admire my Little Hobbit Hole, from whence I conjured up Myriad Darling Tales, and broadcast them around the globe via cyberspace. Of course, I’ll need curtains to grant me privacy at times, or some other sort of window cover that looks best. You could even install an animatronic version of myself, for times when I’m not present. (Just give him a bigger kok, *please*, ’cause I wanna have lotsa fun with my first sex-toy robot.)

Oh, almost forgot: I yearn for a new set of pearly whites, because they are neither, and have been neither for many a year I can’t believe.

---

I’M A DRAG QUEEN’S DRAGON
by Ezekiel J. Krahlin (“Jehovah’s Very Queer Witness”)

I’m a Drag Queen’s Dragon of Ill Repute,
My scales are dirty and my tail is clipped.
I’m a foul-breathed lizard, you can’t refute,
I feed on gizzards and root beer root
…and anything else on ship.
Including pirates. Aaargh!

I’m a Drag Queen’s Dragon of Dark Design,
Striking terror in the hearts of ‘phobes,
Burning their churches if I have a mind
With my fiery breath and those farts behind
…and my big old, fat old, testicular globes.
Including pirates. Aaargh!

I’m a Drag Queen’s Dragon of Tit for Tat,
I’ll chew your bones into bits of gruel,
And exchange ice cream for some body fat,
That I get by boiling down ‘phobes in a vat
…so don’t mark me as a fool.
Including pirates. Aaargh!

I’m a Drag Queen’s Dragon of Dungeon Fame,
Polyhedral dice on a bed of lice,
Is how I like to play this game.
Though without some pot, it’s rather lame
…yes I’ll beat you twice, maybe even thrice.
Including pirates. Aaargh!

I’m a Drag Queen’s Dragon with a big fat butt,
And a pair of gonads you’ve never seen,
‘Cause it’s hidden by a protruding spleen
And my ginormous gut
…I am really a sight obscene.

Including pirates. Aaargh!

Larkin in the Buff

[ Free Me From This Bond: Addendum 4 ]

Hole in the Wall Saloon has put up Larkin’s lovely photo once more, to my delight…and I’m sure, to the delight of anyone else who has an appreciation of gazing upon the perfect male form.

Click on the dragon’s head to read “The Larkin Chronicles”.

---

To: Thomas
From: Zeke

On 4/18/12, Thomas wrote:
> Ezekiel,
>
> Wow, that’s really him?
> Looks like an angel!

Well, yeah, that’s what he is, literally. Why do you think my writing has become so perfected in its elegance? Precisely because I am so loved by the most handsome and sweet, darling man in the Universe.

Well, I will soon surpass him in the looks department, only because a good father raises his child to be better than himself. My Divine Form shall soon emerge into my fleshy corpus, some time this year. Larkin doesn’t reveal any more detail in this matter (we ARE telepathic, BTW; and he thanks you profusely for being such a good friend to His Only Dragon).

Guardian Angels create us, by planting a spiritual seed in the woman’s womb, once she’s been successfully impregnated by another human. IOW: homo sapiens are vessels for angelic blessings. My REAL parent is Larkin, not Mr. & Mrs. Catalano.

As lovely as that photo is, it’s far too grainy; therefore subDUES just how gloriously handsome that man is! So yes, he’s even MORE beautiful than you think, right now. Well, now you know what Our Beloved Creator looks like…or at least, one of his major archangelic forms. My Randolph is another variation on that same, most glorious level.

To understand the prophecy of what’s to come shortly, in 2012 I mean, please enjoy my latest blog entry, which is Chapter 10, “Dragon Fire in the Hole”.

Cheerz and joy; and luv your boy!

– Ezekiel

Dragon Prophecy

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 8 ]

Easter Sunday was a strange, though extraordinarily wonderful, day for me. Here’s why: I was so certain that Larkin wanted to surprise me by holding an impromptu wedding on stage at Dolores Park (hosted by the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence), that I made sure to show up within the first hour of festivities. I wasn’t particularly disappointed when my great expectations didn’t pan out; in fact, Larkin was nowhere to be seen.

However: his spirit is already such a joy in my life, that nothing could ever bring me down from that exquisite height of brotherly affection that is My Darling Dragon’s trademark gift to All Man&Woman-kind. Beloved Larkin: No words could even come close to telling the world how joyously happy I’ve become, thanks to your wise friendship.

But why on Goddess’s green and blue earth, was I convinced that a surprise wedding would be held in my honor? Learn and grow wise, Little Grasshopper:

Seeing as I’ve been romancing this noble Irish deity (Mannanan Mac Lir) for more than six glorious years, and I’ve finally (recently) come to realize he harbors enormous sweetness towards me, and always has since the first day we met in 2005: boy do I feel dumb, for not realizing such a bless-ed situation right out of the gate! But when you have suffered one of the most face-deforming kinds of acne (frequently reoccurring sebaceous cysts), on top of almost constant rejection, backstabbing, and threats from others in our dysfunctional gay family…then you can understand why my amazement at finding such a darling man like yourself, Larkin, who holds nothing but the greatest affection for yours truly (at my advanced age of 61 no less).

Took me quite a few years to wake up, eh, My Sweet Reptile? Guess I should apologize for being such a helpless slowpoke, but since I have personally gone through Hades and back again many times over, for your beloved soul and happiness (as you have for me, I do acknowledge)…don’t you think I’m worth the wait, as that is precisely how I feel about you, Most Beloved Dragon Of All Possible Dimensions?

AFAICT, I’ve been courting you for well over five years, and thus I’ve begun entertaining the notion of a marriage proposal, as a logical next step in our delightfully sweet association. Here’s one scenario I’ve thought through with much deliberation:

I approach you at a local bar, perhaps Moby Dick or more likely, The Mix; and say to your wondrous self:

“Larkin, I have three short, easy to answer questions for you, that I hope you can resolve at this time, w/o imposing upon your own vital needs for establishing connections, and some truly healing R&R.”

You turn your dragonly countenance towards my own visage and remark: “Okay, Genie, shoot!” So I say:

“Question #1: How am I handling my overly-gabbiness, at least in your presence?”

Your predicated response: shrug of the shoulders.

“Question #2: With my love of eating raw garlic on almost anything: How am I handling the bad breath issue?”

Your predicated response: shrug of the shoulders.

“Okay. Question #3: Am I learning to obey you better?”

To which you also respond (as predicted) with your usual, infuriating neutral shrug of the shoulders.

“Well then: thank you for your patience, and hearing me out. I guess I should go now, and leave you to your other reveries. Okay, My Darlin’?”

To which you reply (once more: predictably and typically) with a noncommital shrug of the shoulders.

So I turn as if to exit your presence for good, then stop in some sort of false pretense of surprise. “Oh I forgot: I do have one more question for you, which I guess is question number four. Please bear with me; it’s rather important.”

To which you expel a rather exaggerated *sigh* and say, “Well, okay sweetheart, but just this one time.”

In response, I suck up my breath till my lungs almost burst, and announce: “LARKIN KELSEY, YOU FILTHY KUNT: WILL YOU FUCKIN’ MARRY ME FOR CHRISSAKE?”

But that’s just one, among a huge assortment of possible marriage-proposal scenarios. Here’s another:

I am walking rapidly from my SRO, in hopes of scoring some ganja from Allen, who has just returned from Arcata, in hopes of making some good sales on hash and marijuana bud. He is located on 18th Street between Castro and Collingwood, with his humble presentation of semi-precious stones displayed in two, large clam-shell halves. But before I return to his current location, I find a colorful nosegay on the sidewalk several blocks before I arrive.

So I pick it up and find it to be such a pleasing fusion of pink and purple and white blossoms, before I discover that it’s totally plastic. “Well, it’s still a lovely little bouquet, and most suitable for a proposal to Larkin at The Mix or Moby Dick.”

I therefore postpone my transaction with Allen, in hopes of coming across My Sweeter-than-Fair-Trade-Honey Larkin first, at either bar. So I enter Moby Dick (as it’s nearest), hoping to find him by the pool table (his usual milieu), so I can hand him the bouquet, then say:

“Larkin, I have this question I need you to answer: Will you marry me, you glorious hunk of dragon-hood?” Then I’d place a finger on his lips and expound, “Wait! Don’t give me your answer right away. I’m gonna go right now, a couple blocks up 18th, to score $20 worth of hashish…then I’ll come back in ten or fifteen minutes to hear your answer. Just think it over before I return.”

Alas, I could not fulfill my marriage fantasy that night, as Larkin was not present at either Moby Dick, or The Mix. Life sucks sometimes. So I move ahead, to purchase some righteous smoke from Allen. (I also present him with my colorful nosegay, which he immediately accepts, and places beside his clamshell display for some eye-catching decor.)

Allen is this absolutely gorgeous, free-spirited young man of about 25, who though entirely heterosexual through and through, nonetheless holds great love and affection for his gay brothers. What a remarkable and bless-ed spirit he is, already; right? We first met several weeks ago, when I was searching for a reliable source of marijuana. Invited him home of course (he was so damned cute, what with his golden locks of hair, and a body so buff you couldn’t even begin to know upon which part to drool)…

Turns out we had a superb conversation about the beauty of Northern California’s rain forests, and what a great blessing this world is, in spite of even the most obstreperous obstacles that are often placed in our way. But the most enjoyable (and important) part of our visit, was my telling of

THE PARABLE OF THE DOLLAR-STORE BANDANA

It has been my habit these last several years or so, to wear some sort of decorative bandana tied tightly around my cleanly shaven skull. That night, I was wearing one such bandana only received the previous evening, as a gift from a new street buddy named Troy. It was a lightly colored camouflage bandana, with the words from Psalm 91 printed all over. I got down on one knee facing Allen, and removed the bandana from my head, in order to show him the psalm, and tell my story:

Before departing late last night, Troy left me with a gift of that bandana, exclaiming I was never to show it to anybody, and keep it to myself. Allow me to read you the entire psalm, also known as the Psalm of Protection (with my own comments interjected between square brackets, and italicized):

Psalm 91

1 Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
2 I will say of the LORD, “He is my refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust.”
3 Surely he will save you
from the fowler’s snare
and from the deadly pestilence.
4 He will cover you with his feathers,
and under his wings you will find refuge;

[...God has FEATHERS?
Is he some kind of super-large BIRD?
Oh I get it: He's a ginormous, wing-ed
and feathered DINOSAUR!
A feathered serpent, like the Aztec "Quetzalcoatl"!
If you can wrap your brain around THAT,
then I have to say: "You're a better man than
I am, Gunga Din!"

So much for being made in His Own Image, eh?

Now it might come as a horrid revelation
to some (actually, replace "some" with "many")
that Jehovah's original and timeless form
is that of a dinosaur: a wing-ed dinosaur
with scaly feathers.

Otherwise known as a DRAGON. ]

his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.
5 You will not fear the terror of night,
nor the arrow that flies by day,
6 nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness,
nor the plague that destroys at midday.
7 A thousand may fall at your side,
ten thousand at your right hand,
but it will not come near you.
8 You will only observe with your eyes
and see the punishment of the wicked.
9 If you say, “The LORD is my refuge,”
and you make the Most High your dwelling,

[ Yes, the Lord is my dwelling,
and I assure you, my gay bros and sis's:
He absolutely LOVES us sexual minorities,
You have no need to fear Him,
Only to give your heart to He Who Adores You
Infinitely, My Beloved Siblings!
For there is no living thing ever created
in God's Great Universe, that would ever be
condemned to eternity in Hell.

That is the devil's work, I assure you,
My Sweet Children who rose up from the dust,
to sing Life's Praise.
Nor does our Great Father require you to declare
His Son's name or worship Him as
the One, True Creator.
I worship My Lord with humor,
and with compassion.

None of this silly and frightful nonsense
About anyone burning away in Everlasting Hel.
All that Our Shepherd requires, is that you live by
The Golden Rule each and every day.
Neighbor unto neighbor: and a Good Samaritan
to boot (pun intended)!

Worship God,
worship Goddess,
worship Lucifer
(but don't be modest).
Hell's Bells! You can even worship
the Spaghetti Monster, for all
Jehovah cares.

For after all, YHWH truly does
indeed care. ]

10 no harm will overtake you,
no disaster will come near your tent.

[ A tent? Even the Three Little Pigs lived
better than that! Maybe the economy
back then was as sucky as it is now, with
rolling foreclosures and skyrocket debt.
Be that as it may, I'd much prefer God's protection
from under a solid roof, than in some
skanky pop-up tent!

There's a reason I quit the Boy Scouts.
Let's just say the Scout Master was also
a Scout Masturbator,
and we sure rocked that bunk bed all night long...
and sometimes early into Sunday morn
while the other scouts attended church,
and munched on deep-throat hot dogs
and ears of roasted corn. ]

11 For he will command his angels concerning you
to guard you in all your ways;
12 they will lift you up in their hands,
so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.
13 You will tread on the lion and the cobra;

[ I guess this passage is just for you, Mongoose,
the most incredibly handsome and righteous
guardian of Allen! You're an absolute doll. ]

you will trample the great lion and the serpent.

[ Note: I can surely appreciate using animals
as a metaphor for evil (and good).
But honestly, Dear Reader, aren't all God's
creatures divinely beautiful and good?
Whether dung beetle or gazelle,
warthog or cockatiel, angel or devil, and
anything in between. ]

14 “Because he loves me,” says the LORD, “I will rescue him;
I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name.
15 He will call on me, and I will answer him;
I will be with him in trouble,
I will deliver him and honor him.
16 With long life I will satisfy him
and show him my salvation.”

And that is the total sum of Psalm 91, a most encouraging and blissfull passage of the Old Testament. I really don’t see anything wrong with this sacred passage, that can give so much hope to so many. I consider myself BLESSED to have been presented such a beautiful psalm, in this Dollar-Store Bandana.

Which bandana–left to me by a most darling vagabond with wooly golden hair and deliciously deep indigo eyes–gave me much succor over yet one more lonely night. I fell asleep with his bandana, which, in the latest witching light of candle and flame, revealed itself as a most sacred manifestation of finely woven gold for the base cloth…along with the most delicate (but strong) stitching of this psalm in the finest linen thread, dyed in blackest ink. Every letter was completely perceived in all its curves, by a single index finger.

The raised letters were all in Hebrew; yet I could understand any Biblical phrases as if they were entirely in my native English tongue.

The following morning, I woke up with this dollar-store bandana close to my heart, and too far from the dream.

–end of Bandana Parable

Moby’s Dick

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 2 ]

Date: Mon, 26 Mar 2012 08:07:37
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: Moby’s Dick

Ha ha, I really mean “Moby Dick’s”, a gay bar on 18th and Hartford, where I found Larkin playing pool. Had no idea he’d be there, I just thought to poke my head in and see. I am so happy, Eleanor, that Destiny deems fit to keep bringing us together.

He was quite happy to see me, and I offered to buy him a drink. He said “Coke and whiskey” or something like that. I said (not knowing very much about drinking booze), “My budget’s really tight, end of the month and all, as long as it’s under ten dollars.”

He just walked to the bar, and said “Never mind” and bought himself and his opponent a drink. Well! He’s like that: a man of action and few words. So I just went to the bartender (who was SO nice to me; I’m not used yet, to the gay community returning all their love to me, so it’ll take a while), and ordered a coke and whiskey (that’s not what it’s really called, but I was drunk and forgot).

Went back to the pool game, which is situated in a second room with a raised floor, and laid down the drink next to the first one and said: “Here’s your second, ’cause I love you muy mucho.”

So much more happened that night, and I will write it all down soon enough. Just for the nonce, I wanted to tell you how beautiful my life has become, thanks to his friendship. BTW, he lost his gorgeous smile: no dental insurance like me, he’s lost a few teeth. I told him I’m sorry, but I’ll soon be rich and make sure he gets back that knock-out grin, and so forth. (“Meanwhile, why not drop over my pad to admire these rare etchings I just imported from Kashmir?” I offered.)

He called me over between games, where he was playing some sort of video arcade. Don’t know why he called me over, or what he said, but I looked closely at the screen, and remarked, “I’m not good at those games, never make it beyond the third level, I play that at home sometimes.” Then I told him what a good man he is, and how my life is so blessed because he’s in it. Then he interrupted and said, “You can sit down now.”

“Okay” I replied, and went back to the bench. So I watched him play the next round, where he later took a break for the restroom. And his opponent said to a friend there, “Larkin’s a really good pool player.” Then I approached and said, “Let me tell you about Larkin. He’s my boyfriend, and he’s a good man in so many ways, not just pool.”

Then returned to my spot on the bench.

Few minutes later, the game was over (Larkin lost), and he gave the opponent a really nice hug. He loves to hug.

Then I walked up to him and said, “You know, Larkin, you readily hug anyone who’ll give you that chance. Yet I haven’t had a hug from you since April 20th, 2007…so, can I get a hug from you now?”

He then spread his arms wide, and I reached up to embrace, but he backed away and said, “No! Return to your little spot; I want you over there,” he said, pointing to my jacket on that bench across the room. “No hug tonight.”

I was floored, and limped back to the bench. This is my Larkin. I am so happy.

Don’t remember leaving the bar, or even saying goodbye to him. I just woke up a few moments ago, with a gorgeous black dude in my arms. I gotta stop drinking so much.

Love ya, El.

PS: Larkin informed me that Hole in the Wall 86′d him some time ago. And I said, “I’m so sorry, you were the heart and soul of that place. They were jealous of our friendship, there wasn’t even any sex involved, it was a ‘bromance’. And here I was planning to reconcile w/Gary, in order to hang out with you again. I’m preparing a gift for you, that I was gonna mail to ‘Barkeep Gary Clayton’ c/o the Hole, and trust that he’d present it to you. But that’s not gonna happen now. So, if I’m standing on Castro and 18th with this gift, waiting for you to walk by, will you take it, or just skedaddle along like I don’t even exist?”

He didn’t reply, just kept tapping on the video screen to get the colorful marbles in some kind of weird alignment. So I continued: “Either way, I want you to know how much I love you, and the happiness you’ve brought into my life.” Then returned to my little spot on the bench, hugless.

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Date: Tue, 27 Mar 2012 08:30:21
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: Re: Moby’s Dick

Quoting Eleanor:
> Did what you recount here just happen recently???

Yes ma’am. Last night. Last GLORIOUS night. *joy*

Earlier that day, I had strolled South of Market and passed by the new location of the Hole in the Wall Saloon, slowing down my pace in hopes that Gary would see, and invite me in. I was planning for some sort of reconciliation. Alas, no go, so I continued on my way to Trader Joe’s, and had a tasty jack cheese & avocado quesadilla (with a Diet Pepsi) at a tiny outdoor stand called “Urbano – Mexican Style Street Food”. Add two small containers of mild salsa to kick it all up a notch. (Where’s a spice weasel when ya need one?)

Then I returned to Hole in the Wall, only this time across the street, where I stood about nonchalantly, again in hopes of luring Gary out. Several patrons stepped out front to smoke and chat; none of them were familiar to me. This was around 4pm Sunday.

You see, El, it occurred to me to send a printout of “Free Me From This Bond” to Gary, along with the following gifts (which he would hopefully pass on to Larkin):

A talking Scooby-Doo birthday card. Don’t really know when his birthday is, but I’ve missed so many (he’s 49 now, I think), that I want to start catching up.

A T-shirt I ordered from ThinkGeek.com, depicting a zombie with statement: “Zombies are people too.” Though the “are” is crossed out in blood, replaced by “were”. Check it out:

I had actually intended that shirt for a street buddy, Tony…but that’s a story for another time. Haven’t seen Tony for several months now; I actually offered it to another street dude I had over a few nights ago…absolutely cute, a real firecracker. (He left his knapsack and skateboard here; said he was gonna step out to buy some milk, and that’s all she wrote. For now.)

Two DVDs, the first one containing four ripped movies: “Clueless,” “Moneyball,” “Exotica” and “The Notorious Newman Brothers”, which latter you can view here:

http://www.oneddl.eu/vodo/vodo-the-notorious-newman-brothers

FYI, I adore “Clueless,” one of the sweetest stories ever filmed. I always bawl tears of joy through the whole thing. It touches my heartstrings in the sweetest way, just like My Favorite Dragon! Since Larkin is as big a fan of baseball as he is billiards, I figure he’ll enjoy “Moneyball” immensely. “Exotica” is an intriguing, quasi-mystical Canadian film about the lives of people who work at, or attend, strip clubs (including a gay pet shop owner). “The Notorious Newman Brothers” is a delightful Indie parody on Mafia thugs, scintillatingly goofballish.

In addition to those movies, DVD #1 contains a collection of excellent music videos downloaded from Youtube (of course), and a slew of animal videos of all sorts: ducks, dogs, cats, goats, cows, birds, squirrels, ferrets, and on and on it goes. Really a great balm to heal depression. Though I strongly doubt I’ll ever be depressed again, at least not in any deadly critical way!

DVD #2 is a 5-CD collection of Laurie Anderson songs. I love Laurie Anderson, don’t you? Have you ever heard her piece, “The Ugly One with the Jewels”? Oh, here it is on Youtube:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RFIpxaAzi9k

OMG, Laurie is simply, tremendously original and a sheer delight.

Let’s see, I’m not done with the gifts yet: also included are eight recent blog entries: “Yes Virginia, Santa Claus is Gay,” “Campitupalosaurus,” “Casper Titchworth,” “No Heteros in Space,” “A Rotten Deal,” “Kalmykia: Europe’s Only Buddhist Republic” and “Message to a Long Lost Friend“. Oh, and one not so recent: “September’s Passage“.

Lastly, “The Book of Dragons,” which reviews (and details) you may read here:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Book-Dragons-Michael-Hague/dp/B00375LL0I/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1332809192&sr=1-1

So many rich and awesome paintings of various dragons around the world are included in this delightful tome, along with dragon folklore from Iceland to China. On the inside front cover I wrote in fine-tip black marker:

“To My Beloved Larkin, the Dragon Of My Dreams. From your Bromantic Sidekick, Ezekiel (or) Eugene.”

Interesting that it occurred to me a few days ago, I should get him a book about dragons…since he is the Dragon of Hole in the Wall. Not thinking about it when I stepped into Pegasus Book Store on Shattuck Ave. Berkeley, I inadvertently laid my hand on The Book of Dragons in the mythology section! IOW:

Pegasus delivered me unto the dragons! Yikes.

Remember my painting of “Unicorn w/o a Horn” that I held onto for several weeks before shipping it to Randolph…so exquisite I kept showing it to people, including on campus (Merritt College, Oakland) where I was studying computer science: everyone was delightfully stunned. Well, I had a most intense vision of Pegasus while waiting for the acrylic strokes to dry (late into the night). He was so radiant and sweet, I wept on his shoulder…then he told me something amazing:

“Leave all your sorrows to me. I will bring Randolph back into your loving arms, on wing-ed saddle.” And that’s when I ran upstairs with the freshly painted sky-blue cotton sweatshirt, and knocked on Anthony’s door at 4:40am, weeping tears of epiphany.

These gifts are toted in a bag from the Disabled Veterans National Foundation (discovered in a Salvation Army discard bin) , in consideration of My Randolph’s tragedy…and the fact that Larkin is a most courageous soldier in his own right, surely deserving recognition as meritorious as the Purple Heart and the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Between breaks in composing this missive, I stepped out with my gifts in hopes of finding Larkin back at Moby Dick’s tonight, or perhaps another nearby bar or saloon. But nope, didn’t happen. So here I sit now, completing my latest Dragon Prophecy.

I have one photo of Larkin BTW, taken some years back when he was (I think) on a gay baseball team out of San Diego. Got it off the ‘net when searching for info on him for the Larkin Chronicles.

Second from the right; as cute as he appears in the pic, he’s even more fantabulous in person. He’s just too rockingly gorgeous for words. I’d say he’s one of the most attractive males on the planet. Like a young, virile Randy Travis and, as ridiculously gorgeous as that is, My Favorite Dragon is a thousand times better looking. Besides, Mr. Travis does not possess a fine, scaly skin of shimmering emerald and ruby; nor does he sport a tail so long and powerful, it could knock over the Transamerica Pyramid Building in one fell swoop. And I haven’t even begun to describe the wings!

At night, when fanned out in full glory, the winged silhouette closely resembles the Brooklyn Bridge, with a span just as wide, perhaps a tad more so. The top side of these wings are, of course, encrusted with those glimmering evergreen and cranberry hued scales that deflect the light of the Milky Way in such a manner as to glint an overshade of purple and gold here and there.

Now, the underside of these wings is something else altogether spectacular: they are lined with a pearly white membrane with subtle shades that swirl around like the thinnest film of motor oil floating on a pond of milk and honey. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that these luminescent underwings are responsible for the majority of UFO sightings. But most folks are gullible, and prefer to believe in fantastic explanations, than one so mundane as a dragon.

There is another photo of Larkin that once was displayed for a time at the Hole in the Wall: he was naked as a jaybird, full Monty and totally erect, with the American flag draped over his shoulders and an outstretched arm. This man is so handsome, Eleanor, you wouldn’t even think of sex when gazing upon his birthday self. You would only see the work of Goddess’s Hand, and realize he is Her intended example how the perfect male should appear. There is more grace and courage in that man’s little finger, than in a thousand Navy SEALs.

Can you imagine if I hadn’t discovered Larkin at Moby Dick’s? I would’ve been hanging out by Hole in the Wall for no useful purpose. And Gary would’ve received my blog printouts and gifts, and kept them from Larkin, or even tossed them into the garbage. Destiny is on my side!

Who is more handsome than My Dragon Larkin? I cannot imagine. I cannot imagine that the Universal Mind has even gotten around to it, or given it much thought…for not even Our Beloved Creator (pbuh: “peace be unto her”) can imagine anything more pleasing to the eye than Larkin Kelsey.

To be continued…

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Date: Tue, 27 Mar 2012 19:00:41
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: Moby’s Dick

Quoting Eleanor:
> Ooooh-eee! I get the picture! Celtic royalty!

Very astute observation, though I’m surprised you could read that much out of such a small image. Attached is a photo of Youtube activist Charlie Veitch, who resembles Larkin far more than Larkin does, himself, in that first pic.

Such a noble face and dynamite profile. And clearly: Celtic Pride all the way. I’d say that Larkin looks like a cross between Charlie Veitch and Randy Travis.

Are we having heart palpitations yet? Quick, bring the smelling salts!

Oh, well, I might as well attach another photo, this time of Randolph Taylor…who is also another radiant Celt, of Irish/Scot descent. Gorgeous just doesn’t say enough.

Obviously, I don’t lack for male beauty in my life. Just male booty. :\

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Date: Wed, 28 Mar 2012 11:23:56
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: Moby’s Dick

El, I just composed this piece as a possible solution to the homeless problem in the Castro, particularly as regards the doping of older men by desperate youth. I believe that Larkin was once homeless, and if the economy doesn’t soon pick up speed, he may become that once more. Not that he’s spoken to me about this at all, but I have a hunch. So I think this letter to the editor fits quite well into my “Moby’s Dick” work in progress. I just emailed it to the Bay Area Reporter (which has banned all my letters for years now, thanks to one police commissioner now retired), and the SF Bay Times. I will expand my outreach later tonight, perhaps even gay papers beyond The City. Cheerz!

DOPING WEALTHY DOPES

Dear editor,

Speaking of the sharp increase of young homeless dudes doping up middle-aged men at the gay bars here in the Castro: What do we expect, in a sucky economy that’s crashed and burned almost as horribly as the Great Depression? More desperate people robbing from those with excess wealth; that’s what. And until we evolve into a truly equitable society (at least within our own LGBTQQ family), that is how things shall remain. But what isn’t being reported, is the fact that many of these young men (with a few pathetic exceptions) are decent human beings who need some real kindness and financial support.

They might steal, but they’ll never make you miserable, or commit bodily harm. I know, because I have been a “victim” of these darling scoundrels at least several times, just in the past year alone. (Now, please don’t cite me the occasional exception of some lunatic who actually does get a bit violent, and damages your furniture or even socks you in the eye; they do not represent the majority of the robbers in question.)

Thus far, I’ve been ripped off of one laptop computer, two android tablets, all the quarters in my change jar, several twenty-dollar bills, a miniature remote control device for my seven-inch screen portable TV (but not the TV itself), and my entire Futurama DVD collection. A grand total of approximately $1,450. Whoop-de-doo. (All my computers BTW, I purchase refurbished, so their possible loss will never be an earth-shattering trauma. I highly recommend TigerDirect.com for such purchases.)

I am certainly far from affluent, unlike many of you “homo-owners” who reside here in the Castro, or visit. In fact, I can barely keep my head above financial waters, living on just a disability stipend in an SRO unit overlooking Market Street, near Noe. (If it weren’t for rent control, I’d most likely be out on the streets myself.) So any sort of theft impacts me far more than it does most of the victims of these thieving cherubs who promise eternal love in exchange for a drink or two.

The tragic fact is: our queer community has become infested with a terrible disease called “Libertarianism”. And by that, I mean “corporate-worshipping right-wing Republican anti-universal-anything capitalist pig elitists”…which same disease has seriously impacted all minorities, not just ours. The long term result of such an infection, is a rather large increase of poor folk, some of whom migrate to wealthy gay neighborhoods in order to hookup with older men, and/or burglarize their premises in order to survive or get a taste of some of the luxury they are otherwise denied. (Through no fault of their own, I might add.)

What little our community does for the sexual-minority homeless is limited to youth. IOW: once you hit 22, it’s screw you, and a helping hand to the misery of these cold, harsh streets and a friendless (and often dangerous) existance among a much larger crowd of homophobic thugs who rule the roost (even in the Castro, which has a false reputation of “gay friendly”).

Because the majority of wealthy queers in San Francisco do not listen to the strident pleas (on behalf of our poor) by wonderfully liberal folks like Tommi Avicolli Mecca, mugging and theft of our upper classes shall continue, and even increase. Because so many of you wealthy homo-owners only think of sex when taking home a sweet but desperate young man who’s learned the ropes on how to survive off our community…you do not have any right to whine, let alone put them in jail. Instead of befriending some of these glorious souls currently stranded, and using your excess wealth to improve their lot and give them real happiness and meaning in their lives, you fat elitists cling to your material possessions like barnacles to a cruise ship.

And seeing as your Republican kind are so powerful in both finance and politics, it is highly unlikely Mr. Mecca (or any other brave hearted liberal) will see his dream come true any time soon…at least, not via standard channels. But after meditating upon this serious issue, I’ve come up with a solution, albeit radical (though harmless):

We can actually befriend these homeless waifs, and organize a sort of Robin Hood gang that uses every possible legal maneuver, to seduce our wealthy older queers to coughing up a chunk of their bank accounts on a regular basis. Said profits will be funneled into housing, food, medical care, education, and so on…that we may assist our street crowd towards a decent life. Another benefit will result, in that we can then easily weed out the homophobes among the homeless population, thus making things safer all around, even for the very same affluent homo-owners who spit on anyone with less than $300,000 to their name.

I have homeless friends on these mean streets, some of whom initially robbed me, but now show me great love and respect. Simply because I did not play the Outraged Wealthy Queer card; I did not report them to police; I did not arrest them. And surely, were I rich, I’d be opening up homes for these incredible street urchins so sorely regarded by narrow-minded dolts who, I’m sorry to say, control so much of our queer community. But, being 61 years of age and in robust health, I certainly do have the energy to consolidate this street project to aid our most disadvantaged and abused.

I’m sure I’ll take a lot of flack from others for my bold proposition. But the time has come for progressive, even radical, solutions to be acted upon…and sweep away the detritus of right-wing ideology that has so badly damaged what remains of true community and compassion here in the Heart of Gay Mecca.

Sinqueerly yours,

Zeke Krahlin
Gay activist & homeless advocate since 1983,
a.k.a. Jehovah’s Queer Witness

Message to a Long Lost Friend

13 December 2011

My dear, handsome Witt:

Writing this letter today, to prove to you that I strongly sensed your wonderful return in my life was imminent. I’ve since printed it out, and kept it secure in a pocket, that I may hand it to you immediately upon our resurrected friendship, wherever and whenever that may be. Another way to say this is: “My angels told me to prepare for your return…and it will only be a few weeks at the most.” This makes me very happy.

Regardless of the ups and downs of our association, I have always admired and appreciated your friendship, as well as your survival skills living on four wheels, scavenging discarded furniture and other valuable detritus for resale at flea markets, and conjuring up delicious victuals out of dumpsters and trash cans. Those founders of the “Freegan Movement” have nothing on you! (In fact, I’m sure you could provide them with many useful tips! Glad you’ve finally found your own disciples, hey little grasshopper? You will be as God to them! You’ll have ‘em eatin’ right outta your “Witt’s Outrageous 3 meats/3 Cheeses Mulligan Extra Special Gourmet Stew” hands! Surprise ‘em with your utterly delectable vegan version. They’ll never know what hit their tongues, nor ever eat real flesh again.) I especially appreciate how difficult it is in your wanderlust existence–keeping afloat by cunning alone–to accommodate me (or anyone) as your guest, in a renovated bread truck that is your home.

I understand that many years back, you had asked a certain person on the street named Brian (about 6 feet tall, dishwater blonde straight hair, rather ordinary but wide bovine face), if I was still living at 2306 Market. He said to you, “No, he’s not.” Brian’s an idiot, not a real friend…he only knows me a bit from our occasional encounters in the Castro. I never liked him, and am sorry that he misled you. To his credit however, he did approach me about six years ago, and told me you asked about my whereabouts.

Brian said he told you that I was no longer living there (’cause he couldn’t really believe I was, after all those years). He apologized for the misinformation…for the truth is, yes, I still live in that rotten little room in which we shared some rather hellacious good times. As I said, Brian is an idiot. He is a pathetic pinhead who hails from Utah, and decided one day to leave Ogden and never look back (or he’d turn into a pillar of Salt Lake City. He’s still here in SF by the way, looking old and haggard; I wish he’d move back to Moron Land. Get it? “Moron, Mormon”. Ha-ha. How about Morton’s Salt Mines? Ha-ha to the “nth” power.Take my wife…please!) In other words, he’s just a stupid sheeple whom you really should never have relied on, for any information about myself.

Be that as it may, our time apart–though many years at this point (since 1989 I think)–has only made me appreciate you more, with time’s slow passage. We are friends, Witt, real friends. And I’m sorry if any of my own insecurities and neuroses made you hesitate to explore our friendship further, and caused you to be overly careful in continuing what to me, has always been a marvelous adventure.

I realize how difficult it is living out of a truck, and coming to SF to hang with me…considering how Fascist this city has become, and outright hostile to free spirits like yourself, who prefer not to be tied down to renting a unit and becoming frozen for years–perhaps the rest of your lifetime–in the same tiny habitat. I respect and admire your sense of adventure and freedom on the open road. Though I know such a lifestyle is not without hardship, considering how screwed up America has become, in regards to any citizen who chooses to live an alternative lifestyle. (Ironic, eh, considering the 60′s and all that.)

This letter is dragging out, please bear with me, as my angels guide me in how to tell you with what great import and joy i regard your friendship. I have missed you very much, and thought of you every few months or so, with great concern and wishes for your happiness, and hopefully even resuming our friendship where it becomes so much more fun and loving than it’s ever been. Several years back, I even rode my bike out by the Berkeley Marina,

stopping on the way by that roadside bistro where you once parked in the adjoining lot, to celebrate an evening under the stars, by the sand dunes…all three of us. But there was no Witt, no sand dunes any more, and no starry sky. (Yes, sometimes your spirit does call to me, and I know it’s real. And you’re calling to me once more, and thus, this letter.)

FYI, one of the really neat things about you, is you never mess with drugs or alcohol. (Sure wish you’d smoke some killer ganja with me now and then, though!) And your fantastic little dog Wiley…the dingo of bountiful joy and affection named after a Looney Tunes character. It must’ve been one of the worst days in your life, when you lost your quadrupedal buddie to K-9 Heaven. But I’m sure his ebullient little spirit is with you once more, in the vessel of another frisky pup.

Excuse me for being so forward, but I am now 61 years old, which affords me little time for shy innuendos. I love you (and always have; you’re quite the hot dude), and find you to be a most gorgeous and sexy man, with an incredible sense of adventure and “bromance”.

I would be terribly happy just to resume our friendship without anything “risque” going on. But just in case, I figured it would be wise at this point in our lives, to break the ice. I just wish my room were all fixed up real nice and cozy for your return. But alas, it’s still rather a mess since my breakup with another sweet friend, Johnny S., three years ago due to his heroine addiction and father’s sudden death. I don’t know, but I must be the King of Bromance, the list goes on and on and on!

I have spent many lonely years since you disappeared from my life. My old friend John H. moved to Philadelphia in 1996, and my on-and-off “friend” Michael Carl B. died last year in October. (And good riddance to that, I say; he was a nasty old man that hated the devil out of you, and interfered in my life constantly, in most hostile ways.) I do not deserve this, but I must accept that this is my particular path that our creator has chosen, to shape my soul into the best possible person I could be. Nonetheless, I’ve missed you terribly.

The fact of your return only gives me cause for celebration. For it could never have happened if the angels did not see fit to bring us back together. I certainly do not claim to understand the mysteries behind this, but I do have some comprehension of the ways of the Great Spirit.

Now, we are back together again after so many difficult and lonely years. I only ask that you put enough faith in our friendship, to never fear that I would ever want you out of my life. I am sorry that you had doubts about this. I am sorry that dipwad Brian misled you. I also realize that my remaining in the same building as your friend Maxie (and on the same floor, where we even shared a bathroom), may be difficult for you, considering he died from a heroine overdose way, way back in 1987 or so; I really can’t recall the exact year.

Unbelievable to realize that (since Mr. Betza’s most welcome death) I am now the longest-term resident of 2306 (I really don’t want to die here, and become yet one more ghost of Dolores Street Apartments…not when three of the most disgusting people I’ve ever met, also died here, and made my life miserable for a time!) But I am so happy to realize now that you are my hero and good friend, and will rescue me from such a sad demise.

I am more than ready to pack up my few belongings (that would be my netbook, extension cord and a backpack…whenever we pop into a wifi coffeehouse I’ll download some great movies and TV shows we can watch later while holed up in your van overnight), and join you on the Road to Great Adventures. Or, if you’d like, we can keep my room as a convenient rest stop between breaks from our silly highway escapades. Wash the dust off, kick back and enjoy the few good things this cheapskate, backwater, skanky little burg has to offer. (Okay, pardner? Another way to go with this, is to surrender my SRO, thereby freeing up an extra $310 that might be better spent, perhaps on truck maintenance, or doggie care.)

There number about eight fantastically gorgeous and wonderful men I have had the great honor to know over many years (starting in 1969 where I met my first true love Robert Matthew Childers in Columbia, Missouri), share some great times (and fall in love) with, and wished for something more permanent than a few years’ togetherness, then *poof* they’re gone forever, like it was all just a fantastic dream.

You are definitely one of these excellent men. I even wrote an Ice Age Bromance about us, called “Dream on: Encounter with a Neanderthal“. You are also the cop-centurion “DeWitt” in my testosterone inspired homo sci-fi tale, “The Mask of Horus“. Who knows? You might even be the “Pa” in my animated decal “Padonna & Child“. If so, it was subliminally inspired. But now that I think about it, Pa does look suspiciously like you, in that he likewise has your bulky, broad-shouldered stature (though you’re certainly not hairy or bald like this Pa, but I suspect you want to be incognito in the animated gif, perhaps to surprise me years later, such as this very moment).

I love you Witt, and am so incredibly happy to see you again. Let’s kick some ass and have a hell of a good time. You, me, and your little pup Wily III (or perhaps IV or even V by now).

Love, friendship, and sincerest regards,

Zeke a.k.a. Gene

PS: I legally changed my name to “Ezekiel Krahlin,” back in 1996…but please feel free to continue to call me “Gene Catalano.” if that is your pleasure. I did it only to spiritually divorce myself from my blood family; they don’t deserve me. I have never forgotten that cold, starry night when you pulled up across the street late in the wee dark hours, and hollered through a loudspeaker so robustly as to wake up the dead: “Catalano! You awake?” I nearly pooped my pajamas…people heard you more than two blocks away! God bless you, Witt. (John H., you were still living there 2 stories up in 404, you remember that night.)

I’d Sooner Buy Hitler A Pony

Sometimes I get a little mischievous with Youtube comments. Just look for my handle “pewterbot9″ at the bottom of a post, to find a particular declaration by yours truly…33 all told. (If my handle appears above a comment, it indicates someone responding back to me.) Please note this is an image of the comment page, so you can’t jump-search my handle or click on any links…you can only scroll either up or down.

Though to simplify your perusal, I’ve marked each of my posts with a red arrow “<,” so they’re hard to miss.

To view the actual video, or to add your own comment, click here, or anywhere on the comment page below.

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How I Acquired The Cloak Of Invisibility, And The First Thing I Did With It

Actually, I’m not really sure how I acquired the damn Cloak, but it must have been a reward for one of my Odyssey adventures, which the gods have deemed to erase from my memory until a future time. I believe it was woven from Ariadne’s thread tossed aside in a forgotten ball, once Theseus made his escape from the Labyrinth.

But who wove it, and who gave it the power to make one invisible? And who presented it to me, and for what accomplishment? Alas, these truths remain hidden to me for a while longer…thus I must proceed with my tale without the benefit of any history. (Perhaps it was my spill in the River Lethe, battling some sort of beast or another, that washed away these memories.)

The Cloak itself is velvet black, with a honey shimmer to it…as if a lock of the Golden Fleece. were woven into its threads. It BELONGS to me…it KNOWS it belongs to me…as whenever I fling it about myself, it always falls upon my body in the most artful manner. It complements, it embraces, it cherishes me with dear caresses, and never clings! Yet it slides off with not a moment of pause–once I release my grasp–and falls graciously to the floor with a pleasant “whoosh”. Neither static-y nor clingy, no dirt or dust ever gathers upon it…for which I conclude the unknown existence of some Polyester-blend goddess (perhaps the offspring of that rotten cyclops Polyphemus, who once chased after some lovely trifle of a mortal named Esther. Perhaps the Cloak’s power of invisibility came from the blinding of this cyclops by Odysseus).

So I stand on the banks of the River Lethe, contemplating all the delicious adventures that will be mine, as the invisible voyeur of others’ adventures…when along comes fickle Eros. As I am presently concealed beneath the Cloak, he would pass right by me without knowing I’m even there…except for my stepping in his way, for which he is unexpectedly knocked over. After gathering his arrows, Eros stands up, stares at my new gift of the Cloak of Invisibility…and after a few moments says, “Dude: I have a great idea where you could use that Cloak.” (And where could that be?) I think.

“The Bedrooms of the Gods of course,” brags Eros, “why, you could write the steamiest novels the world has ever seen, by merely recounting what you witness! You’d be an overnight sensation, a romance novelist par excellence, and a multi-millionaire to boot!” (I would also know what tickles Apollo’s fancy) I muse, as one mortal who is very hot for a particular deity or two.

“Oh, yes, why, the benefits to your personal life would be enormous,” admits Eros. “You would have ANY God you want by the balls, and caress them whenEVER you please! I must apologize for tempting you
with mere lucre, Ezekiel…as I know you value the immaterial over the material, as should any seeker of truth. Now, just think what all that money could do for the poor, the lame, and the downtrodden!” (Then let’s go! You need not convince me further…I’m hot to trot.)

We arrive at the Bedroom Palace (teleportation? flight? memory still hazy, try again later) somewhere on the eastern slope of lofty Mount Olympus…which contains secluded chamber after chamber, to satisfy even the most finicky demands of privacy for which any goddess or god could wish. Solid, thick oak doors trimmed in eggshell white and 24 caret gold-plated brass fixtures, are so sturdy not even Hephaestus‘s mighty hammer could batter them down.

“Let me show you the bedroom where Apollo and Zeus do the nasty”, Eros leads me down a long, long hallway until we reach a room whose door he pushes ajar. I hesitate.

“Go right in, no one’s home. I’m right behind you” whispers Eros, nudging me through the entrance. We stand amid silken tapestry and drapes of purest white, purple, and gray that grace tall windows and a ginormous bed against the far end of the room. Rose-scented candles in sconces and on small tables lend a soft, gentle light to the entire room. Eros guides me into a closet large enough to fit a banquet table and all its guests. “You can hide here, in their wardrobe,” speaks Eros. “That, plus your Cloak to shield you, will make you completely secure from their finding you.”

I am about to ask some pertinent questions–such as how long do they partake in their love making (knowing that a single minute to a god is a century to a human, and that I could easily starve to death, or grow old and die in this closet, long before they’re even done with foreplay…thus you can understand my concern)–when Eros suddenly jumps back, says “I hear them coming”…then quick as a flash disappears.

I am left standing amid all the masculine trappings of war gods: the musky scent of leather and rough cloth soaked in godly sweat nearly puts me into a heavenly swoon! But I stand determined to witness what no mortal eyes have ever witnessed before: Zeus boinking the daylights out of Apollo! (Or is Zeus a bottom? Or are they more egalitarian in bed, than elsewhere? Do they like to french kiss? How much foreplay? Or are they rough and ready from the get-go? These juicy details, and much more, I am soon to find out!)

I hear voices and the door creak open, then shut. The Cloak of Invisibility is fully flung over my frame as I stand, shaking, knees wobbling in anticipation of my daring plunder into the most personal aspect of the lives of gods! A deep voice booms: “I don’t remember leaving the door open, do you? Is anyone here?” I stand, frozen, barely breathing. “Check the closet.” Arms push around the voluminous robes sliding on their hangers, but fortunately pass right by the spot on which I stand. I cannot see who it is. (Apollo or Zeus?) Not that I can’t see through my Cloak (of course I can), but the clothes shielding me that cover the Cloak block my view! Drat! I need to move a little forward…well, let’s wait till they calm down and get to bed.

“Uh, hey stud…lock that door will ya. I think we should, uh, mess around for a time. Don’t you?” I hear them disrobe: the gentle “shush” of togas falling, and the rattle of buckles. Again, one (I can’t see who) approaches the closet and plunks a heavy sword against the wall…it slides and crashes right onto my foot! Ouch! I better hold my breathe! Ouch! Damn friggin’ sword…must weigh as much as a horse…my foot is throbbing, god, this ain’t so much fun any more! Egads! Ouch, ouch ouch!

I can’t help myself; a moan wells up from my throat.

“Wait! Did you hear that?”

“What? Who could hear anything after that sword crash? Deafening! No, I didn’t hear a thing.”

“Well, I heard something, and it came from that closet!”

“And just what do you think you heard, little missy? Sure it’s not your bat ears ringing?”

(Little missy? One’s a fem? I can’t believe this! Wait’ll I get my book published! Uh-oh, he’s coming back to the closet!)

“Huh, maybe it was just an echo.” Arms swoosh through the clothing once more, and I stand frozen in fear. “Wait, what’s this?”

“What’s what? Lemme see what you’re talking about.”

I still can’t see either one of the gods, though their very breaths warm the cloak under which I tremble.

“Okay, whoever you are, come out of there now…we see you!”

(They do? I don’t believe them, they’re calling my bluff. After all, no one’s grabbing at me.)

“We can see your feet, fool! Look!”

(I look down and lo and behold! The Cloak of Invisibility hangs its hem just inches above my toes. I am not completely covered! I sigh, and drop the Cloak, and all pretense…and step out from behind the
wardrobe, to see…not gods, but goddesses! A pair of uber-dykes! What the hell is this all about?)

“Who are you?” demands the busty platinum-blonde, now hastily robed in a bedsheet.

(Ezekiel, madame…Ezekiel Joseph Krahlin.)

“Madame? You call the great goddess of the sacred hunt, Artemis, ‘madame’? Just where do you come from, little Ezekiel?” speaks the other, a voluptuous nymph of seaweed hair and piercing yellow-green eyes.

(Ummm…San Francisco, planet earth…that is, in my waking life. At present, I presume I’m in one of my vision dreams.)

“One of your vision dreams? Ha!” mocks Artemis, “Tell us who put you up to this or I’ll flay your skin and feed it to the Harpies!”

I’m not about to reveal my source…not when I’d have the wrath of yet another god upon my soul. So I just stand there, trembling, but lips firmly shut.

“Eros, eh? I should have known! That little imp is always messing up Mt. Olympus whenever he gets the chance!”

Too bad, they can read my mind. (He told me this is the bedroom of Zeus and Apollo.) I plead.

“That’s your excuse, mangy mortal?” hollers Artemis. “You were going to spy on gods? This amounts to hubris of the highest order. I hope you realize the consequences of your heinous act!”

(Ummm…being chained to a boulder and having an eagle pluck out my liver for all eternity?) I venture an educated guess.

Taken aback, Artemis first glances at the nymph, then at me, than again at her partner…and they both burst out in laughter. “Come here, Ezekiel”, Artemis gently takes my arm, and leads me to a chair where she urges me to sit.

“No harm shall come to you, mischievous mortal. It is Eros who should take the blame. I have a plan for vengeance, but it will take me some minutes to work it out. Please enjoy Sylvia’s company in the meantime…I’ll be back shortly.” And with a wide grin on her beatific face, Artemis departs.

Sylvia and I have a heartfelt conversation about the homeless lesser gods in Olympus, and what can possibly be done about it, if anything.

Finally, after the passage of a little time, Artemis returns. “Boy have I got a treat for you, Ezekiel!” And she tugs my arm in a wish to escort me to parts yet unknown.

Artemis, Sylvia, and I (carried in Sylvia’s strong arms, due to my injured foot) proceed down enormous corridors, to yet another heavy wooden door, through which we enter. There, tied by his four limbs to the posts of a water bed, kneels Eros on all fours, his nether end most prominent. Sylvia sets me on the floor, where I stand, staring in disbelief: I do drool. “He’s all yours for the next twenty minutes, Ezekiel. I’m sure you’ll know what to do!” says Artemis, and they depart.

I do indeed…for twenty of the most beautiful minutes of my life, in sheer Tantric bliss! And this experience has shown me why, when spelled backwards, Eros means “sore”! So this ends the story of my winning the Cloak of Invisibility, how I first used it, and how I lost it in the heat of the moment before I ever got to use it more than once.

ADDENDUM: Were those succulent twenty minutes, the minutes of a god, or of a mortal? I leave you to ponder, and eat your heart out.