Corner Delivery

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 12 ]

You may recall in Chapter 2 (“Moby’s Dick“) that I planned to present My Larkin with a gift, by standing around Castro and 18th till he (hopefully) passes by. Seeing as I don’t know his current home address, nor obviously does he care to say. Detectives are not easy folks to befriend.

When a friend (or foe, I suppose) whose current residence is unbeknownst to you, but does live in or frequents the Castro, this would be a logical spot to wait for him to show up. For this particular intersection is quite dense with pedestrians streaming to and fro. Another good choice would be Market & Castro, right around the entrance to the underground rail service (MUNI Metro)…otherwise known as “Harvey Milk Plaza”.

Two days after our surprise meetup at Moby’s, the gift is ready. It is early afternoon as I saunter down Noe Street on the way to 18th, cloth bag (sporting the disabled veterans logo) full of goodies dangling from my left forearm. But before I even reach 17th, I think I spy Larkin from across the street (or someone who very much looks like him at least in height and hair). He’s wearing a red jacket and medium-brown pants. I am nearsighted and, without glasses* cannot make out the face before a UPS truck rumbles by to block any further view.

* Medicaid coverage ceased providing glasses and eye care some years back, along with dental and psychiatric…which explains–at least in part–why I’m such a hopeless wreck these days. Being born in a basilisk hatchery doesn’t help, either. My Guardian Dragon was there with me right from conception, and let me tell you: it was crowded in that womb. Larkin’s tobacco habit sure made the place so filled with throat-retching fumes, after nine months I just couldn’t take it any more, and popped outta there like a greased piglet (though with wings, tail and scaly armor)! So Larkin lost his pinochle partner; I didn’t care. Second-hand smoke is still smoke, and I was coughing up lungfulls!

Dodging traffic, I scurry across the road, keeping my sight aimed at the spot I saw him moments ago, right beside a silver-gray VW Jetta. Nothing. I then glance up Noe, then 17th: for what other direction could he have gone in such a short time without running into me? Still, whether or not that man was actually Larkin, he is nowhere to be found.

Okay, I think, I’ll just mosey on up to 18th and Castro, and hope my luck in finding him pans out.

Bank of America

Several minutes later, I reach the historic intersection, and decide to hang out on the southeast corner, by Bank of America. No more than one minute passes when–thar she blows!–I spot Larkin marching down Castro, same side and across. He quickly turns corner, to play some pool at The Mix? Desperate to catch up to him, I dash against the flashing red hand signal; horns honk.

“Larkin!” I call. “Larkin!” He stops to face me, looking a bit haggard. No doubt he hasn’t had his first brew of the day. Or coffee.

He honors me with a gentle grin; ocean wind fluffs those curly waves of unkempt ruddy-brown hair which (now that he’s approaching 50) are sprinkled with a dash of salt here and there. There are now dark gaps where bright teeth once shone (the mark of a seasoned warrior). Still: a radiant smile.

Larkin once had a smile so glorious, it would knock your garters off full blast! I’d gladly sacrifice all my remaining nine rotting teeth to win back that wondrous grin. But this is why I call him a seasoned warrior: he gave up his dental insurance (and entire career in fact) for a most noble cause. A cause which has to do with sparing me from a hideous fate of terror and dark sorrow. But worst of all, a fate in which My Darling Dragon no longer exists.

“Here’s my latest gift,” I proudly declare while catching lung’s breath. I raise my colorful sack of presents to the level of his stomach (don’t forget, he’s 6-foot-4). And continue:

“Would it be a burden for you to accept it now? I can try another day.” I announce with heroically stoic poise, and lower the veterans bag to belly-button height. This, despite an overwhelming urge to throw myself into his gangly embrace…which craving has never left me since we first met, and touched, and talked, and kissed, way way back in 2000-and-6.

I am Boadicea‘s Great Soldier first, before I am a lover. Larkin is our platoon sergeant, so to speak. I could never bring him shame; it’s just not in my heart…nor in The Mount Olympus Soldier’s Field Manual.

Larkin shrugs: “Now’s as good as any, I suppose.” And accepts my latest tokens of friendship with an extended hand. I look up: those dragon-gold eyes sparkle. He seems amused. (He always seems amused…at least, whenever I’m present.)

I was taken aback; accustomed as I am to Sisyphean struggles and a slow, tortuous path (like walking upstream in a runnel of sorghum) that is usually my fate whenever I want to speak with him, buy him a drink, or even just view My Celtic Lad from a discrete distance. (Oh, yeah: or bring him a gift, as in this present scenario.) They are rare moments, and more precious, I guess, because of that.

Isle of Man (Great Britain)

So you can imagine how startled I am, at such immediate success this time around. I look up at his noble Manx face, and tilt my head in birdlike quandary.

“Well, that was quick,” I remark. To which he quakes his shoulders in a body-language guffaw. My satchel of love-tokens hangs firmly from his clenched fingers. Joy sweeps through my exhausted soul, at the sight.

“Say, Larkin,” I remark. “I thought I saw you a short while ago on Noe Street. But a truck drove by, and when it left, you weren’t there any more!” I feign dramatic, as in a Vaudeville skit: “I looked left, I looked right. I looked north, I looked south. But no Larkin!” I then stretch out my arms as if to embrace the entire sky: “No Larkin anywhere!”

He remains silent, but gazes down at me with affection (and perhaps a touch of waggery; he does chortle a bit). So I finish: “Guess that wasn’t you then, eh?”

We stand some moments, smiles washing back and forth like the ebb and flow of ocean foam along a sandy beach. Then Larkin cranes his neck sideways to peer into the bag dangling from the end of one, long arm. With raised eyebrows, an expression of doubt lingers across his forehead. Like maybe I might have stashed a venomous snake in there, for all the difficulties he’s put me through. Ha, ha.

I chuckle. “You will like what’s in there.”

Then I realize it’s time to go, though of course I want to remain right there by his glorious side. “Well then, My Brave Dragon, you have a wonderful day.”

“You too now, Zeke,” he replies, then turns to enter the Mix.

“Oh, I certainly will!” I holler back through the traffic rattle, as my steps already draw me home to my humble SRO. (How could I not have a spectacular day? After all, today I saw Larkin and–better yet–brought him another sweet gift straight from My Little Dragonly Soul.)

Realization suddenly springs on me, like a bear trap…so I turn back. “Wait a minute Larkin, that was you on Noe Street,” I exclaim. He pauses in the doorway.

“Yes, that certainly was you!” I look him over from dragon snout to dragon tail (as he patiently puffs out a whiff of that chill, ocean fog). “You’re wearing the same clothes: red jacket and brown pants.”

Larkin cryptically shrugs those fine, skinny shoulders and disappears into the Mix.

So, the little reptile was there. He noticed me and must’ve crouched behind a car, so I’d miss him. But why?” I think this through. Then it hits me:

Oh, I see now. He wanted to receive my gift at 18th & Castro, just like I told him at Moby Dick’s. Accepting it on Noe Street would’ve made our Real Life Fairytale a tad less magical.

How’d I ever get so lucky?

It’s in the cards!

Howard’s Calendar

You may recall, Dear Reader, that I featured Howard’s Cafe in my latest novel, “Free Me From This Bond“. But did you know they also made a calendar, featuring Jesse Balmer‘s insanely hilarious cartoon sketches…as well as birthdays and factoids of their most loyal patrons?

I didn’t, thus was delightfully flabbergasted to discover this latest Howard’s Masterly Triumph of Goodwill! Annie (one of the waitresses there; and the sweetest person you could ever hope to meet) presented me with their last remaining copy, as a gift for my online praise of this most excellent Inner Sunset eatery. Designed and assembled by the loving hands of several customers and employees, this unique calendar comprises 29 pages of Howard frivolity to keep a big smile on your face each and every day of 2012.

According to Annie, the calendar was created in the old-school style of pure hard copy: not a single digital image or character to be found. I decided then, it would be awfully nice to share this calendar with the world via my blog, as well as preserve it for posterity long after the original templates have grown yellow and crumbly over time.

My apologies for the amateurish results, but my scanner is broke (as I am likewise, quasi-starving author that I am), so I had to resort to digital camera snapshots. Of course, you will need to click on each image, to get a better view. Enjoy your journey through 2012, with Howard’s Artistic Angels at the helm!

Latest Gift

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 5 ]

Allow me to show you the latest gift I will soon present to My Beloved Larkin (click on any image for a larger view):

Folder contains episodes from my latest novel (“Free Me From This Bond“): chapters 3 (Sweet Sue), 9 (Dragon Fire in the Hole)…and addendums 1 (Dragon Prophecy), 3 (Tom Keske), and 4 (Larkin in the Buff). Left out three other completed chapters because they are not pertinent to my bless-ed relationship with my Darling Guardian Dragon Larkin Kelsey…and I am running low on printer ink, which is rather expensive. I am presently typing Chapter 13 (The Phone Call) which may or may not be added to this folder, depending on how soon I can deliver this gift to My Sweetheart, and whether or not there’s enough ink left in my printer.

Photo #3 shows my newest chapters in the left pocket; and in the right is a political comic book about America’s War Machine, and why it is so destructive to its citizens, and to our troubled world at large. Really, it’s intended as a gift of appreciation to Randolph Louis Taylor, and not to Larkin Kelsey. For reasons which should be obvious to you, Sweet Reader, if you’ve been following my tales since Chapter 1 (Free Me From This Bond). The small white envelope contains a business card that promotes my latest novel. Click here to view it.

Photo #4 is addressed to Randolph instead of Larkin, for I know their spirits are intertwined, and that Lover #1 (Randolph) has brought Lover #2 (Larkin), to heal my bleeding heart of great sorrow for the love of a suffering Vietnam Veteran (#1).

Don’t know if you can see this, but in photo #4, in fine-point pen I added (in the lower middle-right): “Thank you for bringing me to him.”

This is in reference to my other Great Love Randolph. But it also acknowledges a near-future prophecy, where Larkin will bring me back to My Beloved Randolph (who suddenly disappeared from my life since 1992) through whatever magical dimension that is his power, which I call Dragon Sorcery. I really can’t speak enough praise, at what a noble and dear dragon, is My Darling Larkin. Suffice it to say: “He is Infinitely Belov-ed by Yours Truly.”

FYI: If you still need to learn about my excellent association with Randolph Taylor, go here:

The Somalian Affair
http://www.gay-bible.org/somalia/

Or, for a briefer account, this poem:

September’s Passage
http://gay-bible.org/truetales/6_septemb.htm

Why it’s called “The Somalian Affair” will become evident, after a little perusal of that Dragon-Divinely Inspired Page.

Photo’s #5-6 are just the reverse side. A skull-theme bandana binds the folder. Those painted feathers BTW, were found in a curb on Noe Street, while walking home. Discarded, no doubt, after a fun day by one of numerous revelers, at San Francisco’s annual Bay to Breakers run.

Wait-a-minute. Oh jeez, silly me. I almost forgot to mention the other items I’ve included in this folder. And which are very, very special (click on any image for a larger view):

On the left side are the original handwritten letters I composed in 1985, while visiting My Randolph after he shot himself, and where he was (hopefully) recuperating. There was no certain conclusion that his hospital bed at the VAMC in Washington, D.C. would not also become his death bed. Those letters were interviews I held with various other patients there, who were also Nam Vets and–after returning back from that conflict–became (like Randolph) anti-war activists.

What I did was illegal (carrying a concealed tape recorder into the building), and could have landed me in prison. Each night upon returning to my hotel room, I’d play the recordings back, and handwrite all the details. The next morning, I’d make a photocopy of this journal, and mail these duplicates to Warren Hinckle, a news reporter back in S.F., who agreed to receive my daily reports. This way, if I got caught, Warren would have at lease some vital info that could blow this scandel wide open.

John H., you remember all this I’m sure…you were still residing in the same apartment building as myself…in fact, I had just moved in there two years earlier. You recall how I had no money to fly out there, until that miracle happened. My first computer ever (a Compaq “luggable”, 28 lbs.!) was stolen by those two rapscallions, who I let live with me for a week before they could move into a new rental. I was so upset, never dreaming I’d collect on my insurance. So I forgot all about it. Then, Randolph shoots himself!

A potent dream where angels instructed me to fly out to D.C., or he’ll die, made me worry how I’d ever get the moolah to do just that. “Don’t worry,” these angels affirmed, “the money will come to you at the right time.” Well, lo and behold, the insurance payment that I forgot all about did show up two months later: $2,850! More than enough to jet out to D.C., rent a budget hotel room, eat out, buy Randolph some gifts, and more.

And you remember how I trusted curly golden-haired Brian Stevens to stay in my SRO and keep things tidy. No guests whatsoever, especially not that byatch Kelly? Boy, did he make a mess of things! (Or really, I should say “she“.)

Sadly, Mr. Hinckle did nothing with my papers; in fact he never communicated with me ever again, despite my several phone calls to him when I got back. As far as I know, he is still sitting on these documents, or more likely, just tossed them into the garbage can.

Those letters are testimonials citing medical abuse and neglect by hospital staff, towards those soldiers who spoke out against our occupation of Vietnam. One such patient who suffered seizures, was locked away and ignored…until he finally died the next day. I believe they also intended the same fate for Randolph. Fortunately, I discovered his whereabouts thanks to the help of a local priest (Father Young, Church of the Most Holy Redeemer here in the Castro)…who had contacts back east. Ministers, priests, rabbis and the like can visit places otherwise verboten to your average citizen.

Once I blew the whistle by publicizing Randolph’s location and begging folks to send him letters and cards of concern, love and support; the hospital knew the jig was up, and they were forced to take good care of him. (How did I expose their skulduggery? By sending my grievous appeal as a letter to the editor to every major newspaper in each of our fifty states.)

On the right side of the open folder, are displayed three cards, all written to Randolph, but never really mailed. I did this sometimes, just to soothe my aching soul for lack of him. The topmost card shows a dog gazing down at a feline. Open this card to find:

This quote is an exact copy from one of Randolph’s earliest letters to me (while recuperating from that self-inflicted bullet wound)…right down to the little sketch of a cat’s head.

The bottommost card depicts two polar bears, youngster riding the back of an adult. Open this card to see:

Below my handwritten praise, you’ll find a photo of yet another card, depicting barnyard animals gathered around the manger of baby Jesus. It is a Christmas card of course, and the very last writing of any sort that Randolph sent to me. For a long time, I had it glued to a red background, and kept it hung on the wall right over my bed’s pillow. Inside, the card read: “May the sweet spirit of Christmas be with you all year long”. And signed, simply: “Randy”.

No return address, but the postal stamp indicated it was mailed from here, in San Francisco! I called the local VAMC and other hospitals, to see if I could track him down. Alas, no luck. I wept. For the umpteenth time since that dear man shot himself, I wept.

Finally, the central card depicts a luminous painting entitled: “The Knight of the Holy Grail” by Frederick Judd Waugh. My quest for Randolph’s Redemption is indeed, My Very Own Personal Holy Grail. Open the card to read:

So there you have it: my recent gift (or gifts, actually) to Beloved Larkin. I entrust him with these papers, and those three undelivered cards. Why? Because I know in my heart, that Larkin’s gift is to deliver me back unto Randoph…in some way which is unfathomable at this time, and is obviously no less than a Major Miracle. Randolph will receive my VAMC documents, and these cards…and thus my Great Odyssey come full circle.

Only now, not with just One Great Love in my life, but two!

I challenge anyone to defy my claim that I am the luckiest and happiest man in the entire cosmos (not just planet earth). Should you be such a one, I warn you right now: your mission is futile!

Dimitri Saves The Day

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 10 ]

I can’t even begin to tell you how difficult was getting those last three chapters out to the world! Sean walked away with my Android tablet about three weeks ago, so I am left with just my desktop-replacement laptop (an Acer Aspire 6530 w/16-inch screen), and my portable Compaq tc4400 PC tablet with swivel screen and touch tablet features. Well, I certainly continue just fine with the loss of my Android, as I still remain with two wifi-capable systems.

But then, I inadvertantly pass on my Compaq to Sean about 10 days later, who (like me) does not realize the backpack he admires (and which I gladly present to him), contains that notebook. As a matter of habit, I’m accustomed to remove the Compaq from this pack the moment I get home, and stash it in a secret spot. Don’t know why I didn’t do it the night ruddy-handsome street-dragon Sean shows up. (What can I say, but that I’m an incurable space cadet! Were there a college course called “Advanced Airhead 201″ I’d be the head of the class.)

Sean is certainly not at fault, I want to declare to all the world as my enlightened jury. Unfortunately, I make him the unwitting thief of my finest laptop ever, which he may or may not be able to return at this point. Either way, I still regard him as an absolute darling, who has nothing but my best wishes in every way. BTW, Sean is the street dragon who drew those Sharpie fine-point designs on my hands, as depicted at the end of Chapter 8.

How good looking is Sean (you might ask)? He has (or had) a shaggy mop of jet black hair with a flurry of curls, like a dark halo. Sean has since shaved his head to form a close-cropped Mohawk that looks absolutely bitchin’. His closely-set anthracite eyes are especially sexy and hypnotic. Little did I know just what a gorgeous body he really has, ’cause every time he hangs out with me, he’s bundled up in layers. But the last time Sean dropped over, he peeled off his top clothes to change into a fresh T.

I was stunned. His torso is precisely cut with well defined pecs and gorgeous tight nipples. Broad shoulders, chest, and a saliva-drippingly trim waist! Though of short stature (5-foot-5 I guess), he is a truly buff male of approximately 27 years, with nicely shaped forearms and bulging biceps. Really lickable armpits (I might add) with just a splash of hair: a delightful oasis between solid upper arms and deltoids. In short: a breathing Greek statue of classic proportion.

Well, I still have my Acer which serves me quite well, with the extra benefit of connecting to the Internet via Gold’s Gym across the street from my Hobbit SRO. But then, the Aspire 6530 burns out some chips, which afterwards only allows me to run the computer off a live optical disc. (I did not learn until more than two years since purchasing this particular model, that it has a notoriously hot CPU that would eventually lead to major burnout; and that is exactly what happens to me…and it couldn’t possibly come at a worse time!)

Now here is where things devolve from annoying to outright frustrating.

The laptop screen is malfunctioning, but so what, I have a seperate LCD monitor hooked up, and it works just fine. The hard drive is wrecked, then again I do have five live DVD’s with different versions of Linux: Puppy, Mint, Debian, Knoppix and Parted Magic. So I pop in my favorite distro (which is Puppy), and I’m good to go (or so I think).

Whaaaa-aat? The operating system refuses to load! I whine, as if my Puppy defecated all over the hardwood floor instead of the newspaper I laid down. What’s up with that? Oh, well, let’s see what else I can try. Yes, let’s go with Mint.

But that system grinds away like an ogre’s jaws coming offa three lines of meth, and takes over a half hour to fully boot up. And after it does, it is so sluggish and non-wifi capable as to be useless! Grrrrr. Let’s try Knoppix next.

Fuggedaboudit. Knoppix is anemic, it’s like an old Appaloosa ready for the glue factory. Once it is loaded, the screen is BLANK believe it or not, and refuses to respond to any of my strokes (like a cheap Polk Street hustler, I might add). *sigh*

Debian is no better, much to my disappointment. What on Jehovah’s Green Ball of Slime is going on here? All those discs have always worked just fine before, the few times I’ve used ‘em!

Turns out Parted Magic is the only functioning live DVD that actually boots up properly, and allows me to connect. But as it also turns out, there still persist serious roadblocks in accomplishing my Cyperspace Mission to Queerify This Planet 100%. For one: I can’t login to my WordPress account, because there is only one browser provided, that is called Chromium, and which has pointless error glitches that refuse to allow me to log into WordPress, and Goddess knows what other sites that I may require to accomplish My Scintillatingly Unbelievable Destiny.

For another: Parted Magic doesn’t provide an image editor of any kind. For this reason, I must work with whatever pics I download, without any cropping, resizing, color adjustment, or whatever. The various web-based image editors I sampled, require Adobe’s Flash Player, which Chromium browser forbids! (Update one week later: finally discovered an excellent online editor called “Lunapic” that does not require Flash to be installed, so I’m happy enough. Necessity is the mother of all bitches. Another problem w/Chromium is you cannot upload a file from the hard drive, or it will shut down. I therefore have no choice but to edit images via their URL.)

Surely Amazon.com has plenty of live DVD’s I can order for less than $10, that will solve my pathetic dilemma. But whaddya know: in spite of ordering more than twenty items in the last two years with the same credit card settings, Amazon suddenly decides there is a problem with my bank account! WTF, didn’t Jesus get crucified so good souls like myself, wouldn’t have to go through such tortuous grievances? My Blog, My Blog, why hast Thou forsaken Me! So I contact my bank which declares there is no problem on their end. OMFGoddess, boink me with a Callanish megalith. This can’t be happening.

Okay, so I can just google for some other cyber-stores outside of Amazon, that will provide me with a functional DVD that won’t prohibit me from logging onto WordPress. OSdisc.com comes up as the most likely candidate. But once more, Google’s Chromium browser decides I can’t log onto that site, due to security certificate disinformation. (Which is most definitely not the case, though I can do absoultely nothing about it, as Chromium does not allow me the option to log on anyway. Jeez! Stuff me in an iron maiden, why don’t you! Gag me with a splintery fish bone from The Last Supper.)

What about Cheapbytes, I query to my perhaps-not-so-imaginary daemon. They’ve always been a reliable source of inexpensive and live DVD’s. Though it’s been several years since I’ve ordered anything from them. Well, Dear Reader, what do you think happens when I visit their site? Their home page is in a simple and clean format with a single link: “Click here to enter the CheapBytes store”.

So I do just that. But instead of their online products menu booting up, I get the following (and useless) statement: “If you can see this page, then the people who manage this server have installed cPanel and WebHost Manager (WHM) which use the Apache Web server software and the Apache Interface to OpenSSL (mod_ssl) successfully. They now have to add content to this directory and replace this placeholder page, or else point the server at their real content.”

I certainly don’t give a royal fig about Apache this and OpenSSL that, so it’s quite obvious that once more I’m sheer out of luck. Suddenly like a bolt from Thor’s hammer, I come up with this absolutely brilliant solution: Oh, I know, I’ll just purchase a DVD via eBay.

So I log onto eBay and search for “linux live dvd“. Which results present a copious list of The Perfect Answer to my online dilemma. It is only then I realize that I have no funds in my Paypal account (well, actually $1.18, but what good is that…can’t even get a 10-second BJ from a snoring vagabond for that paltry sum). And should I funnel $20 or so from my savings acount, to Paypal, it will take at least five business days to register.

Unfortunately that is not soon enough, as I promised my literary agent just yesterday, that I shall have my book ready for publication by Sunday…only THREE DAYS from now! (BTW, my agent chooses to remain anonymous for a while longer; but let me say for the record: he’s an Absolute Angel). Additional googling across the vast, ghostly realm of cyberspace, draws a blank (as far as live DVD’s go). So what about asking for help from the Berkeley Unix User Group (BUUG) which I founded back in 2001?

No way, I decide. They’re a bunch of Libertarian snots who totally mock and deride low-income, left-wing types like myself. I dare not place myself at their untender mercies. Besides, our mailing list suddenly went down four days ago, so I couldn’t even post my request if I wanted. Good Goddess, this is such a jackass muck-up, I’m ready to bash the next hetero who looks at me the wrong way!

FYI: other than my longterm “friend” Jim, there is no one else I know who’d allow me to get on their computer once or twice a week, to complete this novel. And Jim, to say the least, seems awfully hesitant to let me drop over and fulfill my mission. Don’t know why he has killer bees in his pants over this, but I sure do not appreciate his lacklustre offer to help. But such is the nature of middle class home-owner types who view the world as a system of ownership with proprietary privilege. Have-nots be damned!

Another possible solution: the San Francisco Public Library. Which I’ve used for several days in a row, though they leave much to be desired. For one, I can’t download any images, which I use to make my articles more entertaining (see photo above). For another, patrons are limited to just an hour per day, which thwarts my creative process big time. For I am accustomed to musing over every single paragraph before moving on to the next…which of course requires liberal amounts of time that can’t possibly be satisfied by sixty-minute limits each day.

But what really ends my brief affair with the library, is their flaky wifi connection, which too often fails to connect. The last time I use one of their IBM Thinkpads to post to my WordPress blog, their online service fails after twenty minutes. This also means they can not scan the laptop’s bar code to show that I properly returned it. So I tell them:

“I’m really nervous about returning an expensive item like this laptop, without just standing there, to see it’s been properly scanned before I depart. So I prefer to wait until your database is back up.”

“Fine with me,” replies the cheeky librarian (coke-bottle glasses ready to drop off his waxy nose with a loud crash). “But you’ll have to wait at least two hours before we get the system up and running again.”

I found his claim of two hours or more quite dubious. “What about a receipt to show I’ve returned it?” I suggest.

“No, we don’t do that,” he promptly answers, shoving his weighty bifocals back up to that hopelessly deficient excuse of a nose bridge. A house fly lands on the chunky black frame’s left hinge.

So I storm outta that furshlugginer dive otherwise known as “The Harvey Milk Local Library,” not knowing whether or not they’d charge me five hundred dollars or more for a laptop which they could claim I didn’t return. So what next? I think.

Thus begins my citywide search for a computer repair shop that might have some live DVD’s on the shelf that I could purchase for a low cost. To my chagrin, the several stores I visit either do not know what a “live DVD” is (fer chrissake, what’s wrong with that picture?), or offer to download and burn a disc for the exorbitant sum of $65 or more! (Did I mention yet that I live on a meagre disability income, which barely clothes and feeds me each month, after paying rent? I am truly a semi-starving artist: the Real quasi-McCoy.)

I am growing desperate. But wait, I suddenly realize, Isn’t there a computer shop on Irving Street near 7th, with Linux logos all over the storefront? Surely they can burn a live DVD. If they can’t help me, no one can!

The Inner Sunset is a neighborhood I frequently visit, to buy cheap produce at Park’s Farmer’s Market, dine at Howard’s Cafe, and stroll through the Strybing Arboretum in Golden Gate Park. It is a short ride on the N Judah from Duboce Park to get there. Disembarking at the UC Med Center, I stroll along the north side of Irving Street, in order to find my Linux solution. But this shop seems to have disappeared, as I walk along the avenue without finding any Linux logos, or even a PC service.

Several blocks beyond 7th, I cross the street and enter Radio Shack. “Do you have any live DVD’s for sale?” I nonchalantly query the sole employee. He has no idea what I’m talking about (dear Goddess, save me from these “anal ogs“). So I ask him if he knows of any PC repair service between this store and the UC Med Center. He shrugs his shoulders: “No. I don’t live in this neighborhood.” Well, I don’t either…but why should that matter? I think. Don’t you ever get out?

Rather than beat the clueless dweeb to a bloody mass of quivering adipose, I decide he’s already there, and exit to continue my search on the next street over (Judah). Figuring that perhaps the Linux sanctuary might be somewhere along the way. After hiking the hill for several blocks, I conclude I’m on the wrong track, and decide to try once more, the Irving Street promenade.

So I cut down 8th Avenue and march east, on the same side as before. Lo and behold, four doors after crossing 7th, I see a green-lettered “Linux” plaque on a storefront shelf. No wonder I missed it the first time around, I realize. The picture window is curtained by a large white shade that conceals its purpose. There is also another sign in the right-side glass pane: “extentech.com“.

584 Irving Street. Alas, no one seems to be home. I knock, but no answer. I jiggle the door handle, to discover it is locked. So I depart homeward, to return the following day. *sigh*

Next day: I’m in luck! The door is wide open (What a relief: my frantic search has finally come to a happy end!). I discern a long-haired, pudgy gentleman with a face so white it makes fish bellies seem gray by comparison (Ah! The quintessential Linux geek!). He’s typing his sausage fingers away at a large desk facing the entrance. But the moment I set toe on the door’s weather stripping, a fetching dandy decked out in Banana Republic duds, emerges from a dark corner to block my passage:

“Sorry, this is a private business.” And with that, slams the door in my face before I can even utter a single word. (Which, I assure you Kind Reader, is “screw” followed by “you”. Is there no justice in this world?)

Upon returning home, I boot up my feeble system and log into Extentech, to discover it is some sort of java-based spreadsheet application. Apparently, I conclude, the Linux service no longer exists, replaced by money-grubbing yuppie entrepreneurs, who think this is still the pre-dot-com-bust late nineties.

Exasperated (with just two days left to fulfill a promise to my literary agent), I decide to take a break and ride the N Judah streetcar for a pleasant afternoon at Ocean Beach. If CompUSA brick-and-mortar were still around, I fume in a back seat of the mostly-empty car, I could just purchase a live DVD for a few bucks and be done with it. (But that’s just not in the cards in these post-modern times, now is it?)

A wobbly old lady with saggy skin barely hanging from her bones (like the crinkly-white plastic bags holding her canned goods, bok choy, pink cotton panties and turnips), enters and sits in the hard plastic side-seat right before me. She stinks like a dead, rotting long-tailed Macaque in the mouth of a Komodo Island dragon. Holding my breath to prevent a nasty expulsion from my retching esophagus, I move to the front. Riding San Francisco’s municipal transit is always a memorable experience.

As I make my way towards the forward end of the segmented streetcar, I spy through a window, this rather ordinary storefront on the corner of 31st and Judah, with a large, plain white sign in bold vermilion letters that read:

This shop BTW is but four blocks distant from another computer service that offered to burn me a live DVD for the outrageous sum of 69 buckazoids!

I feel compelled to hop off the bus a few blocks further down the line, and hobble back uphill (I have a bad knee) to that store to see if, finally, I can get a viable DVD at a reasonable price. The door’s plate glass (like the picture window itself) is fully obscured by white venetian blinds. So I press to open and walk in, where I immediately stand face-to-face with a sturdy-built young fellow and a sleeping infant in his burly embrace.

“Yes, may I help you,” he speaks in a thick Eastern Europen accent that I take for Russian. I almost swoon over this exquisite Cyrillic tongue that evokes Medieval castelli, thick, dark stained-glass renderings of Orthodox martyrs, and brooding damp forests where millennia-old vampires consort with village maidens lost in the wilderness while gathering gooseberries and indrik dung.

I then notice in my periphery, another young fellow (though deliciously skinny and with black hair instead of brownish-blond), sitting at a large, mostly-vacant desk, with the exception of a desktop computer (plus potted English ivy and printer) which LCD casts an oyster-white pall to the office’s subdued lighting. The entire space is impeccably neat like a kitten’s sphinctre just wiped clean by mother’s tongue, and sparsely arranged: two large silver-gray desks, two desktop PC’s, one telephone, and a multi-segmented burlap-padded divider that separates the three of us from viewing over two thirds of the actual floor space. Like they just moved in only moments before my arrival.

Alliance Computers storefront, and westward view from nearby. Click on either image for a larger pic.

So I describe to Vladimir (the husky shaggy-haired dude with a sleeping toddler), my pathetic frustration with a very compromising, though partially-useful, live DVD; and how I badly need a more workable solution in the form of a full-featured system on disc. Unfortunately, due to the language barrier between Anglos and Slavs, he thinks I need a DVD drive replacement, rather than simply another DVD. Eventually, the misunderstanding gets resolved, and Dimitri tells me to come back in an hour, and they’ll have a freshly pressed Ubuntu DVD ready for me.

Yes, Ubuntu, that’ll work just fine! I realize. (Though I’d prefer Fedora or Mint 11, this is no time to quibble with a most gracious offer that I cannot even imagine, considering my convoluted and exasperating search for a practical solution these last few, infuriating days of cyber BS.)

“How much will you charge?” I have to ask. To which Dimitri calmly replies: “Twenty dollars.”

“Oh, fantastic, I can afford a coupla ten-spots!” I gleefully exclaim; and offer to pay them right away. But Dimitri graciously waives my payment with the obvious implication that he trusts my return. Now, how sweet is that?

But before stepping out to stroll leisurely down Judah Street to the ocean and back again, I remark:

“You’ve saved my day, gentlemen! I’ll just get some exercise and enjoy the ocean air, while you good angels set me up with a live DVD that I’m sure will clear up my vexing dilemma.”

With that, I depart, walking as if on Cloud Nine. For they are such sweet-natured and gorgeous dudes, I can’t believe my good fortune…I almost forget the urgency of my mission. The chill fog invigorates my nostrils as gelid wisps swirl down my sinuses and into these jaded lungs. It is indeed a wonderful day. And in my walking the Avenues and Ocean Beach to pass some time, I encounter this beautiful mural painted on a house addressed 1482 La Playa Street (between Judah and Kirkham):

Click on image for a larger view, and be amazed!

But let’s save that for a future blog entry, okay? I have many photos now, of that artful house and surroundings, which will certainly grace my WordPress pages in due time.

Well, almost a half hour has passed, I surmise, and begin my casual hike in return to Alliance Computers. Some blocks before then, I enter the local health food store, and check out the pricey goods. I notice a shelf full of cereal boxes and think: Hmmm, Mike asked if I have any cereal, to make the soy milk I provide more palatable and nutritious. I should buy some right now. But then I think better of it, realizing I prefer at this time, to travel light without any encumbrance of backpack or shopping bag. I can just buy some bulk cereal when I return to my own neighborhood (which is the Castro a.k.a. “Eureka Valley”). Satisfied with my expedient laissez-faire solution, I step back out into the sunlight that has only minutes ago, burned away the last of the morning fog.

To my surprise and joy, just a few feet from my sight flits this darling and most colorful parrot, around a bicyle, never leaving it more than a distance of two feet (though obviously untethered). Nearby stands a strapping young fellow of most pleasant demeanor, whose name I soon learn is “Popi”. The parrot’s name is “Patricia Dolores” otherwise known as “P.D. Bird”.

P.D. Bird has her own web site!
Click on image to go there.

Popi and P.D. Bird are inseperable; she never leaves his presence more than a yard or two, even though she’s free to fly wherever. Or as I call them: “Cross species soulmates”.

It never ceases to amaze me that, what creatures we stereotypically consider to be the most terrifying and ugly of all God’s beasts (that is: dinosaurs), have evolved in the slow passage of sidereal time, into what absolutely everyone regards as the most inspiring and beautiful creatures of all: birds! Let us pray that Alfred Hitchcock was absolutely and eternally wrong.

Patricia Dolores is so charming and so delightful, my heart actually aches to leave her presence, and march back to Alliance Computer’s Professional Computer Repair shop. But I steel myself with this encouraging reminder: Two handsome dudes await me several blocks away, who are so incredibly gracious to perform for me an immeasurable service, I’d better not disappoint them! It is indeed a most bless-ed day, don’t you agree, My Darling Reader?

Sauntering up Judah’s steep hill, I keep an eye peeled for their PC repair shop…yet it isn’t until 27th Avenue that I realize it couldn’t be this far back. I distinctly remember crossing 32nd Avenue almost immediately upon my exit to Ocean Beach…so the shop should be located somewhere between 30th and 32nd. So how on earth could I have overshot my mark? How could this even happen, when I’ve been scrutinizing every storefront along the way?

So I catch up with this young, husky Asian dude walking a microscopic gray poodle at the end of a thread-thin leash. (What do they feed it: bird seed and flower petals?) Has to remove his iPod earbuds before he comprehends my request. “No, sorry,” he replies, “I don’t know about any computer shop in that direction. You don’t mean that one across the street?” He finishes, pointing at the very same repair service that wanted to charge me $69. Alright, this isn’t working. I thank him just the same, and reverse my hike back towards the Pacific.

As I retrace my steps, I ponder the metaphysical:

Could this be some of sort of Twilight Zone reality warp? Did the corner shop blink into existence only moments before I arrived…then blink back out, once I departed? Did they beam me up to their flying saucer and anally probe me while in a cosmically induced coma, then erase my memory upon my return to terra firma?

Did they extract my DNA in order to crossbreed with angelic entities, that their racial IQ may be increased tenfold? Ah, life can be such a mystery at times; eh, my Beloved Reader? If only P.D. Bird were here to enlighten me.

Upon returning to Alliance Computers (at 31st & Judah), I discover that Vladimir has left, and only Dimitri remains. How thoughtful, I conclude. Dimitri has been hanging around for my return, in spite of this delay in tracing my steps back to the proper address.

I shake Dimitri’s hand with a firm grip, and he responds in kind. To which I comment:

“I really appreciate what you’ve done for me. It is not part of your job to create live DVD’s for your clients. You went out of your way in an act of kindness, which I intend to repay. I will include you in my soon-to-be-published novel, in your very own chapter called ‘Dimitri Saves The Day’. This will give your business quite a substantial boost.”

Dimitri then rises from his chair to fetch the Ubuntu DVD from a shelf on the opposite wall. And remarks: “So, you’re gonna be famous, eh?” He stifles a chuckle. To which I respond:

“Yes. I’ve already received rave reviews from reknowned authors and bloggers. One said that I’m the best writer to come along since Shakespeare. I’m certainly not gonna argue with that!” (Of course, I didn’t tell him that the Shakespeare I’m referring to, is not the magnanimous “William” of international fame, but one called “Donald”, who’s written several forgettable articles for some obscure local publication located in Omaha, Nebraska. Ha ha, I am truly a mischievous dragon.)

I continue my brag to Dimitri’s kind and attentive ear: “I hope when you read my profound novel, you will find influences from some of the Russian greats, such as Gogol, Kafka, Dostoevsky and Pushkin.”

Dimitri turns to face me; apparently I’ve piqued his interest. I continue:

“After all, you must admit that this convoluted situation of finding a live DVD, for which you’ve so kindly bailed me out, is a rather Kafka-esque dilemma.”

Dimitri then smiles the most glorious grin I’ve ever witnessed. My heart melts. I then pay him $20, take the Ubuntu DVD into my own grateful hands, and depart.

BTW, Sweet Reader, during our excellent dialog, Dimitri informed me that he is not Russian, but hails from Belarus. “Though you may as well consider my people Russian, as there is little difference.”

Dimitri: I already know how I appear to you, like some goofy old fart popping in and out of high-tech businesses bragging about getting published soon, and how I’ll become insanely famous and rich. I make you laugh; and that is so nice. I have no idea why we’ve been brought together, but I must say this:

Making you burst out in hilarity is such a thrill, I wouldn’t change it for the world. If playing the fool is the only way I can do this, so be it. However: in your laughing at me because you perceive this budding author as merely some deluded megalomaniac:

You owe me a shot of Belaya Rus for that! I look forward to it.

Wow! Here’s Dimitri. Belarus sure churns out some bodaciously handsome dudes! Go on…click on either image for a larger view. You know you want to!

Upon departing from Alliance Computers, I walk to the nearest stop to ride the N Judah back home. To my surprise and pleasure, I discover a grocery bag filled with three unopened boxes of whole-grain cereal (one Kellog’s Corn Flakes, two Ralston Foods’ Corn Biscuits). Without spending a single red cent, I’ve found the sweet answer to Mike’s request.

Ubuntu DVD solves the problem, thank you Dimitri. Ironically, the Pedit Magic disc decides to run perfectly, only two days after purchasing the Ubuntu system. Seems that Destiny played her hand, in that my DVD problem was intentionally forced upon me, that I may be led to Alliance Computers and (more specifically) Dimitri. For what purpose still eludes me, but surely it has something to do with meeting the excellent folks who run that shop.

But this extraordinary meet-up need not go anywhere. Though I do conjecture possible new friendships that will greatly benefit all parties involved. I realize I put you, Dimitri, on the spot a bit, and for which I profusely apologize. It is only my cock-a-hoop sense of humor that is playing you the straight man to my trickster self. You are an awesomely sweet, intelligent and dashingly-gorgeous fellow which qualities speak mountains of goodwill on behalf of your belov-ed people of Belarus. San Francisco (and these United States at large) is so lucky to have you! I wish for you, your loved ones (family and friends) only the very best life filled with joy, fulfillment, and the bountiful love that comes from Our Creator’s Infinite Wisdom. Likewise, Vladimir.

I will eagerly share with you, Dimitri, a proportionate sum of my royalties from this novel, commensurate with the percentage this chapter occupies. An episode which, I might remind you, is entitled with your very own, and gracious, name! Please do note, however, I am not singling you out in favoritism. I make the same promise to all true-life characters portrayed in this astounding opus I call “Free Me From This Bond“.

Though if this episode offends or disturbs you in any way whatsoever (or even makes you feel the least bit awkward, other than your natural shyness; you already blushed once when I said I’m featuring you in my book), I will promptly remove it…or, per your request, edit certain portions.

I invite you, Dimitri, and Vladimir–along with anyone else associated with your excellent business–to add any remarks below in the comments section. And for those in need of computer maintenance and repair, I highly recommend contacting Alliance Computers here in San Francisco: www.laptoprescuing.com. Now, their address, phone numbers and email:

2600 Judah Street
San Francisco, CA 94122

415.566.5354
866.577.6310

sales AT laptoprescuing DOT com

FYI: Alliance Computers has an exceedingly high rating on eBay. They are international in scope, so don’t hesitate to seek their help from anywhere on this wobbly planet. Considering how helpful and friendly they were to my dilemma, I have to say that you certainly can’t go wrong by availing yourself of their most excellent PC services. They outstrip the competition.

In utter sincerity,

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A LITTLE BIT ABOUT BELARUS

The national emblem displayed at the top of this article, is the one for Byelorussian SSR during the reign of the United Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR). Since the dissolution of the USSR, Belarus has acqured a revised emblem. Click here to view it.

Belarus suffered great losses in the last world war. Quoting Encyclopedia Britannica:

“The German invasion of the Soviet Union in 1941 overran the Belorussian S.S.R., although the garrison of the Brest fortress made a prolonged and courageous stand. During the German retreat in 1944, there was heavy fighting in many areas of the republic, with major battles near Vitebsk, Borisov (Belarusian: Barysaw), and Minsk. German occupation and retreat produced widespread devastation and loss of life: the death toll has been estimated at about one-fourth of the population of Soviet Belarus.”

The Chernobyl disaster added greatly to the long-suffering history of Belarus’s brave citizens. Again, quoting Encyc. Brit.:

“The accident at the Chernobyl nuclear power station in Ukraine in 1986 contaminated about one-fifth of neighbouring Belarus with long-lived radioactive materials. The contamination necessitated the evacuation of several areas in Belarus, some of which had not been repopulated more than 20 years after the accident. Moreover, the accident led to an increased incidence of cancer among Belarusians, particularly thyroid cancer in children.”

Belarus struggles for European equality. Sadly, homophobia is still rampant. Click here for the Minsk gay guide. Please note: I have every confidence that Belarus shall rapidly grow out of such prejudice, and come to love Gay Folk as her own children (which they truly are). Change is in the air! For a rundown of all the great Belarusian authors and thinkers, click here. There is also this site: “Famous Belarusians“.

Will someone please buy me a “Minsk coat” for the chill winter nights, and to show my adoration for the Great and Highly Spirited People of Belarus? How could I not feel this way, after your Great Republic brought me to stand before one of your Most Beloved, Sweet-Natured and Handsome Agents and Diplomats, whom you so nobly name “Dimitri”. (Not forgetting you, Vladimir; this is simply the way the dice rolled. Ha ha, just jiving you!)

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A LITTLE BIT ABOUT DIMITRI

FYI: the name “Dimitri” has a most honorable history. Short for “Demitrius”, it is of Greek origin, and the meaning of Demetrius is “follower of Demeter”. Click here to learn more about Demeter, a most revered goddess for her many sacrifices and noble deeds.

In order to impart to you, Dear Reader, just how important Demeter is in human evolution, allow me to quote Wikipedia:

Though Demeter is often described simply as the goddess of the harvest, she presided also over the sanctity of marriage, the sacred law, and the cycle of life and death. She and her daughter Persephone were the central figures of the Eleusinian Mysteries that predated the Olympian pantheon. In the Linear B Mycenean Greek tablets of circa 1400-1200 BC found at Pylos, the “two mistresses and the king” are identified with Demeter, Persephone and Poseidon. Her Roman equivalent is Ceres.

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A LITTLE BIT ABOUT VLADIMIR

Vladimir Kovalenok, Belarusian cosmonaut (born 1942).
One of many great Vladimirs. Click on image to learn more.

From “Think Baby Names“: Vladimir as a boy’s name is of Slavic origin, and the meaning of Vladimir is “renowned prince”.

Here’s an interesting link: “Vampires in Russia“. Quote:

The former Soviet Union, including Russia, Siberia, the Ukraine, and Byelorussia, has been one of the homelands of the Slavic vampire. The first mention of the word “vampir” in a Slavic document was in a Russian one, The Book of Prophecy written in 1047 A.D. for Vladimir Jaroslav, Prince of Novgorod, in northwest Russia.

Hello! Does this mean I will soon be honored, celebrated and loved by these ancient royal clans that were born of Medieval Eastern European Vampirical Intrigue and Mysticism? I sure hope so, as it’s been an awfully long time, since some glamorous young Slav has taken a deep bite from my neck veins, and teleported me to a place of sheer ecstasy (such as the Intensive Care Unit)!

But I’ll just settle for a break from these arthritic joint pains when my coffin gets damp from too much San Francisco fog oozing into the mausoleum. And a decent set of dentures to replace my crumbling teeth.

Laurel’s Dream

Laurel Norris’s gift/paraphernalia/kitchen/apparel/board games/puppets/dolls/cards/toys/body care/everything-else shop in the Inner Sunset, San Francisco. 1377 Ninth Avenue (between Irving Street and Judah Avenue). “Great Stuff” will close some time around February 2013. So hurry on up and check out this absolutely unique and fantabulous store of fairytale ambience!

Don’t know why I never dropped into this store until quite recently (late bloomer that I am). But so glad that I finally did! Until this excellent lady closes shop early next year, this will be my only one-stop gift shop and glorious-knicknack emporium. In just two days, Laurel will hold her very last annual bargain day: 25% off any store item, including those currently on sale at a reduced price.

Ms. Norris explained to me why she holds this annual sale each May 11 (which is also her birthday). She is so grateful to be running her very own little shop of delight, instead of working in some office downtown. “That is one thing I’m superstitious about,” she remarked. “Someone could walk into my store with an open umbrella, and it would not bother me one bit. But I must hold my annual 25%-off sales, as my thanks to the universe.”

She first opened her eclectically eccentric variety gift shop in Sacramento, back in 1984…and moved it here to San Francisco approximately ten years ago. Thus is her dream fulfilled: to run her own darling shop in our City by the Golden Gate. I am so glad I finally bothered to walk into her most excellent fantasy emporium (albeit at the end of her business run with less than a year remaining). For “Great Stuff” is truly a delightful milieu in which to dwell, and find that perfect gift you know will delight your beloved recipient.

It will be a sad day in San Francisco, when Laurel closes her shop for good. Sadly, there will be no sales day on May 11 2013, or any year thereafter. In my haste to post these videos and pictures before The Final Sale, I neglected to ask what her plans are, once she shuts down this wondrous shop. Perhaps, Laurel, you would enjoy placing a comment below, to tell us what they are! And thanks so much for allowing me to feature “Great Stuff” on my humble web log.

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Six walkthrough videos and seventy-six photos:

[ Video 1 ] [ Video 2 ] [ Video 3 ] [ Video 4 ] [ Video 5 ] [ Video 6 ]

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Click on any picture below, for a larger view:

The Phone Call

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 13 ]

I must apologize to you, my Sweet & Patient Readers, for a promise I failed to fulfill in Chapter 8 (Dragon Prophecy). Which was to reveal why I was absolutely convinced that Larkin and yours truly would be married in Dolores Park on Easter Sunday, by the honorable Sisters. You will have your answer shortly. Read on:

You’ll remember that night of Easter Sunday, I told my wonderful Parable of the Dollar-Store Bandana to equally-wonderful Allen of the dual clam-shell jewelry display on 18th Street. It was 10pm or so when I returned to my stuffy Hobbit hovel, to relish some of Allen’s superb hashish, and ponder the wonders of that day. Little did I know the greatest wonder had yet to manifest. It was a phone call:

“Aaargh girlfriend! Let’s talk, you wreck of Mother Nature!”

“Larkin! OMG, this is our very first phone call.”

“Ha!” he seemed to be stifling a more ribald guffaw.

“Okay, Sweetness, I…I…don’t get it.”

“This is not our first phone call. For you, perhaps, in a very personal way. But this is not our first phone call. Listen to me, and be careful not to hang up; you’ve done that before. And I know you don’t understand what I’m talking about right now, but pleas…”

I interject: “Oh ho ho ho. Alright. You’ve always been my greatest mystery, Mr. Kelsey. Now you have just added one more to The List. Care to explain, or do I have to figure this one out myself, as usual?”

“Zeke! I really love you. Do you love me? It’s nice to hear that now and then.” Larkin sounds a bit choked up, like maybe some tears are spilling onto his knuckles as he grips the phone tightly in a trembling hand.

“Larkin, how many times do I say I love you, whenever we’re together?” Which is far less than I would like of course…we still live apart. “I’m always more than happy to sing my heart to you, Dearest Little Chipmunk. I love you, I love you, I love you. I don’t understand you, I don’t understand you, I don’t understand you.”

“I know,” sighs Larkin. “I’ve been through this before with you, and it’s Heartbreak Hotel each and every time. Promise me you won’t hang up.”

A cold shiver rides up my spine; I’m a little scared. Maybe I should hang up? My heart sinks: “Okay.”

“That’s why I called, Gene. I know you went to the park today, expecting us to get married. We are telepathic you know, but much more so in my case. And there’s a really good reason for that, which I will explain for, oh, maybe the tenth time in the past two years. And as far as phone calls go, I’ve lost count…but I’m sure we’ve called each other dozens of times by now, maybe even over a hundred.”

“Wow. Just when I thought the day’s excitement was long over, you pull this squirrel out of the hat! Eenie meanie, chili beanie, the spirits are about to speak! I will always love you Larkin. That is carved in Moses’ own tablet; it is the 12th Commandment.” [ Dearest Reader: I've already established some other commandment for the 11th, in a tale I wrote titled "Parable of the Laptop Billionaire". So this one must be the 12th. Sorry for the confusion. ]

“Awww, Zekie-Genie-doodle, you have such a fabulous way with words!”

“Only because you bring out the absolute BEST in me, My Dragon Warrior of the Light. I PROMISE to not hang up. Do go on. Please. PLEASE. Do go on.”

Larkin takes a deep breath. “Alright. You have memory issues…”

“Guess I forgot.” I am the King of Jokes in Bad Taste.

“Okay, Spaghetti Brains, I’ll let you get away with that one, but no more,” says Larkin who is so very dear to my heart, I can’t begin to explain. “Your memory has blank spots that fade in and out, and cover a span of several years.”

I brace myself. I’m very scared right now, and wonder if my love for Larkin is misdirected; perhaps he’s not as nice a person as I wish; and maybe I really should hang up. But I made my promise, and put my faith in love.

“Are you still there, Testicle Breath?”

I almost fall off my swivel chair in hilarity: that’s my Larkin, and I sure as hell won’t hang up. “Yes, muthuh fukkuh, I’m right here for you, ALWAYS. Dish me the dope.”

There is no answer; I wait to see if maybe the phone line went dead. A flash of terror sweeps through me and vanishes. No, Larkin is still there, I can hear him stifle a sob. He finally speaks:

“First thing’s first, Zeke,” he states with deliberate force (and slowly) the following four, transcendent words: “We. Are. Already. Married.”

Happiness thrills me to the marrow, to discover we’re betrothed. I shiver with joy. Then just as suddenly, this sweet reverie vanishes. I choose my next words with care:

“Oh you darling hunk of super-gorgeous, how could I ever forget something so wonderful as marrying a Fierce and Righteous Dragon like yourself? If you’re pulling my tail, please speak up now, or forever hold your pizza!” (I mean, what sort of accident or illness could cause such a powerful loss of memory, that the most important event of your life is wiped out like sand dollars at high tide? OMFG, I truly hope it’s not Alzheimer’s!)

My hand starts to shake violently (I have carpal tunnel), and I drop the receiver. Tears cloud my vision as I fumble to collect it. I suddenly feel terribly alone, as if Larkin were ripped from my heart, forever. But we are still connected; I hear his glorious breath, waiting for me to resume:

“Alright, first thing’s first as you say, so first let me say this: I am so happy to be married to such an outstanding human being, My Beloved Larkin Kelsey. No question I am the happiest man in the entire cosmos, all because of you, My Darling Draco.”

“You make me blush, Genie.”

“And that is such a sweet gift to me, that you do!” My larynx is clogged with hesitation, as the next question arises in my throat:

“Why are my memory banks on the fritz; and am I getting better, I hope?”

“Much better, you’re actually out of the woods and in the last stage of total recovery,” he iterates, as if reciting from a script, well rehearsed. “You were dosed. You were badly dosed five years ago, and almost died. You were on life support for eight-and-a-half months.”

There is nothing in my memory banks to affirm his claim, but I do recall another crisis around that same time:

“Does this have something to do with my slipping a note to you under the wrong door,” I ponder with furrowed brow, “where I remarked that you sure hang out with some nasty scum; they’re dangerous and you should find a way out? And that note fell into the wrong hands, and a big fight broke out at Hole in the Wall…and a week later your room burned down, and you were nowhere to be found, for months? I was so scared you might be homeless…or worse.”

“Very good, Sparky, your memory cells are busting through like a champ. This is the first time you remember that nasty little episode since dosage.” Larkin clears his throat, and continues: “You will very soon start to recall all sorts of things as your memory gaps continue to fade. But some of your recollections will be scary. By which time I’ll stay by your side, to walk you through that dark forest, and into a glorious and eternal life with me, Your Guardian Dragon.”

“Quite a tall order, Oh Belov-ed Draco Who Makes All Good Dreams Come True! Then again, you are quite a tall drink of fizz-pop.” I laugh a bit, then wonder: “I had an awful dream a few nights ago. Could this be one of these scary memories welling up?”

“We’ll see, My Love. Tell me about it. I’m here for you, always.”

So I take a deep breath, before commencing the recollection:

I was strapped down to a dirty, old splintery oak table with thick leather cord. The location was some dark, dank cellar, with an icy chill that oozed a cold sweat from the concrete walls. I could hear rumbling almost over my head, and not too distant, like a train roaring by every 12 minutes or so. I could feel the vibration as they passed. The hellish space was lit by a solitary Coleman lantern that hissed from the burning lignite.

The room stank of rot; my gag reflexes were ready to jump the gate. I could barely make out a large rat in the far corner, nibbling on something fleshy. “Is that a finger?” I mused; I think I wanted to believe it’s a finger. Two hideous forms barely human and cloaked in ragged cowls stood over me; one holding the lantern raised, that I could witness a terror so cruel, I could barely accept what my eyes revealed.

For the other homunculus held a large part of my slippery entrails in his hands. They had drugged me (I assume, as I felt not a single twitch of pain) and slit open my abdominal cavity! Bizarre enough; but the topper was a tiny photo of My Larkin, dangling from an intestinal loop.

And that is when I awoke, trembling and in a furious sweat.

“So whaddya think, Larky,” I finish, “is this an example of a recollection, or just your typical dumb nightmare?”

“Right on Zekester, that is most certainly an authentic recollection.”

“Now I know you’re pulling my tail; I have no scar on my belly!”

“And what a sweet belly that is, to kiss and tickle!” Larkin teases. “Smoke and mirrors boy, smoke and mirrors,” he continues. “They doped you up and created this horrid hallucination. They did not slit you open, they did not remove your innards. That was all Hollywood trickery, special effects. Even the rat chewing on a, ummmm, ‘body part’ was not real; it was a cheap little electronic toy they purchased at an auction of stage props and costumes from old horror films like ‘Willard’ and ‘The Pit and the Pendulum’.”

“Who are ‘they‘, and what was the purpose of their stupid stunt?” I demand, as I hold the phone close to its cradle, ready to hang up. Instead, I put it on speaker and kick back in my cushioned swivel chair; I am feeling somewhat overwhelmed at this point.

“They are the same goons you warned me about in that aborted note you slipped under the wrong door,” Larkin declares. “Their intent was to terrorize you, My Brave Boy. Terrorize you from ever wanting anything to do with me, again.” There is a pause and some static clicking on the line.

“But their mischief went wrong,” he continues. “You had an allergic reaction to the tampered horse tranquilizer they forced through your veins. They dumped you in that reservoir up by Twin Peaks Tower. An old man walking his Vietnamese potbelly pig found you, and called 911.”

Good heavens! I think, I thought that pet pig fad died out years ago!

“Ha ha, yeah, me too,” Larkin chuckles.

“Wait a minute, I didn’t say anything, I was just thinking it!” I exclaim.

“Told you we’re telepathic; now you know it’s true.” Larkin adds: “But let’s not stray so far from the real issue at hand: your memory and its restoration.”

A sudden “Aha!” ignites my mind like a cartoon lightbulb: “Are you suggesting my fantasy about you as a detective out of Orange County is actually a partial recollection?”

“You got it, pup. Congrats. I’m a detective, I’m your lover, and we got married in 2008, by the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, on Easter Sunday at Dolores Park. And today is Easter. You were invited to the celebration by a Sister you met at the City Health Clinic two days ago. [Dear Readers, don't even ask.] Thus a partial memory of our own marriage, was triggered by the invitation.”

“Oh my gosh, Larkin. This makes perfect sense,” I exclaim. “Explains so well why I’ve been cooking up various ways to propose to you, even after the anticipated marriage at Dolores Park did not pan out!”

Other revelations bubble up in my memory cells:

“So this Cult of the Disciples of the Zodiac Killer that I wrote about, is not a fantasy I conjured up to thrill my readers, but another growing recollection?”

“Bingo.”

“We first met at the Hole in the Wall, right?”

“Yessir. Go on, I need to see how your memory is progressing. This is a joyful occassion, for you have never before recalled the events you just brought up, since you were doped. Try to remember even more, My Beloved Little Dragon of the Fiery Spirit.”

I’m enthralled. If any of what Larkin now tells me is the least bit true, then my life is taking a whole different turn into a reality far more beautiful and blessed than I could ever imagine (except for my tales, but they don’t count; or do they). I am eager to dig up old memories long forgotten, so I lean forward in my chair to reposses the phone and talk directly into the mouthpiece. This is just too compelling to keep Larkin on speaker while I’m semi-reclined in a padded office chair.

Larkin continues to explain how this cult’s nefarious attempt to frighten me away from My Beloved, almost succeeded. For it left me with frequent anxiety attacks in his presence (which previously, I always adored, and could never get enough of; in fact he often had to escort me out the door or another direction down the sidewalk ’cause I was simply mesmerized by his spirit and didn’t realize I was following him to places too dangerous for me to visit).

The cult had successfully implanted a deeply subconscious fear of My Best Buddy, thanks to their drug-induced black arts. This included certain elements of telepathy, where they inspired thoughts of hatred and fear about Larkin, in my damaged brain now more like Swiss cheese than Provolone. These disciples of the Zodiac Killer would frequent the Hole in the Wall (and later, the Eagle Tavern) while I was there, and stand within earshot while feigning to talk with another nearby; and project their whispers of fear-memes into my ears, that would pass directly into my subconscious due to this subliminal impact.

Which explains why I often suffered waves of anxiety and fear in Larkin’s presence (since the drugging); it created a sad distance between us, and made me cease my kind words and thoughts toward him. I even considered at times, moving to Portland or other parts reasonably liberal, in order to forget him; believing he was my biggest mistake ever. Fortunately (thank Dragon) I am now in a stage of rapid healing, and my love for Larkin grows strong once more. Yet minor rough spots remain: flashes of anxiety that cause me to falter in trusting He Who Truly Loves Me Most in This World (and in any other world if you want to be frank about it).

Surely this must have been a grievous burden for Larkin; yet he stands by me through thick and thin…but that is what marriage vows are all about, if the love is true. I can’t even imagine how much sorrow he bore, sitting by my sickbed at Intensive Care, his head on my chest, weeping and praying that I’d come through. Day after day, week after week, month after interminable month.

And you know, I did hear his sobs, his pleas to Goddess Herself and all Her Faithful Minions, from time to time when I emerged momentarily from deep coma into light trance. Though I could not speak, I could not move, I could not open my eyes or give any other outward sign that I hear him, that I love him back dearly. That I had no idea till then, how much this elegant human being adores me with all his heart, all his soul, all his life. It was during such grace-filled moments that I realized this Sweet Man’s Love has saved my wretched soul. And because of this I’d pull out of my coma with flying crullers, and everything would be alright…in fact, better than before. Much, much better. For I am finally in the arms of My Second True Love.

“Jeez Larkin, we’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we?” I remark, after hearing this tale. A tale for which doubts still linger in my heart, for obvious reasons.

“You ain’t just whistlin’ Pixie!” He sounds sad, yet stolidly optimistic.

“Are you my guardian angel?” I have to ask, for he is so impossibly handsome and so impossibly sweet, this could only be a Dream’s Fulfillment.

“Arrrgh, girlfriend! Randolph’s the guardian angel in this novel. I am your guardian dragon who descended from the Lavender Skies of Avalon, to rescue you from These Wicked Sorcerors and bring you back to Randy T.”

Once more, a bolt of anxiety strikes me: “You’re not going to leave me then, are you? I love you now so much, I can’t bear to be without you. For you are the sweetest and most darling friend I have ever known!”

A weary sigh drifts from his cell phone to my land line. “There are some things we can’t have, Oh My Brother of Saint Valentine’s Wound. But my love? You shall always have that!”

“Then I don’t want Randolph, ever!” A steely commitment comes over me. “I don’t ever want Randolph, not without you, too.” Tears slide like rivulets down my face. “How could a loving goddess put me through yet more grief and tragedy?”

“I’m only pranking you, butt-wipe,” he exhorts. “Of course you will have us both! Don’t be such a drama queen, girlfriend!”

I dry what I can of my tears; they are too copious to do a complete job. The telephone receiver is quite drenched.

“Muthuh Fukkuh!” is all I can say, as my heart beats with joy, and my grievous tears morph into Elysium’s Wine.

“Asshole!” he replies with expedience.

A beautiful silence then graces the line that connects our souls to one another. As the blissful reverie slowly fades, I speak once more:

“So tell me this, Mr. Kelsey: if we are indeed married and so much in love, then why on Tinkerbell’s Tampon am I still living alone in this crummy hole in the wall?”

“As opposed to the excellent Hole in the Wall?” he quips.

“Okay, if you wanna put it that way: yes.” I then push the matter: “Makes no sense in my eye, why I continue to barely survive in this hovel with nasty diesel fumes and noise pollution flooding my space like a double plague of army ants and locusts. Not to mention my two south-facing windows that heat up this weary little monk’s cell into a Finnish sauna whenever the weather is even barely warm, and the air lies still.”

I rant on: “When it’s 80 degrees outside, it’s 90-plus in. Forget the really hot weather, when the mercury hits 90 or more! Causes me nausea, weakness, anxiety attacks, and god knows what other health problems. Clearly, I’m not a happy camper. And if you really do love me, how come you haven’t helped rectify this horrid situation? Like: why aren’t we living together?”

Not a peep out of Larkin, but his Sweet Dragon Breath is audible.

And so I finish with: “I’m sure you have the perfect answer, just like you do for everything else I’ve asked so far. Give it your best shot, cowboy!”

Finally, the Great Gay Houdini Larkin speaks: “Oh come on, Eugene, I’d buy you a jeep if I could, along with a castle in Scotland by Loch Ness, and all the handsome laddies you want!” He sighs. “We are both quite poor right now; and your memory of why we are has momentarily slipped. Allow me to explain, Oh Hummingbird of Paradise…and please, I beg Your Sweetest Soul: don’t hang up on me?”

So here are the very same words he spilled into my astonished ear, Oh Patient Reader:

---

ANGUS MAC OG‘S BOUNTY

Once upon a time, there was a Brave Little Dragon named Zeke or Gene (he couldn’t really make up his mind) who cared so much about his homeless and otherwise disenfranchised gay brothers, that he didn’t know when (or even how) to back off when danger came his way, or when he walked into shit flying full force in a gale.

It was Year 2005 when his tender spirit broke in Great Sorrow from his dear buddy Johnnie. Who had gone back to shooting up heroin after 29 days on a detox program. Johnnie turned on Gene with vile words and false accusations, after almost an entire year of a remarkably sweet friendship. (In fact, it was Zeke’s affections that encouraged Johnnie to get off smack in the first place.) Johnnie would even give Gene a hug each and every morn before departing for the day, topped off with a tender kiss on the forehead.

Not for many moons did Zeke know why this wicked turn in their friendship; he only thought it was an effect of chasing the dragon. As it turns out, it was more than that…for Gene finally discovered the true source of Johnnie’s bitterness. His father had died. His dad was only 55, same age as Zeke.

Just two weeks before this tragic downfall, Johnnie had told Gene: “My father is the very best friend in my life, Zeke. There is no one that even comes close to him in my heart, except for one person. And that’s you.”

Gene was so touched by Johnnie’s loving words, his heart sang every single day, and every night as he dreamt. Until…(as you just learned) the Demons of Despair came swiftly to sever this Golden Cord of Brotherly Regard. With great and unjustified hostility, Johnnie exited from Zeke’s life, forever (or so it seemed). Now, Zeke was also bitter; so he began spitting all over the floor and in other ways allowed his once-elegant SRO to become an absolute dump. [ Do not despair, Kind Reader, for in so suffering, Gene shared Johnnie's bitterness which, in due time, shall bring them back together w/Johnnie clean of drugs, and their friendship elevated to a Heavenly State of Affairs. ]

He sought some kind of refuge, where he might start licking his Wounds of Defeat. Heard that a gay bar called “Hole in the Wall Saloon” was a great place to kick back and listen to really good, and LOUD, rock ‘n’ roll. (Hole in the Wall never plays disco crap.) So there he went, and sat in the darkest corner, and kept to himself.

And of course, that is also where Zeke and Larkin were brought together for the first time, in what will eventually turn out to be a most astounding gay bromance. But it didn’t start out that way.

For (unbeknownst to Gene at the time) Larkin was an undercover detective embedded at The Hole in order to bust a group of Hell’s Angels running drugs through all the gay bars South of Market, plus two bars here in the Castro. (One of these two, “The Detour,” has since shut down.)

But Zeke had already fallen head over tail for Larkin, so refused to leave the saloon when Larkin had confronted his new-found buddy:

“Gene, it is very dangerous for you to hang out here, especially when you’re a friend to me.” He lowered his noble orange-haired head and looked at Zeke directly in the eyes: “So, will you please go now?”

With that, Larkin returned to his billiards, leaving Gene in a gloomy space, and never spoke to him again…at least, not for five sad years (actually, three, but memory loss made it seem longer). Zeke refused to leave the Hole; he loved Larkin that much, and at least was rather delighted to watch from afar, Larkin’s antics around the pool table, and listen to rock ‘n’ roll pounding through hyper-amped speakers, and let thoughts of His Johnnie sink into the Moors of Forgetfulness.

Though be assured that, should anyone ever threaten Gene at The Hole (or later, the Eagle), Larkin would abruptly drive them out with great anger. Which eventually cost him dearly, as he was instructed (by SOMA drug lords) to never defend Zeke, or there’d be Hades to pay. And so he did: his room was burnt down, and Gene was dosed with intent to drive him insane.

In a little more time, without either speaking a word to the other (as Larkin would not allow), Zeke figured out the situation (that Larkin is an undercover sleuth), and cleverly became Larkin’s sidekick. He played the lure, the fall guy, and decoy. Which made the Orange County Detective’s work far easier, by bringing these drug-dealing murderous skanks out of the woodwork. Eventually, though, Gene was driven out of The Hole for good, by a violent threat of a sharp blade to his gut, should he ever show up there again. Of course, Larkin was not present at the time, and the bartender on duty chose to look the other way; thus Zeke had no choice but to leave the Hole for good.

So Gene started hanging out at the Eagle Tavern a few blocks away, for he knew that Larkin enjoyed frequenting that space, too. Sometimes, when he could afford it (a rare occasion), he’d buy Larkin a drink. Though only via the barkeep’s hand, as Zeke still could not speak to Larkin, or even get within ten feet of him. About a year later, Gene discovered Larkin working at a tacqueria right next door to his now-verboten hangout, the Hole in the Wall.

So every Wednesday, Zeke would order a small meal and enjoy watching Larkin at work: a 6-foot-4 handsome giant who towered above the several diminutive Mexican workers. An absolutely sweet and sometimes hilarious scenario…of which Larkin was quite aware, and made the most of. Still, Gene was not allowed to speak to him, except to place an order. But Zeke did find endearing ways to compliment him from time to time, without exposing their sweet relationship. Such as (after placing his order which was always chile rellenos) remarking: “Not only is the food here quite good, but the view is outstanding.” By “the view” of course, he meant Larkin’s Glorious Mug, for there was nothing impressive to see out the picture window: just a busy intersection surrounded by drab buildings and the occasional wino and bums with shopping carts rattling on by.

Gene sought additional (non-vocal) ways to express his love for this Orange County Gumshoe, by writing one blog every two or three weeks, about Larkin and how simply being in his presence makes Zeke so ridiculously happy. He’d slip a printout of each episode (secured in a decorated plastic folder), beneath an old newspaper. Since Larkin also cleared tables, he’d be the first to find it. This lasted almost a year, before Gene decided to cease his weekly visits, in order to make clear he was no stalker. Two months later, the restaurant closed. Those blog entries BTW, now compose his online novel called “The Larkin Chronicles“…29 chapters in all!

When the Tacqueria Phase ended, Larkin made sure Zeke could see him within every two or three weeks, by showing up nearby. Say, walking in opposite direction along the sidewalk, and passing by as if neither knew the other. Or some months later, showing up out of the blue, now employed at a local bar (“The Metro,” which has since shut down) right across the street from Gene’s apartment building. [ Darling Reader: may I remind you that Larkin's keen telepathy certainly helped the process along. ]

Zeke could now look right out the hallway window and see Larkin at work, or smoking a ciggie on the wraparound deck; the bar was on the second floor, as was Gene’s SRO. So he’d sometimes visit, buy a drink and enjoy Larkin’s presence once more, from a respectful distance.

Some days, Zeke would even stand kitty corner across the street, and hold his hat to his heart while looking up at Larkin who took frequent cigarette breaks on the sundeck. This way, Gene could send his love from a very safe distance, with no one the wiser. (It was a large, busy 5-corner intersection at Market, 16th, and Noe.) Larkin would just puff on a Marlboro with vigor while looking directly at his Beloved Sidekick, for as long as he could before returning to work. An element of humor in these little scenarios was not lost on Zeke; surely Larkin’s playful spirit was a great balm.

Around this time (of “The Metro”) the funding for this assignment from Orange County dried up, and busting the Hell’s Angels drug runners became a cold case. Larkin was therefore required to return to Southern California, or lose his career. In a heartbeat, he chose the latter. No way was he going to leave his Beloved Amigo vulnerable to these cult fanatics, for Gene would likely be severely crippled (or even murdered) as a result.

So in losing his noble job, he also lost his health benefits, and thus began the rotting and loss of his gorgeous pearly whites. Small sacrifice to pay in his mind, in order to protect the soul of one so dear.

Larkin turned to hustling men in their 70′s mostly, at select gay bars in The Castro…not for sex of course, but for nightly companionship. Fully clothed or in pajamas, he’d hold these lonely (though affluent) elder gentlemen in his gangly arms, and make them feel very much loved and appreciated. Mornings, Larkin would usually fix them coffee and breakfast in his underwear, and tell many cheerful jokes and compliments.

If there’s one thing Larkin excels at, it’s bringing joy to the hearts of aging (or severely disabled) men who otherwise would have no purpose in their lonely lives, or any reason to get out of bed each day. Some suffered major health issues, such as cancer, AIDS and even dementia. Larkin loved ‘em all, to the point where they found life exceedingly wonderful again (or perhaps even for the first time). He graced them with his beauty, friendship and humor…and in exchange received $100 to $500 a nightly pop.

He could’ve gotten so much more because of his startling good looks and talent…but he intentionally sought more needful clientele. For Larkin is truly a lover to his brothers in great need…he uses his Dragon-Given Beauty for all the right reasons. And this is why Gene harbors such golden affection for this Most Courageous and Compassionate Detective: the first man ever to make him forget his other great love, Randolph Louis Taylor.

So now we are caught up to the present time, and the completion of this episode (Chapter 13). Larkin is so close to busting these scoundrels, he can taste it like stale tobacco from an overnight tryst. And Zeke will soon have this novel published and become wealthy beyond anyone’s comprehension (and of course, outrageously, impossibly, scintillatingly famous as well). Their teeth will be repaired by the best oral surgeons and dental technicians money can buy (or simply healed in a flash by Dragonly White Magic). And Gene will open his first home for severely disabled gay veterans, employing his buddies off the streets to be their companions, maintain the building and grounds, and handle the books.

---

Truly, a Happily Ever After Gay Real Life Fairytale!

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.

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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!