Moby’s Dick

March 28, 2012

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 2 ]

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

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

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

He just turned away, said never mind, approached the bar and bought himself and his opponent a drink. Well! He’s like that: a man of action and few words. So I just went to the bartender (who was SO nice to me; I’m not used yet, to the gay community returning all their love, so it’ll take a while), and ordered whatever Arwyn just got. It smelled rank BTW, like a longshoreman’s breath after grungy-hot sex and a blunt.

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

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

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

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

Then returned to my spot on the bench.

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

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

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

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

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

Love ya, El.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s see, I’m not done with the gifts yet. Also included are seven recent blog entries (printed out of course): “Yes Virginia, Santa Claus is Gay,” “Campitupalosaurus,” “Casper Titchworth,” “No Heteros in Space,” “A Rotten Deal,” “Kalmykia: Europe‚Äôs Only Buddhist Republic” and “Message to a Long Lost Friend“. Oh, and an eigth one, not so recent: “September’s Passage.”

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

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

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

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

Pegasus delivered me unto the dragons! Yikes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Dear editor,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sinqueerly yours,

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

Free Me From This Bond

March 23, 2012

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 1 ]

Date: Thu, 15 Mar 2012 21:47:56
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Dearest Eleanor:

I beg your forgiveness in my conclusion that promoting your book for
free, or for as little money as possible, is no more simply
accomplished than should the Internet not exist. Where would
we be then…laundromat and university bulletin boards? calling in to
radio talk shows? parading oneself around at various coffeehouses,
bars and clubs, like some evangelist of your glorious novel? Ha!

THAT! (Would’ve said “he” instead of “that”, but out of respect for
the noble, gracious, and heroic history of Woman’s Struggle, I give
you: that. And, of course, to mock the patriarchy…a foolish notion
if ever there was one!)

For Arwyn, darling Arwyn, has entered my life once again, and boy is
he such a sweet angel! (You remember it was because of my school-girl infatuation of that Saucy Welsh Knave, that I became lovestruck-inspired to compose not just one novel around him, but
two: “The Arwyn Chronicles” and “Friendly Ghost Detective
Agency”. (For which I paid dearly, with 3 months feverish typing late
into the night, that resulted in CTS in both forarms and RSI in each
hand…with a touch of focal dystonia to spice things up.)

Which latter title you inspired me to transform from a chapter of
the former, into its own unique opus. And that is precisely what
occurred, so thank you very much, O Madame of the Luminous Void.

It makes so much sense at this point of My Awakening, that
Book 2 should remain an unfinished novel, a work in progress.

I want you to know that I have walked many dark paths in search of Truth these past 30-odd years, in order to give birth to the next revolution: THE GAY or HOMOSEXUAL or QUEER REVOLUTION! (I have not been disappointed, but Dear Goddess, I sure as Hades came close to giving up the ghost countless times throughout my scatterbrained life…whenever I found myself confronting way too much so-called “reality” in such a wickedly brief amount of time!)

And it starts with the BLOSSOMING of the fine friendship (a.k.a.
“bromance”) between myself, and Impeccable Arwyn Miles!

And now that I have found Truth: Truth must be

Whoever Arwyn truly is in the Scheme of Things (and who I am
likewise): nevertheless am I lifted off my feet and swept into a
dimension totally immersed in love and joy and friendship and gay

(To be continued…)

Date: Fri, 16 Mar 2012 07:51:18
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Quoting Eleanor:
> Is this truly so????? That’s sublimely

I’m pinching myself, too! If this is just another excellent manic
phase, I have to confess that a lot of other folks are going through
it at the same time. More later…

(Had a GREAT time last night, though I did wake up in my own bed.)

Date: Fri, 16 Mar 2012 09:46:41
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

It was a dark and stormy night. I danced in my galoshes and hoody yellow raincoat down Castro Street toward 18th, reveling in the glory that is the Rain Goddess’s own shower of benevolence upon this lone pilgrim: Arwyn IS BACK IN MY LIFE! (Though he never really left, of course.) Our paths started crossing again several weeks ago, and with greater and greater frequency, till now it’s almost every day. Well, that’s a bit of a white lie…let’s say about thrice per awesome week.

Flashback 2005:

Our friendship shiny new, like a green bud barely burst from the
xylem, I had stepped into the Hole in the Wall Saloon off Folsom
Street, sporting a quartz crystal that hung from a resinous cord
about my neck. Barely an inch long and a fourth as wide, it sparkled
in its natural, pentagonal glory; flat on one end, blunted tip the
other…with a pleasant, ruddy touch to it, like beeswax. From within
danced a lavender spirit.

Can’t remember at this moment (as I type), what meaning this crystal
held for me, but I do sense it was quite special. I am NOT
superstitious or caught up into worshipping material items (nor big
into jewelry and self adornment)…but how this crystal came to me
was nothing less than a Small Miracle, and probably had to do with My
Beloved Randolph Louis Taylor…who I now believe, sent Arwyn here as
my Great Guardian of Life.

Yes, I remember now (somewhat): it came to represent the BULLET with which Randolph shot himself at The Wall (Vietnam Veterans Memorial, D.C.), back in 16 January 1985. One day, that crystal will be replaced by (or transformed into) the REAL bullet. Which I first felt as a lump in his back, lodged firmly against (and partly into) the right shoulder blade, before a surgeon finally removed it some months later. Long, angry scars already crosshatched his back, like the scourge of a whip.

I touched them, too. Bone-white keratinous comet trails of agent
orange neatly incised by an unknown soldier’s cold scalpel. My
fingers shivered as the icy demon travelled up my arm and penetrated
to the bone, even unto marrow. A tear trickled down his arched back
with the T-shirt scrunched up, that I may see such youthful freckles
and a promise of Liberation writ therein.

To be continued. Meanwhile, please read my poem “September’s Passage” for a little more on that adventure.

Date: Fri, 16 Mar 2012 22:32:51
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Flashback 2005 (cont’d)

So I walk into the Hole in the Wall with a glittery amethyst crystal
(which acquisition I cannot recall at this time, but I’m sure I was
daydreaming about My Randolph when someone placed a small, faux-
lizard-skin textured lily-white rectangular box in my hand), dancing
joyfully upon my throat’s chakra (that indentation on one’s neck,
just below the larynx). But somehow, in yanking off my winter scarf
or jacket, I also jerk the crystal clean off its binding with a sudden “zing!”…and it vanishes to parts unknown, though surely in a
radius not exceeding 10 feet. At least, that’s what my ears tell me;
for surely my eyes did not follow. For the saloon is dark, with ink-
stained-horse-flesh-curtained windows and lit only by scattered
candlelight and a few dim overhead fixtures.

So barkeep Gary whips out this enormous yard-long, metallic
dildo from below the cabinet, turns it in my direction and
presses the vibrate button. But wait, it doesn’t vibrate, it lights
up instead, bathing me like a Hollywood beacon (or an officer’s
headlamps trapping me in Golden Gate Park by the windmills, paying a
rakish hobo for a blow job: your choice). Like a…like, ummm…like
a FLASHLIGHT, ’cause that’s what it really is (I soon realize, as my
sun-kissed sidewalk-fevered eyes grow accustomed to the Stygian dusk.)

Bearded Hobbit Gary (“Garden Gnome Gary” also works) puts all his
concentration into locating this crystal, methodically covering every
square inch of the deeply gouged and splintered oakwood floor to a
perimeter far exceeding the likely landfall. Alas he comes up empty,
to which I remark: “It’s only a crystal, Gary, I’ll get over it. But
thanks so much for the bother; I don’t even know how I got it.” By
then, Arwyn had stepped in to witness Gary’s spotlight search, and
decides to perform his own examination of the scummiest floor this
side of Bryant Street.

FYI, if you don’t already know, Hole in the Wall is themed for
Satanists and Hell’s Angels of the homosexual variety. It’s dark,
skanky, and often vulgar…as are most of its regular patrons (who
frequently spit on the floor). Kind of a queer version of O’Henry or
Steinbeck…or maybe even Nosferatu. But it is the only gay
bar I know of, that plays real rock ‘n’ roll; not a drop of
disco to be found anywhere, within its four or five (counting the
open-door lavatory w/an ice-cube-filled trough in which to pee)
walls. A dragon formed of colorful lights and copper wire spreads its
eclectic wings over the entire saloon…in a frozen flight that
defies any ceiling.

So he lifts the searchlight from Gary’s hold, and sweeps the floor
first around my feet (where they relax upon the bar’s footrest), then
radiates further out, stopping short of the nearest wall. Still, no
luck. But I care not about my crystal (or any crystal), when such a
fine and glorious lad like Arwyn is paying me some attention, and
making all sorts of physical maneuvers that I can admire from many
angles (except from below), as he slowly swings the heavy rod across
the splintery boards, methodically leaving no square inch unanointed
by the light.

Coming up empty-handed just like Gary, he says to me, “Sorry!” and
hands the flashlight back to the barkeep. But the moment he does, he
freezes, and says, “Wait, I feel something!”…indicating his left
foot which heel-part he holds frozen an inch above the floor. Arwyn
then steps back a bit, and collapses his gangly 6-foot-7 frame to
pick up the object that had pressed against his heel like a stone.
It’s the crystal! And he hands it to me: “Aaarrrrgh! Thar she blows!”

“Wow, thanks Arwyn!” I commend. To which he replies: “Do you get it?
Do you get the message?” while gazing deep into my eyes with those
smoldering, dark orange-red irises, I’ve never seen the like! He
is The Dragon! And I respond with utter sincerity and infinite

“Yes! YOU are the light.” The rest is all implied, no words spoken,
but all the same, telepathy declares the remainder: “Not some stupid
candle or electric torch. You ARE my light, that guides me safely
home through all peril; to your heart, to your smile, to your most
darling affections. My gratitude is eternal!”

“Good!” he says, then turns his glorious, copper-haired Hibernian
frame around, and exits through the horsehide curtains to tend to
other pressing events which (I have no doubt) have something to do
with defending, furthering, assisting, or celebrating, the gay spirit.

Or perhaps he just stepped outside for another smoke.

–End of Flashback 2005

To be continued…

Date: Sat, 17 Mar 2012 13:38:46
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Quoting Eleanor:
> Beautiful! Suspenseful! Transcendent!

The Muses do turn their gaze upon my humble soul. This is a
Great Blessing in my life, as is Arwyn, My Fighting Welsh Angel.


More to come!…

Date: Sat, 17 Mar 2012 18:20:26
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Quoting Eleanor:
> An ice-cube-filled trough in which to pee? That’s a new one. To
keep it fresh?

Don’t know about that, I guess so. But one thing I’m sure of: it
certainly keeps the men fresh!

I’m surprised you didn’t know that many gay bars–particularly the
lower-class ones, where brawls and cat fights occur with phenomenal
frequency…come with public troughs for urinals. It’s a long,
porcelain conduit (about seven feet), filled with gallons of those
mini ice cubes.

Plus, there’s an equally long mirror just above the trough. For your
viewing pleasure, of course. Though most intimidating for those of us
w/o impressive girth and length, so we tend to stand at the far end,
angled away and pissing against the side. Or we simply wait until the
room empties.

Arwyn has a way with making a sound effect whenever he whips it out: “thunk!” Don’t know how he does that, it sounds just
like someone dropped a large, heavy block of wood on a thinly
carpeted cement floor. Of course, I look away, I’m not the eyeballing
type, and I do respect him totally…but the first time I heard
Arwyn’s impressive noise, we were alone in the urinal…well, not
in the urinal but some day, perhaps! I flashed him a side
glance with an expression like “Really?” before he zipped it up and
exited. Arwyn’s always a lark.

Then there was the time a rather handsome gent sidled up to me, and
began jacking me off. Stupid bartender Gary needed something from the rest room right at that moment (there’s extra storage space for
sundries tucked behind the toilet) and kicked us both out. Not outta
the entire bar, mind you, just the urinal. Sadly, the gorgeous dude
who lent me a rather talented hand, got so embarrassed, he slipped
out the front door posthaste…and with a mighty itchy palm no doubt.
For you see, I had the crabs. Ha ha, just joking. It was chiggers.
Ha, joking again. No I’m not. Yes I am. It was a raging case of

This trough/mirror/ice cube motif is common across the gay nation.
What with your youthful adventures, and gay friends, I was certain
you already knew. Be that as it may, I guess the cold cubes keep the
steamy urine’s odor from invading our noses like Visigoths in

What was the first gay bar to provide iced-filled troughs as a second sort-of watering hole, where both men and boys could gather and check each other out? I have no idea, but it might prove worthwhile to uncover (or unzip, as the case may be…though “unzipping” has a totally different meaning for us CyberGeeks…reminds me when Scampy and friend Jason at an early gathering of the Berkeley Unix User Group which I founded in 2000, pulled out their Palm Pilots and exchanged info by waving them at each other; and they called it “safe hex”).

I have this scenario for a standup comic entertaining at gay
urinals. Wearing a raincoat of course, because they’ll piss all over
me whenever I crack a joke that strikes ’em as a tad too corny. What
a great occupation for a size queen like me! But work is work, no
matter the venue; or as I like to say: “Just another day at the orifice“.

How many queers does it take to screw in a
(noticeable pause)
Just two, but it better be a damn big

Old Arab saying: “I’d walk a mile for a
camel, two for a sheep or goat, and three for a boy”.

Oh, and this one’s for St. Patty’s Day (coz it’s a limerick, silly):

I once knew an alien from Venus
Who had two holes in his penis.
When we went to bed,
The first thing he said
Was: “I think there is something between us.”

And this: Is that a leprechaun in your
pocket, or are you glad to see me?

Take my domestic partner, please.

At this point, I’ll probably need a short break, or drown in urine.

Cheerz, El!


Date: Sat, 17 Mar 2012 19:47:22
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Quoting Eleanor:
> I knew about the trough, but not the ice.

Sorry, I misunderstood. :\

> Prolly it has to be refreshed pretty
frequently, what with the hot urine constantly melting it.

Yep. Usually that job goes to the barback. This being Saint Paddy’s
Day, I’m sure all the cubes are green. Except for the cubic hairs, of

> That would be a good entry-level job for an
ambitious up-and-comer: Gay bar pee-trough ice-boy.

Gay bar subculture is pretty darn amazing. And I’ve only glimpsed a
sliver (coz me an’ alcohol don’t mix well; my dream is to open the
world’s first gay marijuana infusion and herbal tea bar).
There’s an entire male culture at places like The Hole; Monday nights
you’re welcome to strut around in your underwear. I did that, once,
lotsa fun. Well, Arwyn’s presence made it fun…he kept checking out
my legs. Gave me a lot of sweet attention that night..and of course I
drank it all in (to the very last drop)!

There’s sometimes a Nekked Nite too. Stepped into one by accident:
lots of saggy old men with flaccid…everything. Meh.

> I think we should make Rick Santorum do his community service thusly. In his sweater vest and nothing else.

Wouldn’t last a minute in there. He’d come to a sad end, like
Mussolini. They’d put his remains on ice, and display him in a glass
tomb at Harvey Milk Plaza. The plaque will say:

Did I mention they’d replace his head in that tomb, with Rick Warren‘s butt?

Cheerz, El


Date: Sat, 17 Mar 2012 18:20:26
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

We’re showing our age, scratching our heads over why there’s ice in urinals, if it’s just a gay-bar thing or something more widely applied…when we have something called the Interwebs, with search hickies no less! So I asked the oracle at DuckDuckGo the obvious question, and got many informative results, such as: urinals.html

Date: Sun, 18 Mar 2012 20:24:41
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Quoting Eleanor:
> Welp, I’m guessing you’ve spent more time in men’s rooms than I have

It would seem that way. Now I’m blogging about it. This is worrisome. :P

> did you ever see ice in a general population urinal, either trough style or regular style?

My modest stipend does not afford me the luxury of clubbing and
eating out at various bistros et al…where you would likely find an
iced up trough now and then. So I’m certainly not the right person to
interview for this topic. Ask Mitch. Tee-hee.

> And I’m guessing the trough-style urinal
would be more of a gay-bar sort of fixture, for obvious reasons.

I’d have to agree: the whole bathroom milieu is a staple of gay
folklore. But the icy trough probably got its start in rather mundane
environs, such as the Silver Dollar Saloon in Mobridge, South Dakota:
a mixed Indian/white bar that I visited whilst on a five-week
archeological dig as an undergrad, during which stay I turned 21 and
imbibed my first legal elixir…

and got laid by a traveling musician right out of Iowa City, who sang and played electronic keyboard at some sleazy one-horse town night club, theme song: “Everything is Beautiful in its Own Way,” though his nether parts left me open to doubt. It was a 2-night affair, after which each time I had to hike 1.2 miles (along a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair; yes, I had hair back then: shining gleaming flaxen waxen long beautiful hair, right down to my shoulder blades.) With rednecks and screamingly drunk Lakota natives barreling down the road at 95 mph 4 in the morning, shouting “Yeehaw” and blowing me wolf whistles and cat calls as they rumbled by. Until I finally arrived at my rented bungalow where all five crew members had to arise at precisely 6am.

Real gay men might cry at a chick flick, but we sure know how to turn a urinal into an altar of masculine adulation. The trough, of course, makes one think of horse cock. Or cowboy schlong. Or both. Though for the most part, should some drunkard fairy lay a hand on my fly, I say “Neigh”. A thousand times “Neigh” (by which time I’ve had the calloused blue-collar hand job, the turgid passion of fleshly male bonding and, of course, the Ejaculatory Aftermath: wham bam, thank you Sam). o_O

BTW, I once blew a handsome radio host in the urinal of the old Stud
Bar at its original location on Folsom and 12th.That was back in
1986. He’s since risen to international stardom in the free-form
tradition of a live, outdoor audience. I tune him in every Tuesday
eve on FM radio. Nine inches of gorgeous man-meat; I drool in

I like to think I gave him his start in show biz. A good BJ is
most empowering. Plus: I work magic with my tongue. Good times.


Date: Sun, 18 Mar 2012 20:24:41
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

It is indeed a dark and stormy night as I prance down Castro Street already somewhat drunk (thanks to my personal stash of cheap booze), and enter Toad Hall on 18th. Two more vodka tonics later I stumble outside, hoping to pick up some young hustler planning to dope me and then steal my money and valuables once we get home, under the premise of showing me a good time. Of course, at my advanced age of 61, “young” means anyone under 55, so long as he’s at least an eight. (Of course when you’re soused, there seem to gather ’round you, a lot more hotties in the 8-10 range than when sober. Go figure.)

My secret is to conceal anything particularly valuable (such as my
real wallet and personal papers, $200 android tablet and spare,
refurbished portable laptop purchased via eBay for less than $300),
and lock down my main $425 laptop with a combo lock and alloy steel
cable wrapped around a vertical cubbyhole shelf built into the desk.
Which then makes the date-rape drug a free high, and the odds of my
actually getting laid–or at least mightily felt up on parts that
still count (such as my aching lower back)–greatly increased.

FYI, in the queer community, date rape is not a crime, it is a
highly prized form of sexual intrigue…especially among the low-
income-but-still-horny, elderly citizens such as myself. And when I
say “low income” I mean the very low, such as SRO dwellers,
who really don’t have anything worth stealing in the first place,
except perhaps a few possessions, all easily concealed in one’s
closet, ground-score file cabinets (converted to clothing and pantry
drawers), or in boxes under the desk covered by worthless magazines
and ripe underwear.

By the way, I am only saying these things
to worry my lovely Arwyn, and bring out his protective instincts. I
do none of the things just described above: I might get a little
drunk now and then, but do keep to myself, wishing with all my soul,
for his funtabulous company…even with our clothes on, so long as we
are in each other’s arms, munching popcorn while watching the latest
Pirate-Bay-ripped DVD.

I’m being honest now, because I know that Arwyn will finally read
this, and I don’t want to come off like a cheap loganberry tart. Yes,
I do play around now and then, but it’s only for lack of your darling
warmth. Okay, Arwyn? I’m sure when you come to realize what a
blessing I regard you in my life, you’ll come running to my side, and
never leave. I’ll give you three more months, then I’m moving to
Portland to weep away the rest of my sorry life; and try to forget
you, which I know will be a futile endeavor. You can always reach me
by e-mail:

Toad Hall is a nasty place to hang out. Named after the original Toad Hall that burned down in 1979 (which original site is around the corner), this present incarnation only has the name in common, but none of the amenities. It is always super noisy, thanks to the cranked-up speakers, and has about as much personality as a dead rotting whale picked clean by seagulls and mestizo gang-bangers along the Great Highway. To be fair, one can say the same for any gay bar here in the Castro. But it does have a large picture window that allows me to gaze upon the passersby, in hopes of spotting Arwyn, or my next victim of conjugal pretense.

As usual, nothing interesting is going on, either side of the plate glass…so I finish off the overpriced swill and step back out onto the street where, by this time (well after witching hour) the rain has diminished into a wet, cold drizzle, and a bold crescent moon hangs low over the Edwardian houses on Collingwood Street. (Where my good friend Marvin once lived, till he passed away from AIDS back in 1992; same year that I last heard from Randolph…it was a sad time. Come to think of it, I’ve had many sad times living here; though I hold my head high, even when on my knees and blowing some dude in the bushes. (Just teasing you, Arwyn. The bushes are long gone.)

No sooner do I make my exit than–thar she blows!–Arwyn appears on the other side of the street in a fast pace towards that ridiculously expensive supermarket, Mollie Stone’s, which replaced the old DeLonghi’s (which replaced the still older Cala Foods…I’ve been here a long time; I walk among ghosts more than real people these days). I hurry across the street to be sure my voice reaches him: “Arwyn! You have a beautiful night, I love you and Goddess bless!”

Now, it has been his usual habit since my departure from Hole in the
Wall four or five years ago, to either (1) completely ignore me, or
(2) more recently, acknowledge my presence with a friendly nod or
wave of the hand. But to my delighted surprise, he turns tail and
speeds back in my direction. I can hardly contain myself, like an old
friendly Labrador greeting its beloved caretaker.

Suddenly, the whole world loves me. More than anyone else. More even than Jesus, the Eiffel Tower, Randy Crawford singing “One Day I’ll Fly Away” (the 1980 version), your domestic partner returned in one piece from Vietnam (or Iraq, Afghanistan, Somalia, Korea, or whatever hellhole that has taken him away for a terrible and grievous time), a box of chocolates from Forrest Gump, a sweet child suffering cancer (and she is your darling daughter), quacky little ducklings chasing you around on the moist green grass by Stowe Lake…or Fry, Bender and Leela from Futurama.

To be continued…

Date: Wed, 21 Mar 2012 12:55:20
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Quoting Eleanor:
> BTW, I asked Mitch about ice in urinals. He said he’s only seen
it in men’s rooms in bars, and he always assumed that it was there
because it’s a convenient way for the bartender to dispose of “old”
ice, in addition to keeping the pee-smell down. He said he saw a
trough-type urinal in an Oregon bar, and that it had continuously
flowing water (Oregon has no water shortage at all), so no ice.

I love Oregon. Especially in spaghetti sauce…ummmm. You actually
asked Mitch; that’s cute.

Date: Wed, 21 Mar 2012 12:58:16
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Quoting Eleanor:
> Looking forward to savoring your latest installment in an
unhurried way…’re a damned good writer, Zeke.

I blush. Thank you. And thank you for such tremendous support…I
wouldn’t have gotten this far w/o it. Wait until you read it…it put
ME through a lot of changes! I must’ve shed buckets of joyful tears
in the process, now I need a mop.

Date: Fri, 23 Mar 2012 12:43:07
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Arwyn comes right up to me, and touches my shoulder. In a firm but
kind and deep-throated voice, he commands: “Go. Home.” Then
with one hand on my arm and the other my right shoulder blade,
escorts me back across the street, and stops by the newsstand at
Walgreens. He declares once more “Go. Home.” Then briskly
turns about, crosses the street (again) and continues his march up
18th. His warm, strong touch on my back and arm lingers like a sweet
dream of puppy dogs and lilacs. I am aglow. Stunned at this
unexpected turn of events, I somehow manage to call out to him once
more, as he disappears around the corner and up Collingwood Street:

“Peace my brother! You are a darling!”

No sooner do I commence to obey his command, than a young, spirited woman steps up and stentoriously declares: “Forget about him. This is about you. Zeke, you have done so much for our community, we couldn’t even begin to list all your achievements. You have sacrificed SO MUCH on behalf of our brothers and sisters, I want you to know that, and commend you at this time.”

Again, I am stunned. She is a bubbly, handsome sprite barely
seventeen, with curly locks of auburn hair framing a beatific face
that is vibrant with precognition. I have no idea who she is, never
seen her before, and am about to explain my playful association with
Arwyn as I point in the direction of his retreat, when she interrupts
me, and once more declares:

“Forget about him”. And continues to praise me to the heavens with
words so eloquent I couldn’t help but take her hands warmly in mine,
and remark:

“Yes, I have done many good works on behalf of gay rights, with hardly any acknowledgment or appreciation for more than 35 years. You are so sweet to honor me like this, I can’t thank you enough.” Then kiss her hand like a gallant knight. “I must go now,” I finish, “and see what my sweetheart is up to. Again, bless you and thanks immensely.”

And off I run towards Collingwood, just to glimpse Arwyn one more
time: alas, he is nowhere to be seen (the little scamp). His heart’s
enduring embrace then guides me safely home.

(I would like to add here: whoever that woman was, my apologies
for not lingering long enough to get your name, and to learn how you
know about me. You are most welcome to get back in touch–see my e-
mail link above–and we’ll schmooze over tea and crumpets. Again,
that was such a sweet thing to say, you’re like an angel that
suddenly appeared out of the dark, cerulean void to bless me with
bounteous honor. I truly hope we become BFF; you are a most remarkable lady.

the end
game over man
th-th-that’s all folks
to be continued in another true life faeggie faerie tale

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