The Phone Call

April 27, 2012

[ 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 Arwyn 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!”

“Arwyn! 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. Miles. Now you have just added one more intrigue 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.” Arwyn sounds a bit choked up, like maybe some tears are spilling onto his knuckles as he grips the phone tightly in a trembling hand.

“Arwyn, 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 Arwyn. “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.”

Divine Reader: before I continue with this tale, you need to know that Arwyn sometimes enjoys calling me “Gene” as well as “Zeke.” That is because I changed my name in 1996 from “Eugene Catalano” to “Ezekiel Krahlin”. Proof of my name change can be viewed here:

“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 Arwyn. 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.”

Arwyn 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 Arwyn 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 Arwyn 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 Arwyn, 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, Arwyn 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 Arwyn 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 Arwyn Miles. 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.” Arwyn 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, 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 bubbling 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 Arwyn, 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!” Arwyn teases. “Smoke and mirrors boy, smoke and mirrors,” he continues. “They doped you up and created this horrid hallucination. They did not gut 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,” Arwyn 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,” Arwyn 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.” Arwyn 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, Arwyn. 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?”


“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 occasion, 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 Arwyn 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 repossess the phone and talk directly into the mouthpiece. This is just too compelling to keep Arwyn on speaker while I’m semi-reclined in a padded office chair.

Arwyn 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 Arwyn, 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 on 12th and Harrison Streets) 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 Arwyn’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 Arwyn 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 Arwyn; 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 Arwyn, 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. Miles: 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 Arwyn, 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 Arwyn 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 (see next chapter):

Down The Dragon Hole

April 27, 2012

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 11 ]

Three video walkthroughs (for what they’re worth; it’s dark in there) and fifty-five photos.

WARNING!!! Some of the images in this gallery contain explicit male nudity. If it is against the law for you to view such photos from where you are right now, due to your age or any other restriction (such as religion), do not view them.

Click on image below, to continue:

Dragon Fire in the Hole

April 19, 2012

[ 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 Roguish Gay Spirit alive long after the first owners retire or bick the kucket, and to have Arwyn 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 novel, 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 poem, “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 the President’s body guards on their toes (and needlessly trigger happy…so maybe I’ll just turn down 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 Club (GPMC) orchestrated this silly little scenario, as they have many others…out of sheer compassion and joy, to bring Arwyn 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/Arwyn 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:

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 Hutch (while he smokes his Pall Mall), a Lakota Gay Wise Man with a bodaciously sweet sense of humor. He finishes his ciggie and steps towards The Hole’s entrance. But there are two quite robust males (and good-looking to boot) blocking our way.

“Uh-oh Hutch; 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. Hutch 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 Hutch disappears behind the black leather curtain and the buffalicious 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 (that I want to bomb The Hole), 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 crystal 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 Arwyn’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:


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 hard-ons. 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 all by my lone some) while I’m away for the afternoon, on whatever day you sweethearts choose. (Time for an “Extreme Makeover -SRO Edition“, eh?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Including pirates. Aaargh!

Larkin in the Buff

April 18, 2012

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

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

To: Thomas
From: Zeke

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

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

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

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

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

To understand the prophecy of what’s to come shortly, in 2012 I mean, please enjoy my latest blog entry, which is Chapter 9, “Dragon Fire in the Hole“.

Cheerz and joy; and luv your boy!

– Ezekiel

Dragon Prophecy

April 15, 2012

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 8 ]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your predicated response: shrug of the shoulders.

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

Your predicated response: shrug of the shoulders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Psalm 91

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

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

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

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

Otherwise known as a DRAGON. ]

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

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

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

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

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

For after all, YHWH truly does indeed care. ]

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

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

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

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

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

you will trample the great lion and the serpent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

–end of Bandana Parable

Tom Keske

April 11, 2012

Date: Fri, 06 Apr 2012 12:55:15
From: Zeke
To: Thomas
Subject: Sweet Sue

Thomas posted:

{{ Ezekiel, I am curious whether you believe that Jesus was a real person or not. }}

No. He was a composite of earlier myths, such as Apollo (or “Helios” from which the word “heal” originates) and Eros (brotherly love). I’ve discussed this matter some years back, including the following essay:


{{ I have one straight friend who said that he investigated the question thoroughly and came away with the conviction that there was not even such a real person, just something based on fables. I was surprised by his certainty, because he is very bright and had always had the impression that it was broadly considered that there was at least such a real historical figure, even if the divinity is another question. }}

Your straight friend is quite correct. I am astounded at how often confirmed atheists describe Jesus as one who really existed. That’s like throwing yourself into a den of lions when you are otherwise perfectly safe, no one is threatening you!

I do believe, however, that Jesus is quite real (he does visit and guide me after all, along with other gods such as Zeus, Horus, Buddha, Isis, etc.) as a myth from man’s imagination so powerful and prolonged…that he will soon spring into reality and appear before the world to vindicate gay people. We create our gods as much as they create us. A very sympatico relationship. :)

Your activist alter-ego from the Left Coast,


Date: Sun, Apr 8, 2012 at 5:25 PM
From: Thomas
To: Zeke
Subject: Re: Sweet Sue

Thanks for the info, that is interesting. A columnist for the Boston Globe by the name of Alex Beam wrote an article claiming that it was clear that Jesus was a real historical figure, but I have never trusted Beam, or the Globe, or the media in general.

I need to research the subject in more depth myself in order to arm myself with details and factual information on the subject.

Regards, Tom

Date: Sun, Apr 8, 2012 at 6:58 PM
From: Zeke
To: Thomas
Subject: Re: Sweet Sue

On Sun, Apr 8, 2012 at 5:25 PM, Thomas wrote:

{{ I need to research the subject in more depth myself in order to arm myself with details and factual information on the subject. }}

That has already been done, many times over by most respected literary and historical scholars: JESUS NEVER EXISTED. If you do your own research in this matter, FYI, you’ll be trodding a well-worn path…as well as wasting your time, since others have already done this work for you.

Now, Jesus’s MANIFESTATION on this planet, which is VERY soon, is another box of chocolates altogether. He will be brought forth into this reality, not because he ever really existed, but because the Mind of Man will make him manifest, by sheer will. Here, I’ll give you a hint:

Who the fudge do you think I am anyway, who calls himself “Jehovah’s Queer Witness,” and publishes a vastly underrated web site titled “The Final Testament,” with “gay-bible” in the URL? Don’t you think my Father in Heaven is a brilliant games-master, to contrive this scenario? He even went so far as to create a false mental illness where people are deluded into believing that they, too, are Jesus Christ.

My Dad’s quite a jokester, to say the least.

Okay, the cat’s out of the bag. I AM your savior…I am EVERYONE’S savior.

But you don’t have to believe me. I’m nothing if not ego-less.

queer prophet of incomprehensible dimension
(though I love to get laid on a regular basis, by the lovely
men Zeus-Dad sends me. My heavenly name is Apollo.)

Date: Mon, Apr 9, 2012 at 6:34 PM
From: Thomas
To: Zeke
Subject: Re: Sweet Sue


I don’t think that I’m Jesus, and will never say that I am Jesus – or the “anti-Christ” – but I suspect that *others* will someday say things on that order. Probably more thinking the latter, especially Muslims who think that “Dajjal” -their “antiChrist” is one-eyed, and they make a big deal of it.

I doubt that I am in spirit of anti-Christ because I really think that I want to see the right things in the world- rationality, empathy, basic dignity for minorities. I want to see gay people leading healthy lives in meaningful relationships. I would like to see the environment respected, living in balance, consciously using voluntary incentives to try to maintain an optimal population level. Etc. On the other hand, I see adherents of Islam committing terror everywhere from India to France to Russia to England to the U.S. Out of proportion to grievance, directed at wrong targets, rooted mostly in hate and religious fanaticism.

I believe in force when it is necessary, but then again, the Christian “God” supposedly created Hell, flooded the earth, threatens apocalypse. I really don’t think that my own mental intentions are less justified or really all that different than this concept.

I thought “Ezekiel” was a Biblical prophet rather than Jesus ;-) I am curious- never really asked how you picked on that moniker.

Regards, Tom

Date: Tue, Apr 10, 2012 at 4:16 PM
From: Zeke
To: Thomas
Subject: Re: Sweet Sue

On Mon, Apr 9, 2012 at 6:34 PM, Thomas wrote:

{{ Interesting to hear. Of course, it is just my nature to need to check everything out, myself, look at all angles, and try to think originally about the matter at hand, without preconceptions. }}

That’s a good thing you do that. Just to be clear on the matter: I will soon have tremendous IMPACT on this planet, and will play the role of the Messiah…as well as that of the Devil. Don’t know how long that will go on, but my hunch is anywhere from two months to fourteen years. I just won a prize, the Golden Apple if you wish. A gift from our Most Beloved Universe.

I’m not just limited to Jesus or Apollo, you know. Of course, my Randolph is Jehovah/Zeus. And I think that Larkin is possibly one of His main archangels…or perhaps I should call him an arch “Dragon”.

{{ the Christian “God” supposedly created Hell, flooded the earth, threatens apocalypse. }}

You know very well that God is a character in a big book written by highly-fallible (and often manipulative) human beings rife with dogma. Ergo: God did not create hell, flood the world, or threaten apocalypse…the authors did a fine job of that, using Jehovah as their literary vehicle (a puppet if you will)…putting their thoughts and their wishful thinking (often quite egomaniacal, I might add) into the character they call YHWH.

There are many other perspectives on God that do not define Him as a violent and easily angered war monger. There are much more peaceful and eclectic outlooks of the universe, than Christianity, Islam or Judaism, such as: pagan belief systems (including the Celtic whom I favor), animism, shamanism; along with Buddhism, Shintoism, Vodun…and even counterculture Christianity which follows Gnostic lore.

Just wanted to be clear here that the rabidly insane and macho behavior of Our Biblical Deity, is not the last word on Who or What this “god” really is. In fact, such reckless gods will soon vanish into history’s dustbin, and be replaced by Earth and Peace Friendly elves, leprechauns, dragons, faeries and sundry things that all go bump in the night.

{{ I thought “Ezekiel” was a Biblical prophet rather than Jesus ;-) I am curious- never really asked how you picked on that moniker. }}

I decided to quit dilly dallying and pick a new name, fer chrissakes! So I said: “The next name that pops into my head, I will use for my own, come hell or high water!” So a coupla days later, the name “Zeke” popped into my head. It wasn’t till several more days passed, that I realized it’s short for Ezekiel, the prophet who saw UFO’s, and created sprouted grain bread via God’s instructions. So this prophet makes a good match for my own lifestyle.

Furthermore: the Early Christians believed in reincarnation, and strongly conjectured that Jesus’s immediately former life was that of the Prophet Ezekiel. So there. :p

Cheerz and joy; and love your boy.


FYI dear readers: if you don’t know who Thomas Keske is by now, time to catch up! He is a brilliant gay activist and philosopher, who has posted an incredible number of elegant, profound, pro-gay essays, tales and poems on Usenet and places elsewhere. He is a self-made authority on anti-gay conspiracy, including AIDS as a man-made weapon of bio-war. Some day (soon) his writings will be published in every language and in every format…and be highly regarded in all corners of this planet, as one of the most compassionate, wise, dedicated and courageous gay warriors ever. Why not check out his vast Usenet database, which I freely provide on my own Gay Bible site, and enjoy some of his brilliant prose right now:

Howard’s Cafe

April 10, 2012

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 7 ]

Date: Sat, 07 Apr 2012 16:57:14
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Jesse Balmer
Subject: Your Outrageous, Wicked-Good Illustrations

Hello, Jesse. I was admiring your spectacular cartoons at Howard’s Cafe this afternoon. Bobbie pointed out your tumblr URL, so I could contact you.

I have this blog you see (no!), parts of which will soon be published in the old school formula known as a “book”. You’re probably too young to remember what books are, but that can be dealt with later. o_0

I will need an illustrator…actually, a whole bunch of illustrators, for my true life gay bromance fairytale, “Free Me From This Bond”. Which you can check out here:

I’ve linked those entries in a menu right at the sidebar’s top. Notice I’ve completed 3 chapters thus far, and am writing at the rate of one chapter per week. Of course I don’t expect you to do any illustrations for free. I just want to alert you about my interest in having you among the numerous illustrators I will use to liven up my novel.

Right now, I just rip images off the web and pop ’em in. But of course, I can’t use them for the “book”, as they are copy protected. Plus, I’m sure at least some of the creators of these images would be quite upset to learn I’m using their precious creations to celebrate the gay spirit.

I have no money to spare at this time (and I still survive on a meager disability stipend)…though once the advance payment comes in, I’ll have plenty.

So, when/if you have some idle time, I’d much appreciate it if you read at least one of my delightful chapters…to see if you’d feel inspired enough to be one of my very talented illustrators.

Thank you so much for your thoughtful attention: your art is BRILLIANT! And, speaking from one artist to another in the greatest confidence, I leave you with this thought:

Spacetime means nothing to an old god, either.

In Spaghetti Monster we trust,

Zeke Krahlin (a.k.a. “Jehovah’s Queer Witness”)

PS: I think I’ll put this message in my blog, as the latest entry w/links to your artwork.

Date: Sat, 07 Apr 2012 17:16:32
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: My E-Friends
Subject: Fwd: Your Outrageous, Wicked-Good Illustrations

Just posted this letter to one Jesse Balmer, check out his web sites:

John H.: Of course I’d simply adore having you do some illustrations, too. Prepare yourself: the book will be done in one or two months’ time. You can do as few as five illustrations, or as many as fifteen. Well, I guess the best approach is one illustrator per chapter.

Just replace the present images with a similar-theme drawing of your own (and approx’ly the same size, though up to twice as large is perfectly acceptable…I can shrink ’em down anywayz, using Irfanview). I prefer full-color works, though I’ll leave that up to the artist. I’m sure I’ll be most pleased, even if just B&W.


Zeke the Fantastic Airhead of Heavenly Abode

Date: Sat, 07 Apr 2012 23:05:11
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Jesse Balmer
Subject: Your Outrageous, Wicked-Good Illustrations

Didn’t expect to post to you a second time, before you bother to respond to my first missive; however:

In creating my blog entry about your art, I want to provide a link to your work, which caption is: “Spacetime means nothing to a new god”.

I saw that fabulous work at Dash Cafe wifi, but now that I am home, for the life of me, I can’t track down that particular masterpiece. So, could you PLEASE give me the URL for that most special creation?

Thanx so much, Jesse. Best to you alwayz.

– Ezekiel

Date: Sun, 08 Apr 2012 11:53:34
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Jesse Balmer
Subject: Your Outrageous, Wicked-Good Illustrations

Quoting Jesse :
{{ Here ya go!

Thanks! }}


Well, gotta go now and kick up some dust at the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence‘s Easter celebration at Dolores Park. Will let you know when this blog entry is up…prolly take a week or a little more.

Cheerz, Jesse!

Date: Sun, 08 Apr 2012 11:57:56
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Jesse Balmer
Subject: Your Outrageous, Wicked-Good Illustrations

One more thing (sorry to be a bother): I originally found that marvelous illustration w/caption: “Spacetime means nothing to a new god.” That’s what I’m looking for, but somehow that now eludes me…I want the page with both illustration and caption…or readers won’t get the joke. (I’m very anal retentive when it comes to my blog presentation, even those silly little links which I often utilize for punditry; or puns.)

Thanks again, Jesse.

[ Patient Reader: apparently, Jesse decided not to use the title “Spacetime means nothing to a new god,” and that is why I got confused: he deleted the title shortly after I viewed the incredible illustration. ]

Thirteen videos followed by a whole passel of digital shots:

Howards Cafe from the Outside

Howards Cafe Interior 01

Howards Cafe Interior 02

Howards Cafe Interior 03

Howards Cafe Interior 04

Howards Cafe Interior 05

Howards Cafe Interior 06

Jesse’s Cartoons

Howards Cafe Interior 07

Howards Cafe Interior 08

Howards Cafe Interior 09

The Walk to the WC

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Howard’s Cafe is one of my escape pods strategically scattered thruout Baghdad by the Bay; whenever I sorely need a break from the rough streets where angel-headed hipsters negotiate for a safe hovel in which to shoot up, snort or raise their legs in blissful amnesia, and from the intolerable noise pollution and general craziness that is The Castro.

I first discovered Howard’s in the First Year Of My Destiny when I arrived in San Francisco for the very first time, homeless. The year? 1973. The Place? By the decrepit rotting old piers (long since usurped by a splendid baseball stadium), and run-down bread trucks driven by the most sweet natured and handsome hobos you could ever hope to Biblically know. And it’s been a platonic love affair ever since: the folks who ply their trade at This Flat-Out-Patriotic All-American Style Eatery are the sweetest on the planet.

It’s an easy ride in the N Judah streetcar from the piers to the Inner Sunset, where Howard’s is located on 9th Avenue between Irving and Judah streets.

Ever fantasize about having your very own Alice’s Restaurant (the TV series starring Linda Lavin, not the movie) in your ‘hood? Well, seek no more, Beloved Reader! For I have found Our Very Own Mecca of True Neighborliness and Good Spirit, right here in the Heart of the Inner Sunset. Thank Goddess it’s not called “Mel’s Diner”: think about it!

Speaking of “good spirit,” my brief affair with the bar next door, “The Mucky Duck,” did not end well. I was excommunicated precisely because I am gay and not in the closet at all. I befriended several women there, who I thought would welcome a break from their men always talkin’ sport and shop. I have many delightful true tales about my street activism, and quite a broad sense of humor. Well whaddya know? Turns out their vestigial sex organs…err, I mean to say “their boyfriends”…were jealous of their fiancees’ attention suddenly directed solely towards yours truly. I really should get back to the topic of this comment missal, so I’ll leave you to read my Mucky-Duck blog entry later on at your leisure. Just click right below:


I’ve never yet had the immense pleasure of meeting The Great Howard Himself, but I’ve managed to glean that he has since bicked the kucket–quite a number of years ago by now–while the employees keep his memory alive by actually celebrating his sterling spirit, each and every friggin’ day…except perhaps for those major holidays like New Year’s, ML King Day, Easter, Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Veteran’s Day, and Christmas (and perhaps Earth Day), where they take a little break to enjoy their own family, other friends.

Now how sweet is that? Their food is home-style hash browns at their very best (w/sliced scallion luminous from the sizzling grill’s kiss of canola oil: crunchy green/white veggie buttons scattershot across a lumpy bed of toasty-golden-crusty Russet). Whatever else they serve there is guaranteed to be a Patriotically Gustatory Delight with a splash of southern hospitality w/a Northern California twist. Their java rocks like the 0-Six Earthquake. You will not be disappointed (to say the very least) if you should order a slice of homemade apple pie or lovingly decorated carrot cake, along with a piping hot cup of Howard’s Golden Brown Elixir.

Remember Petula Clark’s song: “When you’re alone and life is making you lonely you can always go – downtown”? Well, Kind Readers, this eatery is such a friendly place to dine and hang out, you may as well replace Petula’s “downtown” with “Howard’s”. Many low-income and starving artist types gather here…along with all other sorts of eccentric, unique and genuinely sweet natured folks. From the elderly to the young, the smartly dressed to the shabby. Asian, Caucasian, African American, and all others representing the international haven that is San Francisco’s pulse. Very few places remain in The City, where a stranger can walk in, sit down, and strike up a hearty conversation with another patron, and even make new friends. Without intent to exaggerate in any manner, I must conclude that Howard’s is the veritable heart of the Inner Sunset.

After years and years of visiting Howard’s Cafe, I have come to realize: the owner surely must be a very compassionate and joyful spirit, to have left such a gloriously amicable legacy. Now, my heart aches to know YOUR story, oh employees and regulars of such a divinely excellent restaurant. I invite you, Bobbie, Leo, Ann, Shelly, Cassie et al, to post your memories of Howard (or Howard’s), and any other true tales that have occurred around that person (or place), which you’d absolutely love to share with the world.


PS: For more Howard’s fun, check out: “8 Howard’s Factoids“, “Howard’s Calendar” and “Cruising Howard’s Cafe“.

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