[ 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:
HOLE IN THE WALL ROCKS!!! WHAT CHARMING AND SWEET DRAGONS!!! YOU ARE A TREMENDOUS GIFT TO OUR LGBT FAMILY, AND I AM SIMPLY STUNNED WITH YOUR AWESOMENESS!!!
The LGBT community created me, groomed me for leadership w/o my even knowing. For part of the training is to figure these things out for yourself, as the years pass, and the pieces come together. So I’m not that sure yet if I’m an actual human, or a faggy simulacrum that transcends all time and 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!