Good Dragon / Bad Dragon

May 27, 2013

[ Free Me From This Bond (sequel to the sequel): Chapter 3 ]

Date: Sat, 18 May 2013 11:08:22
Subject:
Re: I’m sucking your kok right now…
From: Keith
To: Zeke

Dear Zeke,

Yesterday I went out to the thrift stores on Haight Street and Mission Street and bought 5 colorful ladies silk blouses. 3 of them fit really well so they’re going to be new undershirts (my tshirts are a little threadbare because I have been neglecting those sort of things lately, and silk is so much nicer to wear than cotton, and if you don’t mind wearing out of fashion ladies clothing you can get nice silks for very little money), but the others are too small, so I am going to cut them up to make a flag. I remember seeing pictures of flags in your book or on your blog somewhere – if I find them again would it be ok if I borrowed one of your designs? I’d be happy to make any changes, too, or make an entirely new design if you want.

– Keith


Date: Sat, 18 May 2013 11:52:47
Subject:
Re: I’m sucking your kok right now…
From: Zeke
To: Keith

Sure, you can use my “Don’t Tread on MOI” design, here:

http://gay-bible.org/ikons/moi.htm

Adapt it to whatever way suits you. I am honored, and most curious to
see how it comes out. Happy sewing, Keith!

– Zeke


Date: Sat, 18 May 2013 12:50:52
Subject:
In my letter to Brody…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

…I added this at the last minute:

He is slandering me via gossip, causing others to hate and exclude me…and may possibly lead to violence. I have /many/ witnesses, should the matter come to court (which I really want to avoid). Those who participate in spreading defamation of my character are also complicit.

Nice touch, eh? I need to send a copy to Arwyn. In hopes he’ll cease and desist.

– Zeke


Date: Sat, 18 May 2013 14:44:54
Subject:
Re: In my letter to Brody…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ It’s plain that you’re already famous in the ‘hood! }}

OMG yes, El! My Greatest Adventure Yet is about to take place. Gotta wear a purple hoodie in the ‘hood.

{{ Things are going to heat up like crazy. Be ready! }}

So you think I’m stirring the pot here in the Castro, do you? The secret’s in the sauciness.

Have netbook, will travail…er I mean “travel.” (Seeking refuge from mine persecutors that is. With a coven of mega-caliente bodyguards at my service. Though I don’t mind servicing /them/ too, in the least! Big guns call for big tongues.)

– Zeke


Date: Sun, 19 May 2013 12:33:52
Subject:
You’re a Very Bad Dragon!
From: Zeke
To: Arwyn (via snail mail)

19 May 2013

Mr. Arwyn Miles:

This is to inform you that your slandering me throughout the Castro (telling people I’m your stalker) has caused unwarranted enmity against me by many, including bartenders. I demand that you /immediately/ cease and desist with defaming my character. Furthermore:

I also demand that you rectify your ugly gossip by returning to all those who’ve heard your vitriol against me, and tell them you’re /wrong/, that I am really a very nice guy. And that we are actually good friends. (Though I guess at this point, “were” good friends is more apt.)

If you do not correct your slander against me (for which proof I require, including being welcomed back by those bartenders who’ve 86’d me), you may expect a summons delivered to you within two or three weeks from now. I have /plenty/ of witnesses. Those who are not willing to testify, I will subpoena. One more demand:

That you present me with a handwritten profuse apology, stating /exactly/ why your gossip is wrong, and how you’re going to right this wrong.

I am most serious about this, Miles. My street activism is plenty difficult without your ill-tempered intrusion. You have most effectively destroyed a large part of the respect I’ve earned from our SF gay family…which took me years to establish. But almost overnight, you’ve wiped that out. You once respected me /immensely/ for many years, but since you’ve moved to the Castro your treatment of me has been frequently vulgar.

Slandering a person can put him in harm’s way, as well as ostracize him from local society to live a lonely existence. You have played your cards well, by increasing in great number those who treat me like a pariah. Should violence against my person ensue as a result of your slander, be aware I will have you /arrested/ and press charges to the law’s fullest extent.

Sincerely,

Ezekiel Joseph Krahlin


Date: Sun, 19 May 2013 13:45:11
Subject:
Dummy me…
From: Zeke
To: The Grand Squidlike Poohbah of the Andromeda Galaxy

I’m always sluggish to catch on. Why is Arwyn behaving so badly to me, breaking my heart like a China doll smashed on a junkie’s Ikea?

Of course! The cult has dispersed outta SOMA (thanks to our doubled-handed and superb teamwork to make all the gay bars there a lot friendlier and safe), and come scurrying into the Castro like dung beetles.

Arwyn does /not/ like to explain ANYthing, thus he knew I’d catch on soon enough: that we must feign hatred towards each other. Not just for my own protection, but that My Gordian Gumshoe can round up these scumbugs.with greater panache.

God, I almost thought our sterling friendship had been totally obliterated, ’cause Arwyn’s brain tumor drove him bonkers. What an imagination I have.

What an even /greater/ imagination Arwyn imparts upon this exhausted little sidekick!

– Zeke


Date: Mon, 20 May 2013 13:50:52
Subject:
Da Poifect Storm it is…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanore

…with a slight redaction: “Da Poifek Storm.”

It just /feels/ right. Must be “da poifek titul.”

– Zeke (da poifek nob)


Date: Mon, 20 May 2013 14:21:03
Subject:
A Final Appeal
From: Zeke
To: Eleanore

The Welsh goddess of Inspiration (who is Cerridwen) kicked my butt super hard last night, and forced me to type the following letter to U-know-who, then jog on down to the local PO and drop it in the slot. (No rest for the wicked, even less for the good! Everyone thinks I’m on meth, scurrying about so late in the ‘hood.)

My Sweet Friend Arwyn,

Seems to me that the tragic loss of your excellent parents has planted a terribly bitter seed in your noble heart! Just as Randolph’s three tours in Vietnam have done. Do you honestly think your raging grief over your Mom and Dad are anywhere /near/ as bad as Randolph’s own suffering over murdering many innocent families in a needless war? Yet Randy also endured the death of his own parents at an early age.

His father was a coal miner in West Virginia, in the humble low-church town of Covington. When he came down with black lung he decided to commit suicide, that his family may receive lifelong health insurance and income. Randolph was just 16.

Few years later when he went into battle, his mother died during his second tour.

Don’t really want to go into my own trials and tribulations here, just suffice it to say: I, too, My Blessed Dragon, have borne the loss of many great loves and friends. I have never known anything else in my life, when it comes to friends and lovers. And I guess my loss of you is simply the latest. But the silver lining in this otherwise-jet-black cloud, is that you are still alive, and within my geographical reach! Which is a most unique situation among all my previous loves. Before this, they have either disappeared by migrating elsewhere (a survival issue, based on economics), being carted off to prison where they got raped many times and contracted AIDS, gone insane from drugs or war, or simply perished unto death.

Do you not think that the horrid fates of both Randolph and myself, are every /bit/ as grievous as the sudden death of your own darling parents?

Your utter rejection of me two nights ago, shoves me back into a friendless and lonely life. FYI: before you began spouting evil gossip against me, many others in the Castro and SOMA have been doing such since decades before we ever met. Your unexpected compassion and many adventures lifted me from my isolation into a utopian dimension. Even beyond that: you /saved/ my life! In addition: you are so fukkin’ handsome, sweet and witty, how could I /not/ fall snout over tail for you? Yet now, what things about me made you so joyful, are things you suddenly (and cruelly) regard as “stalking” and an unbearable nuisance in many other ways.

To wake every day without your kind love, to stroll the Castro without your presence, to dine at Howard’s, to wander the city just like I did before we met, to lie down on my bed without your good thoughts: it is such an arrow through my heart I don’t think I really care to live in such grief much longer. I beg Odin for mercy. Either the forgetfulness of death, or the redemption of our hearts.

Do you not think that I weep every night over your undeserved abuse…after so many years of building a divine friendship? I surely don’t comprehend how you can go bowling, play billiards and softball, with such apparent delight, yet not have me by your side. I think this is a mental block caused by the tragic elimination of your parents. One can only get so close to you before the pain gets out of hand. You have PTSD, Arwyn, just like Randolph. Though of course for very different reasons.

Why do I rise above my griefs so well, while you and Randy do not? I can only conclude that we all have different barometers when it comes to suffering. What for one person may be an unbearable tragedy, for another is merely a pain in the butt. Or in other words:

What suffering may be seen as trivial by another, most likely impacts that person as devasting as was the Vietnam War to Randolph, or the death of your parents to your child self. For this reason (and realization), I do not want to muse further on whether or not your hardships are less severe than some other’s, including concentration camp survivors. Therefore, in spite of my own many crosses that I bear on behalf of myriad folks (including Your Own Precious Soul), I understand now that the /kindest/ thing I could ever do for you, is regard your own tragedies as more enormous and horrid than anyone else’s. For that is /precisely/ how it impacts you. The suffering of others is completely /irrelevant/ in this context.

So I will say to you now, something which perhaps I /should/ have told you much sooner. Though your ornery behavior to those who truly love you, pretty much blocks any chance I have to declare the following (though it be a letter which you may or may not ever read, much to my frustration and sadness):

I am so terribly /sorry/ that Jehovah saw fit to sweep away your most-blessed parents from your life, at such a tender age. But please realize: they are most happy in heaven, serving as your guardian angels throughout all your life’s difficult turmoil. In fact, I am certain they brought me to /you/, that you may have one true friend to ease your sorrows. Just as I also believe that Randolph brought you to /me/, for the same reason. I would think your parents are quite ashamed over your recent and crude treatment towards yours truly. In fact, you’ve probably broken their hearts.

And that I have joined them in a most terrible fight to win your soul back from the devil’s clutch! As someone who will always remain a faithful comrade, you must understand that my possible steps towards charging you with a criminal offense (slander and defamation), is to direct you back towards the right path. Should I go through with this–and the only reason I would is because you have not begun correcting this wrong within two weeks from now–I will always take the compassionate route. For examples:

I’d plead with the judge to force you to do community service instead of incarceration. Part of this service will include spending friendly time with me, your main target of enmity. (As anyone else would be, should he desire to get very close to your heart.) I would also require that you make /complete/ amends with me, by correcting your crude words that have influenced anyone who’d listen, to hate, isolate, and even bash me. You need to confess before each one how wrong you were, and that Zeke is actually the very best friend in the world. This includes /all/ the bartenders who think I’m your stalker, and have kicked me out as a result of your lies.

A further requirement is for you to profusely apologize to anyone you’ve either hurt or offended. Once my book becomes a bestseller (which I know it will, as I am cognizant of my incredible destiny), I can give you /tons/ of dough, that you may take them out for dinner, the movies, shopping or whatever. As for my up-and-coming affluence, I now choose to remind you:

If for whatever sad reason you refuse to renew our friendship, I will /still/ grant you 51% of all royalties from my books about you, once the profits kick in and I have a proper accountant and attorney. Simply because my love for you exceeds the bounds of petty arrogance, self pity and doubt. So now you know (if you didn’t know before, though I’m sure you did):

My love for you, Sweet Dragon, will pass every test you throw before me. No matter how many more weeks, months, years, centuries or millenia I must pass through before you finally embrace me in utter gratitude.

Again: I weep alongside your noble self, for the sudden loss of your cherished parents. I certainly feel their love for you flowing through my heart.

God bless you Arwyn, in every whichway possible! Please stop your attacks upon my infatuated soul. Please don’t force me to treat you as enemy, by continuing to call me your stalker! Please don’t force my hand and make me take you to court. I honestly don’t /ever/ want to go down that path, for both our sakes.

Love is king, and I am but a humble serf,

PS: I put /so/ much faith in you, Arwyn. And still do! I have absolute faith that our friendship will rise above the ashes in due time. And what a fine friendship it shall be! I already miss you more than I can bear. My lovely darling: you have nothing to fear from me!

So there you have it El: yet one more “final appeal” on an endless /string/ of final appeals. Who needs rosary beads if you carve out your very /heart/ to make your own? Suffering lima beans!


Date: Wed, 22 May 2013 15:02:38
Subject:
Latest Missive to Arwyn
From: Zeke
To: My E-frenz

So I finally completed chapter 7 and printed it out to present to Arwyn, along with the following cover letter (which I actually placed at the end of this chapter):

22 May 2013

To My Mischievous Mesosaurus,

Sometimes you are very sweet to me. Other times you are /not/. So which one of My Lovely Luscious Arwyns should I respond to: the Bad Dragon or the Good Dragon? I believe you are putting me through a test, that I must decide for myself, which one of your two faces I should look up to. Of course I choose the Good Dragon. For it is absolutely /clear/ to me that you harbor tremendous love for yours truly…in spite of the angry facade you sometimes present to me.

In fact, I’m certain you would lose utter /respect/ for me, should I opt to drop you entirely from my world. That would be a greater sin than any you’ve committed against Your Little Pony Sidekick. This does not mean I will hound you (or even stalk you for realz). What it /does/ mean is this:

I will act accordingly upon any challenge you toss at my tail. This includes a legal cease-and-desist against your slander that foments hatred against one who truly loves you beyond all bounds. As for your feigned demand that I never send you any more mail, visit you at the bars, or even talk to you:

You got it, buddy. For as I’ve told you more than once, if you ever ask me to cease my attentions, I will do so immediately. Even though it will mean awful heartbreak for the rest of my sorry little life. And you did just that several nights ago. Though I know you don’t mean it at all, I realize you want to see if I’d actually /respect/ such a demand when I stated I would, in past conversations. Here is the very worst you can ever expect from me, as a result of your rejection:

I will from time to time say hi to you whenever our paths cross, and perhaps toss you some wisecracks as you move on. I will /not/ follow you, nor will I scream any sort of angry epithet. Please acknowledge (at least in your own reptilian brain) that I have /never/ stalked you, and never will. Your definition of “stalking” includes any person who cares to say hello, or hang out with you in the bars or elsewhere. In other words: your definition is BOGUS.

In addition, I will pause from time to time, on the sidewalk outside of one of your hangouts in the Castro. Mainly because it gives me great solace to view your presence, and see how well you are doing. But sometimes, also because I might have my latest chapter to present you (if you care to accept). You do /not/ have to confront or threaten me, unless that is your desire, you Goddam Drama Queen!

Also, whenever I have a new chapter or letter (or gift) to present you, instead of mailing it, I will keep it on my person so that whenever we see each other during my strolls, I will offer you my latest love offering. Should you reject it, I’ll simply shrug my shoulders, give you my blessings and move along. Just so you know:

Since you’ve /always/ accepted my gifts until recently, and have given me so much kind attention and adventures despite your sporadic cycles of rejection and hostility: you cannot expect me to obey every one of your commands, especially when they are in direct conflict with your sweet overtures. In other words, you’ve forced my hand to make a decision as to /which/ Arwyn I should listen to: the Sweet Wyvern or the Nasty Wyvern. I choose the Sweet, and always will. (“Wyvern” by the way, is an old-fashioned term for “dragon.”)

The fact you’ve given me signed permission to use your real name and photo in Book 2, tells me that you put complete trust in my tales about us, and that I will never use my gift to cause you harm in any way, shape or form. And I assure you, My Darling Demon: I will always /praise/ your glorious self no matter what. I understand perfectly why you’re yanking my chain:

You desire a totally dedicated friend or lover, who will /never/ be discouraged by your fickle downturns that cause me grief (at least for a little time). For you well deserve a comrade who is capable of discerning what you speak from what you actually wish. I will always answer to your wishes, and not your words. For you are a Master Trickster who expects those he loves to figure out the game. And the game is this:

Do not give in to superficial whim,
But keep showing my love through all the morass,
Though the object of my heart may behave at times
Like an absolute and ridiculous ass.

Arwyn, My Most Excellent Platonic Love: how could I /ever/ walk out on you, when I know full well that would break your darling spirit? Dump all the shit on me you want, I will /never/ hate you or disappear from your world. Even if it means loving you from a distance in whatever way I can manage. In a nutshell:

!!! I AM TOTALLY PROUD TO BEAR YOUR CROSSES WITH YOU !!!

All my profoundest love (including that of your incredible parents),


Date: Thu, 23 May 2013 15:04:09
Subject:
At the last moment…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

I inserted another permission form, this time with My Latest Missive to Arwyn:

I, the astoundingly magnanimous Arwyn Miles, hereby give permission to Ezekiel Krahlin to use my name in his novel, “Free Me From This Bond (sequel to the sequel),” which is Book 3 of his trilogy.

Signed,

______________________________
Signature

______________________________
Date

Note to Arwyn: the other book you recently gave your permission to, is the /second/ book in the trilogy. Just want to make sure that you understand, this form is for Book 3. And by the way: please do not add “do not duplicate” to this form, it doesn’t mean anything. Duplication is a necessary requisite for keeping records. Adding such a declaration does not mount to a hill of beans (which I think you should be forced to consume in one sitting, considering your recent and ill treatment of me). It will simply be ignored.

Note to my E-frenz: some days back when I approached Arwyn to thank him for permission to use his real name and photo for Book 2, he snatched the signed form from my hand and began to tear open the envelope.

“Whoa, stop that,” I exclaimed, “It’s already open at one end [ I used a scissors for a clean cut ]. I plan to frame this letter, along with the envelope.”

Arwyn then withdrew the form, whipped out a pen from his jacket’s inside pocket, laid the form out flat on the bench beside us, and printed the following alongside both name and photo permissions:

“DO NOT DUPLICATE.”

Really burned me, ’cause he destroyed the elegant balance between lettering and white space that would have looked so artful in a teakwood frame.

“What good does /that/ do?” I enquired once he returned the envelope and form to me.

He blushed, turned his face away, shrugged shoulders and replied: “I don’t know!”

“Well, Arwyn, it doesn’t change a thing. I’ve already scanned the form and backed up it with triple-redundant online storage.”

In fact, my E-frenz, I did so immediately after receiving the signed page in my mailbox. Preventing its loss was just /too/ important to delay.


Date: Thu, 23 May 2013 15:45:32
Subject:
Re: At the last moment…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ At least we now know he can write! }}

He spelled the second “do not duplicate” as “do not dublicate”. But we’re getting somewhere.

– Zeke


Date: Thu, 23 May 2013 16:34:02
Subject:
Detective Fantasy
From: Zeke
To: My E-frenz

So here’s my latest fantasy about Arwyn, this time as a detective executing a bust in one of the gay bars South of Market:

I’m enjoying a second vodka tonic while seated at the middle end of the counter, closer to the front entrance. Other than barkeep Gary Clayton and myself, there is no one particularly interesting or nice at the Hole, at this time. Eight other patrons complete the scenario. So I keep to myself, thinking how lucky I am because of My Hummingbird Serpent, whether or not I’m presently graced with his company. I really need no one else: my heart’s chalice runneth over with Arwyn lullabies.

There is a sudden commotion just outside the entrance, easily heard above the pimped-out speakers loud as Boeing engines. Highway to Hell by AC/DC rocks the room. A worm of panic starts to crawl up my gut and into the esophagus once I realize there is /no/ other exit ‘cept for the entranceway itself! A bevy of plainclothes gumshoes explodes through the leather curtain like gangbusters, and snatches up all but two patrons (one of them myself, natch). Their captain is Arwyn, who orchestrates every move while his boys whip out those toothy plastic handcuffs to bind the Sinister Seven.

No, not Douglas too…I wept on his shoulder once, during the Brain Tumor Fiasco! I declare in silence. For now is not the time or place to chat with /either/ him or Arwyn (or anyone else for that matter). Arwyn suddenly turns to me and glares:

“What the /hell/ are you up to, Zeke? You should’ve dashed to a corner for safety the moment we barged in!”

“Right!” I snap out of my mental fog to zip up the backpack and re-don my jacket faster than spit in a downwind gale.

“Now go to that corner over there, right below my photo,” he points to his left and slightly up. “Move it tadpole!”

Now tucked away into a dark, protective zone with Arwyn’s broad back blocking me from seeing or being seen, I observe just twelve feet from 10 o’clock, Douglas’s desperate stare. As if I would single-handedly sweep aside Arwyn and his agents, to liberate this skunk from the shackles of a well-earned fate.

Guess my “amigo” Douglas hasn’t a clue as to my utter allegiance towards Arwyn, who is both my savior and cherished guardian. This next thought crosses my mind:

Why on Mannanan’s green isle would I ever betray one so good to me, that Douglas may escape? Then this:

How /dare/ he think I’d emote the least bit sympathy for his plight, when I know full well that Arwyn is the most righteous dragon among /all/ righteous dragons!

The criminals are summarily goaded into a rigid line with a pair of sleuths gripping their arms on each side. Four more flatfoots bring up the rear while Arwyn and myself search for dropped contraband. I find two plump packets of cocaine, a zip gun and one piano-wire garrote. Arwyn searches the toilets…something which he /forbids/ me to do in my capacity as assistant. Just his way of showing class towards the one he loves most. (He does, however, permit me to lower the flush handle, that I may feel useful. Nice guy.)

My Betrothed holds several evidence bags before me, that I can deposit the discoveries. He then hands me a 10-spot.

“Go to the Eagle, VAMOOSE!”

“Cheapskate!” I retort while scampering on outta there.

Hole in the Wall Saloon is now totally vacant of all customers but one, the barkeep, and Arwyn. I quickly depart for Eagle Tavern while four squad cars skid away containing the dismayed varmints. Douglas sneers at me from a rear window, like I screwed him over.

What a maroon, I snort, as his frown rapidly dimishes in the distance till I am left with nothing more than a useless memory.

Too bad, I elaborate to no one in particular (except perhaps yourself, Adroit Reader). Arwyn would /never/ target anyone who is decent. Now the four squad cars are but tiny dots along the horizon, then blip!: all gone.

Ta-ta Douggie boy! For I know as sure as 41 Lutetia circles our home star every 3.8 years, that Arwyn defends and protects the truly innocent from buttfeeders like you, Druggie…er, I mean ‘Douggie!’ Your willful friendship with Edmund even after he accused me last month of threatening to stab him to death (and did so right in front of you) speaks mountains. Mountains of /what/ I care not to say. But you’re buried in it now.

So I enter the Eagle Tavern and order a club soda with lime. As I sip my lacklustre beverage I daydream about tonight. When I’ll once more be enfolded in the leathery wings of My Benevolent Dragon, his shimmery snout nuzzled against my breastbone. And as I drift off to blissful slumber, Yours Most Truly shall muse:

Ah! Not all Reptilians are bad.

[ I should also add here, Beleaguered Reader, that they have awfully nice equipment, too! ]

Here’s yet a /second/ detective fantasy I conjured up some days back, but until now have not bothered to put down on keyboard and plasma:

(To be continued, you lucky e-dawgs, you!)


Date: Thu, 23 May 2013 16:57:43
Subject:
Re: At the last moment…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ Nerves }}

Posiblemente, pero pienso que mi novio es mas listo en mente que eso. Asi, aqui esta mi propia conclusion:

He intentionally mispelled, just because he’s quite the trickster. Knowing I’d be all over it like dark on sourdough. Of course it /could/ have been a certain degree of nerves when it came to approving a photo. For this marks a high level of trust towards me, an author about to publish not one, but /three/ novels, each centered around My Shamrock Shamus. And of course you can observe the slightly quivery strokes as compared to Signature the First.

But Arwyn is the most fearless and confident man I’ve ever beheld. Thus I conclude yet another tricky little trap of mischief he’s conjured up, to keep me on my padded werewolfian toes. IOW:

Whether or not this “dublicate” mispell was simply a case of “da noives,” or something far more suggestive, remains “dupious.”

Badda boom badda bing.

– Zeke


Date: Fri, 24 May 2013 14:17:30
Subject:
Comical conversation…
From: Zeke
To: All Gay Studs Who’ve Landed on Uranus

…with barkeep Casey at the Eagle Tavern:

Casey is a tallish man mostly skinny, but with the beginning of a paunch. Guess he’s around 38, but has such a sweet face, he could be 32. Wears suspenders which turn me off….nonetheless, I’d love to yank them down, pull up his tight T-shirt and lick those pectorals for days. He’s got a /very/ pronounced and independent rump that makes me drool uncontrollably. Maybe age has mellowed his beauty into perfection, like Gouda cheese. I address him during a lull in patronly service:

“This is the first time my boyfriend Arwyn’s gone through male PMS, since we got married almost two years ago. He’s almost 53. Now, he just wants to have me lick his rectum and slap me silly. Sounds rather hormonic, don’t you think?” At which point in my monologue, Casey turns his back to me and crouches down to select this or that refrigerated ale. He’s got a /really/ fine set of shoulder blades and tight round buttox. So I add:

“All he’s doing is reversing our roles!” Casey then stands up with three bottles in his hands. He grins and shrugs his sexy shoulders in response. So I goad him further:

“Wondering if you can give me some tips,” (he chortles in reply, the darling fellow. So I conclude with the following bon mot before departing through the leather curtains:)

“Maybe even let me practice on you first, before I bite the anal bullet. Ha ha. Have a /wonderful/ night!”

– Zeke


Date: Fri, 24 May 2013 14:21:15
Subject:
Arwyn Leaves His Mark
From: Zeke
To: Carmen G. (Twosome Press)

I thought you would enjoy learning that My Lovely Arwyn has given me signed permission to use his /real/ name, AND his photo, for Book 2 (“Free Me From This Bond – the sequel”). Which you may view here:

Not that you should save this for your records, as I am totally out of moolah, and have no idea when I’ll have the finances to self-publish my next novel. But, more than likely, our gay community will cover all expenses for any further publications. In which case I will recommend Twosome Press as my first choice.

Arwyn’s wisdom always amazes me, even if gained only with hindsight. His refusal to permit me to use his real name in Book 1, serves to whet my readers’ curiosity as to who the /real/ Arwyn Miles is! Of course, they must purchase Book 2 of what is obviously to become a trilogy. (In fact, I’ve almost completed Chapter 8 of Book 3…I’m /way/ ahead of the curve.)

Had he /not/ refused, there would be slightly less intrigue in discovering the true hero of my opus. In fact, I don’t even need his permission for Book 3. I can just switch back to Arwyn Miles, simply because my real-life hero is clearly revealed in Book 2. It will only take 2-plus-2 for readers to figure out the /true/ star of my tales.

My Detective Dragon /always/ knows how to play his cards to the max! Even if I must have my tender feelings battered for a time. He’s a tough guy, who demands an /equally/ tough lover. Arwyn is /such/ a brilliant master of intrigue. He /is/ the true author of my current tales, I cannot praise him enough.

I figure you’d be amused to learn of this latest twist in My Gay-Mystical Plot.

– Zeke


Date: Fri, 24 May 2013 14:53:14
Subject:
Re: Arwyn Leaves His Mark
From: Zeke
To: Carmen G. (Twosome Press)

Carmen wrote:

{{ Well, that is great, but as you say, it is a confusing wisdom!! He is the master of intrigue! }}

We only live a block apart these days. Now, he’s telling everyone I”m his stalker, and getting me kicked out of all the gay bars in the Castro. Sometimes he’ll holler “I hate you, I hate you!” from across the street, and keep it up for quite a few minutes.

It’s all I can do to keep from rolling on the sidewalk in hilarity. For this is his way to keep me outta the bars just before a major bust. Too dangerous for me to patronize them at this time. So I just go to the gay bars South of Market, where Arwyn and I first met, and so many folks there love us both. In fact, they brought us together in the first place.

So sometimes I scream right back at him, feigning barely controllable rage. This way, certain criminals are deflected away from yours truly…after I’ve played the decoy and drawn them all out of the woodwork to target me.

All in a day’s work as a detective’s assistant!

– Zeke

PS: I haven’t found out yet, on what day Arwyn’s gonna throw me a surprise party and ask my hand in marriage. Personally, I’d like him to be married to /more/ than just my hand, but Arwyn’s a strange one alright. But I gotta “hand” it to ‘im. Heh.


Date: Fri, 24 May 2013 14:59:11
Subject:
Re: Arwyn Leaves His Mark
From: Carmen G. (Twosome Press)
To: Zeke

Ha ha Zeke, you make me laugh so much!

You have yourself a good weekend!

Best regards,

Carmen G.
Publishing Consultant


Date: Fri, 24 May 2013 14:59:51
Subject:
Re: Arwyn Leaves His Mark
From: Zeke
To: Carmen G. (Twosome Press)

Carmen wrote:

{{ Ha ha, I love the signature sheet! }}

Yeah, I had fun with it. Never dreaming that he’d actually sign it of course, but I thought “what the hey.”

Book 1’s cover has Randolph’s pic, Book 2 will have Arwyn’s and Book 3 will have moi! A perfect trilogy.

– Zeke


Date: Fri, 24 May 2013 14:27:08
Subject:
The Hat that Loved Me
From: Zeke
To: The Mad Hatter

Later on I get off the orange Italian street car, which I hate because its wheels are slightly off-gauge, which causes migraine inducing headaches as it screetches along the tracks. Soon as I step off at Market & Van Ness…a blast of wind blows my wolf hat away before I even have a chance to hold it down. This is unusual, as I /always/ keep my headgear firmly secure from such blustery events.

It happened so fast, I could not locate either the direction of the hat’s escape, or its present location between thundering traffic and its likely location (albeit temporary). A bright yellow bandana remains firmly wrapped to my scalp, as I give up finding my cap, and cross the street in existential surrender.

Simply accepting the loss of my favorite hat, I figure that, for whatever reason, My Guardian Dragon decided that I look better w/o it.

“Oh well,” I figure, “At least I have a great story to tell Gerard when I arrive at the Hole.”

So I walk up one block to 10th street, and proceed south towards Folsom. But no sooner do I approach Mission Street, than this motorist seated in a van calls out:

“Is that your hat?” He points to a spot on the sidewalk barely 12 feet behind. And there is my wolf hat, patiently resting near the curb awaiting my retrieval!

I quickly run back and snatch it up before a hobo w/shopping cart adds it to his collection of sales-worthy items. Then I run up to the kindly driver:

“Thanks, man! I thought I lost my favorite hat for good. You won’t believe how I lost it, but found it once more, thanks to your stopping me and pointing it out.”

The motorist was a somewhat handsome fellow with long gray hair cascading down to his shoulders. The passenger window was open, so I extended a hand to shake his.

“Let me tell you my story that led up to your role as redeemer.”

So I told him how the Van Ness wind tunnel suddenly blew away my wolf hat, without any sign as to its present direction. So I quickly wrote it up as a loss, and strolled on to the next block, and walked down 10th, never expecting to reclaim that hat ever again.

“It must’ve stuck the velcro strip to somewhere on my back, where it hung for a time without my having any idea,” I concluded. “But it finally dropped off right when you saw it fall to the sidewalk, and called to me.”

His name is Albert (I soon learned), and I handed him my card that included my phone number and URL to “Free Me From This Bond.”

Before departing for Hole in the Wall, I invited him to keep in touch and spend some time over coffee where we can shoot the oxen. With that, I took off for the Hole, and Albert drove away.

“What an amazing true tale,” I think. “Can’t wait to tell Gerard!”

Alas, that was not to be. For the moment I enter the saloon I find Gerard and tell him I’d love to impart a true story that just occurred on my walk from the Castro to SOMA. He seems rather aloof, and grumbles:

“Not right now. I’ll ask you about it later.”

His frigid voice indicates that will /never/ happen. No problemo in my eye: Gerard just canceled his friendship with yours truly. Arwyn will be made aware, soon enough.

Seems to me there is /no/ shortage of backstabbing queers in /every/ gay bar, who go out of their way to drain decent patrons of all their joy, faith and hope, the moment they make themselves vulnerable. For no other reason than placing trust in their own gay brothers. Such creeps are no better than hetero fundamentalists…perhaps even worse, ’cause they know better, but choose to play the devil’s card.

They are more corrupt than even Nero, who boiled lovely young lads in a vat of olive oil. (Perhaps this is how we got the term “extra virgin”…a-hommina-hommina.)


Date: Fri, 24 May 2013 14:28:56
Subject:
Skin in the Box
From: Zeke
To: All Horror Story Afficionados

In memory of Don Walz, a really good friend who was homeless for almost 7 years before hooking up with Constance, and moving to Sonora around 6 years ago. She phoned me this past Tuesday (May 21) to tell me the horrid news, that he recently passed away. Sadly, he inherited his father’s tendency for bad health and bad habits (high cholesterol and drinking too much booze and eating junk food). This is a true story that I’ve been meaning to write down for over 15 years. Now comes the time.

FYI: you may read Don’s obituary at:

http://www.uniondemocrat.com/News/Obituaries/Obituaries-for-June-6-2013

SKIN IN THE BOX

Well, some years back (I guess 1997), Don drops over with his sweet pitbull/boxer mix named “Babe.” Which doggie I helped raise, as Don is homeless and therefore can’t be there for her every single moment of the day.


Click on image for a larger view.

So I whine as usual to Don, about how impossible it seems to find a decent gay man, that I could have a nice friendship with, forget about a lover. Well, his sympathy inspires him to look around. Just two days later he returns (with Babe in tow) to inform me:

“I know this really great guy named Chris, who told me he’d be /very/ interested in getting to know you.”

“Well what does he look like,” I query, “Is he at least somewhat handsome?”

“I think he is,” professes Don. “Can I bring him over tomorrow night, so you can check him out?”

“Of course,” I reply, “that sounds like a great plan.”

So the next night, around 9 PM, Don brings him over. I find Chris to be terribly handsome, even with his balding shock of golden-blond hair. He is about 36. (I am at that time, 47.) He is modest in appearance, but nicely built. Dark blue eyes framed in round wire rims, well formed shoulders and arms, trim waist and a tight, round butt. And a basket that didn’t hide its ample girth beneath chocolate twill slacks. IOW: boner material.

So we talk awhile about rather neutral things, until he announces he needs to get home before his roommates show up from their respective jobs. It is better (he says) that all housemates hit the sack around the same time, else no one gets any sleep. And here I was, about to unzip those pants and start tongueing that juicy wanger into hard bliss.

Shortly after Chris departs, Don returns and I tell him that I’m impressed. “So please give Chris my number,” that we may arrange our next get-together.

Chris shows up three nights later with a bottle of sparkling rose-ay. I provide the pot, and we are soon on the road to mutual orgasm. But something blocks the way. Don’t know what it is, but Chris suddenly pulls up his boxer briefs and slacks, exclaims he must leave right now, to tend to important business. Even though he’s barely been over for 45 minutes. So I say “okay,” and he departs for places unknown. I jerk myself off, I am that turned on. I could still taste his fat crown and shaft upon my eager tongue, hours later.

Two days later Don returns (w/lovely Babe who quickly runs to my bedding and curls herself up in blissful rest), to ask how it went with Chris. So I tell him:

“Not so well. We seemed to be hitting it off when all of a sudden he felt compelled to leave,” I reveal. “But thanks just the same for trying to brighten my world.”

Don clears his throat and begins to confide: “Guess I need to tell you about my association with Chris, when we were housemates two to four years ago.”

“Okay,” I agree, “tell me.” At that point, we are mightily stoned on some kickass ganja, and I was ready for a good tale, though not one so fraught with terror as the story he is about to tell.

“I lived with Chris from ’94 to late ’96. We had three other housemates. This was in a flat now part of the Inner Mission projects, around 14th Street and Guerrero. So one night when I got home, all the roommates were there except Chris. They were gathered around the kitchen table, over a cardboard box that sat on the table, and was partly opened in spite of the bold printing that declared: DO NOT OPEN.”

“Interesting,” I interjected. “Do go on.”

“Well, my housemates were trembling as I reached for the box and opened it.”

“Yeah?” I goaded, while totally snockered on some of the best weed I’ve smoked in a long time.

“So I opened the box to discover what looked like the human skin of a middle-aged male, folded up.”

“How did you know it was folded up?” I challenge, though starting to shake from fear.

“Well, I carefully unfolded it, to discover the skin of a dude about 5-foot-10, including the testicle sac and anus on the opposite side.”

“So it was a real skin?” I goaded.

“So it seemed. I folded up the skin and placed it back in the box, and in the refrigerator where my housemates discovered it.”

“And then what, Don?”

“Next morning I confronted Chris, to ask him what’s up with the box.”

“Oh! You weren’t supposed to see it,” declared Chris. “I’m a member of the Suicide Club. And my initiation was to steal a human skin from a funeral parlor. I’m sorry if the box upset you: you weren’t supposed to open it.”

“Well,” continued Don as I start to freak out, “All three housemates quickly moved to other residences, except myself. I lingered on for a few more weeks.”

“Well, how did you keep an association with Chris after that?” I query.

“Very cautious,” he replies. “We never spoke to each other after that, except to plan next week’s groceries.”

A certain rage grew in my heart after hearing that ghastly tale. And I accuse:

“Don, get the fuk outta here. How /dare/ you introduce me to a potential boyfriend, knowing all the time he’s a fukked up grave robber…or worse!” I further lecture:

“You need to see a priest: perhaps Father Young from the Holy Redeemer. How on earth could you keep such a scary revelation harbored in your soul, for so many years? You need help, and advice, that I can never do for you on my own. Other than that, get the hell outta my room NOW!”

I am /most/ upset that he turned me on to some really high-grade pot before telling me this ghoulish tale. Turned my euphoric high into a nightmare of astounding proportion. But I was already stoned outta my skull, helpless to find solid ground.

He then grabs his pup’s leash and excuses himself in record time. A few days later I decide to question Chris about this, by calling him up.

“Hello? Chris here,” he answers.

“Hi Chris, this is Zeke. A mutual friend of ours, Don, invited you over to my place about a week ago. I enjoyed your company, but you had to leave early for some reason.”

“Yeah, I remember. Sorry ’bout that, but I /did/ have a really nice time, and would like to see you again, very soon.”

“Well that’s nice,” I agree, “but first I must ask you about something Don told me after you left.”

“Okay, what’s that?”

“He said that he and your roommates discovered a strange box that you put in the fridge, and they opened it to discover a human skin, totally intact.”

Chris starts to choke, but finally replies: “You think everything Don says is true?”

“No I do not,” I respond. “But his story is so disturbing, I just had to ask.”

Next thing I know there’s a sudden “click” on the phone, and we are disconnected.

I’ve seen Chris two times since then…both times within three years of our initial meeting. Each time our paths crossed, he scurried to the other side of the street before I had a chance to confront him. Otherwise, he has completely disappeared from my world. Yet here it is almost 16 years later, without any resolution to the eerie tale.

Don and I have had many adventures, most of them good. But two times in our friendship they were very, very bad. This is one of them. I will save a future time to tell the other bad tale. It will make your skin crawl beyond this present confession.

Whether it’s in a box, or not.

– Zeke


Date: Fri, 24 May 2013 15:03:01
Subject:
Re: Skin in the Box
From: Keith
To: Zeke

For some reason i seem to be reading a lot of very spooky stories lately. Some new agers would try to convince me that if I see something scary, i created it and am responsible for it (like starving babies covered in flies are just experiencing their past karma). I always preferred cute cartoon animals baking pies and delivering them to nice unicorns, holding hands and writing love notes, riding in little wooden boats together over tales of skin-flaying and secret societies.

I guess depending on what you’re into, whatever you’re not will find you and remind you it exists. Speaking of which, I have very limited experience with drugs (doctor prescribed or illegal) but I’ve been reading that ketamine has helped people with debilitating anxiety, but I am also /terrified/ of those “rave drugs” because I’ve heard other similar stories, like yours, from people who were around the party scenes of the 1990s.

Like, people fukked up on this-or-that and deciding that someone in their group is the devil, and playing god with that person by shooting truth serum (Windex) into his blood before hacking him up. And SOMA leather queens drugging guys in the bars, taking them out into the woods and slitting their throats (or just infecting them with AIDS while they’re fukking their unconscious butt holes). I really don’t like this kind of stuff. I am running toward the end of my unemployment and having a hard time finding a job, so i’ve given up weed so that I can save money, but I don’t know if that’s even worth the trouble if things are really going so badly. if things do not change I will be leaving San Francisco this summer.


Date: Fri, 24 May 2013 15:34:36
Subject:
Re: Skin in the Box
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ I’m all ears for the next gruesome tale. }}

Yes, the ears, the ears…my god the ears!

– Zeke


Date: Sat, 25 May 2013 13:12:20
Subject:
So I got restless two nights ago…
From: Zeke
To: The Dragons of Mordor

…and stepped out for some air. Carrying of course, my latest chapter (“Da Poifek Storm”) of Book 3, in case I might bump into Arwyn. But the night was well under way (11 PM or later), so I didn’t really expect to see the lad. And I did not. Wasn’t at Twin Peaks, wasn’t anywhere around. Probably sound asleep after laughing into the pillow over his latest antics of which I am the hapless dupe.

So I recross Market Street to return hovel. The air is crisp and wholesome thanks to a slight, chill breeze off the Pacific. But the moment I reached the opposite corner I suddenly heard someone screaming at me from the northeast corner by K&D Liquors. It’s Arwyn!

“Get outta here, Zeke! I never want to see you again! You’re disgusting, you make me puke!” He hollered a flurry of insults which came so fast and furious I can’t even remember all the cussing hurled at me from across the Castro divide. And he still boomed unkind words as he continued hiking up the hill towards 16th Street.

So I marched up that same hill on /my/ side of the street, wielding Chapter 7 with boisterous echoes:

“I got another fukkin chapter for you, do you want it, you goddam skunk!”

But My Devious Draco continued to scream at me with a fountain of expletives. So I began to cross the street in a trot to confront him. But he then crossed the other way and I followed back to my side. Upon which he returned to his.

“God damn it Arwyn, you don’t /belong/ here any more, get outta the Castro!” I waved my printouts in the air like a threat. “Do you hear me? You /blew/ a great friendship right outta the water. You’re a fukkin sadist. Loser!”

But he had just turned into an entranceway and disappeared. I still hollered back with all sorts of bloody insults while trying to discover upon which steps he had climbed to enter one of the Edwardians close to 16th. Alas, no luck: he had utterly vanished.

Assuming he had already entered a front door and could still hear my thunderous accusations, I kept it up for about another minute. Then I finally departed for my SRO. My lungs felt totally cleaned of all mucous and other dusty debris, thanks to both the maritime blanket of cold and a passel of hardy screams.

I believe his plan is to make us the center of intrigue here in the Castro (in a “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolfe” sort of way). Thus accelerating my fame as Beloved Gay Activist, by first telling barkeeps et al I’m his stalker, which then gets me 86’d from all the booze joints in the ‘hood. Then Book 1 gets published and takes the world by storm. And the bartenders’ heads shall spin.

“The Castro ain’t big enough for the two of us” is such a /fun/ game, I can’t thank him enough. Nonetheless, whatever My Wyvern’s intent:

Always good to see Arwyn. No matter from which circle of hell we next emerge.

Aaargh! My One True Love is a blast. A dragon fart blast.

– Zeke


Date: Sat, 25 May 2013 15:04:31
Subject:
Letter and Card from Constance
From: Zeke
To: The Dragons of Mordor

Received a lovely wedding card in the snail mail today. Didn’t open it till I arrived at Howard’s Cafe, to enjoy their superb strawberry shortcake and a cup o’ golden java. It is my very /first/ wedding card, arriving as it did well before the event. Which date I’m still not privy to, but I’m sure it’s gonna be quite soon. Else Arwyn wouldn’t be punking me so much these days. Maybe it will be on my birthday, July 1. (Perhaps my first book will be released on that day, too!)

Constance was Don Walz’s partner, up there in Sonora. She phoned me last Wednesday in tears, and thanked me for being a good friend to him. Though Don himself rarely got in touch since departing Frisco almost 8 years ago. Anywayz, I did speak with him (via telephone) two-three weeks past, told him Arwyn and I will soon be wed. As a surprise they sent me this card, though sadly it was returned to them by the PO, in spite of the address being correct.

So when I spoke w/Constance, suggested she resend the card, as it will most likely get through this time. Eureka, it did! As you can gather by the shamrock stickers, she’s a proud Irish gal. As is Arwyn Miles (ha ha).

The wedding card itself is blank inside, though it contains three folded pages, upon which Constance wrote her sweet regards. Though her handwriting is most difficult to figure out, so I’ll just have to get back to you, and update this missive with a full translation.

UPDATE (translation of her letter, please keep in mind she was understandably distraught during its composition. Don’s full name BTW is “Don Ray Walz”):

May 23, 2013

Greetings Zeek [sic]:

What a sweetheart you are and Don Ray taught me to send a card inspired and what a pretty card it is. God I love that guy but you know he suffered enough!

We’re going to have a (Milly and Sonia might make it) wake for him on Sunday.

My sister’s flying out from Arizona and my cousin’s driving down from Reno.

My best friend Barbie showed up today. She lost /her/ Don a while ago so she knows what it’s like. Took me out for dinner and we had wine and toasted to Mr. Walz. Got me a bunch of groceries in these cool SF bags. God I’ve known her almost 30 years so she’s family.

So I’m feeling so much better but yikes I’m afraid when everyone’s gone. Hey I’m one tough cookie. I’ve got Don Ray’s grandmother’s China cabinet. He’s always going to be with me.

I’m so excited to be back online. But getting address gonna be difficult. Hey snail mail’s always better.

“Congratulations” happy honeymoon.

Lovingly,

Constance

Now the pics (Click on any image below, for a larger view):

And finally, a snapshot of Constance and Don, taken on a better day (several years ago):

Well, they’re heteros anywayz, so I shouldn’t get /too/ emotionally wrapped up. Sad (true that), but nothing compared to /most/ gays who live out their painful lives from cradle to grave withOUT any loved one by their side. No photos, no memories, no nothing. Why the hell do most breeders /expect/ queers to emote for them, whenever /they/ go through crises? When very /rarely/ do they give the same sort of love to their LGBT friends? I say: go fuk ’em.

GayFolken: stop appeasing your hetero overlords, ya got nothing to lose!

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Da Poifek Storm

May 20, 2013

[ Free Me From This Bond (sequel to the sequel): Chapter 2 ]

Date: Tue, 14 May 2013 11:48:32
Subject:
Tools of My Trade
From: Zeke
To: My Jubilant Readers

I think it’s time well past due that we all take a break from this absurd rollercoaster ride that is My Life With Arwyn. So permit me the indulgence of sharing with you, the tools of my trade. That is: how I process my visions and concepts into text, and then transform them into web log (“blog”) format. And the habits I’ve acquired in order to maximize the efficiency of my steps from raw concept to near-perfect manifestation. (Only the Glorious HypnoToad is perfect, FYI.)

First, you must know that I am quintessentially Internet-&-computer savvy. I’ve been mucking around with PCs since 1985. (IOW: I am definitely /not/ an Apple or Mac fan.) Also, I founded the Berkeley Unix User Group (buug.org) way back in 2000. So I am not your average computer appendage. In fact, I deride those who take pride in never having /touched/ a computer, as “anal ogs”. Get it?

Analog = anal og. Yuk yuk.

BTW, I originally coined that phrase in my queer cyberpunk tale, “Security Matters & Anti-Matters” (or “The Mighty Mouse Virus”)…which anyone can read online, here:

http://www.gay-bible.org/write/3_security.htm

Where do I begin? First I receive a vision or–at the very least–an astounding idea. Which revelation I believe often arises from Arwyn’s own telepathy directed to my sponge-slurpy mind. Be that as it may, any story I create starts first in that annoying gray matter which passes for the brain’s outer wrapping. I have long since learned to write down (or voice-record via digital implement) whatever interesting ideas come to mind.

But I also continue to use at times, conventional pen and loose-leaf. Honestly, I don’t think I could ever manage my artistic meandering without /both/ mediums (the Old World and the New). Each serves its own purpose, and exercises a different part of the mind. (Thank you Eleanor, for this insight.) A win/win solution beyond compare…if you are the cerebral type that is, which I am.

Then it all flows through my fingertips and onto the keyboard. Something which I regard as a tremendous blessing, for I actually claim very little credit for such wondrous plots. In fact, I regard my own self as nothing more than a vessel for angelic destiny. The creative font that is my nurture, comes from a greater source that I barely comprehend. If I’m just here for the ride, I must admit: WHAT AN ADVENTURE!

To facilitate my literary badinage, I carry a digital camera and voice recorder slung upon my belt. Also in my possession are a loose-leaf book and a pen, that I may switch to handwriting whenever it seems advantageous. As for my computer, Internet and creative needs, here are the following programs and resources that I find most beneficial to my avocation:

HI-TECH DEVICES

– Netbook and laptop: the former I use for portability when I’m about town, the latter stays at home (usually).

– Laptop cooling pad: keeps my two systems from overheating in hot weather.

– Android Tablet: provides extreme portability. Unfortunately, tablets are too limited in their capability to facilitate all my online activities…to the point of soul-numbing frustration. Though since I hate cell phones (never owned one and never will), I still wanted to diddle around with the Android operating system. Been there done that. I love LInux (of which Android is a stepchild) but am forced to stick with Windoze if I really want to get my work done with relative expediency.

– Digital camera: for taking pictures and movies on the spot during my city meanderings. Also handy for interviews, as the camera does sound with video. It is tiny and compact, like my wanger when it’s not hard. (Though bounteously ample when it is, ha ha.) Though I assure you: once the Andromeda starships arrive, I will be the first to apply for a penile makeover. (If they can’t even do /that/, they should just return home.)

– Digital voice recorder: quick and painless way to take notes when I’m hiking about.

– Scanner: for copying greeting cards, handwritten notes and letters, envelopes, hardcopy art, found art (if it’s flat), news and magazine clippings and the like. I convert them into images for my tales and news reports.

– Printer: useful for presenting Arwyn with my latest chapters about him (since he doesn’t do Internet or computers), and printing snail-mail letters and forms. I also relish viewing my latest pieces on paper. But I rarely do that anymore, as ink is expensive.

– External monitor: larger than my laptop’s 12-inch screen, plus provides an extended display that facilitates my work by providing two different screens. For example: I can view the web on one screen, while typing away in my text editor on the other. This second monitor is also a TV, so I can watch the news or a show while working on my laptop.

– External USB hard drive (500 GB): allows me to download TV shows and movies without hogging up my refurbished laptop’s 150 GB drive. This second hard drive also provides a handy backup for all my data.

– External USB keyboard: spares wear and tear of the laptop keyboard (which I prefer to keep covered with a folded bandana to prevent accumulation of dust and debris, as well as liquid spillage). My peripheral keyboards come equipped with either a touchpad or mouse. Keyboard also provides two extra USB ports…nice!

– Wireless illuminated keyboard: a great companion for my netbook when I’m in a dark space, such as the Eagle Tavern.

– Wireless mouse: allows me to keep my netbook’s keyboard covered, including the touchpad.

– External USB DVD/CD drive: necessary for the netbook which comes w/o such a drive built in. Handy for installing retail software.

– 32 GB HCSD memory card: quite useful for transferring new data between my laptop and netbook.

– PC hardware toolkit: for mucking around under the hood. Comes in a black faux-leather case with zipper closure. Contains a variety of screwdrivers, socket wrenches, pliers, soldering iron, chip extractors and inserters, along with a multi-calibrated wire stripper. Whee!

OLD-TECH DEVICES

– Loose-leaf binder and pen: sometimes I prefer writing down my ideas, especially when I’m seated somewhere cozy. Nice to still have a bit of the Luddite in me!

– Meeting/chatting with interesting folks.

– Thinking, meditating, daydreaming. Coffee helps big-time…along with marijuana, alcohol, tobacco and jerking off.

– Uber-hot homeless dudes: a working girl needs a break now and then, eh?

SOFTWARE (all free BTW)

– NoteTab Light text editor: the best text editor on the planet. I like to hand code my blog entries and web pages, in lieu of running an HTML editor (which quickly fills up your documents with garbage code instead of deleting it whenever you make a change).

– Qedit: a really ancient DOS text editor that I still find indispensable for quickly reformatting paragraph wrap. The evolution of Windoze has thoughtlessly eliminated such a feature in all its WYSIWYG (“what you see is what you get”) word processors and even text editors. Without the blessing of Qedit, I’d be forced to manually link every line to the line just above, by maneuvering my cursor with [ BackSpace ] in a most tedious process.

– Abiword: excellent word processor that has built-in spellcheck and can save your files as *.rtf and *.doc: both formats are compatible with MS Word. Either format is required by most publishers, who are brainwashed to believe that Microsoft’s word processor is the only option. Definitely not true! Join the rebellion against Bill Gates and his minions. There are other free MS-friendly word processors out there such as Libre Office and SSuite Office.

– Irfanview image editor and viewer: actually, this nifty little application has a plethora of features that may spare you from ever having to pay an exorbitant price for (and run an aburdly topheavy program like) PhotoShop. Irfanview even lets you convert images to 300 DPI from lesser resolutions! Publishers require 300 DPI, in case you didn’t know.

– TreePad Lite: a nested text-based notepad. /Very/ handy for keeping seperate files for specific topics and projects, with subnotes in their own folders.

– Salamander file manager: the older versions remain available online, and cost nothing. I find Salamander to be a much more facile hard drive browser than Windoze Explorer, and many others that pride themselves in mimicking MicroSlut’s own manager. Goddess only knows why! I’ve been using Salamander since Windoze 95, with immense pleasure.

– Sticky Notes: for quick reminders of errands and projects. ‘Nuff said.

– Mozilla Firefox: my browser of choice for cruising the web. Only because it has so many excellent extensions (or plug-ins or add-ons, or whatever the heck they really are.) Here is my list of extensions I simply can /not/ live without (or I’ll destroy the Innernet): All-in-One Sidebar, Video Download Helper, Empty Cache Button, FireFTP, Ghostery, NoScript, Session Manager, Speed Dial, Stumble Upon, and Track Me Not. (News flash: Ghostery is not what you think; my Friendly Ghost Detective Agency does /not/ have a Firefox extension…yet. Boo!)

INTERNET SERVICES

– Online Policy Group: free web hosting, email and discussion lists for nonprofit LGBT organizations and independent (but poor) activists like myself.

– Remote backup: most offer 5 GB storage or sometimes more, entirely free of cost! Since I only require my personal data to be backed up (rather than space-hogging downloaded movies and TV shows) my total data comes to less than 8.5 GB. In order to keep my remote backup entirely free, I divvied up my files into three distinct folders…each containing well under 4 GB. So this enables me to back up /everything/ for free, broken up among three online storage facilities. “What,” you may ask, “will I do once my data increases beyond the gratis limit?” Here is my answer, Fulminant Reader: “Why, I’ll just sign up with a fourth service, and maybe much later, a fifth or even sixth.” I presently use SugarSync, MiMedia and Idrive.

– Gmail: obviously for my email communique. Not that I’m a fan of Google’s services, but I’m tired of hopping from one free email provider to another, seeing as most such services have a very short life. Sometimes because once they lure you in, one or two years later they eliminate their no-cost version and demand that you start payment. Go fuk ’em!

– Youtube: this video service is where I store all my videos that are part of my blog or web site. I hold no great love for this company, but where else can I go?

– Wide variety of online news services: totally vital for activist bloggers like myself. Especially the LGBT outlets.

– Dictionary.com and thesaurus.com: fantastic resource for authors, for the obvious reason.

– Wikipedia.com: a quick way to learn about people, places, history and any other topic.

– Google or Bing image search: a real boon to finding the right illustrations to embellish my online tales. (Note: I’d prefer some image databases /other/ than those two, but they’ve all been gobbled up by the same two!)

– Tinyurl.com, Bit.ly and other URL-abbreviated providers: /most/ useful when referencing web links in paperback and hardcover books, where readers can’t simply click on the address, but must type it into their computer. Unless of course they’re brain-munching zombies.

– FTP client: for uploading tales and images to my gay-bible.org site. I prefer to use FireFTP, a Firefox plug-in. But sometimes (and most unfortunately) FireFTP is not compatible with the latest version of that innovative browser.

– WordPress: excellent blog service, which I use to facilitate the writing of my chapters. I place web images and digital snapshots throughout each entry, in order to break up a sea of type and increase the pleasure of my tales. I roughly gauge the number of images per chapter by placing them every three [Page Down]’s…though sometimes a couple of images are closer together out of necessity (such as showing the front and back of a gift packet for Arwyn). Occasional articles are based on numerous videos and/or pics. Such pieces can not be converted into traditional, paper-based format. For which reason I either refer the reader to a URL, or simply eliminate that chapter from my novel.

I’m sure I’ve left something out. Maybe the cat. Oh wait, I don’t /have/ a cat! So what /was/ it that just scurried past my feet beneath Desk #3 and out the door? I shudder to imagine. But then again, I /always/ shudder to imagine…brrrr!


Date: Tue, 14 May 2013 14:27:11
Subject:
Another Letter to My Brother
From: Zeke
To: Edgar (via snail mail)

6 May 2013

Dear Edgar,

Enclosed is the chapter dedicated to Mom, entitled “Please Don’t Eat the Daises”…which is the final chapter of Book 2 (“Free Me From This Bond – the sequel”). Also enclosed is a chapter I accidentally printed twice, so you benefit. It’s entitled “Emergency Triage,” which is chapter 2 of Book 3 (“Free Me From This Bond – sequel to the sequel”)

Wait, there’s more! A chapter also from Book 3 of which I’m especially proud, called “Spanglish Poesia,” so I thought I’d send you a copy of that, too. I will soon complete chapter 5 of Book 3. As well as 16 printouts of Sarah Rohan’s illustrations, one for each chapter. They are arranged according to chapter chronology.

Oh, and enclosed right on top of all the other printouts is my latest letter to Arwyn, which will be enclosed with the first four printouts of Book 3. Most likely I’ll hand them to him at Pilsner Inn (a really nice gay bar with pool table and a patio). As you will discover, things are heating up between us. Quite a rollicking romance, wouldn’t you say?

In the event of my untimely death: as for locating the appropriate organization to take over my requests, I’d say that “The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence” is your best bet. They are very dedicated and honest, and will see to it the monies go to all the right organizations.

Best wishes as always to you and loved ones,

Zeke Krahlin


Date: Wed, 15 May 2013 12:18:39
Subject:
Pilsner Pinheads
From: Zeke
To: My E-frenz

Just emailed the following letter to the Bay Area Reporter and the SF Bay Times (the 2 most widely circulated gay newspapers in San Francisco). As well as to Myron Stopher, mgr. of Pilsner Inn; and of course a copy will go to Arwyn:

Dear Editor,

I am writing this letter the day after a nasty drama-queen attack occurred on this innocent person (me). The incident occurred around 6:50 PM Tuesday, May 14. I had just finished enjoying a smoke on the patio, and returned to my spot at the bar’s far end, to resume my blogging via Pilsner’s excellent wifi.

The moment I opened my netbook and activated my bluetooth keyboard and mouse, a rather handsome and young fellow came up to me and exclaimed:

“Where’s the five dollars I just put on the counter? You took it, didn’t you?”

So I told him to fuk off or I’ll have him kicked out. Well, he just screamed that much louder, which got the attention of the bartenders. I tried to tell the employees that this man was threatening me, and causing much upset. Instead, one barkeep named Angelo kicked us both out. In spite of my utter innocence, and being verbally assaulted by an obvious screwball.

Another bartender (whose name I think is Pedro) sided with Angelo, and told me to get out. Just before that confrontation, Angelo had already grabbed my half-finished drink and told me to leave. I accused him of scapegoating me, and not protecting the decent patrons. I even begged Pedro to reason with Angelo, as this is a most vulgar treatment towards myself, who has always been a peaceful and respecting patron of Pilsner Inn, since I started hanging out there around two months ago.

Of course I had no choice but to leave, and when I exited I was confronted by that belligerent looney once more. He was even accompanied by a sidekick who joined the goofball in false accusations against me. Said goofball even grabbed my jacket as I attempted to cross Market Street in peace. I just turned back, planning to dash into a nearby restaurant or bookstore, as an act of self protection.

The fact that Pilsner barkeeps 86’d me through no fault of my own, put me in harm’s way. Had my attacker commited violence upon my person, rest assured I’d sue the hell out of PIlsner Inn.

Fortunately, the lunatic did not follow. But I must speak out against Pilsner Inn bartenders ganging up on me…for no apparent reason but that they’d rather not deal with an ugly situation in the proper manner. As a result, I was kicked out simply because I was a victim of assault at their bar.

These bartenders who scapegoated me certainly know me well enough, to realize I am a responsible patron who’d never scam anyone. I therefore demand a profuse apology from bartenders Angelo and Pedro, as well as the manager and owner of Pilsner Inn. This is not the first time I’ve been victimized by crude gossip in a gay bar in the Castro (as well as South of Market).

I feel so disgusted by Pilsner employees’ vulgar mistreatment towards me, a really decent customer, that I will do everything possible to rectify these wrongs, even if it means getting some people who work there, fired. People who I once thought (until today) were good folks and an asset to our local LGBT Family.

Most sincerely,

Zeke Krahlin


Date: Wed, 15 May 2013 12:45:29
Subject:
Re: Pilsner Pinheads
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ Oh, Zeke, that’s awful. I’m really sorry. Infuriating!!!! }}

This eventually happens at /every/ bar where Arwyn and I get together. It is JEALOUSY. There /is/ a downside to possessing outstanding good looks, or to anyone who’s a lover of one who is. Or even just a best friend, for that matter.

Should be interesting to see how Myron Stopher handles this; perhaps he’ll just ignore. Hopefully a security camera caught the incident, but I’m not holding my breath. For I’m suspicious that a camera /did/ record Arwyn’s cigarette flick, and that Myron lied.

FYI: neither paper printed my last letter to the editor.


Date: Wed, 15 May 2013 13:59:55
Subject:
Re: Pilsner Pinheads
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Should fill you in a bit more on the story. Arwyn of course was /not/ there (otherwise this incident would never have occurred). I really should /never/ visit a gay bar alone, for w/o a witness or friend who’d defend me, I eventually become a victim of gossip that gets me evicted.

First Pedro came running to the back where I was being harassed, and demanded these two fukups leave immediately. He did /not/ at that time direct any anger towards yours truly. But then Angelo joined the fracas and demanded that /I/ leave, too! I answered back:

“But I didn’t /do/ anything! These guys are scamming me. Why should I leave? You’re scapegoating me!” His retort:

“We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone.” So I called his card:

“You are ABUSING your position as bartender!” But he had already turned away and returned to his station up front. So I then turned to the other barkeep:

“Talk to him, Pedro, This is /not/ right!” But he just shrugged and said:

“You gotta get out. NOW.”

“Oh, I’ll leave alright,” I declared while packing up my netbook and accessories. “Do you think I would /ever/ want to return to a bar called ‘Pilsner Inn,’ but should really be ‘Backstabber Central’?”

I would’ve spat on his shoes, but alas he was behind the counter. So I had to settle for spitting on the floor.

“That does it, now you /really/ can’t come back.” He snorted.

“Go fuk yourself, Pedro,” I said, then stormed off. But first I paused at Angelo’s station and hollered:

“FUK YOU, Angelo! This is gonna be on my blog tonight! Have fun with that.” To which he cattily replied:

“No one reads your blog.”

I finally departed after giving them /both/ a piece of my cerebellum. The moment I stepped out, I was then harassed further by goofballs 1 and 2, when number 1 screamed and grabbed my jacket sleeve:

“So now we’re /both/ kicked out and you still haven’t given back my 5 dollars!”

I yanked my arm away from his grasp, turned and proceeded towards Aardvaark bookstore in order to protect myself. They did not follow, but walked on.

I /do/ regret not mentioning to Angelo that I’ll also write a letter to the editor in this matter, as well as record the incident in Book 3. Alas, I /also/ neglected to inform him that his boss Myron Stopher, will hear of the abuse against me (by both patrons /and/ employees)

Well, they’ve effectively wiped out the /only/ spot in Frisco where Arwyn and I can socialize, and present him with my latest chapters, letters and gifts. But as Detective Miles’s Brave and Brazen Assistant, I’m sure I’ve unintentionally exposed two suspects. Whose reason for evicting me may have much more to do w/something more hideous than simple jealousy.

They sense I’m his eyes and ears while he’s not present…and they certainly don’t want /that/.

Guess I’ll have to seek out Arwyn at Twin Peaks Tavern, where I’m /not/ allowed to enter, not even when My Wiley Wyvern is absent. I just taped an envelope to his latest packet (already sealed), containing my letter to the editor.

Dare /not/ use his updated mailing address, as I have yet to receive proof of its viability. Yet when I last met him (at Pilsner) last Saturday afternoon, we had a very warm but brief encounter. Came up to him, as I held his permission form in a raised hand:

“This is awfully nice of you, sweetheart.” He actually blushed and turned away, embarrassed.

“Wait, one more question!” I demanded, and he turned heel to face me once more. “What’s up with this new number on your address? Is it a high security mailbox service that assigns a number in place of a real name? And will it get to you, even though I put your /real/ name there too?” He gently responded:

“Yes, it will get to me.”

Not that I really trust his word any more, but we’ll just have to wait and see. Then before departing his awesome self, to order a drink and set up my netbook, I wished him an excellent evening.

“You too, Zeke. Have a great night.”

Which response kinda hurt, as he /knows/ very well I couldn’t have a great night without his company. Or a great day, or a great anything else for that matter.

Some moments later while tapping away at my brand new, illuminated bluetooth keyboard, a terribly handsome man stepped up to Pedro’s station where I sat close by, and waited to order a second draft. Soon as the barkeep turned to him, I said: “I’ll pay for that man’s beer, please!”

As it turned out, he’s a really gorgeous dude (including size-and-sculpture-wise). His name is Smoky McBride. He spent the last three nights with me, and on day two I treated him to drinks and food. Took him to Hole in the Wall as well as the Eagle.

Smoky is a /very/ sweet man, /very/ sexy, 51 years old but doesn’t look a day over 28. I will soon post more about him, that you may vicariously enjoy. I /do/ suspect that Arwyn brought him to me, so that I really /would/ have a wonderful evening. And I did.

Smoky left early this morn on his way to Guerneville, and plans to return to SF (and my slobbering self) some time soon, say in 2-3 weeks. We really like each other! SO nice to sleep with, we’re a perfect fit. He is skinny and handsomely built…lotsa fun to lick his darling belly, nipples and armpits. He ain’t the least bit ticklish, praise the Horde!

Enjoy the attached moving picture of him, till then. He’s exceedingly thorough when he extinguishes a cigarette butt, as you’ll see. /Fabulous/ pair o’ gams, eh?


Click on image to play video.

I have 7 film clips of the eccentric and comely Smoky M. That was clip #2. Here are the rest:

smokymcbride-video1

smokymcbride-video3

smokymcbride-video4

smokymcbride-video5

smokymcbride-video6

smokymcbride-video7

– Zeke


Date: Wed, 15 May 2013 14:13:09
Subject:
Re: Pilsner Pinheads
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ I have an idea: go to ripoffreport.com and write up a report on the Pilsner. Seriously! That’ll get their attention! }}

Fantastic, will do that later today, from the Eagle. I’m typing now from the local liberry, as my wifi access from the gym across the street has been really flaky these past five days.

{{ Great little movie!!! He definitely has the “look.” }}

Oh, he’s a charmer all right. He feels to me very much like having Arwyn. That is why I suspect it was a setup. A compassionate setup, that Arwyn gave me as yet one more apology.

– Zeke

PS: Smoky is an architect out of NYC, so is not truly homeless, just slumming around to take a break from all the workaday stress and responsibilities.


Date: Thu, 16 May 2013 17:14:28
Subject:
I’m sucking your kok right now…
From: Zeke
To: Keith

…though you don’t know it. Gotta love that astral sex! Especially when ya get to shoot a big ol’ wad of protoplasmic sperm up in Keith’s…

Oops, ’nuff said. I gotta get home pronto and take an ice cold shower. Typing this to you from our Rinky-Dink-Local-Harvey-Milquetoast Library.

– Zeke


Date: Fri, 17 May 2013 10:52:33
Subject:
The Perfect Storm
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

The most amazing incident just happened to me only moments ago, El! Thursday, May 16 appox’ly 6:55 PM. We need to take it back to Pilsner’s evicting This Desperate Heart only two days hence. Remember I discussed various theories as to why this occurred? And that /one/ of them fits the scenario of a staged script, where some devoted zekeophiles play the enemy…that I may be a superhero in this play? Or IOW: they /all/ adore me, each and every one of those mischieovous cherubs! Or IOW still (quoting the Buddha):

“We have no enemies, only teachers.”

That eventful afternoon at Pilsner Inn (the day they booted me outta there), I already had on my possession yet one more gift for Arwyn. Chapter 6 of Book 3 (“Signature Day”) along with a “shweet” collection of Scooby-Doo wall stickers I ordered from amazon.com. They’re really big, at least a foot square! (See “scooby-doo-1.jpg” attachment.)


Click on image for a larger view.

Also included were two strips of tiny Scooby-Doo stickers to place on letters, envelopes, packages and the like. (See “scooby-doo-2.jpg” attachment.)


Click on image for a larger view.

Or as that chilhood favorite among Great Danes (and most likely any /other/ breed) would declare:

“Rearry Rrrific!”

Two last-minute letters were inserted into seperate envelopes and sealed with Scotch tape onto the packet, one on each side. The first letter (added two eves ago) was my vitriolic condemnation against Pilsner Inn, for allowing me to be assaulted and kicking /me/ out, along with the perpetrators.

Second letter I added just moments before stepping out an hour or so ago, to deliver my packet. Which drop point turned out to be Pilsner Inncubus, much to my chagrin. It was yet one /more/ piece snail mailed to his bogus address (prior to the additional number he added, that I guess stands in place of a real name)…which had been returned to me as “insufficient address” and showed up today in my mailbox. Have no idea what that envelope contains, though I’m /positive/ it is the very last in my series of thwarted mail.

Since the event of my ignoble excommunication from The Most High Mosque of Pilsner Inn, I’ve been searching for Arwyn in order to deliver my latest chapter. The various times I checked Twin Peaks and Pilsner, My Scaly Paramour was nowhere to be found. I assumed, of course, that he’d show up on public transit (like he did some days back) to /receive/ My Latest Holy Grail. Alas, that is /not/ how things came down. But it /did/ take less than three full days to finally present My Sacred Scroll #Whatever (par for the course compared to two and more years past.) Unfortunately, I had to invade Pilsner Gulag to achieve this goal.

First I mosey on over to Twin Peaks before swinging up Market Street to Church, and to Pilsner Sinn.

“OMFG,” I muse on my way there, “you’re /not/ gonna do this to me Arwyn: force me to step into that horrid dive!” Yet somehow, in some transcendent way, I know for /sure/ he is there. Call it intuition if you like. /I/ call it “lover’s telepathy.” For not only are two hearts one (at least in /This/ Extraordinary Case of Beatific Alliance), but likewise two minds.

Next thing I know I’m standing in Pilsner’s open doorway, and espy Arwyn at the far end playing pinball. His vocal bursts clearly affirm to me that it’s Arwyn (in spite of the dark corner in which he leans against the pinball table’s outer frame of brushed aluminum, shaking his darling physique to influence the tiny steel orb):

“Aargh! Yeah baby! Thar she blows! Rack up the points father fukker! Aargh! Another big score for Zilla!”

Then I peer to my right to witness Gutstabber Angelo at the bar’s helm.

“Okay,” I conclude, “guess I should cover my face from the barkeep’s view, in hopes I can reach Arwyn.”

So I take a deep breath and march into the war zone, wielding my packet like a Thracian’s shield. A few broad steps into the bar, Angelo spots me and hollers:

“You! Get outta here, right now!” A nasty expression on his comely Sicilian mug could have withered all the tulips in Holland. (Fortunately, the Dutch gov’t will shortly ban this toxic schmuck from their fair kingdom, once they read my complaint against Pilsner that shall appear on my WordPress blog in a day or two.)

My peripheral vision glimpses him moving towards the bar’s center where he can exit by lifting a panel, and drive me otta there. I voice back and wave a dismissive right hand:

“I’m leaving, I’m leaving!”

A second later I stand within ten feet of My Scowling Dragon, who joins the bray against me:

“I don’t /want/ your package!” He waves me away in repulsion: “Don’t /ever/ come here again! Stay away from Pilsner!”

So I fling the packet across the billiard green (lengthwise) where it drops upon the pinball’s glass top in a perfect landing, and command:

“It’s important! Don’t let it out of your sight!”

Having accomplished my mission I swiftly turn round, exit and run for two blocks before pausing to look behind. No one has followed me.

“Whew!” I figure, “Arwyn got the chapter and letters. Time to go hovel!”

Returning to my SRO at 2306 Market, I ponder the dramatic event:

What a perfect setup, El! I saw the entire scenario in my mind minutes before it ever took place. Both Arwyn and the barkeep portrayed my enemy, that I may soon be celebrated as a /hero/ in this play: chasing surrealistic windmills of my mind, which eventually fall to the sweep of my Excalibur.

Arwyn had to feign disgust in order to deflect suspicion. Angelo played the antagonist, that the prophetic plot may be fulfilled. Neither actor missed a beat. I can see it now. In order to protect his guise as a dumb brunette, Arwyn will firmly clutch my packet when Angelo offers to take it from his hand, and claim:

“No! This is the evidence I need to get the punk arrested. I’ll turn it into the Mission SFPD soon as I look it over.” Mr. Miles then tucks it deep into his Ben Davis jacket where no one dare reach. I can hear it now. Angelo frowns in query:

“But I seen you two guys talking on the patio. Friendly like.”

“Oh that,” Arwyn flicks a peremptory wrist. “I need to know what he’s up to, so play the friend. Zeke is a scary dude, and smart as heck. You don’t just ignore the man when he’s got his hooks in you. Stay close to your friends, closer to your enemies, eh?”

They played it to perfection, that I may step into The Dragon’s Lair and display my brazen courage by not permitting demons to get the upper claw. And in so doing, I demonstrated my boundless courage as The World’s Greatest Soldier on Behalf of Gay Liberation.

[ Stolid Reader: please realize that I use the word “gay” as an umbrella label equal to the term “LGBTQ-QQQQQQQQQQQQQQQ-et-cetera Rights.” ]

I can also see this, when I next encounter My Bounteous Basilisk:

“Hey Arwyn!” I call to him from several yards behind as he meanders down 17th Street. “Are all you Pilsner Peabrains on Ritalin or what? Get a grip!”

He ignores me and keeps stepping forward, though a little faster paced. No problemo. I’m a professional pedestrian and can outwalk and outspeed even the tallest in their prime. I continue heckling:

“Thanks for the adventure, that was oodles of fun, I just can’t get enough!” Then I freeze, leaving Arwyn to move on to wherever he’s destined. Most likely Pilsner Inn. But I call to him once more, in spite of the growing distance (I have a booming voice, and can be heard from almost a block away):

“Do you know anything about the time I was drugged and mugged in 2007, at Hole in the Wall?” He halts lopsidedly for a moment, as if he suffered a trick knee. Then moves on, to hear me add:

“Just asking, love!”

Thus I reign victorious once more in this, my latest adventure authored by one who exceeds my every expectation and concept of male beauty, courage, wisdom and humor: The Indubitably Magnanimous Arwyn Miles (whose date of birth I have /yet/ to discover)! What an astounding detective adventure, eh, El? How terribly 40’s noir, with a gay twist!

But where the frig are my crumpled trenchcoat and Fedora? (And my slummy PI office in the Tenderloin, for that matter?)

I love you /so/ much, Arwyn, for your brilliant staging specifically orchestrated to benefit yours truly, beyond any other hero that has ever existed, or /will/ exist.

I love you too, Angelo. Same reason.

So now I hover once more before my HP EliteBook, typing you this missive. Eager to post it to you, My Mendocino Muse, ASAP. But alas I cannot, due to persistant wifi flakiness from Fitness SF right across the street. In spite of my $37 wifi booster. But I now ask you, El:

How is /your/ detective novel coming along? Any parallels in our streams of inspiration? (Or does that violate an unspoken rule between authors?)

May as well toss in this hilarious encounter just prior to my departure from Twin Peaks to Pilsner:


Click on image for a larger view.

Before my bustle east to Church Street I stop to light a Fortuna in the stairwell of a tattoo parlor right next door to TP Tavern. About to flick my Djeep, I notice a young dyke standing behind me and to my right: I’m blocking the entrance. So I step aside to wave her in:

“Go ahead. Sorry.”

But that’s not enough for the byatch. She declares (while pointing below my knees and a tad to my left):

“See the no smoking sign?”

Aha! She’s right! There /is/ a no smoking sign barely inches from my left shin! So I commend her as she passes and strolls down the gloomy hallway:

“Wow! I am /so/ impressed. You are an honor and a beacon to LGBTQ Rights! I can’t imagine how many tattoos you’ve acquired in dedication to homosexual freedom! Not to mention those glorious ear plugs, like a Zulu warrior princess!”

She pauses for a moment, about to turn around and confront. But thinks better of it and vanishes into the dark bowels of the Castro. One thing I know for certain:

The inked-up lesbo won’t be coming out of /that/ Stygian mire any time soon!

So there you have it, El: My Latest Misadventure of Queerest Proportion. Well, maybe one of my spectacular boyfriends will drop over tonight. It’s 10:10 PM now, and I’m ready to shut down the system and shag the nightlights outta one or two nubile dude-butts. For which hopeful opportunity I must bid you adieu for the nonce. Will email this tomorrow morn.

– Zeke


Friendly Ghost Detective Agency always gets its manpork!

PS: Just occurred to me that Arwyn’s reluctance to give me his cell # is for my own protection. Should his phone get stolen or lost, no enemy would find a trace between us. I do not have caller ID, so I couldn’t get his number when he left his first and only message.

PPS: Now here’s my one and only tattoo joke:

I don’t have a single tattoo or piercing anywhere on my body. In fact, I haven’t even stepped into a tattoo parlor in my entire life. Only because I’m afraid I’ll run away with the first prick!


Date: Fri, 17 May 2013 12:29:27
Subject:
Greetings from your new Account Manager
From: Hermoine Q. (Twosome Press)
To: Zeke

Dear Zeke,

My name is Hermoine Q. and I am your new Author Account Manager. I will be partnering with you to manage every detail of your book while it goes through our publishing process. I will be contacting you whenever we need additional information or book materials, answering any questions you may have in regards to the publishing process, and ensuring that the production of your book stays on track.

Hermoine Q.
Author Account Manager


Date: Fri, 17 May 2013 13:14:07
Subject:
Re: Greetings from your new Account Manager
From: Zeke
To: Hermoine Q. (Twosome Press)

Well Hermoine, I just got assigned a new account manager two weeks ago, by name of Gertrude. So what’s going on here? Thanks.

– Zeke


Date: Fri, 17 May 2013 13:58:16
Subject:
Poifect or Perfect?
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Which title do you like better for my next chapter:

The Perfect Storm

or

Da Poifect Storm

?

– Zeke


Date: Fri, 17 May 2013 13:58:16
Subject:
Re: Poifect or Perfect?
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ Da second one is poifect, Doc. }}

Sometimes an author can get a little /too/ clever with her wordplay. Which of course was the bane of Shakespeare throughout his entire career…a textbook example par excellence, wouldn’t you agree? Talk about being “hoist with his own petard!”

Though one of his voluminous quotations stands out in my mind before any other, when I think about My Arwyn Chronicles:

“The course of true love never did run smooth.”

I kinda /prefer/ “The Perfect Storm,” for the same reason I do “Please Don’t Eat the Daisies”: there’s something /neat/ about revisiting famous book titles and using them for chapter headings. Yet, with a totally different spin.

Wordplay on the title itself /may/ be a bit overdone, like a hen’s egg left in the boiling pot o’erlong.

But still, I love the noir-Brooklyn 40’s lingo…talk about hard boiled! Sohz I gotta tink abouddit.

Perhaps Damon Runyon will visit me in my uber-noir dreams this pearly eve, and slap me silly with the skinny. In such potboiling cases, I always ax meself:

What would Jessica Rabbit do?

– Zeke


Date: Fri, 17 May 2013 14:32:36
Subject:
Farewell and good luck!
From: Gertrude Y. (Twosome Press)
To: Zeke

Dear lovely Author,

I’m sad to inform you that today is my last day at Twosome Press as I will be leaving to pursue a new opportunity in a different field. I’m sad that I am unable to finish your book with you, though I have informed and CC’d your new Author Account Manager, Hermoine, of all the details of your account. She will be in touch with you by the middle of next week.

I wish you all the best with the publication and promotion of your book! I look forward to seeing it on the TwosomePress bookstore website in the future.

Best regards,

Gertrude Y.
Author Account Manager


Date: Fri, 17 May 2013 15:07:50
Subject:
Re: Farewell and good luck!
From: Zeke
To: Gertrude Y. (Twosome Press)

Gertrude wrote:

{{ Dear lovely Author, }}

Beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder.
I turn more rugged as the face grows older.

{{ I’m sad to inform you that today is my last day at Twosome Press as I will be leaving to pursue a new opportunity in a different field. }}

You replaced Beatrice bare two weeks ago!
A mayfly would serve me just as well,
Considering you ne’er began the show.

How Hermoine works out only time will tell.
I can mere but swim with the fluminous flow,
And await till chimes my publishing bell.

– Zeke


Date: Sat, 18 May 2013 12:02:10
Subject:
Not with enmity, but with gratitude…
From: Zeke
To: Myron H. (mgr. Pilsner Inn)

…I post you this latest email. What follows is a portion of chapter 7 of Book 3, that explains my immense gratitude for Arwyn and my Pilsner Inn adventure. This chapter will appear on my WordPress blog in a week or so. But before you read the passage, here is my suggestion as to how your excellent bar can make amends:

Bartenders must give me my first well drink for free. I will /not/ take advantage of this, for my visits there will not exceed more than two days per week. (Should I visit more often at times, I will /not/ accept a free drink beyond the 2-day agreement.) Also, instruct all employees to watch over me, that I may be protected from assault just as you do for all other decent patrons. One more request:

Place a sincere apology to me in either the Bay Area Reporter or the SF Bay Times. Here are their email addies, respectively:

news@ebar.com

editor@sfbaytimes.com

In a nutshell, the following piece entitled “The Perfect Storm” describes my conclusion that Arwyn–in cahoots with a certain Pilsner barkeep or two–is playing out a fantasy of mine, that I become the hero of our LGBT community, by demonstrating my feisty bent, and standing up for all righteous gay causes. As well as acting out another fantasy of mine:

That Arwyn is a private eye and myself, his devoted LIttle Pony Sidekick. IOW: a real-life gay detective tale that will first be told to the world via my blog, then my published books, and finally, as blockbuster Indie films.

Arwyn, barkeeps Angelo and Pedro (and the Great Dragon only knows who else) currently play my adversaries, so I can establish my authority and win over our community with prophetic passion. One more thing:

Last Saturday (May 11) I visited with Arwyn at Pilsner Inn, but also sat by myself for a time, on the patio. I was quite upset to discover a stinky, ill behaved hobo with a drink in his hand, pacing back and forth on the bar floor. I know him to be a real nuisance and threat here in the Castro. He stalks me frequently, yells at me because I refuse to give him the time of day. He is a large dude, African American, raggedly clothed, and quite scary in manner.

Few minutes later (as I sit on a patio bench) the crazy vagrant enters the patio and seats himself right next to me! Then begins to wave his arms, wag his head and roll his eyes…and in other ways, acts quite out of place. No one wants to be near him, not just myself. A minute of this BS was all I could take, so I moved to an opposite bench.

I have /never/ before seen Pilsner welcome such a depraved soul into their premises! In the past, Arwyn would /never/ let anyone like that get near me. In fact, he’d have them kicked out. But that’s beside the point, for why on Goddess’s green and blue orb would /any/ barkeep serve drinks to this unwholesome dufus? IT’S BAD FOR BUSINESS!!! Please, ask Arwyn about this, as he was there, and (I’m sure) noticed.

So yes, Myron, there are some things very /wrong/ with Pilsner Inn, of which I assume you are unaware. But I do take the high road, and assume this is part of my heroic saga, which certain gay denizens are manifesting on my behalf. I suspect that /you/, Myron may be a participant as well. Now, on with the show (feel free to print out and share my latest missive with Angelo and Pedro, if you so wish. Likewise, Arwyn and whoever else pleases you):

[ Rapacious Reader: my letter to Myron ends with a copy of the email you’ve already viewed above, called “The Perfect Storm.” ]


Date: Sat, 18 May 2013 12:04:38
Subject:
Mixing it up
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

So I see Arwyn earlier this eve (Friday, May 17), at a bar in the Castro called “The Mix.” I prefer to call it “The Pricks,” for reasons that will soon become apparent. I step into the Mix around 7 PM, never expecting to see Arwyn there. But there he is, standing at the bartender station closest to the front door.

I stand right behind My Delinquent Dragon to order my drink. Hear him tell Brody, a dyke barkeep, that he needs four quarters for a dollar, to play pool. Not one to deprive him of his simple pleasures, I draw six quarters from my coat pocket, and extend a coin-flushed hand from behind. He turns to me and acts startled:

“No, I don’t need your quarters. Thanks just the same.” He glares at me with hatred, thus coloring the barkeep’s opinion of me in a most negative fashion. Thanks for nothing, Arwyn, I think.

And he steps back to the billiard table to play his next round. So I speak out to Brody:

“Arwyn’s my boyfriend. Didn’t expect to see him here tonight, but it’s always good to see him.” Brody seems kinda upset, so I cut to the chase:

“I’d enjoy a vodka and tonic with lime, please.”

So she pours me up a glass and I pay the requisite fee ($4.50 I think). But then she opinionates:

“Listen. I’ve known Arwyn for many years. And he doesn’t want you here.”

“What are you talking about?” I respond. “He just turned down my quarters, which he does whenever he’s got enough moolah for the night.”

“No. Leave him alone.” She demands. “He’s a nice guy, but sometimes kinda hair trigger. So don’t bother him any more.”

“You gotta be kidding,” I retort, “Arwyn and I are very good friends. We’ve been lovers since 2006. My presence here will influence him to be a lot more mellow than without me.”

Brody glares at me through feverish, puffy eyelids as she shovels some ice into a tumbler. Thus, I continue:

“I’m not bothering him in the least…he’s over there playing pool,” still facing Brody, I point with my right arm extended backwards, where Arwyn crouches over the table 15 feet distant from my scapegoated little self. He’s racking ’em up for the next round.

“And I’m sitting at the bar speaking to /you/…I’m not even /looking/ at him!” I pause a brief moment before tossing her this tasty hor d’oeuvre:

“Quick to judge, slow to think, ain’tcha?”

[ Oh this is stupid-funny, Zippy Reader: I just loaded Bing Translator to see how it defines “hor d’oeuvre”. Their clever result: “hor of work” *snicker*. ]

“Okay, that’s it. You gotta go.” She grabs the drink from my hand (what is it w/barkeeps grabbing hootch from my hand these days?), reimburses my fee, including the dollar tip. (Brody actually /gave/ me $10 and didn’t ask for change back. One Desperate Dyke indeed!)

“Are you serious?” I command. “Thank you /so/ much for making me a hero. Nonetheless, I think I’ll write you up in a letter to the SF Bay Times about the asshole you truly are!”

Then I step out to discover Arwyn chatting on his cell phone. I light up a cig and address him:

“That was hilarious three days ago at Pilsner Inn, how you and Angelo ganged up on me!”

“Shut up Zeke,” he argues, “I’m talking on the phone here. Get away from me.”

“This is funny, Arwyn,” I exclaim, “but the moment I told Brody we’re friends, she grabbed my drink and told me to leave!”

I pull out my digital camera and ask: “How about letting me take a pic of you now, the lighting is excellent.”

“Go away, Zeke. I don’t want any more of your gifts or letters. I don’t want to see you again.” He rubs a palm in the air, as if to smear my face.

I stuff my Samsung ST76 back into a coat pocket and admonish: “It doesn’t work that way, Arwyn. You can’t just dump a friend at a whim, after being so nice to me for so long.”

He tries to ignore me as he continues his cell phone conversation. But I talk over him, figuring:

What’s his point? He hardly ever gives me a chance to speak, why should I respect his desire to talk on the phone in peace?

Therefore I continue to accuse: “Look, Arwyn, I think it’s fantastic that you and Angelo play the role as my enemies, and got me 86’d from Pilsner. I think you’re both great guys. Thanks for the hilarious scenario!”

Arwyn continues to frown while attempting to hold a conversation with the person on his cell: “Look, Zeke, don’t make me angry.”

“Angry?” I complain, though amused. “I’ve /never/ done anything to make you angry. I’m your best friend. If you’re angry at me, that’s /you’re/ problem, and you obviously have anger management issues.”

“Go away, Zeke, leave NOW!” he declares, and waves a distressed hand in my face. “Don’t /ever/ send me any more packages.”

“Oh, not to worry,” I respond. “For now on I’ll send the remaining chapters to the bartenders where you hang out. In fact, I just sent a thank-you letter to Angelo and Pedro, as well as to Myron Stopher, at Pilsner inn. For being such good sports.” Then affirm:

“This is /my/ turf, and you have /no/ authority over me. I will stand in the Castro wherever I damn well please. Your extreme PMS does not impress me. They have good OTC medication for that. Take a Midol.”

Arwyn then pockets his phone and reenters the Mix, as I call:

“C’mon, at least let me take your photo. You /did/ just give me permission!”

But I am now alone once more, and decide to linger on the neighboring stairway until he steps out once more. Which takes no more than 7 minutes. Arwyn appears with a drunk middle-age dyke, whom he is obviously escorting to her car. I raise my camera and start snapping. Arwyn covers his face with an arm, that I may not get a decent pic. The gray-haired dyke snarls at me:

“Don’t take his fukkin picture!”

As they wander down the sidewalk, old dyke leaning on Arwyn’s arm, I holler:

“That’s right Arwyn, help the ol’ bitch to her car!”

I follow them from 10 or so yards behind, whereby Arwyn glares back to demand: “Get outta here. Leave us alone!”

“I’m not here, Arwyn. I’m invisible. Just pretend I’m somewhere else. I just happen to be walkin’ in the same direction for a block or so.”

They cross the street up Hartford, to the right (which is south), and I watch the two odd ducklings stroll towards an automobile about a half-block up. I decide to stand behind a telephone pole, which also provides me with a leafy tree’s shelter, that I will not be readily seen by Arwyn should he look back.

But before they’ve halfway crossed, I exclaim in a booming voice loud enough to wake the deceased:

“What do you know about the time I was drugged and mugged at the Hole, back in 2007? You’re a suspect, dear. We need to talk!”

Some minutes pass before he returns with that same woman. I then step out behind the pole to snap photos. Once more, Arwyn has a sleeve over his face. So I declare:

“No problem good buddy. This is /more/ than enough evidence to hand over to the police. Besides, we have plenty of time before Book 2 comes out, so I’m sure I’ll have some good pics of you by then.”

They rush back into the Mix, while I decide to stand outside in hopes of snatching a pic of Arwyn whenever he steps out once more. But that doesn’t happen, and when I’m about to return hovel, Brody exits the bar; her shift is over. I call to her:

“I’m sorry you hold such anger against me. I’d like to be on a good footing with you.” She looks back to reply:

“Oh I’m not mad at you. Go ahead and stalk me if you want.”

“Why would I do that?” I call back. She answers:

“Arwyn told me you’re his stalker.” So I explain before she’s out of earshot:

“He’s a big role player. He likes to challenge me with difficult scenarios, and see how I deal with it.”

But she disappears around the corner, leaving me to reenter the bar to purchase a drink and enjoy Arwyn’s pool table antics. Of course, I order my usual V&T. The barkeep on duty is a handsome Latino. So I kick back at the bar’s end closest to the door, and watch Arwyn some yards away. Of course I hope he spots me, but he does not.

So I decide to meander past him as I walk to the patio for a smoke. He still doesn’t see me as I walk by as he exclaims “Aargh!” while racking up the balls. So as I wander by, I call back: “Aargh!” And that’s when he notices me, though speaks not a word.

Now I’m standing on the lower deck of the crowded patio, and ask another customer if I can smoke here, or must I step up to the next level. He says it’s okay, I can smoke right where I am. But to be sure, I turn to the patio barkeep (a delicious looking and young fellow), to verify:

“Can I smoke here, or do I have to step up to the back?” To my surprise he declares:

“Weren’t you here some moments ago, and called one of our people an asshole?”

“Certainly not,” I defend. “I just got here barely a minute ago, and ordered this drink.”

He scowls and passes through the bar partition to physically confront me:

“Get out now, we don’t want you back here!”

“Okay, okay, I’m going,” I snort while sucking down the rest of my hootch before marching back out.

This really stinks, El. Arwyn keeps setting me up for hatred. Can you say “defamation of character?”

So I finally reach “home” to ponder the evening’s disaster. My conclusion:

“I guess I /will/ send more letters to Arwyn c/o Twin Peaks Tavern, Pilsner Inn and finally, the Mix. His crude behavior is way over the top, so at this point it’s all-out war.”

Therefore, tonight I will conjure up nine more letters, three to each bar, each batch sent one day apart. Arwyn has done a fine job of getting me cast out of three Castro bars that are the best ones in the ‘hood. Through no fault of my own. In fact, I’ve been nothing but gracious, patient and loving towards My Rebellious Reptile. These letters BTW will contain nothing more than one simple sentence:

“Ha ha. Nothing to see here!” Maybe I’ll insert some Scooby-Doo stickers.

Time to break out the big guns.

– Zeke

PS: Oh, I almost forgot to mention that I already posted my snail mail to Pedro and Angelo. And added to both, in handwritten words at the top of each letter:

“You can sell this letter on eBay for big bucks, once my first book becomes a bestseller. – Zeke”

The letters themselves both contained the same printout which you’ve already viewed, titled “The Perfect Storm.”

But at the end of Angelo’s letter I added something not included with Pedro’s:

“Angelo,

Here’s how you could make amends with me (though you might have other solutions):

Take me out for dinner once or twice. Burgermeister on Chuch near Duboce works for me!

And maybe become good friends, which I suggested some weeks back, and you gave me a /very/ warm handshake.

I /know/ you’re a righteous fellow (in spite of your recent ejection of my scapegoated self). You are also very HOT. Though sex need never enter the picture, I’d still /love/ to be a best friend. FYI: Arwyn and I are /not/ monogamous.”

Then signed it by hand with my “zekeheart” logo. Dropped off both letters in the nearest mailbox on my way to the Mix. I will email a similar letter to Myron Stopher next morn.


Their veggieburger is outstanding!


Date: Sat, 18 May 2013 12:06:29
Subject:
Re Mix
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

I meander by the Mix around 10:30 PM to see Arwyn still there at the pool table. I stand on the sidewalk, waiting for his exit. Sure enough he steps out and I call:

“Having a nice evening without me, Arwyn?”

He then steps up real close, just like the night he shoved me.

“Leave me alone!” he hollers to my face, “I don’t wanna see you any more. So I saved your life once, it’s over. Move on!”

I look up at his angry eyes to iterate: “Arwyn, something’s /wrong/ with you. You used to be so nice to me, now you’re sweet one day, mean the next. Please see a doctor.”

“Are you going now?” he demands. But I say “No!” so he shoves me a bit, though extremely light. Told him I’d call the police if I have to.

“I’m standing between you and the devil, Arwyn!” I declare. “You saved my life once, now I guess it’s time for me to save /yours/!”

“Well maybe I /want/ to stand with the devil,” snorts My Misguided Mesosaurus.

“That’s way obvious,” I respond. “I /pray/ that you will soon find a better direction.”

“Go ahead, call 911!” he yells as he walks away towards Pilsner Inn (I presume).

So I holler back: “This is only the beginning of our battle, Arwyn. The war is ON. I will send letters to all the gay bars you frequent, until you’re outta there!” (After all, he’s been driving /me/ outta those places, and “all’s fair in love and war.”)

He continues to holler back at me, though I really don’t know what he’s saying. I just turn my back to him and walk in the opposite direction, flipping the bird with both hands. But before I turn the corner, I swerve around to see him looking at me from almost a block away.

And smile, while giving him a double-fisted finger once more. Then I head hovel.

I cry.

Just so you know, El: I may be facing my own death or serious injury, due to Arwyn’s increasing belligerance. But you should also know:

I am not afraid. Just posted him my latest letter to his dubious address, containing my missive to the editor regarding the assault on my person at Pilsner Inn three days ago. On the envelope’s back, I handprinted:

“I will soon send letters to other addresses you frequent, unless you acknowledge.”

The bar letters are ready to go, in the event he does not.

– Zeke


Date: Sat, 18 May 2013 12:15:32
Subject:
Letter to Brody c/o the Mix
From: Zeke
To: Brody (via snail mail)

My Dear Brody,

I beg your patience in my telling you the extraordinary relationship between myself and Arwyn. Enclosed is my business card that provides a link to my first book soon to be published, entitled “Free Me From This Bond.”

At bottom of this page is a link to Book 2. And at the bottom of Book 2’s page is a link to Book 3 (presently a work in progress). That’s right, it’s a trilogy. Book 1 should be out in bookstores in less than a month from now. But the online versions of all three novels will always be free to read, as my way of showing immense gratitude to the LGBT community, for putting me through my paces and not going easy on me.

And the trilogy is all about my fantastic friendship with Arwyn. Yet, disturbingly, he has suddenly turned on me like I’m his worst enemy. Before this (almost 8 years in fact) Arwyn has been the very /best/ friend in my entire life. I try to talk with him, that he see a doctor and get an MRI scan.

For I fear that his sudden personality change may be due to a brain tumor or something equally serious. Arwyn has always been a great friend to me, until a little over four months ago. But I am in a most difficult space, as he now tells everyone who’ll listen, that I’m his stalker! Which is a terribly grievous state, that I cannot bear on my own. Therefore I appeal to various members of Our Community for support, no matter how minor. You may read about such appeals in Book 3.

Arwyn is /wrong/ about my being his stalker. I am his very /best/ friend, who really does not want him to /ever/ vanish from my life. You know his reputation for occasional, erratic behavior. Yet you are more than willing to believe whatever lie he tells you (especially about me). He is slandering me via gossip, causing others to hate and exclude me…and may possibly lead to violence. I have /many/ witnesses, should the matter come to court (which I really want to avoid). Those who participate in spreading defamation of my character are also complicit.

The only reason I sometimes visit bars that he frequents, is to be in his company even if he doesn’t want to talk with me. Though many times he does, and we have a lovely time. He’s actually invited me to hang out at these places, until this recent and ugly turn in our fate. One day, he’s really kind to me, the next he’s arrogant and hateful. I only get to see him once or twice a week these days, because of his increasingly foul behavior. I am /not/ his stalker, but do my very best to stand by his side until this crisis passes. Since we don’t live together yet (though we do now live barely a block apart, since he moved to the Castro from SOMA), the only option I have is to hang out now and then, at one of his favorite bars. That would be: Pilsner Inn, Twin Peaks Tavern, and the Mix.

Arwyn has never shoved me, tossed a lit cigarette at me, or yelled at me in all our 7-plus years. Until, as I said, these past several months. That is how I know beyond a doubt, that something is terribly /wrong/ with this otherwise very fine man. Prior to this, he has always been very gentle, protective and lots of good fun. Though I did confront him recently, to tell him he needs to /profusely/ apologize to all those he’s either offended or hurt, including certain bartenders. He’s been /my/ hero for almost eight years…I guess now it’s time to be /his/ hero.

So please, Brody, keep this letter for a possible (and I think “probable”) time when the good man falls, and needs me more than anyone else. I can see the tragedy coming down the pike like a locomotive. I’ve been standing between him and the devil for over four months now, trying to deflect the inevitable. It is therefore my desperate hope that somehow, some way, it’s not too late to thwart such a horrid outcome. But it looks like he’s soon gonna fall…and fall hard.’

It is my hope that something occurs in your bar with Arwyn, to make you realize that I am the one speaking truth, not him. So please, keep my card, as it contains my phone number as well as email. He has recently turned extremely hostile towards me, when all I want is to see him now and then, for it gives me peace and great joy. As has always been the case until recent months. For no reason that has anything to do with me, as I have always been patient and kind with him.

With only the utmost sincerity,

Ezekiel J. Krahlin

PS: As proof of our relationship, I’ve enclosed a copy of a form where he gives me signed permission to use his real name and photo in Book 2. But you can just read my books online, to understand the truth. Please, I beg of you, do not appease Arwyn’s every whim. He is definitelty on the wrong track, and I can only pray. Especially when patrons and barkeeps alike hate me and believe I’m just some goofy loon, thanks to Arwyn’s gossip. My heart has never been so broken. So if you could help in any way–even if it’s just a little way–I’ll be your friend for life.


Signature Day

May 12, 2013

[ Free Me From This Bond (sequel to the sequel): Chapter 1 ]

Date: Tue, 30 Apr 2013 01:07:36
Subject:
Hey you studly father fukkuh!
From: Zeke
To: Diego

You made me very happy for the second time in a week…or is it two?

<3,

Zeke


Date: Tue, 30 Apr 2013 11:14:37
Subject:
Found your glasses!
From: Zeke
To: Diego

Your friend Paul had them, you left them over his place. Don’t know how he got my phone #, but sure glad he did!

Now, another topic:

…in my excitement to have you stay over tonight and tomorrow night, I forgot that when my room’s overheated I’m miserable and can’t stand to have company.

But I already told you this well before we agreed for you to stay over tonight and Wednesday. So, if at all possible, can we keep a raincheck for when the weather cools down in 3-4 days (I hope)?

See you at Hole in the Wall and/or the Eagle, I hope. Otherwise, pick up your glasses tonight, after 9 PM and before 11.

<3, Zeke


Date: Wed, 01 May 2013 09:31:21
Subject:
Introduction and illustration followup
From: Gertrude (Twosome Press)
To: Zeke

Hi Zeke,

My name is Gertrude Y. and I am your new Author Account Manager taking over your account from Beatrice. I’m looking forward to working with you for the remainder of your project!

The illustrator is having trouble opening one of the links for your cover. Can you please check it and then resend it to me? It looks like it’s probably the one he will need the most.

Thanks so much.

Best regards,

Gertrude Y.
Author Account Manager


Date: Wed, 1 May 2013 09:52:08
Subject:
Re: Introduction and illustration followup
From: Zeke
To: Gertrude (Twosome Press)

Glad to e-meet ya, Gertrude! Please have my illustrator try the link again. It should work just fine now. Thanks!

– Zeke


Date: Sun, 5 May 2013 14:28:42
Subject:
Re: What’s coming down the pike
From: Zeke
To: Keith

Keith wrote:

{{ Come over Donald is listening to the KY Derby on the radio downstairs and people have brought food }}

Thank you Keith, but my wifi has been down since Friday. Posting to you right now from Howard’s Cafe (I use the wifi from right next door). Therefore I didn’t get the invite in time. Story of my life.

I don’t understand why you can’t use Gus’s phone, or just that of a guest. *sigh*

– Zeke


Date: Sun, 05 May 2013 17:00:05
Subject:
Re: The Mysterious Case of the Vanished Text
From: Eleanor
To: Zeke

Oh, God, there’s nothing worse than losing something you’ve written. Ironically, one of the hazards of word-processing, otherwise such a boon to writers. I remember the French writer Collette describing leaving the ONLY copy of a completed manuscript on a bus in Paris. She said the hardest thing she ever did in her life was to take herself in hand and rewrite it. I try to imagine doing that. Possibly, the second one would be far better than the first, but only if the writer overcame the dreadful sucking despairing doubt that it could be done. The doubt would utterly impede the magic mojo.

I’ve come to believe in “techno-demons.” I think inanimate objects are imbued with a crude consciousness, usually a perverse one. They can sense the force-field of our fondest desires, and sabotage them. The techno-demon force-field surrounds Mitch. I’ve seen it happen too many times to doubt it. If he’s in the midst of a vitally important phone call, the handset will go dead for no reason. If he buys a brand-new package of batteries, to use in a recording device during a once-in-a-lifetime interview, the batteries will be defective. If he takes an unduplicatable photograph, it’ll turn up mysteriously blank. The other day, he mowed the tall grass, ran over a lug-wrench he’d lost and which he needs in order to work on one of our cars. There are four different-sized tips to the lug-wrench. One of those tips got destroyed by the blades of the mower. Guess which one? The only one that fits our car. He brought it in and showed it to me, said: “I had a 25% chance of destroying the only one that’s of any use to me, and I did it.” The physics of how and why scarcely matter: it’s real. Donny calling you during the time you stepped out is a perfect, perfect example. And then FedEx showing up when you stepped out. There can be no doubt. No doubt.

Diego probably meant well when he made his offer, but alas, he didn’t know what that offer would mean to you.

My advice: carry the digital recorder AND the notebook. Speaking and writing come from different parts of the brain. You can do both: use your “butterfly net” (excellent metaphor!) AND let the ideas flow down through your arms and out your fingers. You’ll get a deeper three-dimensional “save” of the idea! I’d even venture to say that typing on a keyboard is a different sort of “writing” from what’s written by hand. I love the keyboard: it feels to me like my “ax,” as musicians put it.

I think your hardships and heartaches are a windup to your lost material coming back to you! I myself have been having tantalizing flashes of mysterious memories, like a curtain being drawn for an instant. I can’t tell if it’s material I’m losing, or material I’m regaining, if I’m getting glimpses of a movie I once saw or a dream I dreamt, but it’s distinct and definitely happening. What you wrote and lost is in your mind somewhere, complete. You can retrieve it.


Date: Sun, 5 May 2013 21:04:31
Subject:
Re: The Mysterious Case of the Vanished Text
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ Oh, God, there’s nothing worse than losing something you’ve written. }}

I consider this–along with all the other current miseries that have been dumped on me in the same, short time span–but a test of my mettle. I’m sure things will come back together more eloquently and joyful than I could ever imagine. It’s happened before, many times.This time around, however, is immensely difficult. Last time I went through such a grinding challenge was when I reached out to Randolph Taylor.

{{ I’ve come to believe in “techno-demons.” }}

I call ’em PC polterqeist. 0_o

{{ The physics of how and why scarcely matter: it’s real. Donny calling you during the time you stepped out is a perfect, perfect example. And then FedEx showing up when you stepped out. There can be no doubt. No doubt }}

I’m typing to you right now, at Pilsner Inn. Larkin ain’t around, though I didn’t expect him to be here Sunday eve. Just completed my latest blog entry.

{{ Diego probably meant well when he made his offer, but alas, he didn’t know what that offer would mean to you. }}

Diego has started to make up absurd tales where he’s in danger if he doesn’t repay someone tonight, for the cell phone he borrowed, then dropped and broke. Stuff like that. Stupid stuff. Told him “hogwash,” and he walked away in a huff. Seems that his passion and affections are being overridden by material desires. Can’t blame him actually, being homeless and all. But please, I wasn’t born yesterday. Or the day before.

{{ My advice: carry the digital recorder AND the notebook. }}

Yes! That’s exactly what I’m doing. Two days ago I was about to remove the loose-leaf book from my pack but thought: “No, I might enjoy writing in the book now and then.”

{{ I think your hardships and heartaches are a windup to your lost material coming back to you! }}

Oh, my lost passage will come back! Many years ago, in fact the first year I arrived in SF, I had lost my book of hand written poetry. That was December 31, 1973. I got a ride from Missouri to California, and we had a horrid car accident. When I was released the next day, I left without that book. (Though I did arrive in SF on New Year’s Day: a new year, a new life), Few months later I thought about my poems:

“The angels will bring that book back to me!” almost like another’s voice in my head. I was slumming around Berkeley that day, and decided to hitch a ride back to SF. Oh, yeah, I was also homeless.

Well, the motorist dropped me off in the Inner Mission. As I strolled these streets, I suddenly bumped into my driver who had that car accident! Just out of the blue, like that. He said, “Hey, I have that book of poems you left behind.”

Just a half block away was his apartment, and in a few moments more, that book was once more in my hands.

True story.

{{ What you wrote and lost is in your mind somewhere, complete. You can retrieve it. }}

Yes indeed. But at this time it seems totally buried in the morass of my subconscious, surrounded by rabid crocodiles. Somehow, in some way I can’t comprehend, I suspect that Captain Hook has invaded my psychic realm.

– Zeke


Date: Mon, 6 May 2013 9:10:56
Subject:
Your Card
From: Keith
To: Zeke

I received your card the other day, it was so sweet I didn’t know what to say. I never intended to use it, even though you insisted in your letter, but if you don’t mind I am going to put it in my credit union account so that my rent check will clear for this month, and then as soon as I get my budget back in shape I will be sure to pay you back. Is this ok? I’m being serious about paying you back when I have the money (with interest). And in addition, if I win the Power Ball, I will give you 51% of my winnings to help you publish your book and I’ll build the new Castro Aquatic Center in your honor. Is this really ok?


Date: Tue, 7 May 2013 11:17:02
Subject:
Re: Your Card
From: Zeke
To: Keith

So happy to do you this favor, Keith. This money is a gift, I don’t expect you to pay me back. Good luck winning the “Power Ball!” Speaking of which: I’d sure love to “Power Ball” /you/! (Whenever that suits you of course, if at all and whenever.) 0_o

Typing this e-missive to you while hanging out at the Eagle Tavern.

<3 always,

– Zeke


Date: Wed, 8 May 2013 11:20:44
Subject:
Re: Smoking Dragon
From: S. Rohan
To: Zeke

You reminded me of a passage in one of my old comic books wherein our super-heroine CrimeSpike mixes up a wicked concoction with thylacine milk–the rumors of tasmanian wolf extinction have not made it into my own little universe…

Please feel free to describe any sort of character you make me out to be; never since i learned to talk have i been monogamous to any name so take yourself any liberties there as well.

I wish you all the best and most glowing successes in your creative endeavors, and thank you for including me in some of the magic.

XO~S


Date: Wed, 8 May 2013 14:11:57
Subject:
Re: Smoking Dragon
From: Zeke
To: S. Rohan

S. wrote:

{{ please feel free to describe any sort of character you make me out to be; never since i learned to talk have i been monogamous to any name so take yourself any liberties there as well. }}

Thanks, S.! But seeing as you are the true illustrator, no matter which name I use, readers will be able to figure your real name “S. Rohan” in a flash. And I don’t want any potential employer to accidentally sign your check under a fictitious name.

{{ I wish you all the best and most glowing successes in your creative endeavors, and thank you for including me in some of the magic.

XO~S }}

Truly, a tremendous /honor/ to collaborate with you.

Meanwhile, my soul continues to be forged on the anvil of sacrifice for the sake of Larkin’s beauty. I grow strong like ox!

– Zeke


Date: Wed, 8 May 2013 19:21:34
Subject:
Incredible news, El…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

…this morning I received a form letter from Larkin, giving me permission to use /both/ his real name and a photo, for Book 2! The amazing events leading up to this wonderful outcome, are in the process of being writ by yours truly, at this very time. But I thought to share with you the good news, rather than have you wait 2-3 more days. See attachment.

I typed the form and enclosed it in my latest gift packet, delivered to him two days ago at Twin Peaks Tavern, where he apparently works part-time.


Date: Wed, 8 May 2013 21:11:17
Subject:
Re: Incredible news, El…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ I like his signature!! }}

Yeah, me too. I jerked off twice to it already! 0_o This is the very /first/ time I’ve seen his handwriting.

Very compressed, but classy. Events are moving so fast now in my life, I can’t keep up with it all! I really need a /break/ from all my feverish typing. A holiday! No, a HONEYmoon.

Yes, that’s the tiquete.

– Zeke


Date: Thu, 9 May 2013 8:01:04
Subject:
Something else interesting…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

…to report here. First, let me complete my remarks about his outstanding signature, especially how he shows the date: like a clock. As in “6:13 PM”. Also those artistic curves on the “M” and “A”, with the “A” like a star. This is a very smart dragon!

Today at Hole in the Wall, I perched for a while on that bench directly below Larkin’s naked pic (you know, the one with the Welsh flag draped over his shoulders). There is another naked man in a squatting pose with only a leather jacket for modesty, placed directly below and a tad to the right of Larkin.

But I never noticed before today, the picture directly /above/ Larkin:

Da Vinci’s “Last Supper”!

Okay, just another normal day for Zeke; for anyone else it would be insanity inducing.

There is also now a dragon’s shadow painted on the brick wall across from the Hole, advertising some HBO series called “Game of Thrones.” Big as a billboard, and serving the same purpose. But that’s beside the point:

A 3-headed wire-and-light DRAGON hangs from the ceiling of Hole in the Wall! Perhaps then, that’s /his/ shadow being cast across Folsom Street. Took a photo of this shady tarragon yesterday, but only Loki knows to where it vanished! Oh well, Larkin’s My Mischievous Dragon! I’ll take another pic next week and post it to you. Hmmm, wonder if it will still be there by then?

Decided to show you Larkin’s return address on the envelope, just below the one he gave me, that he claims I miswrote. Now what the heck is up with this /new/ number: 455178 ? His way of saying he’s a hot number?

What do you think of all this, El?

– Zeke


To capture a dragon’s shadow,
never activate flash mode.


Date: Wed, 9 May 2013 11:48:28
Subject:
Re: Something else interesting…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ The signature really is a beauty. I noticed it right away. A person’s signature is like an EKG, an EEG and a lie detector all at once! }}

Check out the card I’ll present him shortly (2 images, see attachments.) Click on either image below for a larger view:

{{ When I send something in the mail, I write my return address as [ xxxxx-xxxx ]–that’s my zip code and my P.O. box. }}

No street address, just your name and 9-digit zip code?

{{ That extra number he’s added might be a code for his name at the mailbox facility. }}

But he didn’t give me that extra number before!

{{ Maybe there’s a system that provides total anonymity. Why he wrote it on the envelope below his name, etc., is a mystery }}

Perhaps because that number was required for delivery…which he forgot to give me before? Well, I’ll ask him. Here we go again!

– Zeke


Date: Thu, 9 May 2013 16:49:56
Subject:
Serendipity’s Child
From: Zeke
To: Keith

This is amusing. Since I was still waiting on the delivery of a new scanner and camera, I couldn’t copy that handprinted letter enclosed in the card I sent you. (Unless of course I /delayed/ mailing it by several days at least…which I did /not/ desire any more than I would a hemorrhoid upon my tongue.) Once the scanner arrived I duplicated that letter, only changing your name to Keith. (BTW Arnie, your complete fictitious name is “Keith Pendleton”…ha ha.)

Several hours after uploading the letter to my blog, I realized that I forgot to change Buster’s name to “Gus” (Buster’s preference, in case you didn’t know). At first I moaned with exasperation ’cause I couldn’t see any way to edit his name via MS Paint, without it appearing like an obvious makeover: a Tammy Faye Bakker makeover. And I certainly had /no/ desire to cramp up my left hand again with recreating that page yet a /third/ time.

Of course I now realize that another solution (in addition to the one described below) would have been to handprint “Gus” on another sheet of paper, scan it, then just copy his fictitious name into that letter.

But then I noticed a capital “G” in the line just above “Buster”! So I carefully copied that G onto the “B” and erased “ter”. Voila: “Gus”! Still, I had to magnify that portion of the image, in order to clean up extraneous marks I carried over in the process. Seeing as a slight merging of that line with the one above prevented a clean copy/paste. I also had to reattach the “y” tail which had been dragged over as a result of moving “for me.” to the left, that it may close the gap created by erasing “ter”. Then I had to raise the “od” from “good” in the line above, in order to fit this “G” into its new-found location.

Likewise, I had to enlarge the image even further, in order to carefully erase the migrated “y” tail that protruded into the “f” that now followed “Gus “. I think I did quite a professional job of it, wouldn’t you agree, My Cumly Soldier? One might even say: “I /Gus/sied it up.”

Badda-boom badda-bing.
You make my heart sing.
Though were it my liver,
I’d now be a-quiver!

– Zeke

PS: Posting this e-missive to you from Howard’s Cafe. Wish you were here, My Saintly Queer!


Date: Thu, 9 May 2013 23:27:32
Subject:
Hello! This is a note for your webmaster
From: Mitch P.
To: Zeke

Hello! This is a note for your webmaster, as I found a dead resource on your site while researching for an article I’m working on. The dead resource appears on this page of your site:

http://www.gay-bible.org/links/

I got an error message when I tried to click on this site:

http://www.ntac.org/

In my research, I located a replacement:

http://transequality.org/

Also, a question for you — while you’re updating your page, would you be open to adding another wonderful resource on your site? If so, I’m sending along a great reference for those recovering from addiction.

Freedom Rings: The LGBT Addiction Recovery Blog:

http://www.gay-rehab.com/blog/

Thanks for your help and for providing great resources!

Best,

Mitch P.


Date: Thu, 9 May 2013 22:49:42
Subject:
Emergency Room Fantasy
From: Zeke
To: My New Fans From Andromeda

Larkin finally gets around to undergoing an MRI scan due to his persistent cluster headaches and frequent vomiting.

He arrives at the Davies campus (now an extension of the University of the Pacific Medical Center) just three blocks uphill from his current residence. To discover that I, too, have arrived at the same ER.

“What? Zeke? Why are you here?” he queries in astonishment.

“Bad stomach aches,” I reply while doubled over in agony, my right arm pressed firmly about the midriff. “I think my acid reflux has gotten the upperhand. Those OTC capsules from Walgreens no longer help.”

Larkin speaks to me in a kind voice, something about a friend’s pet poodle and not being able to sleep for the past five days. But I am too distraught from abdominal misery to pay much attention, ear-wise.

No matter: for a nurse then summons me to an examination pod where I disrobe, change into a paper gown and await the doctor.

Long story short: I have a stomach tumor. May be cancer, may be not. The MRI scan only identified the growth, not its damage points. Nonetheless, emergency surgery is called for. I’m in a pretty bad state of grief at this point, for my death or serious debilitation is the last thing Larkin needs right now, considering all the previous tragedies in his life. I honestly want to be his anchor, his port in every storm. Thus, a gastric malignancy is the devil in the details.

I bawl on the surgery table as I succumb to the ether.

[ Freewheeling Reader:There has emerged a tremendous onslaught of heartbreak in our relationship, of recent vintage. And now I understand why (though for some considerable time I did not):

He is the one, /true/ author of my “Free Me From This Bond” trilogy. Larkin creates these incredibly intense and wonderful adventures for me to write down and publish. In a very real sense, I am but his recording secretary.

His feigning a brain tumor caused chapters 1 through 5 of Book 3 to be a real sob fest. Likewise all but two chapters in Book 2, which covered my distress over his sudden change in behavior, and my consequent sorrow in experiencing such a tragic downturn…before I concluded that his sudden and unexpected abuses perfectly matched the symptoms of a brain tumor.

Had I so much as an /inkling/ that his crude behavior was nothing more than a thespian’s drama played for my own benefit, I would /never/ have composed my “brain tumor” chapters with such genuine emotion as to bring tears to My Amicable Readers’ eyes. But now that I grasp Larkin’s incredible devotion to my own spiritual growth into Ultimate Manhood, next time I see the rascal I will declare:

“The brain tumor chapters are done, so you can snap out of it now!”

Now, back to the ER fantasy: ]

I awake on a hospital bed feeling pretty damn righteous, prolly coz I’m still rather high on a morphine derivative. To my left is a semi-transparent curtain through which I discern another patient in recovery. In a few moments I hear a familiar voice:

“Zeke? Zeke, is that you?”

It’s Larkin, I suddenly realize to my delight:

“Yes it’s me, darlin’. Please tell me you’re okay.”

Almost 20 seconds pass before he responds:

“Yes, Zeke, I’m alright.” But I sense his words are veiled in great sorrow. He extends a gangly arm to draw the curtain aside. I now see his handsome face gazing at me from a crisp white pillow, though he now appears haggard beyond his age…something which I have never witnessed before. Tears spill from his once stunning orange-gold eyes, now hollow.

I start crying, too: “Larkin, something’s wrong! What is it?”

Our beds are close enough where Larkin now touches my fingertips as we both outstretch our arms. An electric thrill of compassion bursts through my fingers, up my arm, and into my weakly thumping heart.

“Zeke! I love you so much. More than anyone else, or anything else, in this dismal world!”

“Oh Larkin, my wonderful dragon! I already know that, and have since the moment we first met.”

“We are not alright, Zeke. We both have aggressive cancer, and are now on life support. Look around.”

So I do, to discover various tubes stuck into my arms, nose and chest, all connected to an electronic meter that beeps in a regular but faint rhythm. Larkin continues:

“I have decided to pull the plug tonight, at 11:30 PM. And I want you to go with me. I know you are a /very/ brave man, and would not care to live without me, or in such a deteriorated condition that will only get worse in a short time.”

I somehow manage to stretch my arm further, to grip my fingers around the palm of his cherished hand. And speak from my heart:

“Larkin. Larkin. I go where you go. I will die with you.” Tears stream onto my pillow as I gaze upon that darling (though emaciated) face.

“I knew you would, Eugene,” speaks My Compassionate Dragon through tubes that plug up his snout and press upon those adoring, reptilian lips. “The doctor will show up very soon, that you may sign your wish to end your life, and at what time.”

The only thought I now have is this, which I declare in utter yearning: “Can I die in your arms, Love?”

“Yes, I would like that too, Ezekiel.”

And so, a few hours later two aides enter our room, to lift me from my bed and set my lingering form beside Larkin. The sun set quite some time ago, but the world that moves forward out my window is like a distant memory…my back turned to it, as I smile upon Larkin’s beloved visage, his breath blowing lightly upon my face. His smoky orange-gold eyes are a dim version of their once-fiery passion. He embraces me with both arms, as I slide my left arm beneath his frail back, my right one over his shoulder. My hand caresses the nape of his neck. And I sob.

For this is the very /first/ time we lay beside each other in fond embrace (or any other kind of embrace). And also as it turns out, much to my ultimate regret: the LAST time.

The doctor steps in. She is Asian, perky and a tad chubby. Her name tag says “Dr. Amelia Yang.” A small gold crucifix dangles from a thin chain about her neck. She extends a hand to deliver the form upon my shallow chest, along with a ballpoint pen. I take this form and hold it above my eyes: it is not what I expected. It is a release form.

Doctor Yang looks down upon me with a happy grin: “You are fine Mr. Krahlin. The tumor was benign and easily excised. You may leave at sunrise.”

I then turn my eyes on Larkin, to witness his widening grin before he guffaws with immense hilarity. He almost chokes on his laughter.

“And you, Mr. Kelsey,” adds the good doctor, “are perfectly fine, too. It was only a pinched nerve in your neck from playing softball that caused you such misery. The treatment is simple, and will take only a few weeks till you recover. Meanwhile, take these pain pills.” She also hands him a neck brace.

By this point, Larkin is weeping tears of mirth as it dawns on me that this is simply his latest prank. So I turn to him and bury my head on his chest, after glimpsing his handsome mug once more, to see that it is now filled out in vibrant health as usual, and his eyes grow vivid with joy.

“Father fukkuh!” I mumble into his armpit.

“Asshole,” he retorts.

[ So there you have it, Intrepid Reader: the latest fantasy that My Trickster Jesus Lizard has imparted to my own wondering mind. Just one more affirmation that I am the luckiest fellow in the entire universe.

– Zeke ]



Click on image for a larger view.

Date: Fri, 10 May 2013 01:34:31
Subject:
My Red Hot Affair
From: Zeke
To: All You Macho Fools Out There

So, now that Larkin presented me two days ago with an /additional/ number for his questionable, digits-only address, I’m finally ready to test it out. See attached photo. It is a pic of the main envelope (w/the address in question), the self addressed envelope, a “Chewy Red Hots” cardboard cutout, and two letters. The second letter you’ve already seen: “Emergency Room Fantasy.” So here is missive #1:

Greetings My Dearest Friend of All Eternity!

Please send me back the “Red Hots” cutout as proof this address is correct, and I can post you further mail. Enclosed is an SASE for that purpose. Now, before I commence my latest rant, please know this:

Your giving me permission to use both your real name and photo in Book 2, was such a sweet and trusting act on your part, I can’t help but accept your acquiescence as the /finest/ apology under the sun, for your recent and crude behavior. But are you still going to avoid me for the most part, treat me like a nuisance and a stranger, never introduce me to bartenders or friends, never speak well of me or defend me against thugs (as you once did so well), never call me up, never invite me over, never take me out? For if so, then I must emphasize to you:

Such cold-shoulder antics perpetuate your recent unkindness towards me, that has gone on for more than four months now! To prolong your sadistic mockery will only serve to water down a most gracious apology, unto irrelevance and dissolution of our friendship. For even if you hadn’t committed acts of violence against me (the shove and the cigarette) your driving me away over and over, and refusing to spend quality time together AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, is a cruel and thoughtless way to treat me, and puts me in misery. Your two violent acts only served to pour acid onto my wounds, thanks for nothing “palsy-walsy.”

It is of course My Greatest Hope that your signed permission marks a new chapter in our lives, that puts an end to your mostly-distant and inconsiderate regard towards one who loves you like no other.

Hmm, you’ve added yet another number to your mystery address. I’m guessing this is a secure mailbox service that replaces your real name with a number (either that, or your prison inmate number, ha ha). Yet you did not indicate whether or not they’ll accept my mail if I /do/ include your real name. So I may have to try twice before learning the truth. *sigh* You are also My Most /Difficult/ Dragon! But I love you so much, no matter what convoluted challenges I must yet pass through.

Looked for you at Pilsner Inn tonight (Thurs., May 9), but you never showed up. I was there from 7-9:30 PM with a new packet to give you, containing chapter 5 along with a nice friendship card. BTW, Scooby-Doo stickers and related paraphernalia are impossible to find at any brick-and-mortar gift or card shop. So I ordered a variety of Scooby-Doo stickers from amazon.com, that I may never again run short of your favorite animated character. They should all arrive by next week at the latest…so please be patient, amigo bonisimo.

According to one barkeep at Pilsner, you’ve pissed off a /lot/ of folks there, including more than one employee, and are about to be 86’d just like some years back. He says that you get extremely loud and pushy at times, hog the pool table while others try to play, and in other ways make a nuisance of yourself. Seems that whenever I’m present, you behave a lot more mellow…’cause /I’ve/ never seen you act pesky in all the years we’ve been friends! Guess I have a tempering effect upon you, thus it may be to your advantage that I accompany you to at least /some/ of your favored hangouts.

However, you were setting me up to appear as a stupid goofball before other Pilsner patrons. For example, as I was finishing a delightful conversation with a young woman there, you intruded yourself between us and said: “Leave the lady alone!” You didn’t even use my name, as if we were strangers. Another very real (and cruel) example: YOU NEVER INTRODUCE ME TO YOUR OTHER FRIENDS! I am relegated to a distant outpost, alone and stranded, while you have rollicking fun and folks enjoying your company. So I must advise you Mr. Kelsey:

It is not /me/ who will ever drive you away from your “little spots” (as you described Twin Peaks Tavern some weeks back, when you begged me to stop sending letters c/o that bar). It is /you/, My Miscreant Monitor, who drives /yourself/ from your favorite hangouts! So I guess you sensed the oncoming storm at Pilsner, and decided to cool your turbines for a time, by staying away. Would be /nice/ if you informed me by phone or mail (or in person) as to your newest hangout, that I may see you there from time to time. But I suppose I’m expecting too much, ’cause when I asked what days you hang at Pilsner, you said: “Whenever I feel like it.”

But I guess that’s why it seems so important to you that I have an actual address by which to send my latest chapters, letters, cards and gifts. In the event you are 86’d from one “little spot” or another. Not very kind, in my opinion, that you leave me hanging in the lurch, wasting my time and money with the expectation you’ll show up. You are My Costly Little Dragon as well, even when I don’t offer you a 10 or 20 spot, that you’ll have a great evening out. Even though it’s without me, your BFF of all time!

Do you think I’m angry? Certainly not: I am merely grieved over your hurtful games. I could /afford/ to pop you some moolah–and that, more often–were I not duped into frequenting a booze joint weeks beyond your abrupt departure. Would be decent if I could get /laid/ once or twice (and/or if some hottie bought me a boosted vodka tonic) before I eventually sniff out the trail to your newfound watering abyss. Alack and alas: I am the Little Match Girl Among Barflies.

Be that as it may, I actually /prefer/ to present you my gifts in person, as it means so much to me to behold your glittery scales once or twice a week, rather than never again see you, and am limited to only sending you mail. Believe me, Beloved Brother, I’ve been through TWELVE Y EARS of that, with My Randolph. I can not bear going through such a painful relationship ever again Please don’t set me up for a repeat, it is just too harsh.

Are you indicating that you love my gifts, but not my actual person? Shades of Cyrano! That because of this, you’re manipulating our relationship to become a one-way, mail-only affair? That you prefer my presents and chapters far more when delivered by mail, than by my own hand where I can gaze once more into your fiery golden eyes? Believe me, Larkin, I know cruelty from my brothers inside and out already, after decades of vulgar treatment simply because I’m a good guy and quite needful of friendship and love. Why on earth would you, of all people, prefer to include yourself among such creeps? I just don’t get it.

You even have at least one of my homeless friends visit you at your home, yet you never include me! You also talk with some of my street friends, spend more time with them than you ever do me! BTW, guitarist Rom informed me that you told him I’m your stalker. He knows better, as I’ve been kind and generous to him and other houseless denizens for many months if not years, here in the Castro. So I question:

WHEN ON GOD’S GREEN EARTH ARE YOU EVER GONNA SPEAK WELL OF ME TO THESE PEOPLE, OR TO ANYONE ELSE FOR THAT MATTER? WHEN I’M DEAD AND GONE AND CANONIZED TO SAINTHOOD?

For your information, Larkin, most of the barkeeps who give you the boot regret doing so, as they regard you as basically a really wonderful guy. So don’t go away mad, just go away with intent to eventually apologize with great sincerity and humility. Such a manly approach will trigger a healing process that will resolve what remains of your fears, angers, sorrows and doubts. It’s an automatic process that, once it starts, can never be halted. I speak that with utter conviction, as a man who titles himself “Jehovah’s Queer Witness.”

Love you to pieces like nephews and nieces:


Hitting Bottom

May 5, 2013

[ Free Me From This Bond (the sequel): Chapter 15 ]

Date: Sun, 28 Apr 2013 18:09:12
Subject:
Dearest Randolph
From: Zeke
To: Randolph Louis Taylor

[ Ravenous Reader: I just discovered this lost file in my “quicknotes” folder. Forgot /all/ about it! ]

12 September 2012

My Most Beloved Randolph,

It has been many many years since I last wrote to you. Now at this point, I’m not even sure if the address via your cousin Kitty is good any more. But I need to speak to you from my heart once more, after such a long passage of time. Even if this letter never goes beyond my failing hard drive.

There are new loves in my life (all homeless but one, Arwyn), who most likely will be taken away from me in a few months’ time or a bit longer…as this is my usual fate. Yet, I always come back to you, even if it’s just an image from a Washington Post news article dated 1985.

I now have a wonderful and most handsome young man in my life, named Derrik. He is but 32 years old, but already has so much wisdom and love to offer the world, I am amazed. Did you bring him to me, to ease this terrible cross? I suspect so.

He is so sweet and kind to me. Yet, due to his jobless/homeless plight, my budget is totally drained, what with feeding him and treating him to one or two restaurant meals per month, in order to give him joy. It is not right that I must be so financially devastated, just for the simple act of love and friendship. Not to mention possible eviction due to his sometimes-erratic behavior, or his feigned craving for poon-tang: a most insulting and grievous burden to place upon /any/ gay person, let alone a dedicated LGBT activist.

So why bring him to me, when the homophobic BS contines to oppress my spirit? Why on earth would you crush my soul, when you know very well that the last thing I need is this nasty intrusion upon my gay-dedicated soul?

I have been ripped off by “gay” speed freaks, of my android tablet and portable laptop. I have been drained of my care for gay brothers, by methamphetamine and general thievery. My opportunity to become published and lucrative enough to aid my gay street pals has been sabotaged by the ignorance and greed of both gay and hetero brothers.

So why on God’s fukkin green earth, did you bring me such a beautiful, sweet man, only to result in sabotage and conflict once more? Why have you also brought me Zack, only to take him away from me in due time, thanks to his desire to return to his home town of New Orleans?

So much time has passed since I flew to D.C. to pull you out of utter desperation. Yet I remain obsessed by your needfulness, and my love for you. I feel very much like a waste of life, thanks to your failure to return /anything/ even remotely resembling friendship or love.

I must therefore make this demand: quit allowing my difficult life to be riddled with undeserved failure and disappointment, and do something really good for me, for a change.

You’re an asshole, Randolph. I hope your Nam Vet buddies have been sodomizing you with bayonets ever since you died and went to hell.

With much love lost,

Zeke


Date: Sun, 28 Apr 2013 18:44:46
Subject:
$$$ For Keith
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

El: I just sent a sweet friendship card to my platonic lover, Keith, with a check for $300. And the following hand printed letter on loose-leaf (Click on letter for larger view):

And gosh darn it, El, since my multifunction printer broke down, I can’t scan that lovely hand printed letter to enhance my blog entry, which will be composed of this email, and become part of a chapter in Book 3. Aargh!

[ Insatiable Reader: I have since purchased a scanner and hand printed my letter to Keith all over again, before posting this entry. I am /so/ anal retentive I’d even give Exlax a “run” for the money! ]

For context, Mi Musa Increible, now read over this email I posted him earlier today:

Date: Sun, 28 Apr 2013 11:16:29 -0700
Subject:
You need to understand…
From: Zeke
To: Keith

…why I exploded at you in an earlier email, and why I cut us off from that form of communique for a time. But please, Keith, I’m telling you with all the love I can muster up.

My soul is wracked with grief right now as I type. I break down and cry often these days, because Arwyn is so beautiful and wonderful to me: the /best/, most kind friend I have ever known in my entire, pathetic and lonely life. Since he turned on me with hatred and violence these last few months, I have been struck down mightily by an evil so profound I wish I were dead but for one reason:

to be here for Arwyn no matter what, even if I must be relegated to loving him from a afar. Including if that’s the way it must remain for eternity.

For even /that/ outcome I’d prefer, rather than him going insane and/or dying from a brain tumor. Or whatever the malady is that has caused such a profound and wicked change in his personality. A personality (I might add) that has been so brilliant, so talented, so gracious, and so sweet you wouldn’t believe! And focused it all on me, for almost eight years before disaster wiped it all out.

I have no real friends, just acquaintances. Real friends see each other regularly, in person…they do not limit their association to mostly email. Especially if they harbor great affection for each other. The love is there between us Keith, of this I have no doubt, and /greatly/ appreciate. But the friendship lingers on the back burner like leftover oatmeal.

Yesterday I bumped into one acquaintance, Tony, when I stepped off the N Judah at Duboce Park. I haven’t seen him for years, BTW, since the Pendulum shut down; it was SF’s only gay bar that catered to African Americans. So I told him about my present tragedy. He just chuckled and suggested:

“Be with your friends, they’ll give you support.” I almost smacked him:

“I have no friends, just acquaintances.” He just smiled and laughed:

“Get Arwyn to a therapist, they’ll give him the right medication for his mood swings.” I was shocked at his jerkwad comments:

“He doesn’t /need/ a therapist, he needs to be rushed to a hospital, get an MRI scan and whatever else is necessary to track down the problem. Which I believe is most likely a brain tumor!” Then I added:

“And /I/ don’t need /you/ to play therapist with me!”

He just laughed some more, said his goodbyes and proceeded home. I was dumbstruck: no compassion, not even a hug. Just a bunch of armchair advice. You’d think if he had any heart, he’d offer to be /my/ friend, go out for coffee, allow me some respite from this momentous tragedy. But no:

Just like everyone else I know, he too keeps his distance and never bothers to be a real friend. And returns to his happy little life with all his /other/ friends. All except me.

In the past three weeks, I met and had passionate sex with a rather good-looking fellow named Nat. He seemed very sweet, I cried in his arms like a baby, and he held me. I truly felt buoyed in spirit from his kindness (at least, I perceived him as kind; I was desperate for affection and hugs). But the next morning after he departed, I discovered my digital camera was gone.

I really don’t understand why very nice folks I’ve met (such as yourself and Gus, but there are others) do not stand by me through this tragedy of immense proportion. Since I know full well you both have other friends whom you’d support with great love and friendship, through their own sorrowful crises. I have NO ONE upon whose shoulder I could lean. NO ONE who invites me out for walks, coffee, or to their home.

Certainly, I understand your kind of severe PTSD, thus your rare invites. But Gus? He knows my situation too, and could invite me over or hang out over coffee now and then. I just don’t grasp what seems to me, a gross lack of sensitivity towards someone who he claims to greatly admire.

I enjoyed very much the rare times when I was invited to your flat: had a lovely evening (except that first, because of a horrid TV show blasting throughout the living room and stifling my ability to reach out to you, and vice versa). You’d think that–knowing now the awful challenge dumped on me–there would be more than enough concern to touch bases with me, invite me over, say once or twice per week…that my suffering would be eased.

But no, that doesn’t happen. Nor does it happen with anyone else I’ve met who seems really nice. Therefore in my desperation I’ve appealed to the SF gay community at large, for compassion and friendship. And if nothing comes of that, all I can say is:

“Woe to our community.”

For they would prefer that Arwyn die (and I perish in mysery), than do such a simple thing as be a friend.

My great hope then, is that this disaster is but another test, that I grow in spirit and /prove/ to the warlocks among us (especially in the SOMA district), that I am a such a righteous man that indeed, I will liberate us all.

That Arwyn is merely /feigning/ a brain tumor to put me through my paces. That I learn to walk a very fine line between love for another, and responsibility towards my own self.

That these warlocks witness my selfless compassion towards Arwyn, by declaring I will /always/ love that outstanding man, even if it must be from far away, even if it must be forever.

That I stand proud before even those who accuse me of playing the drama queen for my own self glory.

That as a healer, I’m also being tested on ability to analyze a tragic situation and move as rapidly as possible in resolving it. Without ever being vindictive, violent or just tossing up my hands and walking away from a calamity that threatens to consume one whom I love dearly, into a dark hole of evil. Thus leaving Arwyn completely alone to perish.

I would also assume, then, that both you and Gus number among these warlocks. And that keeping your distance (rather than reaching out in kind hugs and visits) is a necessary component of this test. And therefore you share my grief, especially since you are both forbidden from showering me with compassion.

I suppose then, that the shutting down of my printer–along with failed (and expensive) results at a copy center–are all part of this test. There is a very /important/ reason I still need to print out my tales and letters. Only /one/ reason and no other:

That I may continue to love Arwyn (though from a distance), by gifting him with additional stories and love letters. Now, here’s a good sign regarding the printer issue:

I just logged on to amazon.com to look for a new printer. Lo and behold I found one for under $30: the HP Deskjet 1000. No bells and whistles, no multifunction (such as scanner and photocopier). Reviews on this product are outstanding. So I just ordered this device, plus additional ink (which is also quite affordable).

I got a bundle deal for under $51 (extra ink cartridge and USB connector). Scroll down a bit, and you’ll see. Of course, I’ll now need to purchase a scanner, too, as my now-defunct printer was multifunction. But scanners are dirt cheap these days. It is /so/ important that I have access to a printer, simply for the sake of a man who means /everything/ to me. For if Arwyn dies (or goes insane, or the surgery causes major brain damage):

The fabulous wealth and fame that is due soon to come my way, will mean NOTHING. Absolutely zilch. I will be the unhappiest person on the planet, and likely perish from heartbreak. But the upside to all this, is that I will acquire more than enough money to cover /all/ of Arwyn’s medical expenses, housing, and even a lucrative career as a professional party mixer for gay events.

Book 3, then, starts with my discovery of a possible brain tumor, and how I deal with it. And my desperate search for friendship and support…to the point where I bare my soul to the entire LGBT community. I’ve done /all/ I possibly can to reach out and save Arwyn’s soul…with incredible sacrifice in the process. At this point, should no one in Our Gay Family rush in to join me in this battle against the demons–and Arwyn pass away as a result–the onus will be on everyone /other/ than myself.

Those who wallow in their own sorrows and tribulations, or in their own selfish lives, will pay a GREAT price indeed. They will have their parties, visit their friends, and enjoy all sorts of fun by what this affluent city provides in abundance. Good for them. But those who do not offer /some/ level of support, compassion or action (even in the smallest degree) are doomed souls.

I guess it is not just /me/ who’s being tested, eh?

I never realized till a few days ago: “Hey, I’m writing not just one book, but a trilogy!” It is my most fervent prayer that Book 3 turn out to have the happiest ending of all possible happiest endings. But that hopeful turnout seems to be outta my own hands at this point.

All my love to you, Keith (in spite of this crushing weight on my sorry little soul). Please say a prayer for My Darling Dragon. And if you’re not too exhausted after that, say one for me, too.

– Zeke

Gosh darn it again, El! Since my only camera has been lifted, I can’t take a snapshot of this lovely card, and the nice hummingbird stickers I stuck to the back of the cream-yellow envelope. So I’ll have to REpurchase same card, and duplicate the entire envelope and card. Once my /next/ camera arrives, then I’ll take snapshots for the blog entry.

[ Opulent Reader: I have likewise purchased a new digital camera before posting this entry. So now, the pics: ]


Click on above image for larger view.

Is it too much to beg Fate to stop battering me? I’ve been crying “uncle” for decades! Maybe my mistake is not crying “aunt.”

– Zeke


Date: Sun, 28 Apr 2013 11:16:29 -0700
Subject:
Re: $$$ For Keith.
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ God, that’s wonderful! Don’t you just love giving $$ away? I do. There’ve been times when I had plenty, and it was so much fun to be “Michael Anthony” on a small scale. }}

I truly enjoyed buying my street buddies a meal, handing out over $2,000 worth of excellent ganja, and being able to self-publish.

{{ Your camera?? That’s an unpardonable crime. It’s no use to him anyway, without the software that goes with it. Christ!!!!!!!! Well, as soon as you get your next $$, snag yourself a camera. Life is not livable, in my opinion without a camera!!!!!!!!!! }}

Actually, you don’t need any software…that’s just “extras” such as image editing, photo album software, etc. The pics are stored on a memory card. Just extract it and plug it into your PC’s slot and you’re good to go.

I ordered another camera already, should arrive in less than a week.

Yes, life w/o a camera at hand sux.

I decided to handwrite my letter to Keith all over again, so I can scan it and put it into my blog. God, the sacrifices I go through just to be the world’s greatest gay activist ever! You’d think that the Munificent Spaghetti Monster would make things at least a /tad/ easier, considering my benevolent cause. *sigh*

– Zeke

PS: I really lucked out w/Diego! Not only is he extremely handsome, he has a perfect body (every square inch), and speaking of wanger: talk about inches! Let’s just say I can now throw away my yardstick. Badda-boom badda-bing. No, seriously folks, take my domestic partner, please! He also has a voice that really turns me on. He tastes exquisite /everywhere/. And he has such a sweet nature, devoted to his friends. This’ll really help me over my struggles to regain Arwyn’s love and get that damned tumor removed. Or whatever the curse might be.


Date: Mon, 29 Apr 2013 19:33:43
Subject:
If you found evidence…
From: Zeke
To: Bryan of Pilsner Inn

…of Arwyn tossing a lit cigarette at me via a security camera, please save it. And if at all possible, email that splice of the video to me. Or press it onto a DVD, whence I can pick it up, or you can snail-mail it.

I need it as evidence in case he further threatens or attacks me. At which point I will have no choice but to press charges, place a restraining order on him, etc. NOT something I ever wish to do (I’m already dog paddling in a sea of sorrow), but it may be the /only/ way I get him to go through an MRI scan, as well as protect myself.

BTW, you should know that on that same evening we had a very enjoyable get-together. The cigarette incident came totally out of the blue…but with victims of brain tumors, things can turn ugly in a flash. If it’s /not/ a tumor (though I have a very strong intuition it is), then it’s something else equally serious, for which he needs to see a doctor ASAP.

Thanks once more for your considerate attention.

– Zeke


Date: Mon, 29 Apr 2013 21:28:05
Subject:
Re: If you found evidence…
From: Zeke
To: Bryan of Pilsner Inn

Bryan wrote:

{{ Unfortunately there is no video available. }}

Okay, thanks for letting me know. I wouldn’t be surprised if Arwyn gets himself booted out by some offense against another. I lectured him a week ago that he needs to profusely apologize to everyone he’s either offended or hurt. I’ll soon have tons of money, thanks to my book…and will give him $$$ so he can apologize in a variety of ways, such as taking these people out for dinner, shopping, or whatever.

Meanwhile, I’ll have to pursue other avenues in this matter. If none of his friends reach out to him soon, hopefully the fates that be will get him to a hospital in time. He might just suddenly collapse, whatever it takes.

At least you’re now aware and can keep an eye peeled. He needs /help/, not vindictiveness.

Well, you did your best. Thanks again, Bryan.

– Zeke


Date: Tue, 30 Apr 2013 03:07:51
Subject:
I can’t believe you, Keith!
From: Zeke
To: Keith

You looked pathetically wan and skinny like a meth head, as you entered the Posh Bagel on Castro Street. To top it off, you tossed me a terribly obsequious grin as you swiftly stepped up to the cash register. No hugs, no kisses, no sweet aura! As if I’ve suddenly become a cockroach in your baby-whatever-color-it-is eyes. Then, as you awaited your order of two gourmet bagels for yourself and Gus (I presume though it’s none of my business), you seated yourself at a table behind a “THANK YOU” trash bin just tall enough to hide your darling self from my loving sight.

To be flatly honest, My Divine Companion, I’ve never seen you look so wan and empty-husked, it sorta broke my little lamb heart! Moment your order was ready, you scooted outta there like a tween fleeing an abandoned house so the ghosts would not capture him and suck his soul dry! Again, a fawning smile before you vanished out the door. Jeez!

At the time you appeared like a surprise epiphany, I was reading my letter to the editor (the most important letter I’ve /ever/ writ in my entire life of misfortune) to one of my street pals, Ricky. Told him:

“Uh-oh, Ricky, don’t turn around when I tell you this, just look straight at me.” So Ricky held his hazel-eyed Bambi gaze upon my own vision. I explicated:

“This is platonic boyfriend #2 who just came in. I don’t want him to hear this.”

So I paused my reading until you departed like a gypsy thief. Again, no kisses, hugs or even so much as a how-do-you-do. If it was your intent to utterly destroy my faith in queerkind, you win a gold star.

At first I concluded that my previous email (“Emergency”) blew you to smithereens by its explosively raw truth. So that it wracked you with guilt so badly, it sapped all your remaining joy and strength (already severely compromised by your tragic family and career history.) But some hours later and earlier tonight, it struck me like a bolt of Zeus’s jism:

“No, he’s just humbling himself before me. Keith is part of the Warlock Circle that puts me through my paces.”

So you already /knew/ I was at the Posh Bagel, thus intentionally showed up to play this little game of “I lose, you win.”

That was an adorable little skit, Keith! You don’t fool me for a moment. Still, I crave so much your exquisite kisses and hugs, that I’m kinda pissed. Ha ha, you little scamp!

Please expect tomorrow or next day, a special friendship card I sent you two days ago.

Always tremendously in love with my brave, foxy and mischievous Scottish soldier/comrade, I remain as always,

Your best friend of all time after Gus:

– Zeke


Date: Tue, 30 Apr 2013 03:39:51
Subject:
My Next Laptop
From: Zeke
To: Sean

Seeing as I’ve really pushed the envelope of late, with my only-1GB-RAM Gateway Netbook, I realized I could more easily facilitate my latest online projects by upgrading to a system with four times the memory, plus a built-in DVD drive…with a 12.1″ screen that invites portability for queer revolutionaries who may need to suddenly disappear and run off to parts unknown at the drop of a rump paddle.

Though since the elegant device has a limited hard drive of just 120 GB, I also purchased a 500 GB external hard drive, that I may save my downloaded movies and TV shows there, instead of to the main hard drive. This USB drive will also serve as the repository for all files downloaded by my Firefox browser. Better yet:

Because it’s refurbished, it only cost me $279! Tigerdirect.com has an excellent reputation for refurbished, open box and discontinued computer products…as they only sell /quality/ products, whether brand new or secondhand. Check it out:

HP Elitebook 2530p
http://tinyurl.com/hpe2530p

Now, my Gateway netbook will serve perfectly as my portable brain for connecting via public spaces such as this or that coffeehouse, and also the Eagle Tavern. The bartenders there are /so/ sweet to me, thus I return the appreciation by setting up shop at Eagle two or more days per week (late afternoon), as the Gay Community’s Author/Poet Laureate! Now that Alan Ginsberg is long deceased and rotting in his grave or cremation urn or whatever.

– Zeke


Date: Tue, 30 Apr 2013 23:38:20 -0700
Subject:
Fantasy Number Whatever
From: Zeke
To: My E-frenz

Okay my E-comrades, after Arwyn terrorizing me with the possibility of his suffering a brain tumor, or pranking me, I’ve reconsidered that he’s driven me away due to potential harm to my lone self. Just like he did in 2007 at the original Hole, so that I’d cease being a target of evil…or at least minimize the danger. (See Chapter 13 of Book One: “The Phone Call.”)

By Arwyn’s command I am /verboten/ from entering Twin Peaks Tavern, even when he’s not present. “WTF is going on in there?” I wonder. “Can’t be drug dealing, as that site is totally exposed to public witness due to the enormous plate glass windows on two sides that face Castro, 17th & Market streets.” I muse further:

“Definitely something serious: perhaps a sex ring or money laundering, by one or more bartenders, the manager, or even the owner(s). And the only way he knew to guarantee I keep my distance was to scare the cherub outta me. Of course he could have just /told/ me what’s going on…but then again he prefers I figure matters out for myself. Which sharpens my skills as a gumshoe’s assistant. And perhaps some other important purpose of which I am unaware.” Additional revelations bubble up:

“Arwyn has no real authority to permit or ban a person’s entry: he’s neither a bouncer nor any other type of employee there, AFAIK. Yet some days past, he vociferously demanded that I leave, the moment I entered. And in such bold voice, I’m certain the two bartenders heard (along with every single patron). Yet neither barkeep opposed him, but merely tended to their libationary chores. Ergo:

“He /must/ be a detectve embedded at Twin Peaks Tavern! Or operating in a similar capacity (such as a respected guardian of our LGBT Family).” Then I reconsider my Prankster Theory:

“Of course I’d be /greatly/ relieved to discover that his recent and crude regards were just a prank, as opposed to personality deterioration from a brain tumor! Be that as it may, such a prank is way too harsh AFAIC: not worth the grief by anyone’s measure (except the devil’s)! Which brings me back to my “brain tumor” letter to the editor:

“If a silly game it be, then I’ve exposed him to public humiliation and condemnation. It would then seem to /this/ confused little dragon, that I’ve effectively nipped in the bud, Arwyn’s ever again pulling such a heartless stunt. Especially since–and most /important/ of all–he has coerced me to reach out to /many/ trusting gay souls (mainly bartenders and patrons South of Market). Causing them /needless/ waste of their valuable time, their devoted energy, and their faith in my honesty.

“Arwyn’s antics could result in a severe breach in my integrity and many years’ history as a dedicated activist! Surely, in the event this /does/ turn out to be nothing more than a trick, these excellent folks will come up with such a retaliation against Arwyn, he will forever regret his assinine abuse of my faith in him. For one: he will be summarily 86’d from every single gay bar in The City…and most likely, every LGBT bar on the planet! May even spill over to countless /hetero/ bars, too.

“Not that I don’t totally /adore/ his many pranks these past 7+ years…but he’s /never/ before played them out with even the /hint/ of violence or anger.” Though my spirit still agonizes:

“Arwyn put me between a rock and a hard place for sure! I have absolutely /no/ choice but to regard my Brain Tumor Theory as a serious possibility. For how could I ever /forgive/ myself if I did not, and it turns out he /does/ have a deadly tumor? And perishes or goes permanently insane as a result, because I failed to intervene? Breaks my long-suffering heart to think of how he must suffer from cluster headaches, paranoia, and turning on those whom he most loves…and not have the slightest clue about what’s
/really/ going on! And thus:

“I dare /not/ allow those who accuse me of conjuring up this tragedy to gain attention for my own self glory…including couch hopping at bartenders’ and studly patrons’ homes, where hot sex is a possible result (at least now and then)? But certainly, lots of passionate affection and conjugal adventure surely /would/ help raise my hopes and empower me to fight for my platonic lover’s happy survival.” I have therefore come to realize (to my surprise and joy):

“My letter to the editor covers /both/ possible bases perfectly! Either way (prank or tumor), it’s a win/win solution. What an epiphany of relief.” Yet one more astounding conclusion now dawns upon this fevered brow: the Detective Theory!

“If indeed Arwyn is a private eye hired by the SFPD to uncover a cult that lurks among our gay populace (including the PD itself), then my letter will convince the ghouls that they’ve effectively /won/ their mission, which is to break up us two love parrots for good! I have therefore inadvertently (though with perfect and unconscious intuition) assisted My Soulful Warlock in easing the risks entailed in such a diabolical case. As well as more efficaciously apprehend the culprits. No matter how you slice, dice or chop things up, we sure make for a crackerjack team!”

[ So there you have it, My Prayerful Readers: this author’s latest musing on most extraordinary events unfolding in my life like an infinitely-petaled lotus. ]

Now, I think it’s a very good idea to pause at this juncture, to enjoy my latest gleeful fantasy about My Amazing Reptile and his dedicated sidekick:

Fantasy #whatever:

Arwyn steps into the Eagle, but ignores me; seats himself from quite a distance. Later as he proceeds to exit, I holler:

“Don’t let that man leave without giving me a hug!”

Barkeep Eugene dashes to the front entrance to block Arwyn’s egress…swiftly accompanied by two burly patrons for backup. So My Mischievous Mesosaurus flees to the patio and the emergency exit.

Once more he’s obstructed, this time by four powerful dudes. With a resigned sigh he skulks in my direction as I bellow:

“And it better be a really sweet, prolonged hug or the bartenders will not let you go.” Then I add for his benefit: “And they’ll know if your hug makes me happy or not, ’cause they’re telepathic just like you!”

So Arwyn wraps his spidery arms about my trembling torso, and I melt. For one long and beatific minute I melt. His darling embrace grips me like a giant squid to Nemo’s Nautilus. His head presses warmly against mine; our ears clamp like two seashells: I hear the ocean’s distant rumble. My ecstatic tears trickle onto his polyester suit jacket, moistening the left shoulder. “He looks ‘hawt’ in plaid!”

Seconds tick by for an eternity, yet somehow the universe collapses and he pulls away. No sooner does My Bewitching Beelzebub turn aside and take his first step, than I boom my next declaration:

“What, no kiss?”

Noticing both exits still blocked, he swivels back to my own bossy self, to peck me on the left temple. I grab his jacket on the buttonhole side and reprimand:

“Whoa buddy, you call that a kiss? On the lips pal, on the lips!”

Arwyn exhales a deep groan with rolling eyes. Then lowers his Brobdignagian frame to press his mouth upon mine…for, say, 10 seconds. Then draws away. Once more he turns to depart, but I further insist:

“What? No tongue? Get your sorry ass over here buster, and show me /two/ solid minutes of French delice.” I point a commanding index finger in Tall Boy’s direction: “Then, and only then, will I permit you to leave.”

I am swept up in his arms for 120 glorious seconds. And believe you me, the bartenders keep count out loud:

“One thousand one, one thousand two…” and so on.

At last my SOMA guardians step aside from both exits as Arwyn slumps away. But after less than 5 steps I echo one more order:

“What, no blow job?” The exits are guarded once more, in a flash.

So Arwyn quickly spins heel to press against me, and releases my wolf’s-head belt buckle.

“Hardy har har sweetheart,” I chuckle, “Just joking. You can go now.”

But My Greatest Blessing persists, and now fusses with my 101 button fly.

“No way, Zeke!” he sternly opposes like a Puritan forefather about to lash his quivering son. “You’re not gonna get away with it this time. Now /whip/ out that golden rod before I do it myself!”

I squirm desperately to flee, but I’m no match for My Thundering Dragon. In my struggle to defend my virginal sanctity, the barstool topples over with a raucous “bang!”. But Arwyn catches me well before I hurt myself. Helpless before his ubermasculine potency, Arwyn drags me to the only restroom with a privacy lock.

Several seconds pass before the nasty deed is done.

Arwyn departs (this time for realz), leaving me in the wake so to speak. Seated on the toilet where the action just took place, I struggle to catch my breath, recover my boxer shorts and Levi jeans, button up my fly, and cinch the belt. Stepping out to perch my dishevelled self once more at the bar, I place my next order with barkeep Chad:

“Pour me a stiff one, handsome. Arwyn already had /his/.”

– Zeke


Date: Sat, 4 May 2013 14:07:33
Subject:
The Mysterious Case of the Vanished Text
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Had to return to Pilsner Inn today (May 3), to deliver yet one more letter to Arwyn, that got returned. Also, I need to get on the ‘net and my home wifi is down. Pilsner has the best wifi in the Castro, at least when it comes to gay bars.

(BTW, the Bay Area Reporter’s latest issue came out, and they did /not/ print my letter. Fuk ’em. Hopefully, the SF Bay Times will, but they only come out once every two weeks. We’ll just have to wait and see.}

Arwyn shows up, tells me to just change the first 2 to a 4. I tell him that the PO requires a street address, too…so “correcting” a number won’t make a difference. Asked him why the address is so important, when I could just continue to hand him my gifts and letters in person. This gives me reason to believe he’s moving back to San Diego. He just walked back to the pool table. In fact, I had to /yell/ my question, he was already halfway there.

I move to the patio to discover a very important chapter passage that is long and powerful, has been erased. My online backup service also replaced that passage with the most recent text file. I had hit ctrl-x to paste it into my email, when suddenly my gmail acted weird and the netbook shut down.

DAMMIT I SHOULA HIT CTRL-C INSTEADA X AND NONA THIS WOULDA HOPPENED!!!

Totally sad over this, I move to a side bench where smoking is allowed. Suddenly this black hobo whose been stalking me in the Castro and screams at me because I refuse to give him the time of day, sits right beside me. He doesn’t address me (thank god), but babbles into the air, rolls his eyes while scrunching up his face in weird expressions, hands and arms flailing about. This is too much, so I move to another bench. A little later, Arwyn steps into the patio and walks by me. I wanted to tell him about the hobo, so he could chase him out. But I guess that’s not in the cards any more: he seems not to give a fuk about me anymore, and is tossing me to the wolves.

Why on earth Pilsner allows such an obvious creep inside, is beyond me. In a while, I move back to the end of the bar furthest from the entrance (a good spot for computer work). Arwyn by now is gone. But a few minutes later he returns to play more pool. Doesn’t acknowledge me in the least, so I do some more work until 10 or so minutes pass, then depart.

I am so sad that passage was accidentally deleted! I’m sure Arwyn did that, he has very powerful psychic gifts. I do not doubt for a moment anymore, as to the existence of a spiritual world. Nor do I mean to offend you by my perspective, but I /must/ speak the truth as I see it, and as I’ve experienced it.

The deleted section was /so/ wonderful, an exquisite piece of writing that I could /never/ recall. Took up around 18 paragraphs. Completely unrecoverable. You woulda loved it, El! Not in the trash bin. Unable to resurrect it with an undelete program. Yet, there are angels who’ve preserved my missing works. I believe the Hindus call this the Akashic Record. But it grieves me beyond measure, what I am being put through in every direction.

No one’s shoulder to lean on…not even Diego’s (Cinderella has nothing on me). He’s kinda kept forgetting to show up when he would. Seemed to have a great heart and was very affectionate, knowing my situation with Arwyn. Said whenever I needed his comfort in an emergency, he’d drop everything else and come to me. Well, El, I started really needing his handsome sweet self two nights ago. He called, and even though I told him I’m in a bad state, he didn’t bother to offer to see me. Two days later: still no Diego.

About an hour ago, I microwaved a yummy Italian dish (manicotti), and when I went to grind the pepper mill over it, suddenly the cap gave out, and dozens of peppercorns spilled into my plate. I was already feeling so bad, I felt very very hurt that God would allow my misery to not only continue, but worsen. Wait, it doesn’t end there:

So heartbroken over Arwyn, yet neither Keith nor Diego (nor any other among the few people who know what I’m going through) have reached out. I am shocked to say the least…especially over Keith, that very handsome fellow with PTSD and a /magnificent/ lover, Gus. Remember how kind I was with Keith, through his ordeal? Coulda had sex with him–more than once, even–yet I did NOT. Only because that would be taking advantage of a suffering soul (considering his frail condition), don’t you agree?

Now, I hear nary a peep out of either Keith /or/ Gus. I feel quite disgraced. Any joy that I ever had, Arwyn took away from me. I could never be happy without him in my life. And I know it’s not just a feeling that will fade in time. It’s right there in my heart, El. If that’s all that’s left of our once-heavenly friendship, I will /never/ let go of it.

So I realized I needed to pick up more manicotti entrees, slipped on out the gate and hiked over to Molly Stone’s. Naturally (as natural as dew on a rose), passing close by (very close by) Twin Peaks Tavern. Of course I didn’t see My Pagan Python there, nor did I expect to: it was after 9 o’clock, and he’s never there that late. Except once, on Xmas Eve. It was almost 10 PM that night, when I completed my latest gift packet to him. You remember:

the stuffed beanie dragon in purple and white, my earnest love letter (probably the 80th or so), talking Scooby-Doo card, black stocking cap with a dragon design in gold, one playing card with a dragon on the back (might have been the joker), some kickass weed, and I guess one or two other things.

Just on the off chance Arwyn /knew/ I had another gift for him, I trotted down Market Street to Castro, crossed Market to 17th. Then crossed /that/ street (with a wary eye on any streetcar that may suddenly lurch forward), to stare into the massive picture window and gaze at My Brave Gila Monster. For there he was indeed, grinning at me with the broadest smile, his orange-gold eyes sparkling with joy renewed!

He immediately stepped out to embrace me with all his arms and heart. And I presented him that gift. He /always/ knows!

Now, I just got back hovel from Molly Stone’s, to find a message on my answering machine. “Probably Diego again,” I thought. “He /never/ calls me when I’m home!”

So I play it back to hear: “Hey this is Donny, can ya let me in?”

Oh fuk me with a duck! My god do I want to let him in! I’ve been /dying/ to hook up with that sterling kok…er, I mean “man” for weeks! Had no idea if I’d ever see him again. And right now, when I need some authentic male compassion more than ever, I am cruelly /teased/ because he most likely won’t call again, any time soon. It’s as /if/ Arwyn’s spirit were jealous, and driving them away.

And I can’t even email this letter to you until ‘morrow morn or noon. Worse yet, the moment Arwyn dropped his dragon-butt upon the barstool right beside me, my /first/ e-missive suddenly went “poof” just when I was ready to post it! That, mi amiga muy buena, is the vanished text which Arwyn scorched away in a flash (ethereal dragon fire of course), not even a crisp remained. The Little Skunk-Wyvern! I’m surprised he didn’t belch.

In my disappeared passage, I told the story of how I prepared to meet Arwyn at Pilsner Inn, that I may place in his paw the final mail that I sent. It was a letter. Can’t recall what words they held, though it’s probably my letter to the editor. Well, whatever it contained, Arwyn need never doubt it doesn’t come from the depths of my heart, and the heights of my imagination.

But really, El, that was the most /important/ thing to do for him right now: that he get the complete collection of 2 letters and 2 packets. They /all/ came from a most urgent prayer that were washed in more than a few tears (let me tell you). It was a most intense, 3-day trial, more compelling than an orgasm at midnight under a full moon on Solstice Day.

That I got him that letter: the one folded with the same packet as the Scooby-Doo belt buckle. The one that pleaded with him to see a doctor ASAP. Accompanied by a printout of brain tumor symptoms. I believe I wrote it as compassionately and informatively as angelically possible, that he would never question if this letter were some form of vengeance. Well, you’ve read that letter El, and I’m sure you agree.

But I have faith a miracle shall occur: the Angels /will/ return to me, this missing passage within a very short time! How could I /not/ believe, when given so much evidence of an afterlife (or “spirit world” if you prefer)? So long as there’s no afterArwyn! I want it to be: alwaysArwyn!

I am highly curious as to precisely /how/ they will bring it back to me. Even amused. Now, Diego just called. Just when I’m about to send off this email. He asked how I am, I said:

“Told you two days ago: I’m in a bad state.” So he simply replied:

“Okay. Hope you’re feeling better in a few days. I’ll just leave you alone, okay?”

I hung up immediately. Being in a “bad state” means he’s /supposed/ to come over, and hold me in his darling arms while I suck on his Mexican tubesteak. What’s not to like? His chest and armpits are /great/ to lick, as is every other part, every square inch of his guapo self. Told him the last night we went passionately overboard:

“Yech! I take it back.”

“/What/ do you take back,” he asks with a beatific grin on his mug, while I lick those sweet armpits. (About which he was too ticklish to touch there, the first time we played. And that was just two hay-rolls ago! Where’s my gold star, eh? I’m a trooper!)

“Remember when I told you that every part of you tastes delicious?” He nods in bliss. I continue:

“Well, that deoderant just burnt my tongue like a chemistry lab.”

“So you just brush me off like that, hey, Diego?” I thought before I smashed the cordless into its plastic cradle. What did he expect me to say: “Okay”? Besides:

Donny’s /too/ gorgeous a dude to turn away! Oh Adonai, my Donny!

So here’s the “update” appendage to The Vanished Scroll, which you’ll just have to accept until said time Goddess’s Seraphim shall deliver unto “moi,” The Ressurrected Apocrypha. (And then this email ends. Keeping my fingers crossed that Donny drops by):

=====

UPDATE: next day

So I spilled two tiny drops of milk onto the mini keyboard, wiped it up with a tissue, and guess what: now three keys don’t work! Maybe when it’s totally dry it’ll come back to life. Meanwhile, I’ve relegated it to my PC component box. $42 down the drain like a silverfish. *sigh*

I’m stuck in this hot , stuffy room waiting for a Fed Ex delivery. They left a message on my answering machine yesterday, that a package will be delivered on Friday. Of course, no two or three hour window offered: I’m supposed to just sulk in Hell’s Sauna awaiting a delivery that may never come. It’s now 1:10 PM and I’m sweating.

It is /so/ important at this time, for me to hang at Howard’s Cafe, for some sort of social respite that helps me cope. But since they close at three–and Fed Ex has yet to show up–I doubt I can get there today. (As it turns out, the Angel of Claustrophobia drove me outta my SRO by 2 PM…once done schmoozing at Howard’s, I hopped back on the N Judah in the opposite direction, to go directly to Pilsner Inn. After /that/ I then returned hovel to discover that Fed Ex /did/ show up. And guess at what time? 3PM. Same time that Howard’s closes.)

Just came back from checking the mailbox in our lobby. Yet one /more/ letter addressed to Arwyn, that’s been returned! Talk about Destiny pounding my heart with a hammer! Do I dare bring him this letter so soon after I handed him the one suggesting he has a brain tumor? I’m tellin’ you, El, this is such a misery to go through, I’d rather have never met My Dubious Dragon in the first place. And that’s a sad thing to admit.

Two times I went to P.O. Plus on Castro near 19th, to deliver those packets…and each time the clerk raised his eyebrows and queried:

“Are you sure this will get through?” So I explained with an exasperated groan:

“My lover has a brain tumor, and it’s been sheer hell reasoning with him ever since the cluster headaches began three weeks ago. He’s in San Diego now to have it surgically removed, thank God. This address he gave me, with just his name and full zip code, is the best I can get outta him.” Then a pause, then a footnote:

“What choice do I really have?”

So he accepted the packet and wished me good luck as I departed.

Almost 8 years since we first met. Same time span as My Randolph…which ended in his utter disappearance. I feel /just/ like I’m in some sort of very weird, gay soap opera. The viewers would be weeping like babes over my fate. But they just can’t wait for the next installment, eh? Break out the Kleenex, peoplez! Call up your girlfriends to shed tears over the cell, and ponder what nefarious plots are due the next few episodes. /I/ sure couldn’t tell you! (I’m under contract.)

No Eagle Tavern festivity, no proposal, no marriage by the end of Book 2. Still, I /had/ to give it a happy ending, because all the other chapters (1-11) were just a string of tearjerker beads on a thread of hope. Thus, my fictitious letter to the SF Chronicle dated 2023.

If God Himself came to me and declared: “Zeke, I can make you the best and most celebrated author in all of human history…past, present /and/ future. I’ll even throw in a bonus: to make you the richest person on the planet, wealthier even than all the biggest corporations’ total profits put together!”

Jehovah then stretches out his massive hands before me, to implore: “If you would /only/ accept Arwyn for the sacrifice. But I will /see/ to it that you find an even /better/ fellow who’ll make you so happy that you’ll forget all /about/ Arwyn. In fact, I’ll erase any memory you have of him. And if you agree to my offer, you’ll meet your new man the moment you step out for the day.”

He pauses, then adds: “Sounds like a /great/ deal to me!”

El, if Our Divine Creator offered me such a Faustian pact, I would say NO in a bedbug’s heartbeat. I know my writing is superb (and has always been so since I popped from my mother’s womb). But now it has reached an extraordinary level of excellence, thanks to the inspiration Arwyn’s friendship has brought me…starting with Book 1.

But his death or mental crippling is /not/ a price I’d /ever/ want to pay, even if Apollo himself sought my hand in marriage. I would rather /sacrifice/ my Authorian Gift, for the sake of Arwyn’s happiness. Book 3 /must/ have a happy ending, and not one I make up. It was never my intent to cause my readers so much grief. My plan was always to compose joyful tales that bespeak tremendous appreciation for My Dragon Who Descended from the Skies of Avalon to Liberate My Broken Heart.

But so far, that only seems to be true for Book 1. And here I am, already into chapter 5 of Book 3. May the fates shower me with mercy. But please, Dear Eros, bring Arwyn under this shower /with/ me. We can lather each other up with our own tears of joy and Dr. Bronner’s Peppermint Soap!

– Zeke

PS: Now what the heck is going on? Just looked at my netbook’s desktop to discover the wallpaper is populated with jellyfish! This is Windows 7 Starter, which is a pared down OS…which does /not/ provide the option to change backgrounds! If the appearance of these sea blobs is some sort of message from the gods, I have no idea what to make of it. Poseidon, maybe?

PPS: It’s a day later as I type this addendum. Donny never /did/ return. Told ya so! And I’m gonna forget /all/ about Diego: he loves me a bit /less/ than life itself. Never dreamt I’d have to resume my old habit of scouting the streets of the Castro, in hopes of finally stumbling into my one true love. Silly me, Arwyn /is/ My One True Love! Why the heck do I need to dredge this mean sea of asphalt anymore, only to net a dead porpoise dripping with petroleum and seaweed? Because he’s got a tight blowhole?

Arwyn’s My Starfish-Dragon!

PPPS: Bought myself a pocket digital recorder at Best Buy two days ago. (That big-box store is just two blocks away and across the street from Eagle Tavern.) Seeing as my visions are coming so fast and furious, I can’t keep yanking out pen and notebook while on my power walks. It’s a real blessing just to whip out the recorder from its pouch that hangs off my belt, and jot down my ideas by voice. Though I realize that since I got this device I’m a nobody again. I no longer brandish pen and loose-leaf pad at Howard’s or anywhere else, whereby people would think, “Oh, he’s an author.” This pocket recorder is my butterfly net. Yet, the delight I should gain over this is nowhere to be found. For Arwyn has stolen all the remaining joy I once had, that he so sweetly gave me for several gracious months…then quickly erased. Walking with an electronic gadget is a poor replacement for Arwyn’s company. I hate this book, so far. Likewise Book 2 (except the final chapter).


Date: Sat, 4 May 2013 14:26:20
Subject:
What’s coming down the pike
From: Zeke
To: My E-frenz

This latest letter to Arwyn is enclosed with a gift packet of several new chapters, addressed to the satirical location shown above. To view the front of the entire packet click here. To view the back click here.

I will present this to him in 2-4 days:

Mr. Miles,

These are the first four chapters of Book 3: “Free Me From This Bond (sequel to the sequel).” I have also enclosed a form for you to give me signed permission to use your real name for Book 2. If I don’t receive it within two weeks I will go ahead and use a fictitious name and description, just like in Book 1.

You have been very nasty to me since mid-January. Besides shoving me (and wrenching out my back, causing several weeks’ agony) and flicking a lit cigarette onto my lap: you’ve driven me away at least five times when I walked up to you. Just previous to these incidents, you were very glad to see me, gave me wonderful hugs, and invited me to speak with you. Now, you cut me off the moment I open my mouth…you just do the talking and I’m forced to shut up.

You are lucky that Pilsner’s security camera did not catch you throwing a cigarette at me. Bryan went through the camera videos for that evening, and couldn’t find anything. If you saw anyone else tossing a lit cigarette at another patron, you bet you’d kick him out! So of course I hold you to the same standards. But your being such a hypocrite puts great shame in my heart. Shame and grief.

Speaking of grief: you’ve dumped a whole truckload of it onto my difficult life, these past several months. And continue to do so, by pretty much ignoring me, treating me like a scumbag, and never introducing me to your friends. You have many friends, I have none. I thought for quite some time that I actually /did/ have a friend…in you. For which I was eternally grateful. But no more…once again, I stand alone in this world, as has been my sorry lot since the day I was born.

The only reason I haven’t utterly collapsed in grief and died of a broken heart, is because I prayed to God for strength. I at least have that, now, if nothing else. Regarding the tragic death of your beloved parents (overheard at the table next to me):

After your conversation with your friends in that matter, you plunked yourself at my table, switched ashtrays so you had the more convenient one (mine was a tall container while yours a real ashtray) and addressed me:

“Did you hear that?”

I couldn’t look you in the eyes, Mr. Miles, for I am so ashamed and sad that you flicked that cigarette at me just the night before. My immediate thought was:

“How dare you think I should shower you with empathy, after all the mean things you’ve committed against me? This is One Arrogant Dragon!”

But I retorted instead:

“You already have /all/ my love, Arwyn. But you tossed a lit cigarette at me. Our friendship is over!”

I then continued tapping away at my netbook’s keyboard, while you stood up and grumbled. As you departed I spoke once more:

“No more gifts. You don’t even get the Scooby-Doo belt buckle I just bought for you.”

The whole point of this is: I wouldn’t love a man so intensely unless he has already been through many horrid tragedies (such as My Randolph for one, though there were eight others). The particulars about your tragedies are all beside the point. I felt offended that you treated me like a dumbshit who hasn’t a clue about your own suffering in this difficult world.

I am a man of my word, Miles. You will receive 51% of my profits from these three books, once I find an honest bookkeeper and attorney. This is regardless of whether or not we remain friends…which obviously is no longer the case. I could never permit a man to be my friend, who treats me so crudely for several months or more. Regardless at how much fun and loving he was for a considerable time before things turned sour.

Which is why I’m concerned that something is seriously wrong with you, medically. Sudden personality change and all that. I suffer terrible grief as a result. Yet thus far, you have done nothing to right your wrongs. Absolutely nothing. It is just so wicked of you to abruptly reject my friendship, especially so soon after you leave this message on my answering machine:

“Hello Zeke. You are a very nice man and have always been good to me.”

A few minutes after that, you shoved me. My back pains commenced several days later. Maybe I should show you my hospital bill. Or the two police reports I’ve filed about your shoving me and flicking a lit cigarette. Oh, well. I guess this is your payback: for telling me you gave my chapters to the police, and describing me to all your friends as your stalker. This is not a path I ever imagined (or wanted to) walk down. For either of us.

The only reason I still visit you anymore, is to present you with the latest chapter(s) of Book 3. After that: no more visits. For I really prefer to not see you anymore. Breaks my heart terribly to see you having so much fun with your friends, while I remain out in the cold after so many years loving you, and being your very best friend of all time. The shame and disgust I hold for you now, is immeasurable.

I can never look you in those fiery golden-orange eyes again. As much as I really want to. I could never allow you to touch or hug me ever again. As much as I really want you to.

You seem to have absolutely no conscience, no guilt over how badly you’ve treated me. Every day’s a trail of tears for me, because of the many ways you’ve mocked me, and treated me like a sick joke. Speaking about jokes:

About one week ago I came up to you at the counter, and asked: “Wanna hear a dinosaur joke?”

To which you abruptly replied: “I don’t like telling jokes,” jumped off the stool and rushed back to the pool table.

Well, that you don’t like jokes is definitely not true. You’ve always enjoyed my jokes before this. In fact, you’ve really gone way out of your way to make /me/ one big pathetic joke, haven’t you? I have no idea what you think to gain by sapping my joy over you, for the fine friendship and protection you once gave me over many years…only to turn around like a rabid wolverine and tear my soul to shreds. If you don’t have a brain tumor or something equally scary, then I have to say:

“You are a sociopath.”

Did you notice that black crazy hobo at Pilsner yesterday when I was there (Friday, May 3)? For one: I don’t comprehend why Pilsner would even serve such a freaky person who stinks, talks to himself, and stalks me. Bad for business, wouldn’t you agree? That’s right: he stalks me frequently in the Castro, even screams at me for avoiding him, and refusing to strike up conversation. Imagine the horror I felt when he suddenly showed up at Pilsner…then a few minutes later enters the patio and sits right beside me! I had to move to another bench.

(You call me your stalker as some sort of mind-fuk joke, while I /really/ get stalked here in the Castro. And frequently! No one is ever there to protect and defend me. In fact, the rare times I’ve been attacked, no one bothers to call 911. They just stand there and laugh.)

If I still had your friendship, you would’ve driven him away. But I guess your protective kindness towards me is over, too. You used to guard me from such scumbags; now, you treat me just like them! You know, Mr. Miles, you were once My Lovely Sweet Dragon. Nowadays, you’re My Ugly Nasty Dragon.

Remember Cody from the old Hole, a scrappy little runt w/scooter, who despised you? He warned me:

“Don’t get close to Arwyn, he’ll kill you.”

I figure those were words of jealousy, and nothing more. Now, I wonder. Cody BTW was suffering from cancer therapy…haven’t seen him at the new Hole. I guess he passed on.

You should also know that my rising popularity involves an ever-increasing number of gay readers to my blog entries. Which entries feature each new chapter of my three novels, before they get published. And they will always be free to read online. To my surprise, looks like more and more bartenders also read my latest chapters. Nowadays when I step into a gay bar, I am often recognized immediately as the author of Free Me From This Bond, and my first drink is free.

Which means they also know /everything/ about us: the ups and the downs, the joys and the sorrows, as well as your suddenly crude behavior. You might consider suing me, but I doubt you’d want your recent abuses to be broadcast across the media empire, including Fox News. Also, since your violent offenses against me are on record in these tales, I grant myself a certain level of legal protection from any further attacks you intend. If you shove me, strike me, or do anything else violent, I can prove to the jury a previous history.

Then again, dragging me to court may be the only way I can convince you to take an MRI scan. (Perhaps it should read “force” instead of “convince.”)

I now ask: What if I shoved you, tossed a cig at you? How would you feel? Just laugh it off, or strike back or call 911? Say, for example, you break an arm in a softball game. So our paths cross (your left arm’s in a cast), I see the playing field has been leveled, and shove you with the full force of my body. And you hit the ground, smash your jaw. Or what about when I next see you seated at Pilsner Inn patio…and I flick a lit cigarette in your lap?

What if all your friends suddenly shun you, even bartenders? And the only friend you have left, is me. What if you then approach me with great humility, but I brush you off, holler:

“Go away! I don’t wanna talk with you right now!”

And what if I keep that up, five or more times we encounter each other in the Castro or elsewhere? What if I keep it up many /more/ times, as you slowly deteriorate into a rotten husk, from the Once Glorious Dragon you were?

Don’t you think that would be the Greatest Sin of All Time, to betray a beloved brother that way? Don’t you realize that is /exactly/ what you’ve done to me, Former Sweetheart? But one thing I know beyond a shade of a doubt:

Jehovah has given me tremendous strength through this grievous trial, to stand up to you, a man who is double my size and so much stronger.

Mr. Miles: I am fighting like a Bengal tiger to spare your soul from unimaginable misery! While I don’t believe in eternal hell for anyone, I do know that each person pays for his sins one way or another, in due time. Were you not such a darling friend to me for seven-plus years, I doubt I’d be so persistent in reaching out to you during this hideous phase. But you did me good. A /lot/ of good previous to these present months. More good than anyone else I’ve known. (In fact I’d say you’ve saved /my/ soul! So I guess I’m just returning the favor.) Otherwise, I would’ve dropped you like cow flop a long time ago.

So I think I owe you this.

I can’t wait till Book 3’s final chapter is complete, so I may put an end to ever seeing you any more. I doubt that I’ll ever reach out to anyone again, or even bother to strike up a friendship. At least I’ll have a decent and affordable studio apartment up there in Portland, to ease my loneliness. But I’m sure I’ll weep on my pillow every night, over loss of you…for the rest of my painful existence.

Most sincerely (and regretfully),

PS: Here’s one of many fantasies I have of us, that I now realize will never come true:

“So you’re going to San Diego, are you?” I look up at My Dragon’s Green-Gold Snout; he just landed on the stool right beside me. We’re at Pilsner Inn.

“Why do you say such a strange thing?” he puffs a wee cloud through those exquisite nostrils.

“Well, Arwyn, why else would you have a mailbox in San Diego, instead of right here?

He doesn’t respond; just gazes down upon me. No smile.

I sigh: “Well, Beloved Friend, I wish you a wonderful life down there in San Diego. And that you have many many friends who love you.”

I sigh once more, to finish with:

“Like me.”

I lower my head into my arm bent over the bar’s counter, and start to weep. I soon dry my tears, and raise my head to discover that Arwyn is gone.

“Oh well,” I shrug my astral shoulders: “What did I expect? Something /other/ than heartbreak?”

But suddenly he pops back out of the restroom and in two long strides, holds me in those valorous arms. I sob into his lapel:

“Oh, Arwyn, if you ask me to go with you, I’d say YES faster than light!”

My Ravenous Reptile moans in a shudder that warms my cockles (whatever they are, but it sounds good). At first I thought it was a rumble of passion. But then Arwyn withdraws to hold me back with a hand on each of my drooping shoulders:

“I can at least do /this/ for ya, Eugene!”

And My Dramatic Dragon spreads apart those shimmering emerald/ruby wings with pearly underside, spreading them across both ends of Pilsner Inn. I stare up at Goddess’s Most Brilliant Creation.

Then he vanishes. Maybe to San Diego. Why can’t I be with him anymore? Will I ever see him again?

I drop my head once more, to weep on my sleeve. Suddenly, a tap on my right shoulder. It’s Arwyn!

“Well whaddya waiting for, Zeke, we only got three hours to catch the train to San Diego. Get your silly ass back home and pack whatever you need. Just keep it down to three suitcases or less.”


Date: Sat, 4 May 2013 14:55:08
Subject:
Re: What’s coming down the pike
From: Zeke
To: My E-frenz

At the last moment before sealing the packet, I added this addendum by printing it seperately, cutting it out, and taping it to the end of his letter:

PPS: I also think it would be fantastic if you let me use a nice photo of you for Book 2. The caption will read: “Arwyn Miles, My Hero-Dragon.” If you already have a good snapshot you’d like me to use, just mail it to me. Or hand it over at Pilsner Inn or wherever. But I do have an excellent digital camera that I always carry around…so I can take a pic of you standing outside of Pilsner or Twin Peaks.

And this is the permission form:

I, the inimitably irresistible Arwyn Miles, hereby give permission to Ezekiel Krahlin to use my name in his novel, “Free Me From This Bond (the sequel).”

Signed,

____________________
Signature

____________________
Date

________________________________________________________

I, the stupendously handsome Arwyn Miles, also give permission to Ezekiel Krahlin to use my photograph in his novel, “Free Me From This Bond (the sequel).”

Signed,

____________________
Signature

____________________
Date


Spanglish Poesia

May 2, 2013

It was a fun challenge, figuring out which words work best in English (and which in Spanish) in order to best suit each poems’ rhythm and how it strikes the mind.

1.

Tu vistazo,
La mano blanca de un tremulous ninyo,
Caresses mi como brisa.

Creo feel en my cuello
El rustle de esos dedos tiernos
Pero siempre when me muevo

That mano,
Tu glance,
Flies en otras partes away de mi!

2.

Kindness es la mano que cura
Con comprension, amor,
Knowing lo que es sentir
Sin un amigo above.

Dios stirs en mi corazon
Y hecha his mano mio
Para salvar la belleza que thou art
Y bring you warmly casero.

3.

R iveros de kindness course por tu corazon,
A rterias de God’s mensajeros.
N ewborn ninyo en la valye de
D reams-Hecho-Verdad, escuche a
O rpheus canta tu nombre as
L ilies del campo bow sus cabezas y
P urpura heather underneath tu zapato travels
H omeward donde I sit por una candle.

4.

Que paso con:

el dulce hombre whose besos
illuminated mi noche de noches
como un swarm de fireflies?

el hermano de mi alma whose abrazo
surrounded mi corazon como una fortaleza
contra all enemigos?

el compassionate guardian cuyo gentle toque
chased away mi miseria cada
como una can de raid a las cucarachas?

5.

If no estoy en amor con you,
entonces there is no palabra para amor.

If no lloro por tus sorrows,
entonces no hay una palabra para hell.

If mi corazon no canta para ti,
entonces there is ninguna musica.

Si I don’t die a cada momento con sheer joy para ti,
entonces there is ninguna vida.

If I don’t hablar a ti from mi alma,
entonces no hay ninguna truth.

6.

El amor no es choice,
pero calling,
Cuando la net de compasion mantiene dos
de falling.

El amor es la seed de milagros,
Gift de la Elfin Folke.
(Lo que pocos know to be el mas rico treasure,
La mayoría percibe como una joke!)

Es la negacion del fact
aparente
Into el Realm del misterio
transparente.

El amor es el corazon en wings
(Y también la thorn que pica).

Es el susurro between guerra
Y la anguish entre la paz,
La batalla de Armagedon
Contra la bestia del Ego.

El amor es el hermano
Cuyo mano es far reaching suficiente
Tocar el corazon de another.

7.

Randolph never telefonos a mi, even cuando
Soy casero
(En un sunny dia cuando quiero to play
En los grassy campos y hills
Till el sol descende).

Randolph nunca writes me, pero es
bien.
(Even though estoy completamente solo
I know el esta conmigo y wantsta
Besame
As soon como el esta en mi ojo.)

Randolph a veces bites me, pero
I bite tambien.
(Solo es fair, no soy un oso,
Pero un poco plata pony
Con alas y un solo horn.)

Randolph thinks estoy loco, pero asi lo
you.
(Jesus Cristo, que no es nice!
Por lo que you do a mi you do a
El!
Thou seras no scorn!)

Randolph es mi comrade, para todo
eternidad!
(Donde quiera he goes, me voy tambien!
Semper Fideles Pegasus!
Soy un buen amigo true azul!)

8.

Stained con lagrimas de quiet tristezas,
Waiting for los días pasar
En better, alegres anyos,

I call a Randolph, hombre de grief,
“No stop tu noble causa,
Para Victoria comes from la creencia.
Esto es un fact: una ley cosmica.

“El efecto de your causa
Shall pronto bear fruto;
La verdad shall illuminar
Without refutar.”

So, corazon valiente, I tell you esto:
La vela que I hold para usted
Shall arderar as long como la vida itself
Bajo Heaven’s cielo true azul.

9.

Donde hay un amigo who cares,
Uno que no puts en airs,
Un amigo whose union va beyond
Sharing intereses, un sencilyo bond,
Pero rather una Union de las almas
Que makes me sentir ambos good y completo;

Y cuando it parts por un tiempo, como la rain,
Seran drawn por el sol to reach el cielo otra vez?


Tumor is the Rumor

May 1, 2013

[ Free Me From This Bond (the sequel): Chapter 14 ]

Date: Mon, 22 Apr 2013 11:01:47
Subject:
Book 2 is finished!
From: Zeke
To: S. Rohan

Well, “S.”, I hope everything is going super fantabulous for you and loved ones. But please: if you illustrate for me again, tell your friends and family not to kick the bucket. When folks say “I’m dying to read that book,” they don’t mean it literally. At least, I sure hope not!

I have no more money now, to pay for an illustrator, or to even publish my next book. But if you are interested in illustrating again, I would certainly first pay you before you even begin. Interesting that when I last spoke w/my brother Vince a few days ago, he informed me that we (he and I) are about to collect some oil stock that was bequeathed to us by our parents.

Even Vince, as executor, didn’t see this coming. I’m thinkin’ Beverly Hillbillies here! But he really doubts we’re gonna get more than a few thou, if that much. But no doubt more than enough to publish my next book and hire you to illustrate.

Best always, Oh Muse With The Elegant Hand!

– Zeke

PS: I’ve already started on Book 3.


Date: Tue, 23 Apr 2013 14:54:11
Subject:
Boink #2
From: Zeke
To: My Genuflecting Readers

Someone boinked me on the head this morning with a metal kok ring. Talk about a hard blow!


Date: Tue, 23 Apr 2013 17:33:36
Subject:
Re: Prayer From the Heart
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ Brain tumor! My crystal ball says that ain’t it. The letter will get his attention, though, like a bucket of 98.6 degrees water in the face….. }}

Yes, I guess that is the whole point of the matter: that my love for him holds such great regard for his many years’ sweet friendship that has brought me such tremendous joy, that I have to consider all possible reasons for this painful twist in fate.

I’m doing everything I possibly can, to stand between him and the devil. I can’t believe that ultimately he will not hold great pride in my devoted friendship…and finally take any opportunity he finds, to praise me to the heavens with anyone he meets.

Thank you for being such a good friend.

– Zeke


Date: Wed, 24 Apr 2013 09:44:54
Subject:
Had a fantastic time…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

…at both the Hole and the Eagle. Broke down and cried a bit on the way betwixt one and t’other. Confided my “brain tumor” tale w/Axel Peletier (barkeep at the former), and a few of the wonderful patrons…such as Cindi, Roger, Oliver and Sedge. But mainly Axel, who knows Arwyn so well from “back in the day.”

So: it was my goal to make people aware of his bizarre behavior, which news should spread like crazy flames…first, across the SOMA gay bar network, then likewise for ze Costco. (Wait, I’m messing with language puns a bit too much. Forgive me, I’ll try to stop. “Ze Costco” is of course my argot for “the Castro.” Besides, Costco is in SOMA.)

This way, these loving folks will do what they can to help Arwyn through this extraordinary (though nasty) ordeal. In fact, I’m sure they’ll help us both. I have the finest friends on the planet, there in SOMA.

But how many years before I came to realize! And…they brought me to Arwyn. Or versa vice.

Now, I summon their wisdom to set matters right, and to see to it that my Wonderful Warlock be not lost to me. For when I play this Thracian Courtship, I play to win.

But only with compassion and the greatest regard for the human soul.

From dictionary.com:

Argot:

1. a specialized idiomatic vocabulary peculiar to a particular class or group of people, especially that of an underworld group, devised for private communication and identification: a Restoration play rich in thieves’ argot.

Hmm, think I should go whole warthog and summon the /underworld/, too, in this astounding war between hearts and guts? After all:

Everything’s permitted in battle and bed!
Break the heart or break the bread.

– Zeke


Date: Wed, 24 Apr 2013 10:10:17
Subject:
That was it…
From: Zeke
To: My Registered Readers

…that was the test. The GPMC wizards, warlocks and trolls had to witness my heart’s confession:

That it be true to love’s passion, and never vindictive or petty. I took Axel Peletier’s hand on my way out…wait, that doesn’t sound quite right. So let me reattach your hand, Axel, and I’ll start again. Take two (and call me in the morning…no, wrong tale):

Before exiting the Hole (ha) I take Axel’s hand, and before several more wizards, state:

“I want My Arwyn to live long and prosper, even if it’s without me. If I have to love him from a distance, so be. But I will always love him like my own precious sea monkey.”

It was just one more friggin’ test, El! And it just hit me this morning (like that dildo did last night: BOINK)! But of course I didn’t /know/ it was a test, I /had/ to be clueless or my sincerity would remain open to question. So let’s see what today brings. BTW:

!!! Axel Peletier IS THE MOST STUPENDOUS AND EXCELLENT BARKEEP IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE !!!

– Zeke


Date: Wed, 24 Apr 2013 14:48:46
Subject:
My main concern now…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

…is that the brain tumor (or whatever this is) may worsen his opinion of me, and he may get /really/ violent and turn from My Beloved Draco to My Dangerous Stalker! Especially if Pilsner Inn /does/ evict My Misguided Luv-Missile.

So glad I’ve activated the GPMC Network, as I may need refuge in various homes. Seeing as Arwyn knows /all/ my hangouts, including my Tuesdays at Hole in the Wall and Eagle Tavern. I’ve always yearned to go hopping from one gorgeous warlock’s bed to another, but not for such a dire reason nor under such duress. Oh well, “that’s life” (as Arwyn always likes to say).

Now, just before typing this missive I used the toilet down the hall. Upon returning, the radio was announcing the “Brain Tumor Walk.” Okay, I did /not/ write the script. Guess I’m playing The Reluctant Hero. All the world’s a stage, but I never dreamt I’d become the main attraction!

Going back to the Hole and Eagle now, to broadcast my concern about further danger as described above. Arwyn won’t get my letter for days yet.

– Zeke


Date: Wed, 24 Apr 2013 17:53:59
Subject:
Re: My main concern now…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ Do you still have that kind offer from those guys who said you could stay with them a few months ago when there was going to be neighborhood upheaval? }}

Posting to you via Eagle Tavern right now. Had an incredible time hanging at Hole in the Wall. Met this gorgeous dude named Jed, who looks just like a /very/ handsome version of Wild Bill Cody. (Wait a minute: I just logged onto Google Images to discover that WBC is /already/ quite the looker. So let me redact my statement about Jed, to say that he’s the THE SPITTIN’ IMAGE of Wild Bill.) In fact, it inspires me to give serious consideration for the theory of reincarnation.

Not really. Keith is very problematic due to his ongoing and severe PTSD. I rarely see him in person, in spite of his living barely one block away from my SRO. All he wanted to do was exchange email…sometimes showing off his glorious physique by attaching a video.

I couldn’t take it anymore. So upon posting him that I’m ceasing our email until he balances things out by seeing me at least once per week, for a half hour or more. Well, he e-responded with the most outrageous rant I’ve ever seen!

Don’t grasp why his lover Gus doesn’t bother to call me now and then, to invite me over. He has numerous gatherings of most interesting people whom I’d really enjoy commiserating with. I know because I’ve been to these get-togethers three times in a span of six months.

But I also know that he holds these social gatherings two or three times per week. Yet the only times I’m invited over only happens /after/ I post Keith a desperate appeal that I’m going through a most difficult passage, and would truly appreciate some kind company.

Keith needs to break out of his cocoon that keeps him isolated in his apartment. He doesn’t even step out to stroll the Castro now and then (as far as I know).

So I give up.

– Zeke


Date: Wed, 24 Apr 2013 18:59:36
Subject:
Gift and letter to Arwyn
From: Zeke
To: My Most Affectionate Dragon

Sweetest Arwyn,

I’m not abandoning you in spirit, just in body for a time. I do hope you enjoy this Scooby-Doo belt buckle. I was so happy to finally receive it from amazon.com today, that I could put some joy in your heart through this present ordeal.

You know very well that I should never put up with your horrid abuses, which would result in your utter loss of respect towards one so loved by your Dragonly Self. Do you have any idea how painful this is for me, to disappear from your vision? Yet: what other choice do I have?

I could not ever bear losing you from my world. So I prayed for a righteous compromise, which answer I received, and it is this:

To show you how much I adore you, Arwyn, while at the same time protecting myself from any further violence.

Therefore, I appeal to bartenders across the Gay Bar Network for asylum. That you may not stalk or threaten me, in case your condition further deteriorates and causes you to perceive me as an enemy. Brain tumors can do that to people: make them perceive those they love as dangerous villains deserving violent retribution.

[ Inserted with this snail-mailed letter is a printout of “Brain Tumor Symptoms” which you may find here: http://tinyurl.com/btsymptoms ]

I love you so much, My Darling Reptile!


Date: Wed, 24 Apr 2013 22:10:24
Subject:
Diego just dropped over and…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

…OMFG, El, he is /such/ a handsome man, with an incredibly buff, tatooed little body (he’s 5-foot-5, two inches shorter than yours truly). But he’s a /real/ man, and gave me so much love and kindness.

Unfortunately (I guess) he has to visit someone else for about an hour, though promised he’d be back for the night. So I told the sexy satyr:

“Look Diego. If for some reason you can’t come back tonight, please know that I understand. And that I am /so/ grateful for the sweet friendship you’ve given me already!” (I’m thinkin’ here of his delicious tight nipples, pecs and torso that I licked till Clingon Cum…along with his handsome shoulders and arms that gave my tongue a thrill beyond measure.)

Well, he said he’d return and spend the night with me. Baby, I’m all his if he lets me.

– Zeke


Date: Wed, 24 Apr 2013 22:48:31
Subject:
Re: Diego just dropped over and…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ Wow! Small packages (except where it counts), etc.!!!!!!!! }}

You got it, amiga buena! Upon our last embrace before he departed, I slipped an eager hand beneath his jeans. Wow! Quite a juicy cut wanger w/o even being hard.

This man is certainly a bodacious treasure for anyone lucky enough to have him in his arms.

– Zeke


Date: Thu, 25 Apr 2013 09:51:50
Subject:
HoJo BloJo
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Of course, for my blog entry I had to censor Blain’s yummy banana. Thar she blows: blue and orange!

That’s not a johnson, that’s a /Howard’s/ johnson…ha ha!

– Zeke


Date: Thu, 25 Apr 2013 13:16:41
Subject:
Re: HoJo BloJo
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ Very wholesome and family-oriented! }}

Best hot dogs in the city…’cause they’re hella plump!


Date: Fri, 26 Apr 2013 13:56:10
Subject:
Re: Destiny’s Tongue
From: Sean H.
To: Zeke

Just catching up on my e-mails, ten here – been terribly busy. Helping a woman with two autistic girls qualify and move into a habitat for humanity house, assisting with the building process, the form filing process, and so on. The woman visits my sister with me, who (my sister) is walker/wheelchair bound and moving to a bigger house with bigger amenities.

On another front, I’ve been helping to start up an open mic for musicians and poetry readers. Playing dumb songs in front of a coffeehouse crowd is a chore. I’ve had to do it a few Saturdays to jump start this thing, along with several others who are in my opinion much better than me. A couple of them also would like to stop lugging their equipment in and setting up (big pain in the ass).

Local social engagements are a pain in the ass. People eat up your time. I need to cut them all off, get a job on the graveyard shift part time, and spend my free time in the park.


Date: Fri, 26 Apr 2013 14:54:04
Subject:
Re: Destiny’s Tongue
From: Zeke
To: Sean H.

Tell me about burnout, Sean! Just remember: pat yourself on the back now and then, for you are doing /such/ good work.


Date: Fri, 26 Apr 2013 15:05:14
Subject:
My Plea to SF’s Gay Community
From: Zeke
To: My Bewitching Readers

Just sent the following letter to the two most widely circulated gay papers here in Frisco (Bay Area Reporter and SF Bay Times):

Dear editor,

This letter is a desperate appeal to the San Francisco LGBT community at large. A man whom I have loved with great adoration for almost eight years has suddenly turned hostile and violent against me these past several months. Our relationship is strictly platonic but no less passionate or sweet for that. He has been such a good friend until recently: light years beyond any other friend I’ve known…protective, endearing, and handsome like nobody’s business. And so much fun you wouldn’t believe.

I was therefore foced to get away from him for my own protection. But I love him from a distance, send him gifts and letters. Especially since I’ve finally put two-and-two together, and realize he has the classic signs of a growing brain tumor. It started with him suddenly refusing to talk with me, hollering “go away” the last seven times our paths have crossed (he now lives just a block away from my own residence). This is a good indication that the cluster headaches have commenced. (Anyone can google “brain tumor symptoms” to learn more.)

The abuse later advanced to violence: he’s a big, powerful dude and I’m half his size. First, he shoved me really hard (resulting in wrenching my lower back), then some days later flicked a lit cigarette into my lap at a local gay bar. I’m a two-strikes kinda guy, never hang in there till the third strike.

I am a well known gay street activist of many years, here in Baghdad by the Bay. Those who know me, also know exactly of whom I speak. My heartfelt plea is for those friends of this excellent fellow (especially those SOMA denizens who love and miss him since he migrated to the Castro) to please visit my sweetheart at his new hangouts, and see to it that he visit a doctor for an MRI scan, etc. Please do so with great kindness, and put a smile on his gorgeous mug.

For victims of brain tumors do not at first realize what is wrong, thus lash out at those closest to them as if they were arch enemies. He has been my hero for almost seven years: I guess it’s now my turn to be his.

Some have accused me of fabricating this tragedy for self aggrandizement and attention…or perhaps as a vendetta against my beloved offender. Thus I endure a double tragedy which heartbreak is beyond all measure. I fervently seek to avoid turning this tragedy into a Greek tragedy of the highest order. For this reason, I make another appeal to our LGBT Family:

That I somehow gain asylum at other homes away from the Castro, seeing as his condition may deteriorate further, and become a dangerous stalker. This fine but misguided fellow knows all my hangouts, and can easily track me down. Including the building in which I live, which has zilch security and is easily invaded. I only need a couch to sleep on: no need for food expenses or anything else.

I can couch hop each home just once per week, or once every two weeks if enough supporters rise to this nightmarish occasion. I want to thank immensely several bartenders South of Market, who’ve already showered me with great compassion. For in so doing, they’ve empowered me to rise above my grief, fears and anxiety attacks. They know who they are.

But I do hope my dire avoidance from My Hero of All Time and Space will not last more than two or three days: that he visit a doctor a short time from now. The sooner he is treated the more successful the recovery. I will soon have a book published about our adventures here in SF, and will likely have tons of money, that I can cover any and all of his medical fees.

I’d like to end this letter with a poem I composed today, dedicated to all brain tumor victims and their lovers and friends. Consider it my prayer.

TUMOR IS A RUMOR

Tumor is a rumor that starts within the brain.
First you lose your humor, and then begins the pain.
Headaches come in clusters, paranoia reigns.

The nature of the person gives way to things not sane,
And tears of all your loved ones begin to pour like rain.
But the hope for one’s recovery is surely not in vain:

So stand beside your wounded, but keep a distance plain.
Send him gifts and letters, and plead deep from the heart
To seek a doctor’s counsel, for his one true love thou art.

Most sincerely,

Ezekiel J. Krahlin


Date: Fri, 26 Apr 2013 18:17:25
Subject:
Opening Joke
From: Zeke
To: Westboro Baptist Church

(True story: happened five days ago):

I step into the Eagle Tavern and notice it’s decorated with colorful balloons. So I ask manager Tobias:

“What’s the celebration?” He replies:

“Grand Opening.” So I query:

“Again?” (thinking here that the Eagle reopened way over a month ago). Tobias shrugs shoulders to confess:

“Nope. We haven’t had a chance till now.” Then my eyes light up with mischief:

“I had a grand opening once, but I kept slipping out.”

– Zeke


Date: Fri, 26 Apr 2013 18:57:32
Subject:
Also snail-mailed this letter to my brother
From: Zeke
To: Mom & Dad

Vince,

Sorry to come off so dramatic, but I am definitely in a serious situation, as revealed in the enclosed letter. In case I perish as a result of violence, here is my request:

Assuming tons of moolah comes in as a result of my book, you will inherit it all. I first want you to use the money to provide Arwyn Miles with the best medical care possible, as well as assure him decent housing and income (enough that he may pursue a vocation as a professional party mixer at gay events, or whatever else suits him).

Then I want you to contact an appropriate gay organization, in order to found a home for severely disabled gay and lesbian veterans. Just find the right connection to take over this great venture, that you may be freed of the responsibility of running it. Just funnel them twice the amount they require. And whatever further monies it takes to keep it going over the years.

Then find the correct gay organization to take all my writings from my web site (http://www.gay-bible.org) and blog (https://zekeblog.wordpress.com). Then, they can publish them as one or more books, which monies they can use to empower LGBT rights in whatever way they deem fit.

Of course, use a large chunk of my incoming wealth for your own immediate family, as well as for any other relatives you desire.

Love,

Eugene


Date: Fri, 26 Apr 2013 15:37:04
Subject:
Emergency
From: Zeke
To: Keith

Keith, this is so important for you (and Gus and whomever else you deem fit) to be aware of. I was going to print it out and snail-mail it, but my printer just died. Thus, I’m breaking my rule and resuming email…it is that important. In exchange, I’ll reopen our email lines so you can freely post again. That is my way of saying “thank you” for reading the following. But first, I need to get five more copies of the letter herein to be printed out, so I can snail-mail to some very /important/ allies (such as my brother in NY). Do you have a printer? I really need your help in this matter ASAP. I must soon depart for the Eagle Tavern as soon as I send this to you. But they have wifi, so I can receive your reply very soon, and tell you more. If you can print out (five times) just the letter below (including the “Just sent” first line), I’d /greatly/ appreciate that. Then I can drop over this eve (say, around 8 or 9 PM) to pick them up. Here goes:

[ Vibrating Reader: what follows is that letter I sent to those two major SF gay rags you just read three emails above, titled “My Plea to SF’s Gay Community.” ]


Date: Fri, 26 Apr 2013 19:46:10
Subject:
Re: Emergency
From: Zeke
To: Keith

Keith wrote:

{{ I’ve printed and collated your pages, and will place them outside on the front stoop where you can get them at 8:00. I’m not feeling well enough for company right now, so I won’t answer the bell for anyone. The sudden change from sunny warm weather to this chilly dark wind really fucks with my mood. }}

Thank you /so/ much, Keith! I will drop by precisely one minute after 8 PM. But am /so/ sad to hear that your hypersensitivity towards even good friends remains a major obstacle.

But that is the way things go sometimes. But as I’ve stated earlier:

In exchange for your compassionate assistance, I grant you complete access towards resuming email conversations with me…in perpetuity. I will /never/ again cut us off from that particular form of communique.

You are such a beautiful man, I count my blessings.

– Zeke


Date: Fri, 26 Apr 2013 21:30:43
Subject:
You are so damned sweet…
From: Zeke
To: Keith

…I can’t believe it! I just picked up your package, and was /so/ charmed how you wrapped it in tin foil and printed my name “Ezekiel” with such care and compassion. If only I could hold you in my arms right now, and shower you with kisses.

So you know: the incredible support and compassion I received at the Eagle Tavern this eve, was more than I ever expected. Suffice it to say, they assured that Arwyn would pull through with flying colors, and that I would be protected from any further harm.

I must go work on chapter 2 right now, of “Free Me From This Bond (sequel to the sequel)”. And thanks to such lovely fellows like you, my heart takes wing and I cry tears of immense joy for such a positive outcome.

Love you and Gus so much!

– Zeke


Date: Sat, 27 Apr 2013 02:50:49
Subject:
Arwyn’s gonna be alright (me too)
From: Zeke
To: My Compassionate Readers

Just an update. This eve at the Eagle Tavern I received tremendous support and compassion by bartenders and patrons alike, regarding the scary scenario around Arwyn and myself. I have been profusely assured that my prayer for Arwyn will be answered with the most positive outcome possible. And I shall be unharmed.

So I’m quite tuckered out now, after this drawn out ordeal. Will write about my beautiful time today at the Eagle, in Book 3. Well, gotta hit the sack now.

Love ya all (especially you, Keith, you exquisite homunculus).

– Zeke


Date: Sat, 27 Apr 2013 17:20:30
Subject:
This is hell (and another printout request)
From: Zeke
To: Keith

I wanted to give a gift of two chapter printouts to Tobias, mgr. of Eagle Tavern. For it is /he/ (if no one else) who’s going to visit Arwyn, and see what he can do to convince him to see a doctor.Tobias is a /wonderful/ fellow. For in the “old” Eagle days, he only charged me half price for drinks…seeing as he knew I was on a low-budget disability funds. And such reduced rates allowed me to buy a drink for this or that gorgeous hunk. Tobias /also/ facilitated my newfound relationship with Arwyn.

So I march down to “Simply Brilliant Press” on my block, about seven doors down from my building. Well, their computer does /not/ print from HTML format…stupid, eh, when every other printer on the planet /does/? Had to save them in pdf…which then stripped away the headers and footers (including page #). To find out how to reinsert at least the page #, was not intuitive in the least. The sole clerk did /not/ know how to do that.

Well, I got the page #’s to show up onscreen…yet the printouts /still/ lacked page #’s. Plus it printed them out in B&W instead of color! Even though I selected color! Then he told me I had to also select a difrerent printer for that. I said, “Yeah but I still can’t get the page numbers to show! Nor can I get the title per page either!”

To make a long, horrid story into a short, horrid story, the two chapters were printed out both in B&W /and/ color…yet none of them showed the page #’s. Wait, one of the B&W chapters /did/ include page #’s…except the last three pages!

A total waste of time /and/ money. Total cost: $28! The clerk didn’t bat an eye and charged me the /full/ amount, for printouts that are USELESS. I had planned to also print my ilustrator’s 16 images in B&W, but I thought: “Fuk it!” Paid the clerk and said:

“Well /that/ was a waste of money! I’ll have to find another place where they actually know what they’re doing.” And stormed out with a loud “bang” as I swung the door full force and exited.

Can’t believe how all my work these past few days has suddenly become convoluted, frustrating, and so much time/money wasted! (Also, my digital camera has disappeared, stolen I think, so I had to buy /another/ one on amazon.com = $99, Jeez!)

So here’s my request, which you have no obligation to perform. I will not hold any grudge against you, if that be the case. Kinko’s is just as bad (and rude), and my favorite print service shut down two years back. * sigh *

But if you /do/ want to print out my latest efforts, here is what I need:

First, print out these two chapters in color, double-sided (sometimes called “duplex” in the printer settings), that is: print out on both sides of each page.

https://zekeblog.wordpress.com/2013/03/24/ill-push-you-back/

https://zekeblog.wordpress.com/2013/04/08/fear-in-the-heart/

Then my latest letter to Arwyn, also in color:

http://www.gay-bible.org/temp/arwyn.rtf

Then these following files, all in B&W:

Cover letter to Tobias:

http://www.gay-bible.org/temp/ron.rtf

Then 16 illustrations:

http://www.gay-bible.org/temp/illustration_01.jpg

[ Continue all consecutive numbers and finish with: ]

I will /gladly/ pay you half of what the idiot clerk charged me…which comes to $14. Heck, I’ll round it off to $15.

If this doesn’t suit you for whatever reason, forgive me to putting this burden on your hunky shoulders. I love you no matter what, Keith!

<3 Zeke

PS: I was hoping to complete this package for Tobias over an hour ago, then present it to him and kick back at the Eagle for a coupla hours. Now, everything’s become discombobulated. So, I won’t return hovel till around 9 PM. I do not /expect/ you to be under any pressure. I can pick them up tomorrow, say around 11 AM? Otherwise, you tell /me/ when’s a good day/time. Again, this is /only/ if you care to assist. You can say “no thanks,” and I’ll be fine with that.

Just don’t leave the package on the doorstep; I’d hate to have them stolen. I can just ring your buzzer and you or Gus can hand it to me.


Date: Sat, 27 Apr 2013 17:55:08
Subject:
Re: This is hell (and another printout request)
From: Keith
To: Zeke

I’d be happy to print these pages for you, but I am afraid that the printer here (which I used the other day to print out the 5 copies of your two-page letter, as well as a single copy of your letter to your brother, totaling 11 B/W printed pages), while it is capable of printing in color, is low on magenta and yellow ink and has been for a while, and the other print heads (including black) are old and dried out, so it mostly prints color pages in a greenish-greyscale, with just the occasional splotches of pink and yellow. So anyway, I wouldn’t be able to give you faithful full-color representations of your work.

I’d be happy to try, but if I had to make a prediction, I’d say that part way through the printing process, we might run entirely out of ink, and I am currently broke because I impulsively bought some books on how to figure out if you’re being psychologically manipulated by a more powerful entity, and a waterproof headphones/mp3 player from amazon.com so that I can stay awake while swimming.

Fortunately (though I did not realize it at the time), someone at ONTRACK accidentally slipped two copies of a Christian Daily devotional book (which I have absolutely no interest in reading) into the box addressed to me instead of the psych book and waterproof headphones, so I ended up having to ask amazon.com for a refund on my entire order. They were very nice and allowed me to print out a return label (which I printed just before printing out your original 11 pages, including one single page letter to your brother, and 5 (collated and stapled) copies of the two page letter you wrote to the local paper) to send back the Christian books, which I pasted onto the original box (which I just dropped of at PO Plus on Castro Street).

Unfortunately, they won’t process my refund until 2-3 business days after they receive the box containing the two mistakenly delivered NYT Bestseller Christian Daily Devotional books, so for the next week I’ll have to make do with the $17 I have in my wallet.

Anyway, it’s your call.

KOP


Date: Sat, 27 Apr 2013 19:38:32
Subject:
Re: This is hell (and another printout request)
From: Zeke
To: Keith

Keith wrote:

{{ Anyway, it’s your call. }}

It’s okay, Keith. I’m just amazed that I am being halted in my attempt to create a lovely thankyou gift for Tobias! I know Arwyn’s behind this: he’s a very powerful warlock who can teleport, change shape and appearance, become invisible, and read anybody’s mind. Especially mine.

Great to have a warlock for your lover when he’s on your side…but watch out if he should go insane! He has also sabotaged two potential new friends in the past week. By creating ugly scenarios made to look like I was behind them.

Consider that a brain tumor is very much like a brain implant. Or that a brain implant can trigger a tumor…not necessarily by accident, but by intentional design. Apparently, I have been dropped into the middle of a spiritual battleground. And Arwyn has chosen to be my worst enemy of all time, thanks to an evil force that has sabotaged his sanity.

Finding asylum at allies’ home bases will grant me /some/ safety, but not for long, considering Arwyn’s keen telepathy. He knows where I am at all times, and can track me down whenever it pleases him. Plus: I’m always totally by myself when walking these mean streets.

Therefore, I need bodyguards: at least two, and they need to be quite large and /strong/. Even that’s not enough: they also need to be warlocks equal to Arwyn if not more so. Though I find it difficult to conceive of any warlock as powerful as My Dragon…or even one who comes close.

Do you realize that “dragon” is another word for the devil? “Dracula” is the Serbian word for “dragon.” And of course, Lucifer is the most handsome of all angels. Arwyn is the most gorgeous man my eyes have ever beheld…even in books, movies or other media.

Though there /must/ be a solution to my insufferable dilemma, eh? I think it starts by hanging out frequently at the Eagle Tavern. Only because I’m being drawn there by a strong will that is clearly not my own. In fact, I’m typing to you from the Eagle right now.

My intuition tells me I don’t even need to lift a finger to garner compassion and protection. Therefore, I conclude there /must/ be an entire family of warlocks who congregate here, and other gay bars south of Market.

Don’t freak out now, but I kinda believe your PTSD is being extended in time, that you’re blocked from seeing me except rarely; likewise for inviting me over (that I may gain some respite and strength from loving company). Two other loving men have recently been driven away from me, too!

Seems like no matter what I do, it’s virtually impossible to have potential comrades in my life…at least, those I can hang out with and be that much safer from bully attacks. For they usually prefer to terrorize and injure those who walk alone (and are women or smallish guys). Seeing as that way, there are no witnesses.

Since I ceased giving gifts to Arwyn, obviously he thwarts my attempts to give gifts to anyone else. Surely, though, his being telepathic would show him I’ve already sent three nice gifts to him, via his PO box down in San Diego.

Perhaps there are limits to his telepathy. Perhaps a greater mind than his controls what he can or cannot perceive in the psychic ether. Be that as it may, it will take another 3-4 days before these gifts get rerouted to his residential address just a block away from mine and (strangely enough) right across the street from yours! He dwells in an apt. building several doors up from K&D Liquors.

Diego, my newest friend and so handsome and kind to me…keeps trying to drop over, or go out with me…but some unforeseen obstruction pushes him away each and every time! He’s really crying over this, he’s quite the affectionate fellow.

We’ve only made out once so far because of this…and boy is he yummy, sweet and very masculine. Super gorgeous and humongous kok too, I might add. But I should also add:

nowhere near as humongous as yours! Keith, you are like…umm…unbelievably gorgeous down under! Yet, likewise, we continue to be kept apart.

We both live under a curse of the worst kind. And I really have no idea when it will be usurped by our good-karmic deeds. Though I’m /certain/ it will be very soon. Here’s a joke for you (and it really happened last night at the Eagle Tavern):

I was seated at barkeep Bobby’s station when in steps a rather gorgeous dude of small stature, seats himself upon the vacant barstool to my left. He has a knockout profile, wavy dark auburn hair, and is dressed in a classy twill suit. And a moustache so nicely trim and symmetrical, it was startling! I wanted to lick it all over, along with the rest of that stunning face.

“Nice ‘stache,” comments Bobby.

“Oh, I’ve been cultivating it for some time now,” he replies, touching the subject of the barkeep’s flattery with a perfect index finger. This is when I move in for the kill:

Turning to them both, I remark: “It depends on the type of adhesive you use.”

Not skipping a beat Mr. Utlimate ‘Stache queries: “Oh? And what sort of adhesive do you recommend?”

I pause for several beats while attempting to stifle a wide grin. Then turn my face to his and retort:

“My cum!”

His name turns out to be Warwick, and he is so glad to meet me. Bobby remarks: “Oh, Zeke’s been churning out the puns and jokes all night long.”

You have a most blessed night, my dear friend Keith. Things will soon get better. MUCH better.

<3 Ezekiel


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