Signature Day

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

Date: Tue, 30 Apr 2013 01:07:36
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?



Date: Tue, 30 Apr 2013 11:14:37
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.


Date: Wed, 8 May 2013 14:11:57
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
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
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
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
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
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
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:

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

In my research, I located a replacement:

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:

Thanks for your help and for providing great resources!


Mitch P.

Date: Thu, 9 May 2013 22:49:42
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
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, 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:


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:


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