Too Late

March 31, 2014

Date: Sat, 8 Mar 2014 14:11:24
“Too Late” letter to Larkin
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Just snail mailed the following letter to Larkin. AFAIC, this is simply another one of his role-playing adventures, where he’s a detective turned bad, and I’m his dedicated sidekick fighting to get him back onto the right path.

–begin letter:

Friday, March 7

Just so you know, Larkin: it’s TOO LATE to make things up to me. I gave you plenty of time to do so, even continued putting my faith in you and our friendship. Doesn’t even matter if you’re not a drug dealer, though your crude behavior and avoidance of me causes justified suspicion.

Even if you suddenly started being sweet to me and did everything under the sun to make amends: I’d be highly suspicious and more than reluctant to ever hug you or talk kindly to you again. You’re a fukked up fool.

Seeing as you’ve driven me out of the bars by telling everyone I’m your stalker, and have not done anything to clear that up, I have therefore no qualms in fighting fire with fire. You have no true friends, only acquaintances…with the exception of myself. But I have to assure you, My Misguided Mesosaur:

No way I’m gonna have a friend that poisons my gay brothers with hard drugs. If you don’t stop your black magic dealing, you will be busted. Even if Idon’t send letters of warning to gay bar owners here in the Castro…it will happen. And because I love you with my every breath, I dread such an outcome, even if justice be served. So the only solution is for you to stop selling toxic product and switch to soft drugs exclusively, such as marijuana and shrooms.

There is this one great hope I hold close to my heart: that you are simply playing a game where you pretend you’re a dealer, and I must prove my devotion by finding some way to sabotage your illegal network, even if it means losing you (and your friendship) for good. I don’t see why, however, you feel it’s necessary to put me through such crucifixion, as I’m sure my loyal friendship is crystal clear to you, to the point where such testing is not just pointless, but an abomination.

Just saw you a few moments ago, step out of Twin Peaks Tavern with two darling doggies on your leash. You looked through me like I don’t exist, not a smile, not any sign of kindness. I followed you across the street and, once more, you acted like I wasn’t there. A grim look on your face as you crossed Market, which is when I hollered:

“Out of the Castro! That’s it, be a good boy now and leave the Castro!”

You may have totally ignored me, but I’m sure I got through to you. So much for a “truce,” eh? A truce which you never intended, because all this enmity was instigated by you. And instead of true remorse, you continue to barely regard my friendship as worth more than the dirt on your shoe. I was a joke to you, a stupid old faggot infatuated with your beauty. But this eve I could see by the unhappy expression on your mug, that you realize I’m not someone to mess with, that you made a big mistake toying me along like this for more than eight years.

And why did you? I suspect perhaps, that you played a role in my being drugged and ripped off one night back in 2007. By a regular homeless patron of the Hole, who is one of your customers. By behaving kind to me (on and off), you hoped it would deflect my rage. I have always loved you, but still in the back of my mind, wondered if you had anything to do with my tragedy. Your latest behavior in recent months seems to affirm my suspicions.

Maybe you’ll shove me again. Maybe you’ll threaten me or beat me up. Though I think that if you choose to fuk me over, you’ll assign a buddy or two to carry out the deed…leaving nothing that could be traced back to you. Just let me warn you, dipshit: unless you have me killed outright, any bullying or bashing will only serve to ignite my anger further, and dig my jaws deeper into your soul like a pit bull. No way will I let you get away with this…whether it’s your hateful gossip, or you really are a dealer.

Though if you do have me murdered: rest assure that all my tales about us I’ve already posted on the Internet. Ensuring maybe not my protection from such a dark fate, but certainly that all fingers shall point back to you in the long run. As a matter of fact, even if I am seriously injured or killed–and it has nothing to do with you–you’ll still be the main suspect at this point. And your life will be ruined as a result of dragging you through court and constant police investigation.

I need to promote my book through the local gay bars, in order to get sales off the ground. That was my plan, but you botched it royally. Once you depart the Castro, I’ll have to first clean up the mess you created. You don’t give a fuk whether or not I succeed in earning a decent living, or wind up on the streets. So I’m gonna return the favor:

Your name in all three books shall be “Arwyn Miles.” No one will know the true hero of this trilogy, ’cause you don’t deserve the credit for how you’ve humiliated, insulted, and otherwise treated me like crap. I will tell the public that Arwyn is a mythical figure from my own imagination. Funny to think that maybe you’ll be behind bars while I skyrocket to fame.

Don’t get me wrong, Sweet Reptile, such a fate will cause eternal misery for yours truly. But since it seems my grief has been fueling your happiness for whatever diabolical reason, I may as well bring you down too. I will wipe that smile off your face for the rest of your life, I promise!

Guess you thought you were hot shit claiming to walk with the devil. But guess what, fuk-face? It’s now come back to bite you in the ass. I do not take any joy in this, it is only my yearning for justice. I never wanted someone I love so much to also become my worst enemy. You have become a repeat of my tragic affair with screwball Nam Vet Randolph Taylor.

It is TOO LATE, Mr. Kelsey, to have any sort of friendship with me. You’ve crossed the line beyond any possibility of redemption. WE ARE AT WAR AND I SHALL WIN, BECAUSE I AM A RIGHTEOUS MAN.

Anywayz, have a great day and thanks for letting me vent. My letter to gay bar owners will be mailed shortly after you receive this letter.

All my love,

– Zeke

PS: I am a forgiving man but, c’mon, not that forgiving!

–end of letter

Date: Tue, 11 Mar 2014 08:26:31
Re: “Too Late” letter to Larkin
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor

On 3/10/14, Eleanor wrote:

{{ You are forgiving and unforgiving at the same time! Admirable, and I’m not being facetious! }}

Thank you! I just saw Larkin again last night, around 9 PM at Twin
Peaks Tavern (of course). I’ll be writing about this latest incident
today, then post it to you.

{{ A new twist on “True Detective.” }}

He’s forcing me to learn how to walk a very narrow line. This is no
accident…the man is very intelligent, he knows what he is doing.
Everything he’s done to me he’s orchestrated down to the eighth note.
Prepared, rehearsed then executed.

He shoved me (last year in January) not because he was angry, but because he wanted to trigger deeper emotions inside of me that came from past tragedies and conflicts and needed to be released. Now, he’s letting me vent w/o fear of retaliation, violence or rejection. It’s all a clever act…he faked feeling bad and brushing me aside so that I would confront him, and then he shoved me just hard enough that I’d almost hit the ground, but not quite. A very precise maneuver.

Were Larkin truly sick of me, I’m certain he’d’ve struck me again or in other ways been aggressively hostile. None of this has occurred, not even one iota. He was very kind to me again last night (as he was a couple weeks ago when he gave me the stage, and I proposed). You will see, once I get the story to you.

I’ve been having the most incredible rolls in the hay these days…unlike anything I’ve experienced before. Four dudes so far, in the span of less than two weeks. Each one exquisitely handsome, sweet natured, and the nicest baskets you can imagine! You’ll soon read about the first three in a blog post scheduled to publish later this month. It’s called “A Light of Ray.”

Dude #4 I’ve just written about, and let me tell you, El: he’s so impossibly beautiful, as is Larkin. Sweet as all get-out and just 34 years old. Now among the first three is Mikey, who has the most wonderful face to gaze upon! He was nothing but a darling in my arms all night long, and such good company.

None of this is normal, El! No one has these delightful trysts with the best sex and companionship ever experienced before with such frequency…and it just goes on and on. These men are so handsome, El, that even masturbating now (to those recent hot moments) has catapulted me into a wonderful dimension that I’ve only dreamed of before.

I’m convinced that Larkin is behind this…probably through his
telepathic abilities. Though perhaps he has funds set aside to pay for escorts…which monies I suspect come from the secret gay society that I believe really exists. He’s sending these darlin’s my way, and it all started that night I told him: “Marry me Larkin, I’m tired of sucking strange kok!”

So it makes good sense that he still plays “hard to hug” and continues to avoid me (for the most part) while treating me to a smorgasbord of prime beef! How much sweeter to play it this way than directly say: “Zeke, I’m gonna treat you to some beautiful men, so get yer whistle wet!”

As for “true detective”: yes, he is training me to become the best in the field. As well as healing me from the accumulated PTSD of my many trials over many years. Not the least of which is my dedication to a suffering Nam Vet who I met and fell in love with instantly way, way back in 1984.

As for these recent visions of Larkin being not just a detective, but Commander in Chief of a vast fleet of star ships from the Andromeda galaxy (and Reptilian to boot!): well, nothing surprises me any more. He set everything up down to the finest detail, from the day we met and every other moment since.

Each day holds a new and incredible surprise, such that I look so forward to the future like I never have before!

– Zeke

Date: Thu, 13 Mar 2014 10:09:55
Still No Hugs
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Took me longer to complete this true tale, a report on my latest Larkin spotting. One of the more complicated incidents to type down on screen. Very difficult to put all the arabesque pieces into one coherent moving picture. Just glad we’ve had no /additional/ encounter before I completed the telling of this one. Every time we meet I explode in divine epiphany shortly thereafter. I think you’ll appreciate the dinosaur/avian metaphorical interplay, as well as the Catholic morality respun into a very gay bromance. This literary challenge I put to myself was most fun to unravel and overcome. I even wrote it all in the present tense, for a bonus gold star. I do believe, however, Larkin’s psychic guidance via the keyboard got me the prize. Enjoy!

–begin latest Larkin chronicle:

March 11, Tuesday

Last night: another Larkin sighting around 9 PM in the large glass bird cage known as Twin Peaks Tavern. Naturally, he stands out among the rest by a long shot…exquisite plumage, strutting about like the cock o’ the walk, lifting shiny objects from tables and setting them up by the bar sink. Apparently this is his particular species’ form of mating ritual, and he’s trying to lure a potential partner with those flashy metal-and-glass gewgaws.

But I am out there wishing to be inside, with him! Why does he seek another mate after my courting This Sweet Raptor of Paradise for more than eight agonizing years? I grow nervous and flutter my psychic wings like I’m about to take off. Instead, they wearily droop across my shoulder blades and I sigh (oh well) knowing in my heart that I truly am his beloved, there is no one else. (Indeed, perhaps his festive display is intended for this little mocked bird…seeing as he’s telepathic and already knows I’m about before he even looks my way.) I then hop a few feet back to perch on the fireplug just outside, next to the bus stop. Where I can view Larkin from most any angle, though sometimes blocked by an intercepting patron eager to chirp him up.

My strategy is to appear as stranger to all TPT budgies, Larkin no exception. So I tilt my head this way and that, as if searching for a tasty crumb, a sexy pigeon feather, or a sparkling object to procure. Thus no one suspects my flirting gazes at the token of my delight. Once convinced he’s aware of my presence, I flit over to the concrete buttress directly across from the tavern door. Soon as I grip the mini-wall with both claws behind (and shove my light-weight carcass atop it to sit with legs a-dangle) a revelation strikes me like a plash of chill Ice-Age water that refreshes all my downy under-feathers:

“I am not just here to soak up his radiant aura. I am here because he adores me, too, and appreciates my appearance in these times when we yet must keep our distance…and our friendship hidden. For a variety of reasons I’ve conjectured over many previous scrawls.”

And with that understanding, peace fills my heart, joy quickly follows. AND LARKIN STEPS OUT!!! I forget why, or if we talked or even looked at either, for I was snockered on pot and booze. But my dim memory reveals that he merely stood some 15 feet away from me, looked about then reentered. Several additional minutes pass before:

an androgynously handsome dude named Patrick gets into my face and waves a clear packet of marijuana before my eyes:

“Here, Zeke, I wanna smoke some with ya!” His hair is curly natural platinum, cut short and scrunched up like a prince’s crown, bound by a white elastic band. Steel-blue eyes glint in my direction. Patrick is intensely beautiful, just not my type, not male enough. Like Larkin and my other newfound darlings…now they’re men!

“Really?” I dismount the buttress to shake my feathers. “Where should we go?”

“No, I meant let’s go back to your place. I really enjoyed our visit, and sorry if I made you nervous.”

“This won’t do,” (I thought). “He doesn’t know I’m not out here to fraternize with tweakers, bums, homophobes and delusional faggots. I’m here for Larkin, and that’s that!”

In a flash Larkin steps back out and saves the day…before I even need to conjure up an excuse to drive Patrick thither, that I may focus back on My Heart’s Sole Pleasure. Who now addresses him:

“Pick up that bottle and toss it out!” he declares while pointing at a 2-liter plastic container emptied of its Orange Crush. Which Patrick had dumped in the potted shrubs just before he approached me. (I don’t really think Larkin cares about litter, except when someone dumps it in my vicinity.)

Patrick turns to him and looks up: “Okay, but only if you say so!”

But Patrick remains in place like a statue, so Larkin insists: “Do it now, Patrick!”

“Hmm,” I muse. “Didn’t realize Larkin knows his name. Perhaps it was telepathy, since I said to him in my mind just moments ago: ‘His name is Patrick.’ But I decided to not interefere, so kept my beak shut.”

He then obeys Larkin’s command, but instead of wandering away, returns to my post with Larkin backed into the doorway, paying us only half attention. But my tiny brainpan is begging: “Please Larkin, get him away from me!”

“I work for him!” announces Patrick only inches from my face.

“Do you know who he is?” I challenge.

“Yes! He’s my father!”

(I suddenly feel put off. How dare he presume such a selfish notion! How long has he been here, known Larkin…a few weeks, months? Compared to my own seniority in both matters? Patrick is just another unconscious mindfuk manipulated by telepathic Reptilians who sometimes bring great frustration into my life, that I may finally be healed of residual PTSD. While I understand this vital process, I am nonetheless pissed, ready to punch him in the kisser.)

“He’s not your dad,” I enunciate with patience. “He’s my lover!”

(Larkin is so ridiculously handsome, so many queers–and hetero women I assume–feel compelled to claim their ownership upon this free spirit, and lock him in their own little cage of sparkly treasures. In total disregard that the person they’re speaking with may have a beloved association with him already…and unfettered by such possessive urges. And Larkin knows how they mistreat me, though realizes the unhappy experience is only a test of my emotional IQ, not a threat in any way towards our friendship. In other words, he doesn’t interfere but with scant exception. Such as this time.)

He steps back up to Patrick, taps him on the shoulder then leans down to say some innocuous sentences that inspire him to wander off. What they were, I have no idea…but I’m sure the words were sweet, yet the motive to depart compelling.

Seeing now that I’m free from interference, Larkin stalks back into TPT and roosts on a stool within clear range of my sight. My spirit fills with gratitude as I reseat myself on the buttress to gaze upon his visage. But once more I am distracted by a rude invasion. A fat, middle-aged black hobo who’s parked his tired body on the furthest edge of TPT facing Castro Street (and made it his home for the past five months) decides to mosey on up to me, stick out his paw and request:

“Can you spare a quarter?” His voice is as gloomy and deep as a foolish soul who just learned by St. Peter’s decree that he’s condemned to eternal purgatory.

I almost explode in a feather-flurry, but quickly regain my noble composure:

“No!” I clip. The man groans and slinks back to his spot. A spot which he doesn’t deserve, and should be reserved for a gay homeless fellow, not a clueless hetero bag of ignorance…I might add.

By this time Larkin had stepped out once more, and with a youngish lesbian. Where they pause in discourse about 30 feet down 17th. I flit over to the army-green wastebin on the northeast corner of Jane Warner Plaza, and observe. Not because I’m a snoop, but I so rarely enjoy being in Larkin’s company, even if from afar. They speak for quite some time (more than 10 minutes I guess), I grow restless, migrate to the newsrack front of TPT (north side). Where I get to espy Larkin and company in a direct line down the sidewalk. Still, nowhere near enough to eavesdrop or even come off like a pest.

Three-four additional minutes pass before they disperse and Larkin turns to head my way. I gaze directly upon him, notice he hasn’t yet looked up to see me. But in a few steps he does, and I wonder what his reaction will be. I’m not the least bit nervous, ready to retort no matter his ploy, and do so in the kindest way possible. Just before he passes me and resumes his tavern schmoozing, he addresses:

“You have a great night, Zeke!”

I do not need even a nanosecond to figure how to reply, it all just comes out like a playback: “My night is great! Every time I get to see you is great!”

Then I turn to watch him seat himself once more, at the front end of the bar right by the picture window and just four feet from This Happy Starling. I next flutter back to the bus stop to enjoy his presence beyond the passersby, beyond the glass divider, beyond the milling barhops, and beyond my most glorious dreams. It gives me tremendous joy to know that my visage is his delight, just as his is mine!

Seconds pass into minutes till I decide it’s time to depart, rather than remain until he does same. Out of respect for the man. So I cross by the west side of TPT where he is nearest, and give a brief wave of the claw as my sign of departure. To this heart’s delight, he summons me to wait there, he’ll come out.

And he does. So here is Larkin once more towering over me like My Dragon Protector, showering me with much grace. I am exhilarated, bathing in his purplish aura. Then he speaks:

“Do you have a spare cigarette?”

Okay, not the greeting I expected, but what the hey. So I pull out my pack of Fortunas and offer him the whole box:

“There are four remaining. Have them all. I’ve another pack at home.”

“Oh, thanks,” he remarks, then graciously accepts my offering and extends an arm for a fist bump.

“Whoa!” I exclaim. “Either a hug or nothing at all. No fist bump, no handshake, no arm-grasp, no air hug! Nothing.”

As I speak those words he mutters nonsense I can’t comprehend except as a continued denial of his affectionate embrace. A denial which he commenced the night he shoved me, way back in January 2013…more than a year and two months into the past. (And don’t forget: from April 2007 to September 2012, he also refused my hugs…a total of almost five full, agonizing years without his sweet embraces.)

“You’re torturing me, buddy!” I denounce with fiery judgment. “I’m gonna report you to the highest Reptilain court for cruel and unusual punishment!”

He then spits on the ground by the tavern door…and I act in kind, though aim for (and strike) his shoes.

“Say, why did you do that?” he queries like a harmless cherub. “I never did anything to you!”

“Oh you haven’t?” I admonish and look straight into his eyes while wagging a finger of shame. “You shoved me. You tossed a lit cigarette onto my shirt. You called me stalker…”

Larkin interrupts: “But you are my stalker!”

“Okay, pal, let me warn you! You will not get away with any of your crude deeds against me. Which also include your countless mind fuks for more than a year now!”

I take a deep gulp and continue: “Furthermore, those letters to bar owners are going out in two days…there is no hope for you!”

“Why did you spit at my feet?” he presses.

“Because I hate you,” I confess. “I hate you and I love you.” Then add: “But I love you more than I hate you. That will never change.”

He grins like the Cheshire Cat, which causes my spine to shudder in ecstasy. I then remember a punchline I wanted to tell him when we next met (which is now):

“Larkin, you’re so mean to me, you make Hitler look like…” but then my mind wanders and I forget the remainder. As I attempt to recall, he suggests:

“David Hasselhoff?”

[ Cantilevered Reader: I need to mention here, that was not the name he spoke. Can’t remember which name he used to complete my Mad Libs, but I do remember it was not one I knew…perhaps a local celebrity here in the Castro or South of Market. Or maybe a contemporary actor or athlete, seeing as I don’t keep up with that sort of nonsense. Wish I had paused to ask him who that was, but my wit flounders before his own. Hopefully, Larkin himself will get back to me on this, and explain his retort…I sure hope so! At which time I will edit this passage to include the real name. But my point is thus: he gave a wisecrack that went over my head, though I’m sure is actually very funny. ]

“No! Let me think…” so I ponder with fingers on chin, scratching for the answer. “Oh, yeah, the Easter Bunny! That’s it! You make Hitler look like the Easter Bunny!”

He grins broadly (and, I think, tossed a second name into the ring for good measure, before I resolved my quandary).

“Here take these back.” He attempts to return the Fortuna box into my hands. But I refuse, so he drops it to the ground.

“You’re such a pissant,” I declare while bending down to the concrete to reclaim the discarded booty. I continue: “Here, take the cigarettes, I want you to enjoy them anyway.” But he rejects them.

“You are my stalker!” he persists like a chatty stuffed dragon that’s been hacked.

“Okay, Larkin,” I respond with an exasperated sigh. “I know you’re just playing a game with me. It’s okay.”

He grabs the door’s lintel as if about to reenter, and mumbles: “Uh-huh!”

Not fully relieved of the outrage that he instigated, I flip him the bird and keep it there, say: “Fuk you, Larkin! Fuk you!”

He extends a middle finger in mutual accord, and belittles: “Fuk you too, Zeke!”

Larkin reenters the tavern as I turn left to depart. He resumes his place at the end stool right by the window. So I stare at him and flip the bird once more, mouthing: “Fuk you! Fuk you! Fuk you!”

He then stands up and presses against the window, with a finger stuck up each nostril and making gestures so gross that I suddenly burst out in laughter and point at him:

“You’re cute!”

Larkin keeps up the antics for another half minute (and I continue to guffaw, joyful tears about to stream down my face) before turning about and seating himself once more. I finally cross the street to rest a few moments on the hydrant while gazing back at his image so full of light, the bar doesn’t need its own.

“Andromedan Starship Commander Larkin Kelsey really loves me!” I think with great happiness, then head hovel.

–end of latest Larkin chronicle

So I told ya El (maybe different from previous words that I’ve posted; but still, same intent):

My trilogy will be celebrated as the most wonderful love story since “Romeo & Juliet.” Thus I elevate all gay people in the eyes of the hetero majority. Not just in these Disunited States, but all across the globe. And we have One Great Man to thank for this, besides myself.

And another true hero, though behind the curtains…like a prop manager. Who is you.


– Zeke

Service Dogs in Gay Bars

March 28, 2014

[ Bedazzled Reader: on March 7th I sent the following letter to various gay newspapers here in San Francisco. First to the Bay Area Reporter in response to their article, “Badlands faces discrimination complaint”. It’s about an unruly patron who wanted to bring in an equally-unruly dog. This is my “long version,” which includes a 3-paragraph passage not part of the actual letter sent. Which excerpt I’ve italicized and colored green. ]

Dear editor:

I am in full support of Badlands Club refusing to allow a dog onto their premises, as reported in your last edition. Both the doorman and the owner (Les Natali) did the right thing by preventing a drunk patron along with his poorly behaved (and rather large) canine, from upsetting and possibly endangering everyone else present. Here’s the real problem:

Dogs are sensitive to loud, shrill and sudden bursts of noise, no matter how gentle they otherwise are. For this reason, bars are the worst environment. They will panic and possibly attack someone out of desperation to stop the pain in their eardrums. This has happened to me, twice, in the same bar located South of Market. First time, some redneck dyke entered with a formidable pit bull.

The bar was busting with cacophony from the loudspeakers, and I did not enjoy remaining there with someone’s powerful pet that is obviously not raised by the most responsible owner in the city (to put it mildly). In other words: a Diane Whipple disaster in the making. So I left.

Second time, about two years later, a patron entered with a large, nervous poodle. I could see it jerk suddenly with apprehension whenever the loudspeakers hit a high note or an ear-busting boom. Then when I stepped between that dog and the pool table to move up front, it leapt and chomped down on my leg. I was not injured since fortunately, a pair of thick denim jeans protected me. But neither the pet’s owner nor the bartender showed any concern…in fact, they both blamed me for stirring things up!

Another incident (outside the bars) occurred at Walgreens on 18th & Castro about five years ago. I turned an aisle to suddenly be confronted by a dog of intimidating size: muscular and large-jawed. I stood frozen as he stuck his big nose up my crotch and did not back off. Its owner finally pulled him away and started to holler at me. Then an employee joined the fray and told me to leave, not the idiotic dog owner! It is illegal to allow pets into a store that sells food, for your information.

Yet one more example, this time at a coffeehouse, occurred where a surly young dude (obviously a bit off his rocker) entered with a pit bull that suddenly snapped at an infant in a stroller. The father confronted him, to whom the scumbag replied: “He’s a service dog, I can have him with me anywhere I want.” The employees said nothing, did not 86 the offender.

MUNI also allows any and all kinds of service animals, and posts a sign to that effect on many of their transports. Regardless of endangerment to passengers, when some street thug brings aboard a huge dog that is clearly ill-raised. At which point all riders are captive prisoners of potential violence.

I have noticed that anyone can call their animal a “service pet” without showing proof. Many of these pet owners (I have also observed) are ill tempered, immature jerkwads who should not keep any creature as companion. They choose large dogs such as pit bulls and Rottweilers precisely because they are bullies, and enjoy pushing people around through fear.

My deepest regard goes out to Mr. Natali, Badlands, and any other gay bars that may be subjected to arrogant nitwits who take gross advantage of their privilege to own a service pet. Using it to harass decent folks in order to satiate their fat egos and hopefully win a lucrative lawsuit in the process.

Such pet owners should be behind bars, not in bars. Along with those poor beasts subjected to cruel mistreatment which then grow up to be loaded, unmuzzled weapons in violation of the public trust. Should this buffoon of a dog owner, Paul Ponsiglione, win his case against Badlands, I’m afraid we’ll see many “service” animals attack other patrons and cause these bars unmerited expense of lawsuits by injured customers, and eventual loss of their license.


Zeke Krahlin

Howard’s Pink Triangles

March 25, 2014

Just yesterday, March 5th, I noticed a feature on Howard’s Cafe’s storefront that I never noticed before, after so many years frequenting the dive:

Pink triangle tiles wrapped around the facade like a necklace…as you see in the above photo. Though more pink in real life (I use a cheap digital camera, so sue me). Upon this revelation, I entered Howard’s and addressed the two waitrons there (Bruno and Deidre):

“Say, I never noticed the pink triangles before, that decorate the front!”

Bruno smiled at me while Deidre remained absorbed in ringing up the receipts on the old-time semi-automatic cash register whose sounds are rarely heard any more in this high-tech reality: “whirrrrr, clunk-clunk, whirr!”

But I had something else on my mind, just prior to the pink triangle discovery: yesterday I handed Deidree the printout re. meeting her Dad, that I finally got around to writing. So I asked her:

“So whaddya think of my piece about your lovely dad?”

“Wow, Zeke, I really liked it! I’m sure he’ll get a kick out of it too.”

I beamed with glee: “So glad to meet your father, so glad to meet you, so glad to meet Howard’s, so glad…”

“Easy, Zeke, slow down!” She raised a hand in opposition. I simply chuckled.

“Coffee, Zeke?” asked Bruno, and I said sure, then sat in my favorite spot: the end seat on the horseshoe counter’s left side, my back to the mirrored wall.

As Bruno set down my coffee cup, napkin and utensils, I further remarked: “What’s especially interesting is those triangles are pointed upward.”

“Really now?” inquired Bruno.

“Yes. Most gays wear the pink triangle point downward, but some 17 years ago I suggested in a letter to the editor that we wear the triangle upward, to symbolize a positive perception of ourselves, and our destiny.”

Bruno: “No kidding?”

“Right. And two months later Act Up came out with their first line of T-shirts with upward-pointing triangles. They didn’t give me the credit, but I can prove it since I’ve saved that newspaper bearing my letter.”

Bruno (in his always-friendly fashion): “Looks like Howard’s summoned you here!” Then he disappeared into the kitchen.

His suggestion caused me to think: Is Howard’s a Reptilian outpost, too? Another incredible setup (like Hole in the Wall Saloon and Larkin’s unexpected arrival in the Castro), that brought me to this present place and time of miraculous destiny? I think so!

So I gazed upon Deidre and Bruno with newfound awe, realizing the glorious implications.

[ Now you, Frabjous Reader, may also deliberate over my musings while enjoying three more pics of Howard’s pink triangles (click on any image below for a larger view, as well as click here to read my letter that started it all}: ]

A Little Lizard’s Lament

March 22, 2014

You do know, Larkin, what with all the gifts, letters and tales I’ve presented you since 2007, you could open your own museum. Gay tourists would pay a handsome fee for the privilege to view my myriad artifacts of love and dedication. In fact, the GLBT History Museum might close down as a result of the unbeatable competition! They don’t honor me, they don’t honor Randolph, and they don’t honor you. And why the fuk not? We have each contributed mightily to the benefit of gay people with little or no recognition whatsoever:

  • Me, for my brazen activism since 1983, and contribution of many novel strategies to gain our freedom. With loads of humor, inspiration, true tales, and greatest regard for all sexual minorities on the planet regardless of their religious or political affiliations. And at great risk of violent attack both outside and within the gay world. I’m sort of being crushed in the vise of hetero homophobes on one hand, and vindictive, right-wing-mama’s-boy queers on the other.
  • Randolph, for being our very own war hero, including his great sacrifice of a 40-day fast back in 1984…and his consequent betrayal by the Democratic Party that led to his grievous suicide attempt at The Wall in 1985. He was an impossibly beautiful man as you are, and such a dream-come-true for this struggling faggot. Absolutely no reason why his noble achievements remain excluded from the GLBT History Museum.
  • Yourself, Larkin Kelsey, for all your inestimable community participation as a loving friend to many bar patrons whose lives would be utterly miserable without your sweet and caring presence. Such a cryin’ shame (I might add) that so many in our queer family give you absolutely no credit, and even despise you. These are petty minds who choose jealousy over respect for your brilliant efforts to create true community in a highly fragmented minority. And in spite of much antagonism against your good works, you kindly ignore the slings and arrows, that you may forge onward.

There is also another Great Gay Warrior who’s an unsung hero of many years’ sacrifice, by name of Carlyle Lambourne. I discovered him on the Internet in 1997, and it has been a great association since then, via email. He resides in a suburb of Boston, and has always been a most thoughtful and supportive friend throughout those many years. I will be most delighted to finally meet him in person, some day soon I hope. His concepts for Gay Conquest are so amazing and insightful, I’ve maintained a page on my web site to archive all his prosaic contributions.

I am so proud to love such good men, even to the point of suffering further PTSD out of misunderstanding or (perhaps) bearing their crosses along with mine. But the greatest pride I’ve ever known is taking your honorable cross upon these aching shoulders. You, My Darling Dragon, are the Absolute Cat’s Meow. Even beyond that of Randolph Taylor who is a true hero beyond anyone’s comprehension but a few. And that’s saying a hell of a lot, Mi Amigo Dulce!

Because I know what a genuinely good soul you are, I am more than willing to suffer any humiliation, grief and challenges you fling in my direction. For I do understand the purpose of your plan. That you care about me so much, you do not hesitate to put me through any difficulties to strengthen my spirit. Even if it means sacrificing our friendship. But I want to assure you:

No fear of losing my loyalty no matter what. Though I may sometimes bite back, please realize this is only because of the pain you inflict. And I know you understand perfectly, being the Wise Father Of My Soul that you are. I just want so badly to end this tortuous cycle, that our friendship may blossom. And in so doing, spread a great blessing upon our struggling planet. I want so desperately to be in your arms, to be a best friend to you in all circumstances.

For I realize that, while the most joyful man in the cosmos, you must know suffering in greater depths than I could ever conceive. And of course a grievous part of that is my own struggles that you have intentionally sparked. Every bump on my sorrowful path hits your own heart like a ton of bricks. I just don’t want you to go through that again…ever. So allow me to take the moment to assure you:

“I’m perfectly fine. No, more than that: I’m perfectly fine because of you! Your sweet/tough friendship has made me realize after so many years since we first laid eyes on each other: I am by far the friggin-luckiest man in the entire universe to have Larkin for my good buddy!”

You are My Creation, My Supernova, My Big Bang! You are God’s Own Heather on the slopes of Loch Ness. You are the Arctic Rime that frosts the beards of mighty warriors, but not their pricks when the sun has set and all good men have the hots for each other, and wish for a dong in their mouth plus one for their brother!

So many years have passed since we both were driven out of Hole in the Wall. And as a result, I very rarely get to enjoy your gracious company any more, nor watch your antics at the pool table. I am terribly jealous of those patrons not denied your vision of merriment…whether at billiards, softball, bowling, or just plain barfly schmoozing. For a while longer, I guess, I must play the outcast, the pariah, to your popularity. Though I realize there may be not a one in your circle who appreciates you as much as yours truly.

I cannot imagine not being here for you, even if we don’t hang out together still. I cannot bear the idea of you moving on without me, leaving me behind in the dust to be ravaged by the Wolves of Despair. There is nothing worse than that. Nor nothing better than daydreaming about a blessed future in your admirable heart, as we embark on an eternity together.

Yet at this time in our space, I’m not sure which way to play this. For I really don’t want to make you feel imposed upon…yet by another token I realize that you often challenge me to recognize that what you wish is not always what you speak. That is my quandary: should I continue to park myself by TPT 3-4 days per week…or should I surrender that episode unto a new chapter? My decision is thus:

Drop the JW Plaza thing totally. Do not ever sweat Larkin’s devotion to you, for you may simply relax and enjoy each day. Knowing with every pulse in your heart that Larkin is indeed your Most Beloved Guardian Dragon…and Randolph Louis Taylor your Most Adored Guardian Angel. Neither shall abandon you ever, and I promise that you, Kind Zeke, shall soon be surprised by Larkin’s attentions.

I do so love you, Larkin. And I really, really, really miss you.

All my love, forever and ever and more,


PS: Some lines I’ve thought up to speak, next time we meet…not to rehash what I’ve already typed out in this or that previous letter:

I approach you once more outside of Twin Peaks Tavern puffing on a Marlboro (or whatever): “Larkin, you are so mean to me you make Hitler look like the Easter Bunny.”


“You don’t have to tell me to move on, I will move on, once you promise me this: you will never insert plugs into those handsome earlobes like some dudes do! You are too darling a man to ever decorate himself; no other male beauty comes close to touching you! Though perhaps a tattoo would be hot…such as a fierce dragon wrapped about one shoulder.”


“Got a joke for ya Larkin, for my new standup routine! My boyfriend cheated on me last night. Know what his excuse was? He was abducted by a UFO! Well, I certainly don’t believe he was abducted, but I’m sure he was anally probed.”

Yet more:

“Oh I get you Larkin! You’re just playing hard to get, so the getting will be that much more fabulous!”

Plus this:

“You’re incorrigible! Still no hug after more than a year…are you mad? Please embrace me before I die and have to go through this all over again in my next life, searching (yet once more) for My Absolute Ultimate Soul Mate.”

And here:

“I’m gonna be world famous in a short time from now, and I’ll need a trophy wife. I want that trophy wife to be you!”


“I can’t imagine any other man so bodacious as your own sweet self! Thank you for such incredible loyalty when I was sorely tempted to believe otherwise.”

So just keep playin’ your game as long as you want, My Rapturous Raptor! I will never back down, indeed I will always stand up to you. For that is what a true friend is all about: that he alert his beloved whenever he sees him straying onto the wrong path. Even when he finally comes to realize this is but another silly game his guardian dragon just concocted. Your games, Lovely Luscious Larkin, are one heck of a lot harder to play than 3-D chess!

Hero #3

March 19, 2014

[ Free Me From This Bond (sequel to the sequel): Chapter 7 ]

Date: Mon, 24 Jun 2013 15:22:01
You’ll be glad to know…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

…that I’ve finally got rid of that ol’ bottle of urine. Seeing as I now have Caleb to sleep with. Ha ha.

Date: Mon, 24 Jun 2013 16:22:28
Re: You’ll be glad to know…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ Urine luck! }}

Strange kinda luck to have, I suppose. :)

So, didja get to see my Larkin video yet? Told ya I’d have a good pic of him in a short time. Little did I dream it would come from a forgotten video instead of my present camera ventures.

BTW, my friendship w/Caleb is blossoming. His attorney sister wants to take us out for dinner very soon. He went through a phone interview yesterday, and will soon take the next step to gain a position as financial advisor.

– Zeke

Date: Mon, 24 Jun 2013 17:34:07
Re: You’ll be glad to know…
From: Eleanor
To: Zeke

Tried the YouTube, but I get an error message every time. I’m going to try again later.

BTW, I’m in the midst of putting together a website for the big China books. Wait’ll you see what I’ve done, just using one of those free sites:

It ain’t finished yet, but it’s getting there.

Date: Mon, 24 Jun 2013 17:48:47
Re: You’ll be glad to know…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Okay, since both Larkin video links run just fine from my end, I have /no/ idea what’s going on. Except perhaps My Lizard Monitor has a telepathic hand in it.

I certainly look forward to viewing your “China Books” site. Meanwhile, Caleb’s back and we got “stuff” to do.

– Zeke

Date: Tue, 25 Jun 2013 13:43:16
Both Larkin links work fine from my end….
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

…but if for whatever unknown reason they remain inaccessible, I can simply upload to you, as attachment.

I had no idea El, that the publishing process would instigate so much sorrow, tragedy, frustration and wicked chaos…not just for “moi,” but for the illustrator as well. You didn’t tell me about that part!

I think after this I’ll skip publishing altogether; just stick to putting them on my blog, and hope for donations. The price to publish is just too high.

As /I/ am this very moment, stoned on some righteous scoobie-doobie.

– Zeke

Date: Tue, 25 Jun 2013 14:33:40
Re: Both Larkin links work fine from my end….
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ I’m relieved to learn that he’s the one behind the counter, not in front of it! }}

I wouldn’t steer you wrong, El. Larkin /always/ slings the hash!

– Zeke

Date: Wed, 26 Jun 2013 20:41:35
RE: A Great Day for LGBT Rights
From: Carlyle
To: Zeke


Yes, it is mind-boggling. Boy Scouts allowing gay scouts. Exodus International apologizing, shutting down, speaking of reconciliation. Now DOMA.

The tide must be turning. At this rate, can start to focus more on foreign trouble spots like Africa, Muslim countries, Russia, Jamaica.

Regards, Carlyle

Date: Wed, 26 Jun 2013 18:25:43
RE: A Great Day for LGBT Rights
From: Zeke
To: Carlyle

Carlyle wrote:

{{ The tide must be turning. }}

I wouldn’t feel so confident this soon, Carlyle. A horrendous backlash is quite likely. After all, it happened to South Africa as a result of incorporating LGBT equality in their new constitution. Rape and persecution of lesbians, and equally violent regard for gay men and transgenders/transexuals. Just google “homophobia in south africa”.

I even look forward to the backlash and consequent civil war, expanding to a global reach in due time. Right now, CA Gov. Jerry Brown has just ordered /all/ counties to offer gay marriage licenses. Can you imagine the vitriolic kickback by these Xian fuktards who overrun so many of California’s inland counties? They are /bound/ to sabotage queers every step of the way…per mandate of their Satanic overlord who no doubt is a diehard Republican.

Can’t /wait/ for the hetero BS to hit the fan!

– Ezekiel

Date: Tue, 25 Jun 2013 17:57:13
Re: What inspired you to use bleach…
From: Zeke
To: Carlyle

Carlyle wrote:

{{ I’ve had things like poison ivy before, and rashes from chlorine pool, but I had noticed starting this winter that it seemed much more skin irritation than ever before. Now a reason to be a bit paranoid about it. }}

Frightening. Have you actually viewed the pics of my ankle sore on my latest blog entry?

If you don’t have the time to actually read the piece, at least scroll down to view the wound…you can’t miss ’em: four in all, over a span of 8 days. Quite a shocker. I have many /smaller/ ones over my right thigh, knee and calf, which I did /not/ include in that entry. But all very deep into the tissue layers, say 1/4 to 1/2 inch.

Much odor-free pus, blood and lymph fluid. They finally scabbed over, but pus still gushed out for almost two weeks when I pressed on them. I used triple antibiotic gel on the scabs and sores twice per day, which also kept them moist and allowed the toxins to drain.

Debrided the nasty sore while running under warm tap water, until all the necrotizing flesh and scabs dropped off. Which then allowed good skin to begin the healing process.

Did /not/ see any doctor, just tended them myself. Finally, it’s all clearing up…but boy what a scary ride!

{{ Also to be paranoid about tics. It is almost impossible to avoid ever being bitten, like trying never to get a mosquito bite. }}

You’re kidding! I never heard of such an infestation before! Sounds like a plague of tics artificially manufactured via our gov’t’s biowarfare devils. Surely, climate change plays a role.

{{ Have to hope more for being able to beat back infections than to avoid exposure, although I do try to slather on the repellents before hiking. }}

I’m sure there must be safer ways to repel tics than covering yourself with synthetic emollients that are most likely /also/ manufactured in biowarfare labs. Perhaps the /real/ toxins are located in OTC bug repellants, and this engineered tic infestation is the catalyst.

Time to google “natural tic repellant”.

– Ezekiel

Date: Tue, 25 Jun 2013 21:34:09
Re: What inspired you to use bleach…
From: Zeke
To: Carlyle

{{ Whatever it is, probably should get to a doctor/dermatologist }}

NOT feasible. I’d be hit with an intitial $80 simply to walk in. Then additional fees for surgical etc. treatment, followup, and so on. Probably would cost in the end, around $400. I’ve run out of my trust fund, and my so-called MediCare, due to cutbacks, is no longer totally free for the low income such as myself. In fact, it’s UNAFFORDABLE.

Doctors can rot in hell for all I care. No dental work for more than six years now, almost all my teeth are gone. No more eye or hearing exams, nor psychiatric therapy to help me struggle through my difficulties. Ad nauseum.

{{ If not feasible, might also want to try a fungicide from the drugstore. Could maybe try to check symptoms online- does it itch? Does it spread when you touch it? }}

It’s definitely shingles…which unfortunately caused an exceptionally large and pus filled pock. It is healing quite nicely now, thank you. Very little pain through the ordeal, except the healthy soreness of new skin filling in the deep crater as old tissue and scabs slough off.

I’ve been treating it with triple antibiotic gel and tap water washes twice per day. Important to keep the wound moist /and/ sterile. Easily debrides due to the moisture. Totally clean now, and fresh derma is bulding up slowly. Probably will heal w/o any dent…and a pale, perfectly round scar.

{{ Probably want to launder all clothes, just to be sure. }}

As if I can /afford/ that, Carlyle! I have barely enough money for food for the rest of the month. I’ve had to recycle my underwear 3-4 times. Couldn’t have happened to me at a /worst/ time (financially) yet it did.

I don’t think you realize how badly these Social Security and MediCare cutbacks have impacted the poor, but I’ve had to stop purchasing multivitamins and minerals, and no more organic produce, juices or eating out even in the cheapest joints.

{{ I tend to use natural, herbal repellents. }}

Also beyond my budget. As are hydrocolloid dressings (which would help my particular type of sore tremendously). Oh, well…I consider this all a challenge and learning process, that I may become a better healer for /others/ who are likewise financially compromised.

{{ Also try to check my skin after very walk. Keep tweezers handy. }}

SO glad that a plague of tics is not also cursing me on top of all my other woes. I think I have more than enough challenges on my plate, at present.

– Ezekiel

Date: Wed, 26 Jun 2013 22:24:28
10 Day’s Progress
From: Zeke
To: Carlyle

So here’s a ten-day span of my shingles sore, to show you how it’s healing.

Click on image for a larger view.

Thought I’d also mention what my income is these days (since the spending off of my trust fund):

Soc. Sec.: $1,099/mo.

No other income whatsoever.


Rent: $310/mo. (Lucky me, rent control…though it’s just one room, bathroom down the hallway, no kitchen…noisy neighborhood semi-dangerous…vehicle pollution living over a very busy main artery…noise at night from illegal restaurant deliveries that are not supposed to occur between 10 PM and 7 AM…drunken queers roaming the streets after hours, shrieking and starting fights, often right below my window…homophobes out for mayhem.)

Medicare Part D: $31/mo. (don’t need it, they only started charging me for it Jan. this year)

Acid reflux pills (OTC from Walgreen’s): $28/mo. (Can’t get a doctor’s prescription, as I have no Dr. and to see one via ER would nullify any savings I’d make via Part D.)

Emergency Room or Hospital Visit: $80 base price, then shoots up from there.

Well, then there’s food, transportation, clothing, sundries et. al.

How do you think /you/ could manage on such a sparse income?

FYI: I am now receiving $236 less on Soc. Sec. than I was two years ago. Due to cutbacks and elimination of many forms of urgent medical care, and increased costs of the remaining services.

Basically, a premature death sentence for the lower strata of society.

– Ezekiel

Date: Thu, 27 Jun 2013 00:36:27
I think I now know how Book 3 is going to end…
From: Zeke
To: My Beleaguered Advocates

…for as I lay beside darling Caleb in his Miller’s High Life stupor and I, in my ganja paradise (thanks to a stranger in the Tenderloin who offered Caleb a joint, but he turned him down the first time though accepted the second as he thought of yours truly–just like two nights before when a stranger offered him a Mediterranean chicken salad right outside my apartment gate), sundry and brilliant visions swirl about my head like Santa’s sugar plums.

Caleb lay breathing softly in my arms while my left hand lay upon his own, and my right hand caresses those leprechaun ears and the nape of his neck. The first vision arises.

My angels deliver slumbering Caleb into my arms and speak: “God gave you one of His Own Most Beloved Seraphim, that you may finally be healed from Larkin’s travesty and meet Hero #3!”

So this trilogy is not a tale of /two/ heroes, but a tale of /three/!

Now vision number two:

The revelation comes to me like a gentle wave that buoys me like a mermaid gazing upon the firmament. Larkin drifts upon some shipwreck wood into the near past as Caleb swims to my rescue, and sweeps me up unto the halls of Valhalla…or is it Avalon? And a voice speaks:

“Love /always/ comes to you when you really, really, really need it!”

For Caleb is the /third/ hero in my trilogy! Oh I get it: it’s a trilogy because there are /3/ heroes, not 2. I’m such a dummy sometimes.

But not till Chapter Eleven of Book 3!

Caleb pushes his tousled head back whenever I press my lips upon his neck, and I do just that while aslant his napping form. Thus begins my third and final vision:

I rest within Caleb’s Sweet Soul and feel his spark of joy touch my own weary corazon.

“I am a true friend,” a voice declares, “You will /always/ be safe and happy with me, Zeke!”

Whereupon he awakens and sits up while I grasp my arms about his waist and rest my head between his shoulder blades.

“We need cigarettes,” he declares while squinting at the ceramic-cereal-bowl-turned-cigarette-tray resting upon desk #2. So I help him up and as he dons those dark gray, black and yellow sneakers, I express my concern:

“You’re already bodaciously drunk and ready to hit the sack. I’m afraid if you step out now, you might get hurt.” I pause, then add this important side note:

“I don’t mean anyone will attack you, but you might topple over!”

It is a mild night, not balmy but cool like Caleb’s belly beneath my flattened palm. I escort him out the hallway until we reach the stairs.

“You sure you don’t want me to accompany you? I’m afraid some handsome rich fellow will snap you up, you’re so cute!”

He blushes and waves a hand at me while descending the carpeted steps: “Nah!”

“Hey Caleb,” I call to him as he turns the corner and disappears. “If you find some kind and wealthy man to bed down with for the night, more power to you! Every penny counts.”


(to be continued…)

Date: Thu, 27 Jun 2013 11:31:22
RE: A Great Day for LGBT Rights
From: Sean
To: Zeke

Much ado about nothing really. This “milstone” does nothing for the poor single majority. It only panders to a wealthy organized upper class.

Date: Thu, 27 Jun 2013 13:05:38
RE: A Great Day for LGBT Rights
From: Zeke
To: Sean

Absolutely correct, Sean. I even mentioned this to several people as I strolled Eureka Valley yesterday eve. Dating, courtship, marriage, family et al all require considerable lucre…thus eliminating the low income and poor from enjoying those privileges.

The /only/ benefit this decision may have (along with striking down DADT) is a change in perception towards homesexuals: that they are as capable as heteros are, to create a family and serve their nation. Which perception may drastically reduce the frequency of hostile attacks and other forms of prejudice.

Though there may also arise a wicked backlash, since the fundamentalists see themselves as God’s soldiers fighting a righteous battle against those Satanic faggots.

Here, check out Karel’s “DOMA Repeat Rant,” he pretty much agrees with you (it’s a video):

Also this (text based article):

DOMA & Prop 8: Victories in the Wrong War

Great piece of writing. However: I feel like he’s visiting my blog and stealing my ideas. Probably not, though it sure is frustrating that as excellent an activist as I am, I’m still relegated to behind the stove, where the cockroaches nest. Even the back burner would be an improvement!

– Zeke

PS: Ha ha, you spelled “milestone” like “millstone”…perhaps a Jungian slip intended to combine both meanings.

Date: Thu, 27 Jun 2013 20:25:05
I think I now know how Book 3 is going to end (cont’d)…
From: Zeke
To: My Beleaguered Advocates

Where were we? Ah yes, Caleb had just stepped out to bum a coupla ciggies, and perhaps scout for snipes. (A snipe FYI, is street lingo for a cigarette butt scored off the sidewalk that still has a bit of suck value remaining. The luckiest score is, of course, a full stick of tobacco accidentally dropped to the ground.)

While I’ve eliminated the cost of purchasing a pack every other day, I still scout for snipes. Which reduces my intake to approx’ly 4-6 coffin nails per diem. Eventually I will stop altogether. However, having a ‘bacco addicted buddy hang with me nightly, precludes me from enjoying a smoke-free hovel, and demands excessive discipline from picking up the habit once more. I cracked a joke about his addiction yesterday:

“You’re like a Swiss clock where a little man in lederhosen glides in and out of a portal to ring the bell. Only you step in and out of my apartment building every 10 minutes to cop another smoke. I could set my watch by you.”

So while waiting for his return, I grow antsy. A tiny voice in my cranium tells me: “Oh go buy the little Jersey runt a pack of Fortunas.”

“But I really can’t afford it,” I remark to the imp on my shoulder [ you know which side, Scandalous Reader ]. “I only have $46 left till my next check arrives on the third. That’s my FOOD money!”

“Do you really want to put up with his nicotine obsession, stepping in and out five or six times an hour?” the imp goads. “Besides, he’s a /really/ cute scamp and you both love each other.”

Still wavering in my decision, I hasten to put on my jacket and step outside to await Caleb’s return. Whereby I /might/ break down and purchase a pack, that I may enjoy his sweet company for the night w/o the vexing disturbance of Ol’ Nic’s siren call.

The evening air is cool, refreshed by a gentle breeze off the Pacific. Shrill revelers of the Supreme Court’s overturning of DOMA spew their cacophany up and down the street as they stroll by in both directions. I wish they’d disappear.

Several minutes pass before I venture west up Market Street, meandering about for a snipe or two of my own. Several shops up the block I find myself gazing upon a familiar face that I first think is Ely, but I really can’t place it.

“It’s Caleb!” I realize one moment later as he stops along the curb, smiling, with an expression like: “Hey, don’t you recognize me?” I run up to grab his fuzzy brown head and kiss him on the temple. So glad to see him, we march back to my gate with my right arm slung over his shoulders.

“What’s up Zeke?” he queries with a grin wider than ever while gazing back at me. So I tap him on that sexy sternum lodged between two breasts so neatly defined and solid I could caress them till pigs fly:

“I was being pulled by a mysterious force to that tobacco shop on Castro to buy you a pack of cigarettes,” I admonish. “But that would mean I couldn’t even treat myself to a meal at Howard’s for my birthday!” [ Which, Diaphanous Reader, you may know is just four days from this tale, and two days before my next Social Security automatic deposit. ] Thus I conclude with a series of taps on his chest:

“And you don’t want /that/ to happen, do you?”

His grin remains on that sterling Irish mug to light our path like a jack-o-lantern, all the way back towards 2306.

“No, of course not,” I sense his reply, though he utters not a word as we pass through the gate and enter my horse’s arse of an SRO.

As we settle down for the dark hours, each sucking on his mutual snipe, I place my hand on his knee and clutch it. He looks up from the bedding upon which he rests, his cerulean eyes staring into mine:

“What?” he questions as a puff of smoke floats from his lips and disperses.

“So you’re hero number three, ain’tcha Caleb?”

He shrugs but utters no word. Quietly he places his cig in the tray and raises himself a bit to embrace me where I’m seated on the cushioned swivel chair. We hold each other for a lengthy minute as our tobacco ashes grow o’erlong.

“I am so amazed and blessed,” I mumble into his left ear, and give it a lick. Then I bite gently down upon that warm, salty neck to feel him shiver in my arms.

(to be continued…)

Sun-kissed Caleb on the cell.

Date: Fri, 28 Jun 2013 09:36:28
Re: Better pic of Caleb
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ Movie star! }}

Yes, he’s very sweet. But now he’s decided to leave, over a rather minor issue that I believe is unfair to me. Though I think he’ll come around in a day or two.

Date: Fri, 28 Jun 2013 11:00:39
Re: Better pic of Caleb
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ Uh-oh. }}

It’s a dumb scenario, nothing rational or justified, yet it’s happening. He acts like he doesn’t grasp anything I’m saying in my attempt to thwart the loss of our friendship, as if he’s intentionally /pretending/ to not comprehend. So it’s all shoved onto me, as if it’s all my fault, and I’m a clueless goon. He may as well be Larkin, it’s the same ol’ game of “make Zeke the scapegoat.”

Pointing out his wrongs makes me a “whiner” and a “manipulator.” He really likes me, yet acts like I’m being pushy with my affections. Which affections he very much enjoys, yet I’m supposed to be reading too much into it. How frustrating.

Told him his clothes and papers are safe here, he can take all the time he wants to pick them up, even just take one or two things and leave the rest. I also said I can’t have him stay here any more, under the conditions he expects. Which is a /withdrawal/ of any sort of physical affections. Yet this is strange:

I /know/ he loves my hugs, kisses, backrubs, etc….and that he is /not/ doing this out of manipulation. He is not even accusing me of taking advantage of his houseless situation. Totally weird and I guess, sadistic. Larkin redux!

Like trying to stop a speeding locomotive with an outstretched hand, impossible to do anything about it. Just step back and watch the train wreck.

I’m pretty sure he’ll get over this, I just don’t understand why we have to go through this in the first place. Utterly pointless.

Anywayz, it’s too soon for me to write down the details as I’m right in the middle of this BS, and rather saddened by this stupid twist of events.

– Zeke

Date: Fri, 28 Jun 2013 11:16:23
The only thing that makes sense…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

…and I mean the /only/ thing, is that I am going through an initiation perpetrated by this secret society I call “the Gay Pagan Motorcycle Club.”

Which of course implies an extraordinary revelation bordering on the impossible.

Such initiations are not unheard of by quite mundane secret groups. Whereby some time before (days/weeks/months) acceptance into the group, the initiate runs through the gauntlet of humiliation, frustration, disappointment and failure.

This is particularly true for precivilized, shamanic societies. Guess my anthropology degree is finally paying off!

– Zeke

Date: Fri, 28 Jun 2013 22:05:27
Caleb returns on winged feet…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

…after I kicked him out for not complying with my rather gentle and lightly erotic demands. We stepped out and parted, and I wandered the Castro feeling pretty damn lonely.

After all, he /is/ very sweet, just a bit disoriented. So I return hovel in an attempt to distract my sorrow in watching him walk up Market Street towards downtown. Tempted to follow him from a distance, I really didn’t want to lose him, BUT…

I know it is better to let him be, in order to think things through.

Yep, two hours later my phone rings and it’s Caleb, who queries:

“Can I come home?”

“I don’t know, Caleb,” I respond. “You won’t let me give you a BJ, and you won’t give me a 5-minute back rub.”

“How about a TEN minute back rub?”

Silence at my end. So he repeats:

“Can I come home? Just give me a yes or a no.”


“Be there in 45 minutes.”

As he saunters up the stairs I wait for him in he hallway. There’s my Caleb!

“So!” I command. “My handsome Irish rogue returns.”

And I run up to him, wrap my arms about his rib cage and nuzzle my head upon his chest.

“I owe you a profuse apology, Zeke. I’m really sorry.”

Anywayz, El, he’s already back as I type this, though he’s stepped out to purchase beer and cigs. So I can’t continue posting you right now. Just suffice it to say, we’re really happy to have found each other. He’s gonna do great with getting back up on his feet and finding a lucrative position as financial analyst.

And Larkin will eventually (and likewise) approach me w/profuse apologies…and love Caleb to pieces for coming to my rescue during a most grievous trial instigated by My Wily Wyvern.

Told ya I was sure Caleb would come to his senses, and back into my heart.

Sleep well my little kitten, Morticia! I know /I/ shall.

– Zeke

Date: Sun, 30 Jun 2013 16:13:07
The WiFi willies…
From: Zeke
To: My Andromedan Therapist

…have been haunting me for nigh unto three months. Ever since Fitness SF (health club across the street) switched from Comcast to Meraki. The latter is an ad-based service; an iffy proposition at best. I’m acquainted with their less-than-robust network, and am most aggrieved that Fitness SF dropped their previous provider which was, for me, speedy and efficient. What a joke:

Meraki Networks Raises $20 Million, Expands Free WiFi in San Francisco, Where Google Failed

Now, my I-connection is often sluggish, flaky and a waste of time. So I must once more resort to coffeehouses and libraries for my wireless fix. Thank goddess Howard’s Cafe gives good e-head via the Mucky Duck bar next door!

So I decided today to bite the e-bullet and give Fitness SF a call (in spite of not being a paying customer):

“Hello, Fitness SF. This is Julia, may I help you?”

“Yes, well, I’ve been enjoying your WiFi for several months now. That is, until you switched to Meraki three weeks ago. And has proven to be most frustrating and almost useless for your customers. So I’m wondering if you intend to improve the situation any time soon.”

“Sir, did you say you’re a paying member? What is your name please?”

“Yes I am, but I’d rather not say. I just want to find out if you’re going to improve the connection shortly, or I’m afraid I’ll have to take my business elsewhere.”

“Sir, I see your phone number on the screen, and it does not match up with any customer on the database.”

“Well, umm, I’m using a land line from a friend’s place. Sorry.”

“Okay, Sir. I can post your complaint to the manager, but there’s really nothing else I can do about this, personally.”

“Excuse me Julia, this is not a complaint: it’s simply a query.”

“Alright then. Can I help you with anything else?”

“Tell me this, Julia: hasn’t any other customer pointed out the sudden deterioration of your WiFi access?”

“No, not to me, personally. This is the first time I’ve heard of any problem.”

“Okay, so tell me this, Julia. Do you, personally, use WiFi at your place of business?”

“Sorry, sir, I don’t even use the Internet.”

“Oh that figures,” I mumble to myself.

“Say what?”

“Never mind. You realize of course that most customers don’t complain, they’re just too busy. But if you should notice a drop in membership, please realize that for most folks web access is vital no matter where they are these days.”

“Thank you sir. I’ll keep that in mind.” I hear a giggle in the background, and I don’t think it’s Julia.

“Well you can’t blame a girl for trying,” I gently whisper into my Radio Shack cordless receiver I found discarded on the back porch two years ago.



Date: Sat, 29 Jun 2013 23:20:48
Deidre’s Dad
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Boy have I got a sweet story to tell you tonight, El. Even though my finances are currently strapped tighter than Helen of Troy’s chastity belt (which I presume she wore, considering all the Greek penises fighting over the bitch), I decide to eat out once more at Howard’s Cafe. Which means otherwise living off brown rice, oatmeal and milk for the next several days. And that I /won’t/ be able to treat myself to a Howard’s repast two days hence on July 1, my birthday.

BTW, do you realize that on the pre-Vatican II Catholic calendar, that date was enshrined as “The Feast of His Most Precious Blood.” How do I know this? Because my parents kept such a calendar hung in the coat closet located in our kitchen (of all places). The kind that has a sloping floor to accommodate the basement stairwell. You may read further about this sanguine feast at the following URL:

But as far as This Little Apostate is concerned, it’s simply a vampirical banquet to slake the thirst of witch hunters, fag bashers and jetset billionaires.

(Aside: right now as I type this piece, thousands of revellers just outside my window are celebrating Pink Saturday, a high point of Gay Pride Week just one day before The March. Which march itself is but one day before my birthday. I don’t care to attend noisy, rude gatherings, and thus keep to myself during this period. Some in our community have accused me of not supporting LGBT Rights by my absence. Yet here I sit composing some of the most seminal treatises on homosexual equality and spirituality ever writ, while these same celebrants dull their brains and excite their senses on booze, drugs and ecstatic fluffery. Ironic, eh?)

So here I am at Howard’s shortly after noontime, ready to dive into a plate of French fries and a side of avocado. Braden and Lloyd are there: two elderly gentlemen (the first is 65 years old, the other, 70) whom I’ve come to know as friends after many months’ badinage. Braden is skinny and tall (6-foot-1) and appears like he came straight out of the cornfields of Iowa. Lloyd, OTOH, is short, stocky and looks just like he emerged from the forests of Middle-Earth: a hobbit or, perhaps, a dwarf. They are both more than familiar at this point, with my novel soon to be published…and most supportive and excited about its release.

As it turns out, Braden is somewhat acquainted with My Larkin, as they both attend the same gay-sponsored bowling events, albeit from different leagues. Though neither has brought up the topic of Zeke between themselves, nor have I ever mentioned Braden to Larkin. But I believe it will be most interesting (to say the least) when one or the other /does/ occur.

Lloyd is a British transplant, hailing from England. He also rides a motorcycle (at his age, can you believe that). Needless to say, he’s engaged me in many discussions over gay rights, Great Britain and America. Two days ago, he graciously presented me with a 10-pence coin and a wish to go with that:

“May the nation from which this coin was minted, bring you many millions of dollars from the sale of your novel.”

Both good men had posed an intriguing question regarding my imminent fame. First, Braden:

“Will Larkin be one of those bodyguards?”

This was in response to my prediction I’d have to go underground a la Salman Rushdie, due to the highly controversial material in my novel which contains frequent passages deriding the homophobic ideology so fervently espoused by Christians, Muslims, and other zealots. But that millions of LGBT’s across the globe would rise to my defense and protection, including 10-20 bodyguards securing my safety at all times. My decisive rejoinder:

“Larkin will both interview and organize my guardians, along with other security matters.”

Now, Lloyd:

“Will you accept the honor as Grand Marshall for next year’s Gay Pride March?”

“I’m not sure about that. It will depend on what else is going on in my life at the time.”

For I frown on gay events that have outgrown their original grass-roots intent, and are now owned by the alcohol conglomerates who provide a huge chunk of funding (along with the tobacco and pharmaceutical industries). Google “alcohol industry gay pride” to find out. Plus: major events, fundraising, networking and socializing revolve around gay bars more than any other venue. What does /that/ tell you? We are squeezed in the octopus grip of substance abuse, from which the manufacturers gain tremendous profit.

Two more reasons I might balk at the opportunity to head a Gay Pride March: (1) since coming out in SF in 1973, I’ve experienced mostly derision, backstabbing, slander and exclusion among our queer populace. In spite of my many years dedication and efforts that still continue on behalf of LGBT equality. This includes gay events and gatherings, as well as bars. (2) The rejection of Bradley Manning as Grand Marshall in this year’s Gay Pride March. The conservative, Republican faction of our community has way too much clout and thus stomps upon compassionate and progressive efforts to reward such magnanimous heroes as Mr. Manning. Whose personal sacrifice is immeasurable, in answering to his conscience for exposing egregious wartime atrocities by our military.

I am also highly critical of our community’s lack of outreach and services toward our own downtrodden, poor and houseless. Including those homeless gays with AIDS who do /not/ receive even one percent of the quality care and medicine so freely available to the wealthy among us.

But it just occurred to me under what premise I /might/ accept position as Grand Marshall. I’d be standing on the foremost float, waving at all the cheering parade goers. Then–once all cameras are aimed at yours truly–I’d whip off my jacket to expose a T-shirt that proudly (and brilliantly, with much flash and glitter) boasts the phrase:

I <3 Bradley Manning!

Or something to that effect.

May as well include here another challenge Lloyd presented to me that day, regarding how I will assist the homeless population:

“I already have that figured out. I’ll open a home (and eventually, homes) for severely disabled lesbian and gay veterans, and employ people from the streets with a living wage and generous health benefits including dental.”

In sum: Lloyd and Braden are a pair of intelligent and compassionate dudes, that’s a no-brainer! So glad to have them in my life, and that Howard’s Cafe provides the amenable space where such good souls can meet.

(to be continued…)

Date: Sun, 30 Jun 2013 10:56:04
Author’s Dilemma
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

How does one describe an attractive ear? Caleb is quite handsome, his ears perfectly matched to his face. I love to kiss those ears and touch ’em. But the only adjective I can come up with is “leprechaun,” as in “leprechaun ears.” Only because he’s all Irish. But what, really, do leprechaun ears look like? Google Images shows them as backward pointing and pathetically large…not at all like Caleb’s.

Besides, leprechauns are defined as a variety of fairy that looks like impish old men. Again, this does not depict Caleb in the least. When I read him this passage: “my right hand caresses those leprechaun ears and the nape of his neck,” he leapt from my bedding and declared:

“Hey! I was teased as a kid for my big ears. Now you’re putting it in a book?”

He then whipped out his cell phone to show me an image his sister sent from Disneyland. She was seated in the flying Dumbo car waving at the camera. Huge elephant ears extended from both sides like large, gray wings. The implication was clear: “Thinking of you, Caleb.”

I cracked up: “Caleb, you’re a handsome dude. Your ears are definitely /not/ too large, they’re just attractive in a way I can’t really describe. I couldn’t think of /any/ proper adjective, so settled for ‘leprechaun’ because your ancestors hail from the Emerald League.” I paused, then teased:

“I love to lick ’em, too. They’re delicious. /Magically/ delicious.”

“Stop that,” he begged with a wry scorn. So I hugged him.

“I’m sorry, Caleb. You’re just a charming fellow,” then pulled back to place both hands on his shoulders. “LUCKY charming!”

“Oh God,” moaned Caleb. “I’ll /never/ live this down now, ’cause it’s all going in a book.” He sighed in resignation and lowered himself back down on the thin futon.

The /other/ dilemma I have is in describing his hair. Cut relatively short (above those yummy ears), it is dense, straight and darkly brown with a few thin streaks of silver that add a glorious sparkle. But I used the adjective “fuzzy” in a previous passage…which it is not. Nor is it “tousled.” Though lacking the proper adjective, he certainly has a fine, thick head of hair that pleases my fingers no end, to run them through.

Anywayz, if you have any ideas as to how to solve these two dilemmas, I’d most appreciate.

– Zeke

Date: Sun, 30 Jun 2013 01:27:11
Re: Author’s Dilemma
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ The hair is lush. The ears are masterful. }}

Hmm, when I think “lush” I think thick, wavy, bushy. His type of hair doesn’t match any of this. It’s cut too short for one, and is too straight to ever be lush. As for “masterful,” his ears are not that, but actually “cute” and nicely formed.

However, that’s a good try. I think the answer in describing a character’s ears is not in the adjective itself (or two or even three), but in dedicating an entire passage to them.

Which is exactly what I accomplished in my message prior to this.

– Zeke

Date: Sun, 30 Jun 2013 01:56:22
Re: Author’s Dilemma
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ Ah-ha! So they’re masterful, after all! }}

Who’s: his or Lawrence’s? I’d like to spritz some whipped cream in that ear and slurp it up. Maybe with a cherry on top.

Date: Sun, 30 Jun 2013 13:29:51
Newsgroup Censorship?
From: Carlyle Lambourne
To: Zeke


Something weird is going on with my newsgroups: cannot see any new posts on most of them, since 06/24. But I was able to post to one new group ( and see it show up. So I have basic access and connectivity.

The groups that I *mostly* use are not accessible. When I try posting to them, I get no error (not stuck in Outbox, as can happen when the newsgroup server has a temporary problem). Just don’t see anything show up – either mine, or anyone else’s.

A few of the lesser-used groups seem to be there.

Have not changed any settings, recently. I sent an email to the newsgroup service support, and waiting for response.

It smacks of censorship, because it seems unlikely that certain groups would all disappear at once, while others still work. Cannot be a basic problem with the account or availability of the server.

Any excuse that they might try to use would be pale- I think that would be pure politics and game playing, kidding no one.

Could you please looks at groups like alt.poetry and alt.conspiracy.jfk, if you have a chance, and let me know what you see? Thanks.

Regards, Carlyle

Date: Sun, 30 Jun 2013 13:47:35
Re: Newsgroup Censorship?
From: Zeke
To: Carlyle Lambourne

I do not have access to any newsgroup server, and haven’t now for at least three years. I haven’t even /done/ newsgroups for at least as long. The /only/ access I have to usenet is via Google Groups.

Would my checking those newsgroups via Google Groups help, or do you need me to access usenet via a news server? If you require the latter, I’ll try to find some free service: they’re still out there.

– Ezekiel

Date: Sun, 30 Jun 2013 13:58:14
Re: Newsgroup Censorship?
From: Carlyle Lambourne
To: Zeke


If you can see postings, e.g, on alt.poetry, that would help. If mine were at least getting through, would not care as much about whether I could receive them. Isn’t much that I care to read, anyway.

I would never quit Usenet, no matter how ugly it is. It is one of the only uncensored, uncontrolled avenues of information propagation, which is why it is under covert attack and why it must be defended at all costs.

Regards, Carlysle

Date: Mon, 1 Jul 2013 16:53:57
Re: 2 more pics of Caleb…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ He has a look as if he’s been outdoors for a while. Windburned, exposed to the elements. }}

When we first met, I couldn’t resist but wish him well and put an arm around him. He told me he was living with his sister, Debbie, out by the Marina. Few days later I learn the truth:

He’s been homeless for three days, since Debbie’s hubbie is a nasty fellow, punched her in the eye. Caleb had to leave, or he’d kill the scumbag. He lost his job as financial advisor in NJ, due to the company’s collapse. So Debbie chirped:

“Come live with me and get a job here,” making it sound like all was hunky dory. She also has a daughter only 4 years old. Well, things were not as she implied. So Caleb got a good position downtown per his highly marketable skills, and made the best of things for a little over two years.

Few months back, hubbie socked her good; Caleb went ballistic and pounced on the cur, and grabbed a kitchen knife in the scuffle. Hubbie grabbed the weapon out of his hand, and forced Caleb to leave. Though he does manage to stay with sis whenever the skunk is gone for the night, or skips to Las Vegas for gambling and hookers.

Caleb’s been trying to get Debbie to separate…if not for her own protection, then for that of her daughter, which niece he loves dearly. Unfortunately (and in spite of her being an attorney, thus intelligent), Debbie is a “good Catholic.” There is another sad reason she remains with Mister Fukup: a tragedy they both shared in childhood causes her to be less than respectful of her own person. I won’t get into it, in confidence and respect towards my new-found Irish compatriot.

While Caleb claims hubbie is an excellent Dad, thus the child is /not/ in danger of abuse (which I question), I do agree wholeheartedly that Debbie should get away from him ASAP, and take the daughter with her of course. Thus, Caleb is outdoors a lot, due to lack of housing…which explains his weathered appearance. Last night he cried in my arms and thanked me with all his breath for giving him a safe and friendly space. He embraced and kissed me, and fell quickly asleep with his legs astraddle mine, and tousled head nestled in my left shoulder.

He did hold down a good job for almost two years since his move to SF. But once more he lost his position due to a company collapse. His resume and work history are impeccable, and there should be little problem in gaining employment with another business. He’s already been through a favorable phone interview, and is waiting on the next step.

Caleb has a best friend from childhood, Paula, who plans to come out to SF for several days around the July Fourth holiday. She lives in Virginia now, though they grew up in Montclair, New Jersey. She is eager to meet me, and is most grateful for my befriending Caleb.

I am honored and glad to see how much more emotinally stable he’s become, since our first encounter two weeks ago. We actually get along /very/ well, in spite of several rough bumps. Good to know that he /does/ have other friends here in the city, all of whom are excited to meet me.

Expecting him back this eve in a few hours, for the next installment of “Caleb’s Tale by Zeke.”

Today I turn 63: Howard’s Cafe gave me an IOU on a meal, since I’ll be flat broke until Wednesday.

– Zeke

UPDATE two days later: soon as Bruno stepped in (the kindly IOU waiter) I offered to pay my debt. But he brushed me off: “Oh, that’s your birthday gift.” Howard’s Cafe rocks! A real people-place.

Date: Mon, 1 Jul 2013 17:03:44
Re: Newsgroup Censorship?
From: Zeke
To: Carlyle Lambourne

Google Groups search for “Carlyle Lambourne” from 10 June to 30 June shows just three posts in alt.poetry:

“Sargeant on Trial”

“County Defends DOMA”

“Lights Go Out in Amsterdam”

These three posts are all viewable.

I understand your point (about not quitting Usenet), agree with, and respect your view. However, Google Groups is so unwieldy, it makes my attempts to upload articles incredibly painstaking. To the point where I finally gave up. Perhaps if I could afford a robust connection, but alas I cannot. Must rely on flaky wifi from across Market Street.

Though obviously, upcoming publication of my controversial book will have far more impact than posting my opinions on Usenet.

Hopefully, you will soon consider doing same.

I will gladly check out any more of your recent group posts, if you would like.

– Ezekiel

Date: Mon, 1 Jul 2013 17:57:02
Re: 2 more pics of Caleb…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ Today! Great Caesar’s Ghost! HB! }}

No coincidence that my birthday falls just one day after the SF LGBT march. Nor is it any coincidence either, that the Supreme Court delayed their DOMA decision until Gay Pride Week.

“We have no enemies, only teachers.” – Siddhartha Gautama

“Our time has cum.” – Jehovah’s Queer Witness

Caleb wished me a most joyful day and showered me with smooches and hugs, before departing. Best BD present ever!

– Zeke

PS: Caleb BTW, is my very /first/ boyfriend with opposable thumbs. Quite a milestone, eh?

Date: Mon, 12 Jul 2013 10:06:44
I think I now know how Book 3 is going to end (cont’d)…
From: Zeke
To: My Beleaguered Advocates

Hmm, how do I resume this final part of my Caleb tale? So much has occurred in a brief span of days, I must be in warp speed. Let’s see now, howz ’bout I pick up the thread with “The Backrub Wars”:

“Caleb, if you stay with me, all I ask is a 5-minute backrub each night.”

He seemed to agree to that, but as the sun set and a crescent moon arose, he seemed to forget our contract altogether, and fell asleep in my arms. Which was a treat in its own right, though I did feel somewhat duped. Oh the ecstasy and the agony! I soon entered slumber myself, with legs entwined and my head resting gently upon his chest.

Night #2 came and went. Still, no backrub. That afternoon I assisted Caleb with carrying his bagged clothes, papers and one large suitcase back to my abode. It was a heavy load. But we had to wait almost an hour before we could enter his former lodgings to pick up. Since the residence was located barely a half block from Buena Vista Park (on Haight Street), we decided to rest on its grassy knoll beneath a gnarly old tree. A few people walked by–one with a frisky terrier–as we lay side by side just inches apart and shaded by the tree’s leafy crown.

Then Caleb stretched his arms, yawned and did something I never expected, right there in public: he inched up to me and nudged his head between my shoulder and chest. Clouds skudded overhead like floating marshmallows.

Twenty or so minutes later I grew chill from the ocean breeze kicking in, and suggested it may be time to pick up those bags. So we stood up under the bright sky, stretched, and ambled down the slope to the sidewalk. Caleb touched my arm to praise:

“You deserve at /least/ a great backrub tonight!”

My hopes sprang up, some from the loin’s own neighborhood. (The “at least” part really gave me a woo-hoo.) Yet as time passed and we readied for bed, Caleb bundled himself beneath the comforter without a thought for my back, and dozed off. To every action there is a reaction:

I didn’t want to hold him that night, so I tossed my half of the blanket over to his side, and slept in my coat with back turned in his direction. No touching as far as I was concerned. I was pissed, and hurt.

Two more nights passed without his offer met, so on the third night I spoke up:

“Caleb, you said you’d give me a really nice backrub three days ago, yet nothing’s come of it!”

Wed., July 10

Calling to remind you to bring your book.

In addtion, I now make the following demands:

  1. Nice 5-min. BJ, don’t care if you can’t get hard.
  2. Lick your chest and armpits 5 mins.
  3. Some french kissing…not shallow, but deep. 2 mins. minimum.
  4. You can say all the mean things you want, while I’m ravishing you. And you can play it like I’m forcing you to be my sex slave. I know better; you love me bunches like I do you. But your insults, lies, humiliation and teasing are a tiresome bore.

If you refuse to meet these rather sweet demands, you can just wander the streets for all I care.

Don’t forget the book.

Yes or no:

  • Didn’t you offer to give me a blow job the second time you dropped over?
  • Didn’t you say you’d give me a blow job if I download The Wire for You?
  • Didn’t you say you’d French kiss me if I download a good Elton John CD?
  • Didn’t you say I “deserve AT LEAST a good backrub” for helping lug your belongings to my place?
  • Didn’t you offer me a 10 minute backrub when I only asked for 5 minutes?
  • Didn’t you want to sleep naked one night?
  • Didn’t you drop your pants and show off your kok one day?
  • Didn’t you say you published a book called “My Life”?
  • Did you enjoy my cuddling up to your kisses/massaging your back and chest? (Or did you find it disgusting, but put up with it just to keep a roof over your head?)

When I said “no more sleeping together,” you just said “fine.” Why didn’t you say instead: “I really enjoy sleeping with you, I wish you wouldn’t stop that.”

I let you back in because you said you want to talk things over…and I had some hope you’d agree to my demands.

You didn’t even give me $2 today. The first dollar, you took 3 of my cigarettes in exchange…so you really gave me just a quarter. The second dollar you gave me tonight, you took my last two cigarettes, so you only gave me 50 cents. And now, you swipe a bunch of quarters from my coin stash. Subtract 75 cents from the quarters you took, and that’s what you took from me.

You also “borrowed” $2 from me about two weeks ago, claiming Cindy-Bea was gonna send you $40 or so, and you’d give me $20 out of that. Never happened.

And you say you’re an honest man?

Thurs., July 11

I thought about you all afternoon, Caleb. And while strolling the Inner Sunset on my way to Howard’s, my angels appeared before me (somewhere around 8th Ave. & Irving). And they advised me:

“Zeke! We know Caleb’s been difficult, but do you really think you can go more than one day without gazing upon that devilish mug?”

For ten seconds I try to imagine two days of negative Caleb: “No, you’re right, I can’t.”

“Go buy him some beer. He’ll be really surprised and happy.”

“Hmm,” I muse, “that /is/ a good idea. Miller High Life, right?”

“Yes! Miller High Life is his favorite.”

Before my angels vanished, one said:

“Besides, you /do/ want that pot of gold, don’t you?”

“Ha ha, yeah.” I chuckled.

Another angel tapped me on the shoulder:

“Can you spare a cigarette, Zeke?”

“Egads,” I whined to myself. “Another moocher!”

A third angel nudged the second: “Go on, give Zeke a quarter!”

So as I handed one angel a cig, he presented me with a quarter. Well, at least it /looked/ like a quarter: exact same size and silvery. But it was actually an ancient Roman coin depicting Herod. Like it came right out of my tale, “Zeke’s Last Supper.”

Then they vanished in a veil of mist, and I found myself standing before Howard’s Cafe.

I can keep Caleb happy with two quarts of Miller High Life, a pack of cigs, and the TV series “The Wire”.

“You were so generous and kind to me last night, I’ll do something for you tonight, anything you want.”

“Hmm,” I mused aloud.

“Except a blow job!”

“Ouch!” I exclaimed. “Well then, how about a 20-minute backrub?”

“20 MINUTES??!!!” he hit the roof.

“Okay, I can settle for 10. I even bought a bottle of coconut oil from the dollar store.”

That’s it for now. Caleb is beginning to get on my nerves, so guess it’s time to scope the Castro for something new…and more horizontally convivial.

– Zeke

Date: Tue, 16 Jul 2013 10:06:44
Deidre’s Dad (cont’d)
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Well, I neglected to retell the sweet encounter I had with Deidre’s dad, 5 or 6 messages back. So here it is, finally:

Same day I had that intriguing conversation with Lloyd and Bradon, in walks this cute, skinny dude that looked like McGyver’s younger, better looking brother.

Never saw him before. Appeared to be around 52, thanks to a mop of silver-gray hair. He plopped in the seat to my immediate right and began conversing with Deidre while seeming to pay me close attention. I was flattered (and horny).

I could barely keep from guffawing my guts up, his quips were that funny. He suddenly bumped against my right arm and netbook, which I sensed was /not/ an accident.

“Oops, sorry!” he turned to me with those seraphic eyes (I forget which color, maybe blue or brown or a mix). I felt like running off with him right then and there, he was that gorgeous. Plus: I already sensed an interest in me…whether his intent was to cruise or schmooze, I wasn’t sure (certainly hoped for the former, though I /so/ enjoy a dude who’s not only bodacious, but gives good conversation).

“Quite alright,” I smiled back. “I was enjoying your Irish wit!” (How did I suspect he’s Irish? I’m a major Celtophile and just sense these things.)

Deidre then joined in and, as it turned out, put me on the spot: “That’s my dad, Zeke! Isn’t he handsome?”

I almost spit out my coffee, but managed somehow to avoid the trachea: “Oh, uh, yes, he’s a real keeper!”

“And /you’re/ pretty hot yourself,” he replied in a smily flash. I gripped my swivel chair to keep from melting into a puddle on the floor.

“His name is Lefty,” Deidre informed as if setting us up for a date. (And I sure wished that to be the case.)

I stared into my scrambled eggs (“drier than the Mojave Desert at high noon” per my order) for a moment, then resumed my gaze at that righteous mug: “You’re no youngster, but you can /still/ cut the mustard!”

“Ha! Thanks!” he chuckled in appreciation of my honest claim.

Not to let this all go to his head, I admonished (while pointing at his left arm just below the short sleeve): “But that turkey leather on your elbows gives your age away.”

Not one to shirk from repartee, he quipped: “Oh, I can clear that up with a little skin lotion.”

At that moment I closed my netbook…not because I planned to leave right then, but to give the darling hunk my undivided attention.

Lefty pointed at my diminutive PC, remarked: “You forgot to shut it down!”

“Now,” I mused in quiet, “He wouldn’t have said that unless he were eyeing me like a hawk.” So I decided to go full throttle:

“Well, Lefty, perhaps your good looks got me flustered, and I lost all sense of propriety.” I then coyly reopened the netbook to press the “off” button.

I remained at Howard’s several more minutes, enjoying Lefty’s company and badinage. I shook his hand in a hearty goodbye, wishing as I exited the door, that he’d stop to ask me what I’m doing later on. Alas, he did not (story of my life).

Some days later Deidre told me he lives in Florida (dammit), and came to San Francisco to visit her. She then showed me a photo of him on her cell, taken some 4-5 years earlier. Did not look like McGyver then, as he was heftier in the poundage department. Though nonetheless, husky in a real yummy sense of the word…a handsome brute! Through that thin shirt I could discern bracing biceps and a chest I could lick till the cows come home.

Anywayz, I know Lefty will eventually read this passage, as I promised to print a copy for Deidre who no doubt will send it off to her dad. (I blush in shame at the very thought, virgin in spirit I shall always be!)

So, Lefty, I hope this put a smile on your dreamy visage, and I wish you resided a lot closer to /this/ gay renegade…in fact, walking distance from my dumpy SRO! But life has taught me one thing if nothing else: you can’t always get what you want, oral craving notwithstanding. Put /that/ in your pot pipe and smoke it!

– Zeke

Luv is a Drug

March 16, 2014

March 1, 2014

Dear [ owner ],

As the proprietor of [ gay bar in the Castro ], I think you should be made aware of a possible drug dealer frequenting your premises. If he only dealt in marijuana, I wouldn’t even bother to inform you. However, I suspect this person of using your locale to sell hard drugs to patrons…such as meth, crack and heroine. How do I know this?

His name is Larkin Kelsey, a very handsome and charismatic fellow around 52 years old, but looks all of 29. We’ve been on-and-off good friends since I first met him at the old Hole in the Wall Saloon back in 2006. Due to recent conflicts with him, I now realize he was probably a dealer at that saloon, which is (as you probably realize) the best gay bar to sell speed. But back then, I had no idea he was involved, though I should’ve figured it out before now.

Anyway, since he’s moved to the Castro about three years ago, he’s suddenly turned hostile towards me. Our friendship till then has been very sweet to the point I’d call us “platonic lovers.” I’ve lived in the Castro since 1983, and was at first overjoyed to discover he’s moved just one block from my own residence. Unfortunately, things turned sour very quickly.

He has driven me out of all the bars in this neighborhood, telling bartenders and patrons alike that I’m his stalker. When in truth, I only showed up now and then to enjoy his company, just as I did when he lived South of Market. And he always welcomed me until this sudden attack. So I was shocked and heartbroken over his accusation.

I’ve spent many months trying to resolve our conflict, but he continues to avoid me, and has never rectified the gossip he spread against me. My letter here is not a vendetta, but a sincere regard for a friend who I cherish dearly. And it recently occurred to me that his hateful behavior was to drive me out of all the Castro bars, his new network.

There are other possibilities I’ve considered, regarding his sudden betrayal…but nothing makes sense except that he deals hard drugs in the Castro, since he’s been driven out of SOMA. My worry is that he’ll eventually get busted and wind up in prison…which will cause me more grief than I’ve already borne. I want him to STOP, though trying to speak with him on this matter has proven futile.

Mr. Kelsey is incredibly charismatic, possessing not just outstanding good looks, but a charming personality that would knock anyone’s socks off. Therefore, he pretty much can get away with anything, including murder (to speak metaphorically). He’s even a wonderful man, in spite of this dark side. It is therefore my hope that driving him out of the gay bars will compel him to seek a legal source to earn a living.

Though his solution may simply be to create a new network in the Polk Street corridor. Certainly, I hope not, but even a best friend can only do so much to direct a loved one onto a better path.

I’m sure that Larkin is well connected with various bartenders, managers, and perhaps owners…such that my letter to you may prove fruitless, and even cause me harm. But I do not shrug from any repercussions, as my intent is sincere, and comes only from great regard for someone I consider my very best friend of all time, no matter what.

In case you don’t already know him, I now describe: 6-foot-4, on the skinny side but very strong, funny, handsome and pretty much the life of the party wherever he goes. He has gorgeous fiery-orange eyes, and a ruddy head of dark-brown hair that now shows a little gray. He often changes his hair style: one week a buzz cut, another week a fluffy halo, and yet another week a trim yuppie appearance. In fact, sometimes he alters his hair color. In other words it is hard to resist such a gracious personality. In fact, you may have already been seduced by his gifts…

thus view me as a nuisance at best. I am willing to take that risk, for the sake of a man who I believe is worth all the trouble in the world. I even published a book about him (for the most part), which you may read here:

That is a free ebook copy of my novel “Free Me From This Bond,” in pdf format. Which can be read on almost any system, whether PC, Mac, tablet or cell phone. Most of the true tales occurred here in the Castro, or SOMA. You can also go here, to view the book cover and read the first chapter:

After reading chapter 1, you’ll understand why Mr. Kelsey means so much to me, and why I am willing to stick my neck out, that he may change his life around for the better. I can’t imagine any other reason than being a drug dealer, why he pushed me out of his life and banned me from all the bars in my own neighborhood. Only because (I conclude) he can’t afford to have anyone get too close to him, or they’ll discover the truth.

The owners of the Hole in the Wall Saloon 86’d him permanently. So I advise you to contact them, to find out why…and perhaps confirm my suspicion.

I am not afraid to give you my real name, phone number and address, even if you consider Larkin a friend. I am only doing this from the sincerest regard for a man who means the world to me. I have lived in San Francisco since 1973, and been a prominent gay street activist since 1983. Evidence of my record of achievements can be found on my web site at:

Thank you so much for your attention. Please feel free to contact me, if you wish.

Most sincerely,

Ezekiel J. Krahlin

3 March 2014

My Beloved Dragon & Best Friend, Sweet Larkin:

Just to let you know I have such great love for you, I could never turn it off. Even if you should disappear from my world, not a single day would go by without my thinking of you, and wishing to be with you, even if just for a moment or two once or twice a week. I will take this noble wish to the grave, if it comes to that. But I really hope it doesn’t, as even one more day without a hug devastates my soul like death by fire. So each day w/o your kindness, you need to know, is another day of torment. I have been in hell since the day you shoved me (back in January 2013), yet you seem to want to keep me there for god only knows how long.

You continue to treat me like shit, no matter how kind I am to you. It has been well over a year since we last hugged…and that is certainly a grief in my heart. I don’t even care if you’re a drug dealer. For I know you are the best in whatever you do, and would never allow a customer to OD or be ripped off by inferior product. IOW: if only all drug dealers were like you! Yet it seems like you think I’m a threat to your underground vocation, so much so that you had to drive me out of all the Castro’s gay bars.

Why you continue to humiliate and vilify me, I do understand: that I may grow into the ultimate Soldier of God ever known in the entire history of humanity. For it is through tragedy and crisis that our souls best flourish. Nonetheless I say: “Enough is enough!” You seem to have a good life as it now stands, but which also seems to depend on an equal measure of misery for this heart-broken soul. Which makes you sort of a psychic vampire!

I love you so much, and care about you with infinite regard, that I feel terrible shame over your cold treatment that has now spanned more than 14 months. Surely I couldn’t bear more than five to seven weeks further disregard, of your ongoing mind-fuks, before I’d finally perish for lack of your affection. Frankly, I am ready to die after so much hostility in my life, that has remained ponderously nerve-wracking since the day I was born. Exhaustion begets loss of soul and with that, eventual dissolution of the flesh.

I thought you wanted a truce…even though it was you who instigated this war, both consciously and willingly. But you have not resumed our friendly encounters filled with incredible hugs. That is: you’ve greatly diminished our association as it stood, before you started to fuk with me. Me, who adores you in so many ways. Me, who continues to live in isolation without any real friends, and many sad memories/tragedies that have surrounded every lovely man who brought great solace to my life (even if only for one night).

And it looks like you are to become yet one more sad outcome, in spite of my undying faith in God’s love, and in the divinity of Gay Liberation. Though I assure you, Larkin: “this is my last hurrah!” As Randolph was quoted shortly after his 40-day fast…which led some months later to a suicide attempt. Not that I intend to play the “suicide card” upon you (even though you deserve it), but to inform you that my life has become worthless, thanks to all the unkindness by our Castro community, along with your own brand of callous sputum.

It saddens me immensely to think that you’d never miss me should I perish before you do. Which only makes me crave for an end to this life even more. But that is how things go: the death of a loved one badly scorned while alive, winds up touching the hearts of many who refused to admit their appreciation while the martyr was still alive. So prepare yourself for this outcome, because this looks like where I’m soon headed.

You’ve given me many indications that you love me, and that I should just hang in there. Yet in equal measure, you’ve persecuted me in many ways. So I give up, buddy. I cannot bear your pushing me away during the rare moments I have a chance to spend one or two minutes with you…to exchange a new joke, or express my love for your friendship. It is now too painful for me to walk by you at Twin Peaks Tavern or anywhere else, knowing that you’ll just ignore me or walk by as if I don’t even exist.

Ha, ha, very funny. I know you’ll return all my love in immense measure, eventually. But such prescience no longer soothes my aching soul, Larkin! I need you now, I need you like the pollen needs the wind, like the heart needs the artery. But if it’s truly your pleasure to lose me into the anonymity of strangers, I really prefer to give up the ghost. For it is way too painful for me any more, to live on will o’ the wisps…to believe that you haven’t the least bit delight in my presence.

My adoration for you cannot be quenched, yet I fear you’ll continue to abuse my faith in you…which loyalty is a very noble thing to do for anyone. How aggrieved I’ve become though, as I continue to play the dupe to your latest schemes…only because I’ve sacrificed my heart to the altar of your own sweet soul. But I guess you know better (being my Guardian Dragon and all), when and where to restore our extraordinary rapport.

Yet I realize the likelihood I must confront your mandates, as a necessary process in fulfilling your challenges. IOW: you want me to oppose you! You want me to find a way to drive you out of the Castro, for your accusing me of being your stalker, thus getting me evicted from all the local bars. And since you haven’t lifted a single finger (after more than a year since your bogus accusation) to rectify your offenses, I must get back at you, or lose your respect.

But I surrender, Larkin! I refuse to play out your game plan any further. You keep changing the rules on a whim, and never allow me to create any laws in exchange. Everything is tremendously biased in your favor, you goddamn father fukker!

I wish you a great life w/o me, Dear Larkin. But your BS has gone on too long for me to continue participating in this Castro Village Soap Opera. Don’t know how it’s possible, but I have absolute faith that God shall find me an even more beautiful, talented and darling man than yourself! Who shall delight my heart so much, I’ll actually forget all about you…in the same fashion as meeting you made me stop praying for Randolph.

And I have a sneaking suspicion this man’s name is Arwyn.

Sincerely (but most regrettably),


A Light of Ray

March 13, 2014


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