Heaven is Just Across the Street

June 28, 2014

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

To: All My Reptilian Redeemers
Date: June 24, 2014

Well whaddya know, Divine Salamanders, I’m sitting quietly in my room around midnight, swyping away on my tablet (a blog entry I’m writing called “Benevolent Kingship”)…when guess whose voice I hear through my window? Larkin’s! So I looked out to see him across the street, lecturing a homeless newcomer to improve his grubby appearance by going to the Salvation Army. He was waving those gangly arms while vociferating: a booming voice that can be heard blocks away, especially when it’s dark and the air is chill (like tonight). And which voice (I must admit) is music to my ears. Like knowing his love and devotion will always be here for This Adoring Soul…a hidden communique just for me, riding the broadband of his larynx.

But first let me get this homeless twit outta the way, before I go on. She showed up in the Castro approx’ly five weeks ago, and is a noxious variety of urban weed. His effeminacy wouldn’t be a concern, if she weren’t such a backstabbing queen stereotype. Always scowling with a pinched-up face that is rubbery and mounted with a long swath of brown hair curled up in a big, fat knot on top. Clothed in a ratty and thick overcoat that reaches to her ankles and mostly hid those filthy blue jeans. Feet dirty and bare, fingernails way long and icky with grunge underneath.

I shall call her (or it) “Ms. Flaky.” She can usually be spotted seated or lying down on the rustic bench that lines the front of Cafe Flore, and is intended for customers only. One would think this is bad for business, especially when you realize this eatery has become such a ritzy-titzy joint in the last 15 years. If a place chases you out for ordering just a cup of coffee and maybe a slice of pie (’cause that’s one less table gushing moolah like a slot machine), it would seem they’d also chase away scummy vagrants. Even so, their lack of propriety in this matter does not reflect much concern for the neighborhood that provides them with a beautiful corner location. Their obsession with El Diablo de Dolares has overtaken their neighborly senses.

Now this is hilarious: my new next-door neighbor, Gabe, joked with me as we exited our apartment building. (FYI: no one living in my edifice has ever befriended me for well onto twenty years, so this is good.) He pointed at Ms. Flaky from across Noe Street, who was seated in her usual spot by Cafe Flore.

“There’s your new friend, Zeke!” he chortled.

At first I didn’t know who the fuk he meant, but then I realized, and said: “Oh god no, he’s not a friend! I haven’t even talked with him, and I hope I never will.” I was a tad disgusted that my new neighbor (who is quite the hottie in a late-fiftyish sorta way, and we’ve already kissed) would seriously think I’d hook up with absolute losers.

Then he told me he spoke with Ms. Flaky just the day before, and asked if he knew Zeke. Her response?

“Oh he’s an awful man, he pissed on me while I was sleeping on the bench.”

Now that certainly isn’t true, and I reminded Gabe about the many jerkwads who gossip to keep me from making new friends. I’m still not sure whether Gabe really spoke with the knotty-haired bitch (or if he did whether or not she claimed I pissed on him), but that’s neither here nor there. For he was yanking my leg…and I hope some day soon, he’ll be yanking another appendage to make up for it. I’ve already stuck this letter in an envelope to his door:

June 18, 2014

Dearest Neighbor Gabe,

Just checking up on you, hope you’re doing very well. I find you to be a marvelously eccentric, sweet and handsome fellow. So if you’d like to rescue me from one more lonesome night, I’m sure game! We can even keep our clothes on: I’m really big into affection.

Thank you again for gifting me with some high-grade edibles. Just what the doctor ordered!

Please know that you can knock on my door any time of day or night…something which I rarely grant anyone. Whenever you need a shoulder to lean on, someone to cheer you up, I’m your man! (Or your boy, however you wanna play the game.)

Your newest friend,


Well I ended our discussion about Ms. Flaky with the conclusion that she’s probably just another one of these guardian dragons spreading mischief to test my mettle. (Taking to heart as I do, Buddha’s tenet, “We have no enemies, only teachers.”) But also her anti-Zeke gossip is a handy way to root out those who wouldn’t really make good friends. Seeing as anyone who is so gullible as to play into the hands of scurrilous misfits, is not someone I’d really care to know. But since Gabe readily admitted he doesn’t believe what Ms. Flaky said about me, he passed that little test with flying crullers. Thus a sterling friendship is likely to unfold. (FYI: as a shamanic pagan, I prefer to use the word “dragon” instead of “angel,” but it comes down to the same thing.)

[ A bit more about Gabe, Engorged Reader, then I’ll get back to Larkin. I first noticed Gabe while standing outside the laundromat waiting for my clothes to dry. He was dressed in a tie-dye shirt of rainbow hues, a pair of green, baggy slacks and cheap thongs. But that face, that gloriously seraphic face, graced in a halo of shaggy, silver-gray hair: who could not notice such a face? He flashed me a bright smile in passing, and my widdle heart melted. I turned as he sauntered towards Market Street, and saw that he carried a smallish backpack, also rainbow colored. He’s about 6-foot-1, skinny but well shaped. Next time I saw him, about a week later, he was picking up debris at Duboce Park, all by his lone some, moving to a tune only he could hear through those ear buds.

The N Judah was just pulling up, but I hesitated in my desire to embrace the little stud muffin right then and there. (This was also the first time I saw him in shorts: loose-fitting and below the knees, yet revealing enough to show off a spectacular pair of gams…Gabe’s calves are something to die for, let me tell you! Of course I chickened out and hopped onto the light rail. So I sacrificed my passion once more, opting out instead for the mundane errand of grocery shopping at Parks Farmers Market. *sigh * )

Less than two weeks later I made my first move: he released those ear buds as I gestured and smiled at him. Then I spoke:

“I like the colorful duds you wear!”

“Thanks,” he replied, “I’m just getting into the swing of Gay Pride.”

“Oh, how nice,” I said, “So tell me, do you help clean up Duboce Park with a group or on your own?”

“On my own.”

“Cool, so now I know who’s responsible for keeping that park so neat!”

That was the sum total of our first conversation. Wasn’t till several more days had passed till I discovered (much to my lascivious delight) that Gabe resides in the same apartment building as yours truly! It was a balmy dusk, and I was standing outside by the trash bin, having a smoke and wishing for Larkin to stroll by. Here came Gabe instead (he didn’t see me) stopping at the front gate of 2306 to insert a key.

“Well,” I grinned to myself, “How very copacetic! I wonder which floor he lives on.”

Figuring though he already has a boyfriend and is probably monogamous– and in light of my history of doomed friendships and amours–I allowed myself the fantasy as a consolation prize. During the following weeks we met several more times and exchanged kind greetings. I handed him my business card in hopes he’d check out my novel. (Which later I learned he did, as well as some of my recent blog entries…whoopee!)

Now, just barely two weeks ago, as I climbed the steps to my hovel, I espied Gabe inserting a key into the door of apartment 206. WE’RE NEXT DOOR NEIGHBORS!!! Since that awesome turn of events, Darling Gabe has presented me with a baggie of THC-laced breakfast cereal…knowing by now that medicinal pot is beyond my meager financial reach. That is when we embraced and gave each other a warm peck on the cheek. But first he pressed his lips upon mine, and it was quite electric. Don’t know why on Dragon’s green orb I instantly shifted my mouth to his jaw, except that perhaps on an instinctive level, I thought it best to play the shy virgin. (Yeah that’s me alright: the innocent little boy who’d rather plunge his hand down a good man’s pants than any old cookie jar. o_0 )

He hasn’t been around for five or six days now; the stuffed penguin is still taped to his door, awaiting Gabe’s return and (hopefully) his joyful surprise. Though perhaps my silly overtures have scared him away, and I must once more live in awkward suspense as a result of my latest love’s foible, and the proximity of our abodes. Though I am certainly open to a sweet friendship… platonic all the way. (Or as we gays like to call it: “girlfriends.”) He did mention a couple of times a desire to visit his family down in SoCal, soon. But has mixed feelings thanks to a brother who used to punch him out brutally when Gabe was just a little squirt. I told him:

“Gabe, I’d feel the same way too. Just be sure that if you do show up, you won’t fly into a rage and smash his skull with a ball peen hammer.” (That cracked him up. So nice to put a smile on such a “cumly” mug.)

Gabe appears to be the eccentric type (like myself and Larkin in our own ways). Which attracts me even more than those super-good-looking dudes who are duller than a warmed-over omelette. Sometimes I see him standing about on this or that corner of the Castro, boogying to his mp3’s and waving his arms like he’s sprinkling fairy dust upon The Yellow Brick Road. He has also commented in regards to my visionary gift:

“Zeke, maybe that’s why I moved next door to you. Maybe I’m one of your guardian dragons to join you in our fight for liberation.”

“Oh I’m sure you are, Gabe,” I immediately replied, though in wonder.

“And maybe I’m also here to spread the good news about your book!”

Again I agreed with enthusiasm, for here was acknowledgment of my gay prophetic visions, standing right before me in glorious human form. I should have hugged Gabe that very moment, and wept tears of gratitude onto his shoulder. Gabriel The Archangel. (But I did not; don’t know what’s wrong with me. Write it off to a lifelong history of sorrows, and residual PTSD.) Then he gifted me with yet one more affirmation, I suppose to eradicate any remaining self-doubt that I might just be crazy, and nothing more:

“Wow, I’m so excited I can feel the wings sprouting from my shoulder blades!”

So, Gabe My Compassionate Archangel, you’ve made it into Book 3 of the trilogy “Free Me From This Bond!” Congratulations. (Right under the wire, but still, congratulations.) You will appear in the last, or second-to-last, chapter. Larkin saw to it that the happy ending wouldn’t enter the picture until well into the end play. IOW, Larkin (the true author, as if you didn’t know) wanted me to pen the most incredible cliffhanger/tearjerker romance of all time! Can you imagine what he put me through, to accomplish this? I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy…though maybe perhaps on Ms. Flaky. You are The Joy He Sent Me, and for that I am infinitely in your heart.

When you step out to celebrate (or stay home for cozy-time), what will you do? I for one will be really really PISSED if I’m not on all three courses of your Wedgwood platter! For we should be celebrating finding each other! And not each in his own way, in his own time and place…that’s ridiculous. Together! Together! Two birds of a feather!

It is truly an understatement when I say I await Gabe’s return with great fondness. Now, back to Dragon Squarepants: ]

Seems like when one sidewalk creep disappears from our streets (much to my relief, as they often threaten me whether it’s homophobia or jonesing from their last hit of crystal or smack), two more take his place. I even confronted Larkin one night on Market Street:

“You’re a big guy and telepathic, so why don’t you drive these homophobes outta here so I can do my street work?”

I was referring of course to my frequent clashes with anti-gay puds who want to turn the Castro into Hillbilly Haven for all the hetero rednecks that decide to mooch off LGBT generosity, but still think it’s fun to insult and harass us on our own turf. They’re constantly ogling attractive lesbians, coming onto them like the breeder perverts they are with all sorts of vulgar phrases. As for the gay men, well, we’re just a bunch of silly, sex-crazed geese who Jehovah shall soon banish from this earth, that The Righteous Heteros may be “Lords of Where We’re Permitted to Insert Our Priks at Risk of Extermination.”

A winning advantage of Larkin’s psychic talent is that I never need speak about my troubles, for he already knows. Think this through and you’ll realize he must also know which sacks of mierda are my antagonists. This man is out to avenge me as so clearly revealed by the illustration that begins Chapter 8 of Free Me From This Bond (book 1). For Larkin is my Guardian Dragon, and that illustration depicts a dragon toppling over the Transamerica Pyramid.

Therefore, he also knows I’ve been pining to see him again, ever since he shoved me for a second time just last week. My level of anxiety attacks were getting a bit out of hand starting yesterday, thanks to the painful challenges he presents me… along with all other trials in my life that have naught to do with him. So I guess he heard my woeful plea for some respite, after my wandering This Gay Ghetto all afternoon, seeking him out. For some assurance that he is taunting me, pressing my buttons for a compassionate purpose…that I may become his hero this time around. And that’s precisely what occurred:

At first I thought Larkin was sitting down in a shop doorway, but I thought: “That’s not his style, I’ve never seen him sit on the sidewalk or curb, or even on a chair at Jane Warner Plaza. Heck, he doesn’t even perch himself on the concrete buttress where he often stands outside of Twin Peaks to smoke.”

[ Other things I’ve observed, Crafty Reader, that are not his style: he never sports a backpack, briefcase, portfolio or whatever (in fact I’ve never seen him carry anything in his hand except a plastic bag occasionally or a cell phone), doesn’t drive a car or motorcycle or even ride a bicycle (like me he seems to be a dedicated pedestrian), he doesn’t wear any jewelry or piercings, nor does it look like he’s inked or scarified anywhere on his warlockian body. But he does have a glorious head of sepia hair which style he frequently changes (one month it’s a sexy buzz cut with chevrons, another month it’s dyed a rich orange that’s bodaciously hot, yet another season it’s a thick mane that frames his face like a knight’s portrait. He is indeed the handsomest dude I have ever met; even just thinking of him takes my breath away. ]

The reason I first thought he was seated on the ground was a combination of my 2nd-story elevation, the darkness of night, my own nearsightedness, and the fact that whoever he was reprimanding stood between my view and Larkin (such that I only saw his spindly arms waving about). The first thing that I hollered when I realized it was My Bodacious Basilisk:

“Larkin, stop lecturing people like you always have the answer!”

Just a friendly taunt, though once I realized he was confronting Ms. Flaky, I listened more closely… and actually appreciated his dressing-down of the miscreant. I know Larkin heard me, but he was totally immersed in his little lecture to pay me any mind. Some two or so minutes later, Ms. Flaky meandered off (to her squatter’s bench I suppose). Not wanting to lose this golden moment to call to Larkin from My Juliet’s Balcony– or perhaps Rapunzel’s–I hollered once more.

“That piece of monkey vomit showed up in the Castro about a month ago!”

My words were such a strident echo I know I woke up the neighbors. (Just wish Gabe were around, as I’m sure he’d absolutely savor being witness to my latest Larkin Escapade. He might have even joined in!) Then Larkin tilted his Celtic ruddy head to stare straight up at This Intrusive But Lovable Queer. And growled:

“Aargh! Now I gotta deal with you!”

As he marched in my direction and across Market I yelled:

“Go see a doctor, ya got a brain tumor, asswipe!”

He stopped in the middle and stood on the cobbled island decked with lackluster palm trees.

“C’mon, step up to my window, I got some water balloons to drop on you!” I announced. He looked up at me with a sort of woeful plea:

“You need to stop sending…”

I knew the rest of the sentence would be “my mail to the bars,” but I cut him off:

“Blah blah blah blah blah!” Which effectively drowned him out.

He sighed, smiled at me and stretched his arms in a broad air-hug. We both remained silent for some moments as I drank up his projected endearment. Then he dropped his arms, turned about and crossed back to the opposite side. I called out as he vanished into the dark:

“You are so lucky I didn’t carry pepper spray that night you shoved me a second time! Soooo lucky!”

At that point I could no longer see His Beloved Self, but knew he heard my parting shot:


This unexpected banter lifted my spirits like Tinkerbell appearing at my window. So I mused on what just occurred:

I wanted to see him badly, so he shows up. Set himself in position right across Market Street in clear view of my window, knowing his sweet voice would pull me away from the desk. Put on a little show just for yours truly. But more than that: confronted a street punk who spoke ill of me.

[ Restless Reader: you may be wondering why I’m certain Ms. Flaky badmouthed me when earlier I said that perhaps Gabe made that up, as a tease. Here is my conclusion: since Larkin is telepathically gifted, he knows immediately who’s done me foul. Were Ms. Flaky not guilty, he wouldn’t have confronted her… at least not in my vicinity. He would’ve devised some other script to cheer me up. In effect, he was killing two birds with one stone. The second bird then, served to assure This Beleaguered Budgie that he most certainly will avenge my honor…and Ms. Flaky is just the beginning. ]

I ponder further:

Was he watching me from across Market before Ms. Flaky showed up? My curtain is open, anyone can see me from that distance and position, as I am in direct line of the window, my desk brightly lit as I swype away. Has Larkin been pausing across from my building every now and then, unbeknownst to me? And if so, how long has he been doing that? Don’t think I’m upset, even for a nanosecond; in fact I am heartily pleased at the thought. For My Guardian Dragon watches over me in loving regard. And I’m sure it’s his greatest honor to do so.

So here I am, suddenly dropping the article I planned to complete in a day or two, taking up instead another blog entry about my latest encounter with Serpent Breath. Once more, he usurps my focus on whatever I’m presently doing, and demands my full attention. Which I gladly give, always. I have a sneaking suspicion that was his intent tonight, all along. To pull me out of my morose funk since he shoved me last week. For Larkin is One Smart Cookie Firedrake!

He also gave me another story to write.


I’m a Decoy for the SFPD!

June 26, 2014

From: Zeke Krahlin
To: My E-frenz
Date: Sat, 21 Jun 2014 17:04:20
I’m a Decoy for the SFPD!

The police department has been using me as a decoy to root out evil scum for many years, now…at least since I met Larkin in 2006 (though Randolph Taylor is suspect, too). And I’ve only come to realize this moments ago while tapping upon my EliteBook 2530p at Bean There Cafe. It felt like pieces of a plastic jigsaw puzzle instantly snapped into place. Here is the vision exactly as it came to me:

The SFPD has an /unofficial/ branch of psychics, which continues to infiltrate and take over the entire force. For if one is truly gifted, he or she will know what career to pursue. So some joined the Blueshirt Brigade, that being an excellent method to utilize one’s paranormal talents. And (of course) more psychics continued to sign on, unbeknownst to those members who were /not/ so chosen.

Until this present time, when I guess the /entire/ SFPD is now composed of nothing but gifted psychics dedicated to Gay Liberation above and beyond the call of duty!

This amazing scenario also provides much amusement: for one, it means they’re having a ton of fun at Zeke’s expense. ‘Cause I didn’t even /know/ I have anything to do with the police, in any sort of useful capacity. (Which I suspect actually started as a consequence of reaching out to R. Taylor after his suicide attempt in 1985; seeing as he’s a former SFPD cop.) So they’re probably watching my antics on video, scheming up new jokes to play on me, et cetera. Kinda like Jim Carrey in The Truman Show…only with an uber-gay remix.

I am sure they also watch over and protect me, in exchange for this involuntary service…though a service they realize I’d /gladly/ perform if so requested. Because they’re PSYCHIC and know that I’ve already said yes somewhere in a sub-basement of my mind.

[ So, My Elegiacal E-frenz, THE JOKE’S ON ME! ]

But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

– Zeke

From: Zeke Krahlin
To: My E-frenz
Date: Sun, 22 Jun 2014 14:44:12
Re: I’m a Decoy for the SFPD!

(This post is written a day after the previous, since I don’t have Internet at home.)

When I arrived hovel yesterday and shortly after emailing you my SFPD revelation, that sign posted in our lobby just a day ago snared my attention. Here is the meat of it:

Filming to occur on MONDAY June 23, 2014.

Dear Neighbors,

UNPRONOUNCEABLE PRODUCTIONS, LLC will be filming a segment of a television series at the intersection of 17th Street / Market Street / Castro Street on the above date. from 7:00 am to 9:00 pm, hours are approximate….

We will have a street closure on 17th Street from Market to Diamond St. During this closure, we will film “fake police activity” with actors dressed up as officers. Please do not be alarmed or call emergency service such as Police or Fire.

We will have SFPD officers on site to assist with intermittent traffic control (ITC) and ensure safety. Pedestrians, residents and business-owners will be able to access streets normally.

Now, I was already intrigued about this cinematic foreplay, concluding that indeed, it has to do with my mystical pig affiliation. Of course I was delighted. More than that: I was ecstatically vindicated that my so-called “borderline schizophrenia” is actually a spiritual gift, and that Larkin is the leader orchestrating this playscript. But in this point of my evolution, I tend to take it all in stride, thus placed it on the back burner until yesterday afternoon when I reentered the lobby and it beckoned my utmost attention.

Notice that the center stage of this filming will occur at 17th & Market & Castro (these three streets intersect), which is the exact same spot Larkin and I held many dramatic. loving and hilarious encounters since October 2012. For Twin Peaks Tavern sits smackdab on the southeast corner of that triple intersection! Wish I could observe the action from my SRO window but, alas, I’m a tad too distant to view more than a sliver, if that. Perhaps I will mosey in that direction to see what excitement may result.

“And what may result?” (you might ask). Perhaps one or more bank robberies by my devotees, that I may become an instant billionaire and rescue millions of gay people from the Iron Fist of Heterosexism. Castro residents and visitors alike have been advised to not dial 911 that day, even if they witness an alarming event. What a perfect setup to commit a crime without intervention of any legal entity!

Also, the city has just completed the widening of Castro Street in that very same location…and will soon proceed with laying down the “LGBT Walk of Fame” or whatever it’s called. Do you think my own name will be included? I do! Do you think Randolph Taylor’s name will be included? I do! What about Larkin Kelsey and numerous other unsung heros that have accomplished so much in the name of Queer Rights? Well, My E-frenz, I suspect they will be honored there, too.

[ Calamitous Reader: there exists another Great Gay Prophet besides myself, whom I call Keith in my tales. Who foresaw many edifications, plaques, statues and such in my honor. Which discussion I’ve included in Chapter 2 of Book 2, called “I’ll Push You Back!.” Just search for phrase “Re: My latest blog entry‚Ķ” to jump right to it. His astounding description of how The Castro will change in the twinkling of an eye, with myself as a major celebrity, is not so far-fetched now, as it seemed to me just one month ago. ]

The remarkable timing of it all goes even further: for Gay Pride Week is almost upon us here in San Francisco, and my birthday follows just one day after that. What more proof does one need, to show me this is most certainly not coincidence, but an exquisitely profound metamorphosis into a new reality? A reality that celebrates Gay Freedom, and makes My People the heroes of planet earth!

And for some reason that is not totally clear to me (though is on certain levels), I owe it all to Larkin Kelsey, My Gregariously Gorgeous Gay Godzilla.

(This is my letter I snail-mailed to Keith, who strangely lives directly across from Larkin, and neither of whom I can visit, email or phone.)

Praise to Bodacious Keith!

Your very kind $400 contribution enabled me to upgrade my Internet activism with a refurbished HP EliteBook, and an excellent 10.1 inch android tablet. As a result, I can speedily zoom across cyberspace with my pro-gay ideology, instead of slugging along.

Enclosed are my two latest blog entries, which I’m sure will bring you great joy. In the second piece which I title “I’m a Decoy for the SFPD,” I give credit to you, under pseudonym “Keith.” You will find it in the paragraph beginning with “calamitous reader.”

I love you unconditionally, no matter what. And so happy to learn that you have a really decent job at Cliff’s Hardware. Give my warmest regards to your sweet boyfriend Gus.

Just know that I’ve never stopped craving to suck your enormous and handsome kok ever since you sent me those two sweetly erotic videos.

Your devoted friend (and I hope some day your sidekick lover),


He Shoved Me Again!

June 23, 2014

From: Zeke Krahlin
To: My Loyal Andromedans
Date: Wed, 18 Jun 2014 14:08:21
He Shoved Me Again!

Larkin shoved me once more, again outside of Twin Peaks Tavern, but on Castro Street by Market. It was near 11 PM when I saw him at the bus stop, so I sauntered on over to tell him:

“I looked for you Sunday, to wish you an awesome Father’s Day, and to thank you for all the adventures and mischief you’ve put in my life. For, what…going on nine years now?”

But before I could speak more than a dozen words he hollered at me, told me to get out of his face. I grew outraged and asserted:

“Larkin, I just came up to wish you well. You said I’m a nice man and have always been good to you. So why do I upset you now?”

“I don’t know,” he blurted. “Just get the hell away from me.”

Then he spit at my feet, so I spit right back and hit him square on the face. Then I tossed my lit cigarette onto his shirt. (For the record, I impressed my own torrid self with a bullseye both times; I didn’t miss a beat. Never realized the primo sharpshooter inside me.) He flicked one right back at me, then spit again. On my face, twice. Then he gave me sort of a half-shove that was rather innocuous, but nonetheless I took as an insult.

“Get away from me!” he continued to rage. “And stop sending my mail to the bars, they’re getting pissed.”

“All’s fair in love and war,” I exclaimed while standing right up to him. “You tell /everyone/ I’m your stalker and got me kicked out of all the bars. So I’m just returning the favor.” And added:

“How /dare/ you shove me again? You can expect a /lot/ more postcards arriving at the bars, now. I wasn’t planning to send any more, but you blew it. Get over yourself, dipwad.”

So I followed him up and down Castro, where he mostly wandered in the middle of the street, causing cars to stop and wait till we passed. The moment he’d cross back in the other direction, I’d mimic. Good thing there wasn’t much traffic. He finally marched homeward while I pursued, hollering at him how fukked up he is. He called me a crazy loon so I answered back:

“Crazy is when people shove a good friend, and slander him in his own neighborhood. Who do you think I’m talking about, goofball?”

By now we had crossed Market to K&D liquors, where the nightshift employee watched our loud antics from the entranceway. Then a squad car pulled up beside me, while Larkin was but a few steps from his apartment building. He took instant advantage of the situation and yelled to the blueshirts:

“Tell him to quit stalking me! He needs to leave me alone!”

One cop called to me: “Do as he says, walk away.”

“Wait a moment, officer,” I spoke back. “You didn’t see him shove me a few minutes ago. This isn’t the first time he’s done that. I refuse to let anyone bully me.”

“Well,” he advised from the passenger side while leaning out a bit, “If I were a small guy and someone shoved me, I’d be scared and get away.”

“But I’m /not/ scared. You need to talk with him, not me. His name is Larkin Kelsey, and he’s been bullying me for over a year now. I refuse to stroll my own neighborhood in fear. Plus, I’ve already filed a police report against him.”

Then it looked like Larkin was home for the night, and the cops did not step out of their car, so they obviously gave my words some consideration. I decided to walk away in order to return some minutes later, as I was sure Larkin would step out again.

In departing, I said: “You have a good night, officers. I’m going now.”

So I crossed Market to head home, but turned tail halfway down the block, and arrived once more just two doors from Larkin’s apartment…and the cops were nowhere in sight. Sure enough, he reappeared, walked towards me then spun around to descend the Muni Metro steps. I called to him from aboveground:

“Well that was quite a drama you just played. You can’t win this battle. All I’m doing is fighting for our friendship!”

“Go away, go away!” he screamed as he reached the subway level. Then suddenly, he fell flat on his face the moment his left foot touched the third step from bottom. It was a doozy of a stumble; he might have a bad bruise on his face the next morning. So I echoed:

“Look, I want you to be alright. Please don’t let aggravation cause you to fall down the stairs or do anything else stupid!”

“Fuk you, Zeke! Fuk you!”

I then ran across Market towards HM Plaza, figuring he’d emerge on the other side of the underground. But he did not.

Something else I told the cops at one point: “Go talk to Larkin. The worst that will happen is we’ll make a citizen’s arrest on each other.” But they remained glued to their car seats, when they really should’ve intercepted him.

I also said to Larkin as he descended the subway steps: “You /need/ a friend who stands up to your BS!”

Well, Andromedans, it was a most unexpected encounter last night, that has only served to fan the flames of my desire for justice. While blessed with a great love for another, no matter the difficulties. So I finally returned hovel, to compose the following letter which I’ll tape to the front of five “Free Me From This Bond” postcards, and send off to the five Castro bars he frequents:

You shoved me again (June 17th around 11 PM on Castro near Market). You’re pathetic. I just came up to wish you well, and crack a joke or two to put a smile on your face. But since you did shove me, I will continue to send you postcards at bars you visit. After all, you told everyone I’m your stalker, so one good turn deserves another. No one would betray a good friend like you have… unless he is suffering a malady that affects the brain. Such as a tumor. Please get a check-up, including an MRI to figure out what’s wrong. The sooner the malady is pinpointed, the sooner it can be nipped in the bud. I suspect you’ve been having cluster headaches, and taking it out on me…possible sign of a brain tumor. I don’t ever want to lose you, Larkin. You’re too important to me, and to the world. I don’t want to see such a beautiful mind like yours deteriorate. PS: how many dimes of meth ya got buried in your closet?

I’m really financially strapped to the max this month, what with all the expense of tending to Larkin’s well being. Glad to keep the post office alive, but I hope doing so will not lead to my /own/ expiration! I can only pray that Larkin’s hositility was to protect me from a cult member who might have been somewhere nearby, observing. Or perhaps (I also conjecture) he continues to manifest high drama, that I may have this golden opportunity to be his hero.

Sadly, the possibility of his suffering a brain tumor is also a concern. And for which my struggles to rekindle our once-sweet friendship is such a misery to achieve. He said only three weeks ago that our friendship is a godsend. Yet tonight, he yanked my chain. But he also said only moments before shoving me really hard back in January 2013: “You’re a nice man and have always been good to me.” There is nothing at this point that could /ever/ stop me from fighting to win back his kindness. I sorta think he acted out this latest and hateful scenario, that I may be the noble saint against his vulgar behavior.

Not is all as it seems, even to yours truly. But I certainly am not nearly so devastated by Larkin’s latest backstabbing, as I would be if I didn’t have somewhat clear evidence that behind the scenes is a secret organization training me for world leadership on behalf of all sexual minorities.

And that Larkin is their commander in chief. Who is possibly setting me up to become a whirlwind of controversy among all the denizens of Castro bars…who will ultimately become possessed by an overwhelming desire to purchase my novel. Along with three or four /more/ copies to share with their friends. Also consider this: my birthday is soon approaching, so Larkin’s apparent brutality is his way of making my surprise party an event to remember.

Though I must say–in wrapping up the entire account–I felt /most/ vindicated to see My Diabolical Dimetrodon smack his face on the cold, Metro floor. I suspect he did this intentionally, as part of the drama he’s creating for my own, ultimate benefit. Larkin is far from stupid, and from what I’ve observed about him, everything he does is perfectly calculated. Including a pratfall to humble himself before one he loves with great fervor.

The presumption is of course, that any further encounters with him prior to my birthday will always come off like our friendship is a lost cause. It’s supposed to be as much of a surprise as possible (the party), and the taste of a doomed love just prior, will make the event so much sweeter.

Ignatz has /nothing/ on me.

AFTERTHOUGHTS (hindsight’s wisdom)

He /wanted/ me to send another postcard-salvo out to those bars. Ticking off naive little me /assured/ him that I will shoot off /another/ barrage of postcards in a huff of outrage. But the real motive is this:

One more such attack will lure the remaining vermin out of the woodwork. [Anti-Zeke] = [Cult Member Suspect]. Once more I play the decoy to Larkin’s hunt. It was all a setup, Dears! Being telepathic, he /knew/ I was seeking him out to shower well-wishes. So what does My Trickster do? Appears moments before I arrive at Castro & Market (as if he were there much longer w/o anticipating my presence), ready to give me yet /another/ ride of my life. Even had his back turned to me as I neared.

Of course, the joke of it all (I now realize) was my attempt to seek him out and bless him with kind words…that instead blew up like a WMD. And ya know something, Honorable Reptoids? I wouldn’t have it any other way!

PS: Oh, yeah, I also sent Larkin a postcard to his own, private mailbox, like so (first the back, then the front):

Down & Out in San Franshitsco

June 20, 2014

I sometimes need to poop in the trash bag, if someone else is hogging up the restroom down the hallway. I am not anal retentive, which behavior leads to constipation and all other sorts of hideous bowel syndromes. So I squat over the small trash bin beneath my sink (after scooting it out to the room’s center), which is lined in a heavy duty garbage liner (for the sake of my own dignity). Usually when I need to dump a number two and someone else is in there…he just got in there, and will probably crap in the toilet followed by a robust shower of ten or more minutes! I thought over all sorts of Mother-Earth-Magazine types of solutions (such as a Mulbank toilet, or those eco-friendly portable potties used in campers or tents for visiting national and state parks on the cheap). But none of them promised a dignified existence in an urban SRO. Then it finally occurred to me to just dump my load in a lined wastebasket, tie it up pronto and toss it into the garbage disposal chute in the back porch. The stink doesn’t even have a chance to permeate.

Yet when I first tried that, the manager, Serge (2nd mgr. since Marcus E….the one in between, Rose, was a real new-age, pyramid-scheme doozie, who suddenly died of virulent cancer after participating in anti-Zeke schemes along with certain residents who had nothing better to do with their lives than torment This Faggot-Weary, Old-But-Gentle Soul), posted a note up in the lobby a few days later, stating:

“Human feces was discovered two days ago in one of the trash bins. Please be careful not to let anyone through the front gate, unless he or she has come to visit you.”

Naturally, I quickly figured the real situation, unbeknownst to manager and residents alike (who presumed it was a homeless person who sneaked in, or a friend of an illegal Mexican immigrant that worked in the teensy taqueria that shared a back door with our building’s basement): the cheap dollar-store trash liners were not sufficient to prevent the bursting of a bag under the weight of additional tenants’ trash disposal. Thus, my discarded sack had popped open, squishing my own excrement through the broken seams. Lesson learned: since then I now purchase the “hefty” type trash liners you get at Walgreens (fuk the dollah stores) to avoid such an embarrassment ever again…but also take the offending bag outside with me at the first opportunity, and deposit in an outdoor receptacle. Fortunately, there’s one situated right outside the gate and almost in front of the Wells Fargo trio of ATM’s just beside my building.

I’m 63 now, and I know full well the hazards of holding back a good dump…hemorrhoids being the least of the bad stuff that curses you unto death if you become a slave to Puritanical modesty. I had obsessed for more than two years, over how I could relieve myself in such a situation. But even worse: what if everyone came down with the stomach flu at the same time, and the WC would never be accessible at the critical moment, nine times out of ten? Most who live here rent a studio, or 1-or-2 bedroom, thus enjoy their own personal toilet and stove/oven/ fridge. But three or four residents on each of three levels (ground 1 is for the shops) such as yours truly, occupy a single room: no kitchen, no bathroom, communal restroom down the hallway. This was not a fecal hazard back when all three restrooms were accessible to anyone living in an SRO on any floor. A dozen or so steps upward to reach an unoccupied latrine did not threaten to force one’s personal Playdoh extruder into pants-stinking overtime.

But when the next manager, Marcus E., took over, his Los Angelenes high-crime paranoia overwhelmed this apartment building I call “Hotel California North.” Not only did he change the overhead hallway light bulbs from 20 watts to a hundred (thus transforming the ghostly-dull corridors into hospital-type passages of uber-sane sterility); but he imposed cheap door-closers to all apartment and room doors as well as the bathroom and back porch doorways, which at unexpected moments would pop a spring with such force that had they hit one’s eye you’d go blind (or at least have a bloody face). He also installed an uber-bright light in the backway passage that exits onto 16th Street, and lit up whenever a motion was detected. (As if that area needed any protection from scurrilous night dwellers, but it does not, it’s just a back passage with a locked gate.)

But most horrendous of all, he created a separate lock for each of the three shared commodes. So now, if one has to go really bad, he or she can not simply skip up or down one or two flights to access another relief station that was unoccupied at the moment. One must therefore concede to likely intestinal cramps awaiting one’s turn, or find a viable solution as I have. Would have been much more considerate for Marcus to provide SRO residents with one key for all three bathrooms. This would not only resolve his overhyped fears of the homeless sneaking in and skanking up the shared bathrooms (for which I am frequently scapegoated, only because I am seen in public talking with a street vagrant from time to time. As if I had offered him cart blanche to our hallway toilets in exchange for a decent BJ. If only things were that

So once every other month or so, I find myself resorting to a healthy morning poop in my waste basket. Which plastic lining I twist up and tie ASAP after administering a quick wipe of water-dampened toilet paper followed by a dry version. While cussing the other two residents that share the commode, as my poop explodes into a satisfying relief of pent-up angst from a severe lack of privacy. Other difficulties that are born of poverty and living in an SRO are as follows:

Cooking. How does one purchase raw groceries and convert them into a satisfying meal, because eating out is just too cost prohibitive? Well, with some excess cash I was able to obtain a magnetic induction hotplate that cooks almost a third faster than a regular, coiled stove. (And is a lot safer, as you could place a paper towel between fry pan and hotplate, and nothing would burn or even singe.) I also owned an infrared, jumbo-size Black & Decker toaster oven that not only made great toast, but allowed me to whip up cakes, casseroles, sauteed veggies, and many other dishes that one would expect mandates a real kitchen! Sadly, the on/off chip short-circuited about three years after purchase, which forced me to discard an otherwise perfectly good piece of technology which planned obsolescence tossed me into a dark hell of makeshift cuisine.

For that remarkable toaster oven was no longer available on amazon.com (’cause discontinued), nor could I afford at the time, to purchase the item once more, even if it were still on the cyber-shelves. Since I live on a gov’t stipend I must confine my “sundry shopping” to 2nd-hand or free-box finds, else I’d perish. That includes stumbling upon a complete, hot meal left atop a trash bin by some generous resident. As well as clothing, books, decorative bric-a-brac, and so forth. Everything except underpants and socks (which I purchase at bargain stores that proliferate in the Mission and Chinatown).

There is also the matter of my teeth, of which but two-thirds
remain, and in rotting condition. Medi-Cal’s dental services for male adults were eliminated more then 10 years ago. Obamacare has not stepped up to rectify this, but has left it up to each state, via Medicaid. But even the blue states (such as my own California) have done little to provide free dental care for the poor, except to remove an aching tooth or resulting infection by a visit to the Emergency Clinic. I am most fortunate to have no serious infection or debilitation from my dental neglect, but to find alternative ways to eat healthy in spite of deteriorating ability to tear, crush and macerate my meals so they’ll provide maximal nutrition before being expelled via the intestines. For one, I use a freebie coffee grinder to pulverize walnuts, almonds, sesame and sunflower seeds into a dust that I can mix into my oatmeal, salads or casseroles. For two, I overcook my veggies beyond al dente, to make up for my lack of chewing mastery, that I may nonetheless provide my stomach with maximal absorption of the nutrients thus imparted.

As you must realize by now, one’s dental deterioration eliminates
many enjoyable dishes that most denizens of San Francisco take for
granted…since most of them are deliriously affluent, and do not
believe their own pleasures in life have anything to do with
requiring a significant percentage of the downtrodden in order to
maintain their high level of superiority. Such is the nature of Das
Kapitalism which at first presents itself as an innocent babe, then
ravages the nest of compassionate, liberal parents who wind up being
hornswoggled into complacent doddering. While their very essence of
life-exuberance becomes a struggle to survive, even if on the most
basic level of primitive fag-bashing and female-raping.

There is the issue of trying to eat healthy while one’s teeth deteriorate at an alarming rate. Since I do maintain a roof over my head (thank goddess), I keep certain equipment handy to facilitate the proper digestion of what food I can afford. Such as a coffee grinder employed to pulverize nuts and seeds that can be sprinkled over oatmeal, steamed veggies, soup and the like. What vittles I consume that require serious chewing, I take extra time to thoroughly grind the comestibles and wash it down with diet soda, milk or other beverage. Though (most remarkably) I rarely suffer any toothaches or gum infections. Which I attribute to my blessed destiny that gives me a certain amount of leeway to abuse my health so long as I keep it within a sane limit. For one, I don’t mess with hard drugs…only occasional alcohol and marijuana. Tobacco, too (I had stopped smoking for 32 Years, but resumed almost three years ago, probably has to do with imprinting my psyche onto Larkin’s). I utilize other equipment to aid my crumbling pearls, such as an Osterizer (high quality, found in a free box), a juicer (low-end but works great, just $10 at Goodwill), and a ceramic knife (purchased in Walgreens’ “As Seen on TV” section for half price).

I have been a vegetarian for years now, ever since I left my family way back in 1968. Though I aspire to become a vegan, I’ve since learned that such a lofty goal (to not enslave or murder innocent creatures for one’s own survival) demands a hefty sum of buckazoids beyond my present capabilities…living as I do on a humble gov’t stipend in one of the most expensive cities on the planet. True veganism requires special equipment for dehydrating fruit and vegetables, expensive processors, and a real kitchen to execute the necessary preparation. This also requires tons of free time that most folks just don’t have. I have the time, but not the money: talk about your catch 22!

My diet of late consists of oatmeal or granola (soaked in soy milk for at least 10 minutes) for breakfast…or down the street for a whole wheat sesame bagel with cream cheese and a small coffee, more java or iced tea (and usually an almond croissant or other pastry) at Bean There coffeehouse on Waller Street, and for dinner sauteed veggies on a bed of brown rice and small cubes of firm tofu, topped off with grated sharp cheddar cheese and a splash or two of soy sauce. For beverages I drink cheap, Safeway diet soda on sale for 99 cents per two-liter bottle, Silken soy milk (unsweetened), and a variety of five or six types of tea I keep stashed in the pantry. Sometimes a delicious meal, snack or sandwich is left for me on a trash bin, newsstand, doorstep or free box. Amazing what gourmet treats I discover on my lonesome hikes across The Seven Hills… often vegetarian or even vegan. Quality that’s certainly beyond the reach of my own thin wallet! May Queen Boudicca abundantly gift these kind denizens who think of the poor and homeless among us.

Speaking of free box, that is where I acquire most of my wardrobe, including footwear. But I only pick freshly laundered clothing in order to avoid bedbugs and other no-see-ums. Books, magazines, dishes and cups, cookware, utensils, toys, board games, charming bric-a-brac, paper, art supplies and storage boxes number among the free-box pickin’s one can stumble upon anywhere in Our Fair City. Without such generosity from the well-to-do, my simple life would be filled with so much more hardship than it is already. For I am but one baby step away from the gutters. Companionship is rare since all my friends from the past have long since moved on to more affordable climes. I take whatever camaraderie and brotherly intimacy I can get…and that’s way too infrequent for this poor faggot’s happiness. The street crowd (mostly homeless) seems to be my only source of this fundamental need for friendship and love. There are some truly sweet men out there, but I can only have their bodacious company for a night or two before they must skip along once more on their vagrant way. But they remain secure in my heart with loving memories I wouldn’t trade for a megazllion smackeroonies.

[ Salubrious Reader: do not lose heart over my unhappy situation. For there is one man– one glorious dragon of a man– who has been my savior, my teacher, my guardian and my BFF of all time, for these past eight otherwise-lonesome years. And you already know his name if you’ve been following my blog for just a mere week; or read my novel, “Free Me From This Bond” (even if only the first ten pages). He is, of course, Larkin Kelsey. And we two are about to embark upon the next chapter of a great spiritual odyssey that shall never end. It will commence on my birthday, July 1st, as far as I can tell. ]

Pissing in the sink is another aspect of living in an SRO. Who in his right mind wants to walk down a brightly lit corridor late at night just to relieve the bladder? (I did use a plastic quart container for a couple of years, but the possible embarassment of being seen walking down the hallways with a urine-filled container was more than I could handle.)

[ In fact, Tardigradian Reader, I was cornered by next-door-neighbor Barry four years ago, with urine bottle in hand. It was transparent, thus the liquid’s amber color shone like a lantern. He held a scissors in his hand, asked me to clip off a gnarly thick hair that protruded from a perfectly square scar by his left shoulder blade. Sign of the Gay Warrior! I set my plastic receptacle on the hallway floor, complimented him on the noble scar, and clipped the unwelcome intruder. Then Barry chuckled when he spotted my bottle, and I whisked myself off to unload it in the communal bathroom, embarrassed as hell. ]

As a light sleeper such an interruption would curse me with insomnia for the remainder of my nocturnal respite. So I piss in the sink. Which affords me unbroken darkness and just a few steps required before urinating and hopping back into my nest. Guests (some of them quite handsome) pose another problem entirely. Which is that it’s much better they pee in the sink than expose themselves to jealous queens or nasty priks or kunts they are more likely to encounter in their hallway romp to the bathroom. (FYI, I wash my dishes in a plastic tub, so that urine does not permeate my digestive system.) But of course this presents the matter of bowel expulsion which, as we all know, is a regular function of daily human existence. So there is no way to totally hide my visitors from neighbors. But usually this does not interfere with my overnight debauchery (if such it comes to), so long as my usually-heavy-hung guest (though not always so if he can give really good head) does not impart a lascivious greeting (or any other sort of “howdy,” just say nothing and go to the restroom w/o occupying it for more than ten minutes). But these are gregarious and fun-loving men upon whom I would not dream of imposing upon more than a bit of My Instructions On How To Spend A Night With Zeke And Get Away With It In One Piece.

[ BTW, Vestibular Reader, I’m presently typing this account via my brand new android tablet’s swype keyboard. Certainly a fantastic boon to those of us who suffer carpal tunnel and other forms of repetitive stress injury (RSI) from decades of finger-clacking. But it doesn’t always get what letters you specifically chose. For example: every time I swype the word “app,” it gives me “asp.” Shades of Cleopatra’s ghost! But there are also other, more common, words that somehow elude this newfangled swype feature. Try typing “cock” and you’ll get “chock.” Or “vagina” and you’ll get “basins” (which confuses me as to whether this glitch arises from prudishness or a Freudian slip by its programmers). Don’t believe for a microsecond, however, that Swype’s shortcomings are confined to hi-tech slang that may or may not one day find their presence in the American Heritage Dictionary, or to words viewed as unsavory to the ignorant, horse-hockey masses. Another example: when I swype “begun” I get instead “begin.” Rather than bore you with further evidence, just be warned that The Swype Gremlins are working overtime.

I must admit though, that Swype is already intelligent enough to bring succor to millions of hardworking folks, from this debilitating malady of RSI. So much so that I’ve begun to use my tablet (with a 10.1 inch screen for ample finger room) at home, instead of the conventional keyboard that’s rested upon my desk for nigh unto thirty years, ever since I purchased my first computer, a “Compaq Luggable.” (Ha! Try swyping “luggable” and you’ll get “pluggable.”) So, My Sweetest Readers Of All Time, permit me to end this elucidation of living on the “down and out” here in “San Franshitsco” (as my friend of many years–but who had to return to his home city of Philadelphia more than a decade ago, that he tend loving care to his mother dying from Alzheimer’s–Sean, describes it). Though I leave out a majority of descriptions about the oppression and downright evil that is dumped upon the poor and homeless by our wealthy, who now compose the larger part of This Harlotrous Burg, which I cynically call “The City of Saint Francis.” (Another joke: swype “harlotrous” and you get “halitosis!”)

In spite of what good people remain in this town, or who moved here recently. It’s simply a matter of too few and far between. But I have Larkin, thus my own world is perfect. ]

101 Hyde

June 17, 2014

Date: Thu, 12 June 2014 14:07:22
101 Hyde
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor

It’s a post office in a seedy part of town, the Tenderloin. However, there exists a corner donut shop right across the street with a clear view of the PO. Just as I had wondered (how copacetic). Don’t know /when/ he picks up his mail, I’m guessing 11:30-ish, as he parties till late at night, and walks dogs, plays pool, drinks starting in the mid afternoon.

So mayhaps I’ll hang out at that Donut dive for an hour or so each day, and see what’s up. Oh if only they had wifi! Then again, the neighborhood is thick wih thieves.

Meanwhile, one postcard returned thus far, from The Mix. Doesn’t mean no one’s read it, and the gossip hasn’t sparked a flame that will rapidly spread and consume all the Castro hooch joints with Zeke’s spiritual fire! Or it may fizzle out like a wet cherry bomb. This is the card upon which I taped a small printout on the front, in which I suggested Larkin may be a drug dealer. Well, my jumbo postcards to the manager of each bar, should have been delivered by now…more likely, yesterday. Let’s see what my cage rattling will accomplish, eh, El?

– Zeke

Date: Thu, 12 June 2014 20:15:04
Re: 101 Hyde
From: Eleanor
To: Zeke Krahlin

Eleanor wrote:

{{ Doing your bit to keep the U.S.Postal Service alive!!!! }}

And I have Larkin to thank for /that/ one, too! Most incredible man I’ve ever met. He’s given me so many opportunities to utilize old-school letter writing and posting. Which has only served to increase my appreciation of the USPS and its incredible history. But I’m tellin’ ya, Ellie:

If Larkin doesn’t do something really /spectacular/ for me on my birthday, I’m gonna go postal all over his sorry ass!

{{ That postcard’s a beauty. Pearls before schweinhunds. }}

I’m sure they’re all having a good laugh at my expense…while preparing my surprise birthday party coming up very soon.

On the side I scanned is a tiny image of Manannan mac Lir, the Celtic god of the Irish Sea. Looks rather like Larkin. I’m no longer surprised at such things, just delighted.

[ Goodly Reader: total of 12 jumbo postcards I’m mailing out to Larkin along with the small cards. Dispersed over a two-week period, that is: till the end of time…er, I mean “June.” Click on any image below to view the accompanying super hero. ]

6 Jumbo Wishes

June 10, 2014

Monday, June 9th: my jumbo postcards just came in! A collection of the US post office’s super hero designs back when 1-ounce stamps cost just 39 cents. (What year was that? You tell me.) I originally wanted these so I could print more content on them, than I could on a standard postcard. Intended for Larkin of course, until I realized I could just tape a printout on the image side of each smaller card, thus allowing me twice the space than on the address side. You can see the results in my previous blog post. Well, I still felt driven to purchase the jumbos, even after that realization. I still didn’t know why I succumbed to this additional purchase, until two days after ordering them:

Why of course! I’ll print out my entire appeal to the bar managers, and tape it to the front. Better than a regular letter in a sealed envelope. Since this way, exposure to my fundraising plea could reach more curious eyes before the manager gets a hold of it.

Certainly, in my struggles to get our local community to repair Larkin’s teeth and promote him as a professional party mixer, I need to maximize the odds of reaching the right person or people. I think the demand to be as clever as possible arises from the challenge to celebrate (and thus restore) a friendship, in which the battle is uphill all the way. Add to that a blustery wind of hostile opposition…including My Own Celtic Demon! So here’s the box it came in:

And the back:

Just opened:

This is how my printout looks, when attached to the jumbo card. Click on image to read the actual letter:

And these last two pictures show the postcard collection itself (minus “The Flash” shown above). Click on either image for a larger view:

So that Monday afternoon returning from “Bean There” coffeehouse, I slapped together My Six Jumbo Wishes, then hustled on over to the local post office on 18th Street:

The clerk observed Larkin’s address on the envelope that contained a Father’s Day card. He frowned a moment, then clacked away at the keyboard.

“Oh, that’s 101 Hyde Street!”

I suddendly lit up: “Finally! My lover’s a detective, and he likes to toss me all kinds of challenges. I could never find out the street address, but my mail still gets through. Nothing on the web, even when I search for the full 9-digit code. And the Inner Sunset PO, I asked them to look up the zip code, but they still couldn’t find the street.”

With a sigh of gratitude, I thanked him. He handed me 7 postage stamps (one for the weighty Father’s Day card that also contained a DVD copy of the film “The Congress,” and six for those jumbo postards). One stamp depicted a lily, the rest were of Harvey Milk.

So now I gotta go check out the location of 101 Hyde…maybe hang out nearby and surprise Larkin. Perhaps there’s a little cafe across the street, where I can watch, Maybe snap a photo of Larkin entering the building…print it out and paste the pic on a jumbo postcard and send it off. And this time, with the street name in the address.

Friendly Ghost Detective Agency always gets his man! (Whether in the jail or in the sack, I got his number and he’s got my back.)

Well dontcha know, on my way back home strolling up Noe Street: here came Larkin meandering down my way. Of course, I was most curious to see whether or not he’d speak, or gesture something. As we grew near, he lowered his head in passing. I guess he’s not gonna talk to me. I decided this time around to remain silent, like strangers. Half-a-block later, I turned round to see him grow distant in his approaching 18th Street (probably on his way to Moby Dick). He turned his head back to see if I followed (or possibly just to acknowledge me). I waved a hand and smiled. Where I’ve been standing in the same spot all along, gazing wistfully at my objet d’amour. Another 20 yards before he turned the corner and vanished, he peered at me yet once more, to see me standing at that same spot. Then he was gone.

As I continued hovelward, I surmised that Zachary had by now read my letter to him, as well as my fundraising idea to the newspapers. Both were enclosed in that ziplock baggie I handed him at Moby Dick, three days ago. (BTW Larkin, thanks for not himiliating me as usual, when I stepped into that bar…very big of you. I guess because you actually summoned me there, to give my gift to Zachary.) Probably, then, Larkin also read it, or Zachary conveyed its essential content to him. Which means that–by the time our paths had crossed once more (just after my posting the jumbo cards)–Larkin was well aware of my attempts to rally the locals around my fundraising scheme. And how it will likely put him on the spot regarding our own, increbile association since 2006. Including my criticism of wealthy patrons who adore him for his wit and good looks. Yet allow years to pass while his teeth drop out, and a great career as party mixer goes down the tubes.

But I also surmise that Larkin’s telepathic antennae inspired him to let me get another bounteous glimpse of his darling self, shortly after I exited the post office. His unique way of saying, “thank-you for sending off those jumbo postcards, and taking big risks for my sake.” Prayer is worthless without action, and I certainly do follow through. So now we must sit and bide our time, to see what sort of brouhaha I get from the managers (and the gay papers). If any. *sigh*

[ Fractured Fairytale Reader: buried among all my present musings is my theory that Larkin is a gumshoe, preparing to bust the remainder of a dangerous cult. Which theory I’ve discussed numerous times in past articles, but not recently. This would explain his elusive and sometimes antagonistic behavior towards me. Yet sporadically, he’d say or do something to lift my spirits, keep my hopes up high. Thus, these evasive maneuvers are for my own protection: to deflect our enemies from targeting yours truly any more (as they did back in our SOMA days, see my chapter in Book 1, “The Phone Call“). Perhaps even his housemate Zachary numbers among these curs. Thus, Larkin must step gingerly in order to keep him off my tail. So why does he live with him (you ask)? Ever hear the saying “Stay close to your friends, even closer to your enemies?” Perfect strategy for a private eye! And consider this too, O Haphazordous Reader: if my detective hunch is correct, Our Divine Dragon deserves all the love and support This Poor Humble Queer can muster! I can’t imagine the kind of danger he is in, placing himself as he has, smack dab in the center of a gay cult! So I cheer him on via whatever method I can…if not in person, then by postcards and letters. And praying, yes, lots and lots of praying. ]

UPDATE: Now that several hours have flown since my last encounter with Satan this afternoon around 3 o’clock, I grow more joyful in spirit. The sight of him is still sinking in…and as it does, my heart sings like a nightingale, and hummingbird wings sprout from these weary shoulders! And Michael J. croons “Remember the Time” (in a video I downloaded from Youtube) from my USB speaker. Good ganja. Thank you, Chris!

24 Postcards

June 8, 2014

Actually, my postcards number 25, but that first one gave me the inspiration a day later, to send a mailing-card to Larkin for all the remaining days in June. Or IOW: up until the day before my birthday, July 1st…the day I turn 64. Postcard #1 contained the following words: “You’re one beautiful man, Larkin Kelsey. I’d rather die thinking of you, than live w/o you. Put that in your pot pipe and smoke it!” Which postcard came out of frustration that his roommate, Zachary, informed me Larkin hasn’t been reading my letters; instead he throws some in the garbage, while others are stashed away, unopen. Whether true or no, I decided to deal with this latest challenge by sending postcards, which he is more likely to read than neglect. I have a stack of “Free Me From This Bond” postcards that are part of my publisher’s promotional package. They were just lying around of no worth to me, yet here I am all-of-a-sudden-like, putting them to good use. (Which, I guess, is to drive Larkin crazy.) I’ve composed my wit on all 24 cards well ahead of time, and plan to send each one out per diem. And I just ordered a set of 20 jumbo postcards from Amazon.com, that I may compose longer messages. I’ll print my words out in a teensy font and tape the cutout page onto the card’s back-left side. Though covering the entire front side in the event I’ll require more line space (sacrificing the image for a nobler cause). This implies of course, that I’ll extend my postcard flurry well beyond June (though not daily). Oh the writer’s urge shall never quit, whether bonded paper, computer screen, napkin, postcard or chit! [ Flavorous Reader please note: in 13 cases (which occurred to me only after sending out the first 11 postcards), I’ve included an additional comment on the front of each card. Just hover the mouse cursor over each card, to discover whether or not it has a second pic. If so, a blurb will pop out that says “Click here to view the front!” Enlarge the pic with the browser keys if you need to. You should also realize that the cards listed here are not in the chronologial order in which I mailed them. Nor are all 24 postcards listed here, but 23; because I sent number 1 off before I figured to put this all in a blog. A girl can only do so much! ]

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