Hilarious Respite

July 30, 2014

Date: Wed, 23 Jul 2014 05:24:50
Hilarious Respite
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

July 22nd

El, this is gonna crack you up so bad, you’ll need to breathe into a paper sack to cease your hiccupping laughter! Just moments ago (around 7:20 PM) I had recently returned from Bean There coffeehouse, and I hear Larkin’s golden voice just outside my window. (For me, his audacious timbre upon these needful eardrums is always a blessing, no matter the context.) So I fling aside the curtain and peer out to see him and housemate Zachary schmoozing with an elderly gentleman who is blatantly drunk. Actually, Zachary just stood there grinning while Larkin poured it on thick, sucking up to the old coot with hugs, fist bumps, arm shakes and affectionate words of camaraderie. Including an invite to hang with him at Twin Peaks Tavern. So I holler down at them:

“You rock, Larkin! Yeah, that’s right, Twin Peaks Tavern!”

I was boisterous, but the traffic offered me serious competition, so I continued to bellow even louder; “Larkin is a sweet man, you are so lucky to have his attention!”

Still, no reaction. I persisted: “Hey, Zachary, nice to see you again!”

The patsy then looked up at me and laughed at the absurdity of the situation. Then just as quickly dropped his attention to focus once more on Larkin and prey. Which “objet de mon amour” continued to grace the geriatric rooster with subtle touches and words of endearment as I observed his targeted methodology. I wouldn’t be ignored, so echoed in fervent glee:

“That’s right, Larkin! Suck up to those lonely old fags with lumpy wallets! You got my approval, one hundred per cent!”

That is when Larkin glanced up and displayed a face of exasperation…
nonetheless gloriously handsome. Seeing as he had not one whit of control over my sudden apparition from stage left, he simply turned away and began marching towards Castro Street a half block further up. The drunkard Methuselah seemed so captivated by Larkin’s charisma, not a single word of mine reached his ear. Thus, he never turned around, never saw me, totally oblivious to this parallel overlay. At his age, I’m sure audio capacities are limited (Larkin always seems to have the Luck of the Irish on his side).

I saw My Wyvern’s legs beneath a shop awning as he patiently waited for Zachary to catch up. But I pressed on (though he stood six doors up now, my echo could not be ignored):

“I didn’t mean to drive you away, Larkin! You know I love you. So you mooch offa the obese billfolds of tipsy old queers. Far be it for me to condemn you!”

Larkin didn’t move (his legs remained steadfast), but I knew he heard my every word. Finally, the doddering barfly moved along with Zachary, and they were soon out of sight. I decided a few minutes later to stroll on down to Jane Warner Plaza, and hang out smoking a ciggie while Larkin performed his hustle on this or that gray-haired or bald patron. But alas he wasn’t there, so I returned hovel to reflect upon this silly imbroglio.

I don’t think it was by accident that Larkin showed up almost beneath my window, that I could play the jilted amigo. Nor do I think it was kismet alone that set me up for the perfect sting. In fact, I am convinced that he intentionally played out the script according to his own intent. Why (you may ask)? To honor me by making himself vulnerable, just as he did when he fell down the Metro steps last month, as I chastised him from above and he hollered: “Fuk you, Zeke!”

I meant to complete and email this piece last night, but new friend and neighbor Gabe dropped by to present me with a blue rose. More on that later. It’s now 5:25 AM, I woke up a half hour ago and decided to finish this report and send it off.

– Zeke

[ Let me backtrack a bit now, Crepusculous Reader, to when I was still hanging at Bean There and doing my Internet chores. Gabe shows up about two hours after my arrival, and plunks the netbook upon the table right beside yours truly. Of course I was so glad to see him, and that he wanted to test the device when it had access to really good wireless. (Our building lacks such benefit, in spite of San Francisco’s attempt to provide wifi to the Castro; their mistake was letting AT&T run the show.)

Gabe was such good company, and I was delighted to show him how well the netbook works when decent wifi is available. He turned me on to his Facebook page and the excellent photos and videos therein. One pic displayed his almost naked body (but for a Speedo-type garment that was terrycloth-thick). He also had a hairless torso, unlike the present gray hairs that now poke above the collar.

“You shave your chest!” I exclaimed. “How old is this photo?”

“Two thousand eleven,” he replied.

Most of the photos of Gabriel showed him minus his present swatch of gray hair. But at least I know now for sure, he has one helluva handsome figure. So much so, I’m surprised I didn’t get a woodie right then and there.

After about an hour or so, I finally depart, leaving him to peruse cyberspace without my back-seat-driving presence. For in his exuberant gestures (he is full of piss and vinegar) I kind of panicked over the splashes of water from his drink that threatened to short-circuit the rejuvenated netbook. I even grabbed a few more napkins, that he keep the table dry and safe from destroying his new (though secondhand) device.

Now, let’s skip forward to just after my latest (and risible) encounter with Larkin and patsy just below my window. Once returned hovel from my failed attempt to vex Larkin by Twin Peaks Tavern, there is a gentle knock on my door. So I declare before opening:

“I wonder who that is! Could it be my fantastic friend Gabe?”

Of course it was him (no one else in 2306 cares about me one whit). Holding a long-stem rose colored blue, with purple tinges. I was terribly charmed.

Please realize this photo was taken with my android tablet, since my digital camera was stolen by a visitor about five weeks ago. Thus, not the clarity I wished to share. The rose is dyed a deep blue with purple edges where the petals curl. An exquisite gift from an exquisite man.

The fact the rose is mostly blue, comes from my telling him some of My Many Legends of the Blue Rose (yesterday I think, but perhaps earlier today). And that such a color for a rose does not exist in nature, but came from my own visions of the Ice Age and the world of Neanderthals. Here are some of the tales (in condensed form) I passed on to Gabriel:

1) My first Vision of The Blue Rose occurred in 1996 when I was napping in my humble SRO. I saw two angels standing by the curtain off to my right (I have two windows in my room). One angel was sewing a blue rose into the white-gauze mesh, while the other angel stood by and observed the handiwork.

I stood up from desk #2 and approached them. The angel who needle-pointed the rose paused and spoke:

“We want you to sew a blue rose just like this, that people walking the street may see it. One if by land, two if by sea.”

“Oh no,” I exclaimed, “I don’t have the talent to do that. Could I possibly paint it on a square of cardboard, and place it in the window?”

“Yes, that will work quite nicely.”

After that incredible vision I researched the spiritual meaning of The Blue Rose. But really found nothing pertinent on the web, other than its Celtic value as a mystical symbol (as perhaps an impossible quest nonetheless fulfilled). Years passed until I acquired its true meaning. It came to me in visions, nothing that could be discovered via library resources, or Internet searches. The Many Legends of the Blue Rose (as I shall call this collection which I have yet to complete, or even begin) were born of prehistoric adventures, when ice ruled the planet and Neanderthals were king.

2) This seraphic vision directly led to my inspiration to found the world’s first gay militia, back in 1997: The Blue Rose Militia. Dedicated to “fighting for the rights of same-sex lovers across the globe and into the 21st century.” You may read that essay here: http://gay-bible.org/write/4_militia.htm

3) Some years later visions of Neanderthals on a quest for The Rare Blue Rose that only grows on the edge of glaciers began haunting my nocturnal hours. It was an act of true love, a sacrifice through many months seeking this unique flower, that discovering one and bringing it back (if you didn’t die of exposure or beast, which often occurred) guaranteed that the target of your adoration could not turn you down.

4) Later visions revealed Cro-Magnon encroaching upon the habitat of Neanderthal, pillaging, raping and destroying this earlier species. And cannibalizing them as if they were just another form of wild animal. Yet some Cro-Magnons came to see such violence as a great crime of the soul, for they realized that they and Neanderthal were brothers under the skin. And so, they became the first civil rights activists in history. Not just that, but LGBT activists too, for Neanderthal was highly homosexualized. These Earlier Men could not conceive the brutality wrought upon their kind, for they were telepathic and already regarded Cro-Magnon as kin.For some time, these compassionate Cro-Magnons (barely 1% of the total species) would protect this Neanderthal remnant by hiding them out in distant caves way high up the mountains. And bring them food, beverage, clothing, gifts, and friendship. Some even fell in love, thus secret trysts abounded. Sadly, these hidden places were eventually exposed by traitorous Cro-Magnons, and the remaining Neanderthal survivors were all killed, along with their beloved Cro-Magnon allies.Yet before their tragic demise, certain chiefs of the Neanderthal tribes had made their Quest of The Blue Rose, and presented this gift to their Cro-Magnon comrades. Thus this vision revealed to me The True Meaning of The Blue Rose:

The promise one day of harmony between two different species of man.

5) Actually, not all Neanderthals have been wiped out, for there remain two separate tribes totaling 467, in two remote and covert locations in Siberia. I know this only through visions, and from a secret society called The Arctic Circle Federation of Warlocks. (Actually that’s not quite the title, but close. They are a direct lineage from those original Cro-Magnon activists.) Whose only communique with yours truly has been through telepathy thus far. They do not reveal to me why these Neanderthals are split into two locations, nor tell me of any other treasures they guard, except for five remaining dragons who all abide together in the same cavern undersea. Suffice it to say they originated the myth of the Loch Ness Monster to conceal from the world the actual home of These Wyvern Beauties.

6) Some months after my Neanderthal Vision, came visions of a great warrior chief out of Ancient Thrace, whose name was Sabazios, after their sky father god (and as “Hero” to the Greeks back then). And who lost his dearest friend and lover in battle. So was pining for a new love to end, or at least ease, his grief. Yet in spite of his heroic deeds and great affection of all the villagers he ruled over and protected with absolute fealty…not one of his superb warriors ever came forth to propose. And this struck our hero’s heart like a poisoned-tip spear. He would often weep in a hidden glade bordering upon the tribe’s territorial perimeter. All creatures would cease their chattering, bellows, groans, chirps and grunts…for here was truly a MAN for whom tears are no shame. Yea! Those tears are the waters gushing from Zibelthurdos’s own grief (whom the Athenians called “Zeus”)! And he would pray to The Great Goddess Bendis (“Artemis” as the Corinthians called her):”I have sacrificed my life for Our People many times over, yet no one cares enough to bed with me? I am still the most handsome and brave of them all, even when you consider our entire legacy of kings. What curse is this on their souls, that they grow shy like fawns from honoring what I most need and, I know, deserve all too well! Especially if I am to continue My Sacred Duty to protect and defend with utmost ferocity!”

So Sabazios determined to satisfy his need by questing for The Blue Rose all by his lone self.

[ Now, My Entrecote Reader, those angels who give me these visions refuse to tell me precisely how The Blue Rose managed to survive well beyond the end of the Ice Age. Perhaps there are just a few dozen remaining of that species, astride the top of an ice-chilled mountain; I just don’t know. But there they were, some time in the ninth century BC. ]

Long story short. Upon his return, Sabazios expressed undying love for one Brasus, a most brave warrior who was a glorious auburn of purple irises flecked with green and black, of course deliciously buff, thickly hung and a leopard in the barley stack. And really super-affectionate after just two horns of fermented sheep milk. But when Our Hero fell on both knees, wept in the startled man’s toga and presented him with The Rose: Brasus threw up his skirt and ran away beyond the furthest village in the kingdom, neither to be seen nor heard of again.

Well that broke the king’s spirit beyond mending, so he spoke these words in his final visit to the secluded glade:

“Oh My Creator Zibelthurdos! My people have fallen into depravity and wickedness. They have no heart, no strong love, no gratitude for my devoted sacrifices that they may survive and be joyful. I must leave the village I once so cherished and protected, for my shame in them is beyond measure. I cannot look at a single one of them in the face!”

Then he wandered off into the forest, far far beyond where any Thracian had hunted. Sabazios lived off his hands and remained unknown to any other human until the day he died six years later, destitute and broken hearted.

The end (unless you tell of his reincarnation into a gay activist in turn-of-the-century San Francisco, and whose final search for true love ends in the arms of one Larkin Kelsey…much to his delight and eternal gratitude to Zibelthurdos).

If you’d like, Hirudinean Reader, you may learn about ancient Thracian religion at the following site (’tis quite enlightening, though you won’t find any tale like mine therein):


7) This final legend of The Blue Rose has to do with Jesus Christ…or at least, the crown of thorns he wore during his crucifixion. For that crown was not made of any ordinary rosebush, but of The Blue Rose Itself! Imagine what distant, hardscrabble tundra Roman Soldiers had to traverse, to acquire such a precious bramble!When the Roman Guards prepared Christ’s crown, they stripped away all the leaves and buds, till only branch and thorns remained. Yet they missed one tiny bud barely pushing out from the xylem. It grew almost into a petite blossom while trapped atop a dying man nailed to the cross. But when Nicodemus and Joseph lowered Jesus into the tender arms of his mother, this solitary bud popped away from the thorns and tumbled some distance across the dusty ground. Planting its roots at last, once the next storm arrived. And soon it did, within moments. More to this story at a later time. I just wanted to give some examples, though the Neanderthal and Thracian portions were quite a doozy, eh?

Two Times

July 27, 2014

To: Eleanor
From: Zeke
Date: July 18, 2014
Subject: I saw Larkin two times…

…the first time on Market Street right across from where I reside, walking a friendly black-and-white doggie he called (I think) “Scampy”. The creature was sniffing everything in sight to his heart’s content, oblivious to Larkin tugging on the leash with gentle persuasion.

“C’mon Scampy, let’s get a move on!”

I was walking from the corner grocery/liquor store two blocks up Noe and about to turn right on Market towards my hovel, when I saw him. Thus ran across the street…and leaned against the green newsstand to observe the scenario. Larkin continued his dog-walking, acting oblivious to my presence. Though I know w/o a doubt he saw me clear as a lone koi fish in a Japanese pond. But I wouldn’t allow it, so called:

“Our friendship is an incredible godsend, that was nice!”

He of course ignored me (being more vulnerable as he is, when handling the responsibility of another person’s pet). So I enunciated further:

“That’s it, keep ignoring me, don’t speak a word!”

It was immensely painful to just stand there and watch him cross the street without any acknowledgment of my presence whatsoever. I wanted to run up to him, tell him how much I care about him in spite of all the BS he’s put me through…and continues to put me through.

But I had a half gallon of 2% milk in my carry bag, and needed to prepare supper, so I just stood there and watched as he crossed Noe and diminished down 16th Street. I waited for him to glance back so I could flash a friendly wave of the hand, but it looked like that was not gonna happen this time around. So I proceeded towards the corner and awaited the green light in order to march home.

At the very last moment–when Larkin turned the corner ’round a side street–he poked his head back to gaze at me: a raised eyebrow and a lopsided grin. I waved at him, smiled, then crossed Market to return hovel.

[ Of course, Intraventricular Reader, most people would say that my infatuation is without purpose, there is no more use in my fidelity towards him, after all the horrid treatment he’s flung in my path. But that is not how I take things, though it is indeed a grievous situation to be regarded as nothing more than an annoying gnat, at this point in his life. Since he shoved me in January 2013, it has been mostly heartbreak whenever our paths cross and I set my eyes on his belov-ed visage. Yet he still honors me with a glorious moment now and then, as if to encourage me to hang in there…that this is but a game (an initiation, a series of trials).

What else can I conclude when his latest kind expression he bestowed on This Needful Gay Soul, was (almost eight weeks ago):

“Our friendship, our being brought together, is an incredible godsend!”

I am afraid I’m becoming an alcoholic, in my need to cope with such difficult challenges…for the vodka I consume gives me some genuine respite to think things through, and give him God’s blessing in spite of his dark perambulations. For I am fully cognizant at this point, that I will /never/ back off in being a thorn in this man’s side…a man who I believe is /so/ good and /so/ compassionate, that I truly cannot believe that his crude slander against me does not ultimately serve a greater purpose that comes straight from His Dragonly Heart.

If I am deluded, so be it. I’d rather perish in Such Divine Hallucination, than exist in a world where Larkin disappears from my universe. There is something so strong in my spirit that commands me:

“Zeke, keep confronting Larkin and give him hell! For he /will/ eventually acquiesce in full admiration of your refusal to move on in loss of his friendship.”

But I think of my birthday that recently passed, and how he did absolutely /nothing/ to wish me joy, even though I informed him in various ways, that I would soon turn 64. He didn’t even buy me a pair of sandals, the only thing I requested. Because his friendship means so much to me, I would never dream of burdening him with a demand for an expensive gift. (You may regard sandals as expensive, but I’m thinking here “Payless.”) ]

So I went home, boiled a three or four day supply of brown rice, then cut up a small head of broccoli and placed it in the microwave for eight minutes. While sauteeing the veggies in virgin olive oil (green bell pepper, orange bell pepper and a whole onion) I looked out the window and saw Larkin returning up Market Street, minus the doggie. I was tempted to holler out to him across the busy thoroughfare…but instead I just sighed and stirred my veggies for an even cook. Such a beautiful man, and he seems to be fading from my life.

Dinner finally ready, I set it aside and stepped out in hopes of finding Larkin (planning to sup upon my return), and buy a pint of Royal Gate Vodka at K&D Liquors. After that purchase, I wandered down to Rossi’s Delicatessen, where they sell Fortuna cigarettes to their regular customers from years ago, for just $4.50. There is a shop across the street that sells the brand for 25 cents less, but I am boycotting that place, as described in an earlier post.

I then crossed Castro Street, to discover Larkin at Twin Peaks Tavern with his arms about a youngish and skinny patron, who was drinking up all his charisma and sweet attention. Larkin saw me lean against the cement buttress of Jane Warner Plaza, and light up a tobacco stick. It was /so/ good to hear his voice, even if not intended for my ears. I wanted to tell Larkin with much fervor that it’s okay, I understand. This is how he survives: mooching on drunk patrons with fat wallets. But of course the opportunity never arrived, as he remained close to his prey, caressing him with a gangly arm that I wished so much were instead, across my own shoulders. I’m sure he got many free drinks in exchange…and I walked on home, once more alone in My Own World of Dreams Denied.

I am terribly morose this evening, for the feeling of Larkin drifting away from my world is anathema to my yearning soul. Yet there is Gabe, my new and handsome neighbor who has been so sweet to me ever since he moved next door five weeks ago. Only last night I learned he does deep-tissue body work (and has a massage table in his studio apartment), on top of being so divinely eccentric that I can barely control my kok turning into a boner whenever I think of him and his proximity to my rotten hovel.

Is Gabriel’s presence just another cruel tease, or will he understand and respect my desperate urge to explode orgasmically with another sweet dude? Especially in light of Larkin’s wicked torment to This Deluded Soul?

Yes, I saw Larkin’s roommate, Zachary, step into the Posh Bagel this morning while I was munching on a whole-wheat-with-sesame-seeds cream-cheese-slathered delight graced with a smallish cup of Columbian Medium Roast. So I said “Hello, Zachary” as he crossed my line of sight. He looked wasted and ready to hit the mortuary slab, so of course just nodded at me with a grimace before placing his order (infected as he was by Larkin’s Own Anti-Zeke Plague). And without acknowledging my existence once more, finally departed to The Mix right around the corner. A bar where it seems Larkin has been 86’d through no fault of my own about four months ago.

Larkin has certainly poisoned many against me who live in and frequent the Castro. Yet I forgive him all his slanderous acts, for I know w/o a single doubt, that he is to become My Quintessial Soulmate, and that I must bear for a while longer, all this absurd scapegoating. So I think of Gabe while sitting here and typing this missive, almost ready to burst into tears but for the cheap vodka.

Will Gabriel knock on my door tonight, and exchange sweet conversation? Will he grab me in his arms and shower me with kisses for all the sacrifices that have been my scourge for countless years…the latest being Larkin’s insufferable backstabbing?

Will Gabe take me by the hand into his apartment and demand that I lie down on his massage table? And then will he strip me down to my T-shirt and boxer briefs to give me the best feeling-up and blow job I have ever known?

It is now 10:53 PM, so I sincerely doubt it. (Gabriel is such a handsome fellow, and so delightfully eccentric, I can’t help but jack off to him many times over, especially since he shares his wall with yours truly.) But rest assured I will print out this email and leave it by his door, that he may know my ardent desires, and leave the rest up to him and Father Nature.

– Zeke


Upon arriving hovel from Bean There coffeehouse, late afternoon, I found this charming sketch taped to my door:

He dropped over later that evening, and explained how he attempted to first draw a T-Rex, but somehow his hand took over and came up with a shark. Gabe is a terribly sweet man with such bold and eccentric honesty, it knocks my garters off.

“I finally read your story,” he brightly chirped, referring to a recent tale I composed which featured our new friendship: “Heaven is Just Across the Street.” Which tale I printed out, crisply folded into an envelope, and taped to his door three weeks ago. My heart missed a beat:

“Did you like it? Wasn’t it a fun story?”

“Yes I did, very much.”

“You actually became the star of that tale, though I had intended it for Larkin. You have to be a pretty darned nice soul to do that!”

The shark drawing was a friendly retort to my latest letter taped to his door earlier that day…and which composes the first half of this blog entry. So I queried him on it, to which he replied:

“Yes, I liked it too!” He grinned and hunched his shoulders a smidgeon. “I just felt a little weird when you mentioned you jack off thinking of me.”

[ Now I found that a strange remark, Amplexicaul Reader, seeing as it was Gabe who pressed his lips firmly upon mine, the first time we hugged. Which of course made me feel comfortable about propositioning him in my two, brief letters (also taped to his door, since he made himself scarce for a good ten days; turns out he was vacationing in Los Angeles). Though I clearly stated in my very first blog about him, that “I am certainly open to a sweet friendship… platonic all the way.” Yet there are some (I suppose) who, while attracted to me sexually, may still be freaked out at the thought of my exploding jism upon the wall that seperates our two abodes. So for a spell I deliberated upon the best reply possible, given the awkward circumstance (and my feeling very much like the runt of a baboon litter who shall never come close to alpha status): ]

“Well then, just take it as a compliment,” I replied in as classy a way as possible, while my anticipation withered like a zucchini blossom on the vine.

He embraced me. “Yes, Zeke, that is quite a compliment, and I thank you!” When we pulled back, I grasped my chin in comtemplation:

“Okay, I’ll make you a promise: I will never think of you whenever I choke the rooster. Plenty of other hot men in my retinue I can focus on instead.”

We continued our hallway badinage for ten more minutes or so, before Gabriel excused himself. I watched him turn the corner (since he has such a hot butt to ogle; but let us not forget those solid calves)…and before opening the door to his apartment, called out:

“Never mind, Zeke. You can jack off to me any time you want, I don’t care.”

“Ha ha,” returned my echo. “Perish the thought!”


Gay Zombie Jesus Returns

July 24, 2014

Back by popular demand (all the demon voices in my head are clamoring for an encore), I give you “Gay Zombie Jesus Returns.” This piece is a sequel to my post “More Twitter Mischief w/Gay Jebus.” Notice that in most cases, inclusion of the tweet immediately prior my own is necessary for the sake of context. 33 abominably blasphemous Twitter pranks in all:

Due to image width limitation for this particular WordPress layout, most tweets are truncated at the right margin, so just click for a full version. Sorry for the inconvenience…but I think I’m so witty it’s worth the hassle. Besides, you need to slow down and relax. Dr. Zeke’s orders.

[ Or you can simply click here to view them all at once without the hassle! ]

Emotional Quotes

July 21, 2014

Today (July 14) I stumbled upon this new Twitter account called
Emotional Quotes.” I found their tweets so inspiring, that I decided to send yet more postcards to Larkin, with these heartfelt declarations. Seeing as I’ve been feeling really bummed out since my birthday came and went without his well wishes in any way, shape or form. So far, I have seven postcards ready to go, one for each day. Please note that cards 4 and 6 are my own original contributions added to the mix.

Displayed here is the address side of each postcard.

Click on any card (except #5) to see what I taped to the front. Six postcards to four bars, so two bars will get two postcards each, seperated by several days. Postcard #5 was, I think, sent to Larkin’s own mailbox.

Those were the last postcards from my “Free Me From This Bond” promotional package. So I’ll need to purchase SF-tourist type cards at 35 cents each, in order to send additional quotes such as:

I don’t know what my future holds, but I’m hoping you’re in it.

I care, I will always care.

I still remember the first time I fell for you. I haven’t gotten up since.

I didn’t say “I love you” to hear it back. I said it to make sure you knew.

No love without tears, no happiness without sacrifice, no forever without goodbye.

I feel better when you’re around, so please stay.

But I’m not sure I’ll continue my postcard blitz, as that would sort of water down a great chapter. Somehow I’ll conjure up a whole new way to be a thorn in My Linchpin Lizard’s side. A strategy I have yet to conceive, though I’m certain it will come to me in a flash when the time is ripe; and I’ll keep you all updated.

So here we have another impossible situation, yet one more doomed friendship in my long, unbroken list of failures. I’m batting a thousand! Yet within this tale of broken trust and crushed dreams lies also the promise of spirit fulfilled. Many times over eight-plus years, Larkin has scattered crumbs of such delectable dulzura along my journey, that I’d be a fool to give up so late in the game. He is not yanking my chain, he is playing a Game Of Life. A game that only permits another to participate, who possesses the intelligence to unravel his brilliant script. And the chutzpa to play back with equal force and aplomb. The bastard’s also my teacher.


Just a little fantasy where I track down Larkin somewhere in the Castro (such as Twin Peaks Tavern or Moby Dick), and present him each of those seven cards. The scenario goes like this:

Larkin steps out of the bar for his usual smoke, and spots me standing across the street…on the opposite corner by HM Plaza. So he then scowls and marches in my direction brandishing a blameful index finger:

“Zeke, don’t you dare send me another letter to any bar, or I’ll give you what for!”

I say nothing, but whip out the first card. He extracts his reading glasses from an inner pocket, and peruses the postcard (both sides), then tears it up, allowing the pieces to fall to the ground.

So I hand him the next, and the mini-drama repeats. This goes on until the final card…so by this point, a small pile of stiff cardboard segments are gathered about my feet.

All this time Larkin utters not a word…but awaits my comment. Instead I remain silent, salute him and plod on home. What tears stream down my face he does not witness, as my back is turned and I depart across Market Street.

[ Just so you know, Heraldic Reader, I did traverse the Castro with postcards in hand, hoping to manifest just such a scenario. (At least the part where I hand him seven postcards one-by-one; though I was hoping for a happy endgame.) But alas, it never came to light…thus I grew despondent and returned to my hovel to type this latest blog entry. My original plan for these seven postcards was to send off another salvo to the Castro bars he frequents. Odin knows he deserves it! Especially since he totally ignored my birthday, not even a kind word. And continues, AFAIK, to slander me.

But then I deliberated further, and decided I’ve played out my hand, there was no more point to it. However, you gotta watch these alpha males who insist on having the upper hand, the final say, in every situation. For two days after I settled on this decision, Larkin lumbered up to me with a drunk bar patron in tow, pausing to demand I cease my postcard slam. “Damn it,” I obsessed, “Now he’s gonna think I ended it because he told me to!”

So I returned to Plan A, but was held back for at least one night, as I needed postage stamps. But four more days passed without any stamps, where I found myself pondering whether or not I really should mail out a third round. “Then, he would probably sic the cops on me,” I pondered. “But what can they really do, except demand I knock it off or else? Furthermore,” I continued the internal debate, “That would be my opportunity to show them my police report against Larkin Kelsey. That would certainly change their tune, and perhaps inspire them to look into matters by assigning a plainclothes to chummy up to him at these joints.”

The police would also come to realize that Larkin’s accusations are false…thus he is squandering the SFPD’s time that could be spent on truly serious matters such as protecting queer citizens from bashers. They’d see him as The Boy Who Cried Wolf: a corrupt scam artist trying to frame me, manipulating blueshirts in the process.

One thing an alpha male hates like nobody’s business, is to be spied and snooped upon. Especially when they have something to hide, such as sucking up to inebriated customers with bulging wallets. Offering to escort them to a taxi, to the next bar, or even home. Coming off like a goody two-shoes while fleecing the herd of doddering sheep. “Larkin’s like a kid in a candy store!” I surmised. “He sure doesn’t wanna get caught with his dragonly paw in the cookie jar.”

Now it is clear to me why he 86’d me from all the local bars: I am a threat to his cushy arrangement, and the Castro his new turf since being evicted from SOMA. He’s not a drug dealer, nor has a brain tumor or Alzheimer’s: he’s a hustler (for looty, not booty)! And he works a crowd with such expertise, I can’t help but admire anywayz. He can’t risk it by having real friends, only acquaintances, patsies hypnotized by his charisma and convivial talents. He’s a regular showman! (And one of the reasons I adore him so much, for he’s an immense pleasure simply to observe. I absolutely crave to be in his company again, like yesteryear, even if it’s from across the room, pretending we are strangers.)

Which does have an element of great fun. Sometimes he’d stand between my seated legs while facing the pool table, pondering his next move…yet in such a way as to appear incidental to all others present. As long as I didn’t actually touch him–even a light pat on the shoulder was verboten–he’d stand that close to me now and then. So close I could feel his warmth. As for “patsies” it’s now obvious to me his housemate Zachary is one such…and he covers for Larkin’s transgressions to prevent anyone from growing wise. He’s sort of a wingman for Larkin’s subterfuge. He is the hustler’s pimp to Larkin’s gigolo. I bet he even takes a cut of the con.

So this is my Damon Runyon fantasy with a gay spin come true. An underworld bristling with gangsters, scammers, male prostitutes and darling young men wandering the streets without a place to rest their weary head. Except now and then, with This Beleaguered Bodhisattva. And Larkin is playing to perfection my tough-as-nails compatriot who suddenly took a wrong turn down Devil’s Lane. That I may be his hero and liberator this time around. IOW, it is all an act, a brilliant script produced and directed by My One & Only Guardian Firedrake. He has sacrificed my life, tossed me to the wolves, crushed any good chance I might have had, to promote my novel in our local gay bars. He has caused enmity against me from many patrons who don’t know who the fuk I am. Vultures who prey on others’ misery, psychic vampires that drink the blood of the innocent for their own dark gain.

All this just because he came to view my patronage as a dire threat to his own dubious career as a muckraker of drunken generosity from lonely old fags. At least, this is the character Larkin chooses to play out before me. His is a direct challenge to harness my outrage into beating him at his own game. And in so doing, become his hero–nay, a Hercules to every father-fukkin queer on the planet! He has played me like a chump, out of sheer compassion! Larkin is the true author of my tales, for he has created so many difficult adventures that I may become the star of this brazen drama. My love for this Boner Fide Man grows in leaps and bounds with each passing day.

NEWS FLASH: It just now occurred to me that those who respect my struggle to resurrect an incredible friendship, just might send postcards to Larkin c/o these four bars. To lend their support in stopping My Beloved Dragon from falling off a cliff. I need your help!

NO, WAIT, I CHANGED MY MIND: I suddenly fell into a rage over all of Larkin’s crude malignment of my own integrity and many decades struggle to liberate my gay brothers and sisters (for which I’ve suffered nothing but hatred and threats with rare exception). I have walked the narrow line of integrity since 1983, and what does it all finally come down to at my ripe age of 64? A man I love terribly (that showed so much potential to be the best friend I’ve ever known) who suddenly stabs me in the back, slanders me to anyone who’ll listen, tells them I’m a psycho and a stalker? No, this is going to court. I have more than enough witnesses to his defamation and threats, to give me a clear slam-dunk victory in the Halls of Justice.

Larkin has deliberately tried to drive me insane, and/or foment such hatred against me that I could be bashed or murdered as a result of his gossip. And he’d walk away with hands clean of my blood! But because I love him beyond anyone’s measure, I am proud to fight for his redemption, no matter what, and in spite of his wicked actions over more than one and a half years. “We have no enemies, only teachers” (quoting the Buddha). “Love your enemy” (quoting Jesus Christ).

The man shall go to jail, and I will be miserable the rest of my life, as a result (though I don’t expect I’ll live much longer after that). Yet there is a great satisfaction in successfully striking back at a handsome and charismatic man who, like Randolph Louis Taylor, eventually cast me to the hyenas without a moment’s regret. So I shall get the postage stamps tomorrow, and send them off to the bars.

I grossly resent Fate putting me in this tragic outcome, where I must exert so much energy in standing up for righteous truth…and for my own honor. Plus, I realize now that if I don’t fight back with utter outrage, Larkin will perpetuate his slander unto my grave, thus slip into a dark and horrid well of destitution. In which case jail or prison will be a necessary experience, that he may be spared a far worse outcome. Though I’d pay for doing the right thing with an undeserved torment: living out the rest of my Cinderella life without friends or even a sweet doggie for company.

So the first thing I’ll do when I wake up tomorrow morning, is march on down to the post office and purchase those stamps. Peace be unto you all. ]


Jeez, here’s one final Free Me From This Bond postcard I discovered in desk #1’s top drawer. I decided to mail it apart from all the others now stuffed and sealed in a brown envelope, ready for battle.

Rainbow World Fund

July 18, 2014

{{ Salubrious Reader: here is a message I just posted on Wednesday, July 16th, to the Rainbow World Fund’s Facebook page. They’re located right here in San Francisco, BTW. }}

Hello, I just learned about your organization via Amazon.com’s “smile” service that donates a percentage of one’s purchases to the charity of your choice. So I searched “LGBT” and Rainbow World Fund showed up on the list. I am a gay-themed author of many tales, yet remain on Social Security Disability, at 64 years old…thus, I am very low income by San Francisco standards (I’ve lived in the Castro since 1983). I feel I can best serve the struggle for LGBT equality by remaining a writer…that perhaps this or that gay organization can profit immensely by sales of my books. And I would collect a small percentage of these profits. I just self published my first novel “Free Me From This Bond,” and it’s a romance/mystery adventure based on true events. It is actually a trilogy. You can read the book for free on the web, at:


At bottom of that page is the link to Book 2…which has a link to Book 3 (a work in progress that readers may enjoy as I continue adding more tales). I believe that my stories are very empowering for sexual minorities, to the point where they will change the hearts of homophobes. If you see the potential in distributing my tales as fundraisers for your organization, I will gladly work out an arrangement whereby the Rainbow World Fund will benefit greatly, in exchange for assisting me to get off disability (finally) and live a better life. (My dream, personally, is to open a home for severely disabled lesbian and gay veterans, employing homeless queers to run the place in whatever capacity suits them best.) My web site includes many gay-themed tales, poems, letters and essays, outside of this trilogy:


And my blog includes all the very latest of my intriguing stories that give dignity, hope and joy to gay people all around the world:


Thanks for your kind attention, and I wish you much success in your noble mission.

Most sincerely,

Zeke Krahlin

Two Visions

July 15, 2014

Friday, July 11:

Funny vision yesterday afternoon while strolling first through Duboce Park, then down Noe Street, when the revelation began (short but sweet):

A shadow passed over me and almost the entire city. I looked up. A ginormous UFO just like in Hollywood films, loomed overhead. People all around started screaming, waving their arms like a broken windmill, and skeltering off in all directions.

But me? I just stood there, looking up in prayerful praise (my hands almost clasped):

“Oh thank God! Oh thank God!”

Another vision came later in the day, nighttime in fact. Wonderful Gabriel is finally back from Los Angeles/Santa Monica, and blessed me with another sweet visit. Along with three chocolate-covered and THC-laced coffee beans! So this vision came under the influence of Mary Jane.

I saw Larkin standing in the center of the Castro (where Market, 17th and Castro all converge), like The Archangel Uriel bearing The Holy Sword of The Grail pointed vertically skyward. It was dark, quiet and cold. No one out there but him, like a ghost town. And he called out blasphemy against me, to gather up those who in response would prove to be my true enemies. For they’d buzz to him like flies to a pile of shit. And thus, they are also enemies of LGBT Equality.

My Guardian Dragon has come to avenge me.

Four Times in One Day

July 12, 2014

From: Jehovah’s Queer Witness
To: My Dinosaurian Digirati
Date: July 9, 2014
Four times in one day…

[ Venomous Reader: I know what you’re thinking by the subject heading of my missive…but All You Gila Monsters share a dirty hive mind! ]

…two days ago, my path crossed Larkin’s. This is unusual (even if just /twice/ in one day), and I know it only occurs via his intent. If I ever questioned the existence of telepathy, he’s totally banished any doubts. Thanks to the many times over eight years of his showing up at the most unexpected moments and places (or whenever I have a gift in my backpack I want to bring him), and when he speaks to me as if he’s just read my mind.

[ Some people might say he has the mark of a psychopath, as they typically seem to possess paranormal “tricks.” And you feel like you’ve found your soulmate. Just figured to mention this, let you know I’m on my guard in spite of my infatuation. In weighing the pros and cons of our association, the scales fall in his favor because of all the /good/ he’s done for me prior to the sudden downfall that started with a shove. And it makes for awesome mystery and suspense in composing my trilogy. ]

First, I saw him playing with a dog at Duboce Park around 1 PM. I traverse that park almost daily on my way to Bean There coffeehouse. I sort of came up from behind, as I approached him along the sidewalk parallel to Duboce Street. His back was turned to me as he flung a tennis ball to the park’s far end, chased by a friendly black doggie. So I stood awhile, leaning against a silver utility box and enjoying the scene. He had cut his hair to almost a crew, after months of displaying a glorious and bushy mane. Then I spoke:

“Well if it isn’t Dragon Squarepants!” (That’s my new nickname for him.)

He turned and saw me, but did not acknowledge, and resumed tossing the ball. So I intercepted his line of sight as I strolled diagonally through the grassy postage-stamp tract. (The trees there are sparse; only three, so it is not my habit to relax there on sunny, warm days.) His occasional appearance at Duboce Park is a relatively new aspect of our “accidental” encounters. And it only started /after/ I was driven out of Howard’s Cafe and sought a new wifi hangout. Just another example of his possible telepathy: arranging to show up along my new route. (Whether or not he is actually conscious of this latest “coincidence,” kismet continues to see fit that we are never kept apart for very long.)

I gazed up at him in passing (he flung the ball way over my head as I did so), and commented:

“That’s the first time I’ve seen you wearing a pack of any sort!”

It was a red carry-bag that hung from one strap and rested upon his lower back. Interesting because I too sported a similar single-strap pack, also red (perfect for holding my android tablet). Now, in later reflection, I realized I had just pointed out in a recent blog entry how it’s never been his style to carry a pack, valise or whatever, of any sort. And I mailed him that article (as I do /all/ pieces where he is mentioned) just several days before this latest rendezvous. “Could this be another example of his telepathy?” I wondered. “Or another gesture of his faith in our friendship just beneath a rocky surface?” Perhaps it was a message that he does indeed read everything I send him, in spite of Zachary’s claim. So in his own unique and humorous manner, he broke his “style” by wearing a pack…simply because I wrote that he never does! One beautiful thing about Larkin (I have observed) is his extraordinary way of communicating heartfelt wishes through display or behavior, without a single word to shatter the moment. The man is subtle, but eloquent. He’s an artist! And life is the canvas.

I then watched the dog in its pursuit of the tennis ball for several seconds, then turned my face back to him as I proceeded towards a bench on the other side:

“It looks good on you. Then again, everything you wear looks good on you.”

It is really hard to keep expressing love to someone who has betrayed you many times over. Thus I was quite sad; no hugs since, OMG, December of 2012. Seated on the bench and from a distance, I gazed upon My Beauty until he leashed up the dog and vanished across Duboce and down Noe Street. But like a powerful magnet, the pull was strong and I wanted badly to chase after him, tell him about that homeless tweaker who threatened to set my place on fire. Even if he screamed at me, or ignored me…or shoved me again. Instead, I continued my path to Bean There, with some regret. (But as you will soon learn, O Dinosaurs From Andromeda, Larkin provided me with that chance later on in the day, to inform him of my present crisis.)

Jeez, it’s 5:15 AM, been up since 4:30…a writer’s urge is unpredictable!

The second time our lives crossed, I was standing about Jane Warner Plaza, enjoying a smoke (even though Larkin was not at Twin Peaks Tavern, or anywhere else to be seen; just the usual bums and naked trash that wear only a flashy sock over their genitals, in order to taunt the new anti-nudity law). In a heartbeat there he was, escorting a somewhat drunk lady of early middle age, and coming in my direction down Market Street. He looked up at me from thirty feet away, so I stuck a finger up my nose and twirled it in a mocking gesture.

They crossed the plaza within feet of me, then Larkin spun her around to proceed back up Market. And paused with the woman’s back to me (she was really out of it), lowered his face to mine and declared:

“Listen to me!”

“No, you listen to me!” I hollered back in an attempt to assert my dignity over his horse hockey. But his words still got through:

“You send one more letter to the bars, and the police will be at your door!”

I grinned: “Fine with me, Larkin. I’ll just show them my police report about you! I’m sure /that/ will open their eyes!”

Larkin seemed somewhat snockered, himself. Surely it was a faux pas for him to confront me with another bar patron under his wing. And I struck while the iron was still hot:

“You shoved me twice!” I screamed into his surly mug. “You spit on me! You keep slandering me!”

The woman seemed oblivious to everything around her (three sheets to the wind as they say), and remained with her back to me, wobbling a bit with Larkin’s firm hand on her right shoulder. It was then My Vexing Velociraptor realized this confrontation wasn’t a very good idea, for it threatened to undermine whatever gig he had going with the lady. (She probably had money to splash around in exchange for his charismatic company.) So he turned about, clutching her arm, and marched off towards Noe Street. But I followed from three yards behind, my voice like thunder:

“Some street punk threatened to burn down my building!”

“That’s certainly not /my/ fault, I don’t wanna hear it!” he called back, glancing over the lady’s head. He kept hollering in order to drown me out. But I made sure the vital details reached his ear in spite of the imposed cacophony, before walking off.

He /did/ gesture towards me and say something to the bouncer standing outside The Cafe (a newer bar he now frequents…perhaps to get away from me by Twin Peaks just around the corner). The bouncer glared at me as I passed. But for panache I spun round in the direction I just came from, turned my head to him and waved. Then who should I encounter, seated on the curb by Subway, but Mikey…that gorgeous, skinny young blond with whom I shared many torrid nights four-five months ago! So invited him home.

“Sure, why not?” he grinned and stood up, and I admired once more that elfin visage of spermalicious young manhood.

Now for the /third/ time that day, my path crossed Larkin’s as I escorted Mikey hovel. Guess he exited The Cafe while I was lingering in front of Subway, for whatever errand I can’t imagine. So I pointed at Larkin (with Mikey in tow), said:

“There he is! That’s Larkin!” and hollered at him: “You better stop telling people I’m your stalker!”

He paused at The Cafe’s entry and smiled at me. It was a genuine look of affection, nothing snarky about it. (Another example of his subtle communique to express amity; he’s /proud/ of my courageous stand against his bully actions.) And I hollered once more while Mikey witnessed (his arm in my grip):

“You’re a drug dealer!”

Now, a different bouncer was out front at this point, and he paid attention to my accusation, glanced at Larkin as he disappeared up the stairs.

The fourth and final time I saw Larkin that day was around 10 PM, during my nightly stroll. I had approached Moby Dick on 18th and Hartford, and peered through the window to see who was playing pool. Sure enough, there he was, with housemate Zachary. The window is covered by a grill that darkened the view, both inside and out…I guess to give a bit more “private” feel for the patrons. And maybe they’ve had their windows smashed one time too many. There are actually /three/ windows on the Noe Street side, the outermost two facing the pool table.

Larkin glanced up, said to Zachary: “There he is again, standing outside!”

He then whipped out his cell to either dial or answer. I thought perhaps he was gesturing to call the police, in order to scare me away. So I pulled back to where he couldn’t see me any more, perhaps thinking I had just skedaddled. But a few moments later I hovered about the windows and watched him play, being cautious to position myself so as not to be seen by Zachary. Larkin saw me again–maybe two or three more times–before he gave a sharp, angry rap on window 3.

“So what’re you gonna do, Larkin?” I thought. “Run out and shove me? Spit on me? Beat me up? Summon the blue shirts? None of that will work!”

(Of course there is also /this/ possibility to consider: Larkin must behave in anger towards me, in the public eye. So as to deflect any jealousy or vengeance of our friendship that might otherwise ensue. Or more seriously: that this cult may continue to be tricked into believing they’ve done their dirty deed, which was to turn us two love parrots into enemies. Until, finally, the remainder of this cabal gets busted and locked away. Then we have our honeymoon.)

A few minutes on I decided my work is done here, and meandered back to my trashy SRO. I just feel it’s important to assert my right to stroll my own neighborhood, look at or say hi to anyone I please…especially Larkin. And the semi-obstructed view from those windows will keep Larkin guessing if that shadow lurking outside, is me. Every night he’s there. Every single fukkin night. And I only needed to perform the task just /once/, to achieve all that! Plus:

That spot outside Moby Dick and beside those windows is where Kurt threatened to burn down my apartment building, seven days ago. Good to exorcise the demons of fear by revisiting the scene of the crime.

– Zeke

Date: Wed, 9 Jul 2014 20:32:23
Re: Four times in one day…
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: A Reptilian Advisor

On 7/9/14, a Reptilian advisor wrote:

{{ Well, just remember: psychopaths are lots of fun (believe me, I speak from experience), but they can do the psychological equivalent of ripping your warm steaming guts right out of you…. }}

Of course, but that’s not what he’s about. He’s done many good things for me that do /not/ typify a psychopath. He is extremely intelligent, and seems to have telepathic abilities. You can’t just plan showing up in my presence four times in a single day, without possessing such a gift. For I do /not/ keep to a tight schedule. The only way Larkin can do this, is through precognition.

The fourth time I saw him was at Moby Dick. So one might say that’s just coincidence. But he /knew/ I’d stroll by there that night, so arranged to also be present. Whenever he puts me through a gamut of ordeals, he also makes a point of showing up frequently thereafter. And at times says something wonderful to lift my spirits. Such as just three weeks ago when he said that our friendship was a godsend. Of course, I mused over the possibility of him stringing me on like a yo-yo, to infuriate me and break my spirit.

Though it just doesn’t add up. But I don’t really believe he’s protecting me from any cult that wants to do me in. It is a /game/ he is playing, to make me the hero…played as well by numerous others, and I can’t imagine how many! It is also my honor to display courage before him, his associates, and the LGBT community at large. This is exactly what I /want/ to manifest…and so it does, thanks to Larkin’s astounding abilities to manipulate reality. I even suspect that Kurt is one such participant, whose script it was to terrorize me with arson.

Whenever my hopes have ebbed to the lowest point, Larkin always appears in my world, to give me a boost. Just like he hears my prayers to see him once more, and lighten my burden. And he always does. But
he certainly will /not/ coddle me, or let me manipulate him by phony desire…which is not my style, anywayz. For he never rewards me until I’m pushed to a very real extreme of despair. Whenever I imagine losing his friendship for good, it is all I can do to keep from plunging into desperate straits. I simply cannot go there.

Remember, some of the chief indicators of a psychopath are identical to those of truly loving relationships. Such as making one feel totally special, dedicating tons of undivided attention, and swearing lifelong fidelity. In other words: psychopaths perfectly mimic very nice people. By just those markers alone, one would diagnose your partner Casey to be a psychopath…which of course, he is not.

I even conjectured that Larkin has been badly hurt in previous relationships, thus my affections touch upon a very painful spot in his heart. In other words: he suffers from PTSD. Randolph taught me a lot on dealing with such a person: be firm (even harsh) when necessary, never flinch in doing so; but also be as loving as possible whenever the opportunity affords. It takes years of patience and dedication, which not many can live up to. But the /best/ lover, in my opinion (at least between two men) is exactly one who has suffered enormously. And that is precisely the kind of dude I seek for a soulmate. One who I can make impossibly happy in the long run.

But I don’t even think he’s burdened with PTSD: again I conclude that it is all an act, orchestrated by Larkin, that my mettle may be tested to the max…and my victory be so much more sweet, as a result. Were he a psychopath, he would /not/ have provided me with a channel to post letters of kindest regard, nor would he so often go out of his way to speak with me, even if harshly. A psychopath only values people with money, fame, and elite connections. I have none of those benefits. Four or five years ago, he moved from South of Market to merely a block away from my residence. I don’t know how he does all those things, unless he has significant inroads to many resources within our LGBT family. He must therefore be a prominent figure among this crowd, albeit subtle. Which explains why–even though he’s not a bouncer or employed in any other manner–the bars allow him authority to kick anyone out.

I do not doubt he will confront my potential arsonist, and scare the bejesus outta him, in spite of his verbal declaration that it’s my problem, not his. For he doesn’t want to deny me fighting my own battles…yet at the same time would never allow /anyone/ to cause me real harm. You have yet to peruse my several latest blog entries, but when you do, you will better grasp my perspective. To give further examples of Larkin’s extraordinary talents would serve no more purpose than a tiresome rehash.

I am treading unknown waters, thus cannot gauge my experiences with that of most others. I have to find my /own/ way through this tangled journey, except perhaps for the occasional and unexpected ally who comprehends My Odyssey. Which kind people I believe, are also members of this hidden organization that grooms me for leadership…thus show up at the most needful times to keep my spirit afloat. For it is a very rare kind of love I have found, one which is absolutely unique in the annals of romance (gay or otherwise). Larkin has enriched my life beyond even my own dreams: the gay-spun Damon Runyon adventure I so badly sought. Now I have that adventure, and I must keep my chin up through even the murkiest waters

It is not without its golden moments.

– Zeke

Date: Wed, 9 Jul 2014 21:00:27
Re: Four times in one day…
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: A Reptilian Advisor


I am 64 years old now, and after Larkin, what remains but a terribly lonely life? If he truly /is/ a psychopath, so be it. Let him rip out my soul, beat me to a bloody mush, throw me under the next N Judah light rail next time I greet him walking a doggie in Duboce Park. I’m ready to go, if such be the outcome.

No quantity of fame, of riches, of glory via my tales or otherwise, will restore my passion for a belov-ed partner. Get it over with. Let the heteros wallow in their smug superiority.

I could /never/ go through another courtship, another series of trials to prove my eternal love. The years required to achieve such a monumental victory would see me doddering into my 80’s. So fuk it.

Give me Larkin or give me death.

Yet I must point this out: I am /terribly/ flattered that Larkin is so nuts about me, he’s ready to explode. Hopefully, it’s a sperm bomb.

– Zeke

PS: Sometimes I can be quite the drama queen, don’t you agree?

Date: Wed, 9 Jul 2014 23:24:58
Re: Four times in one day…
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: My Amdromedan Advisors

The amazing thing is this:

The Most Wonderful Love Story Ever (since paramecia figured out how to fuk) is unfolding in this dreary world…

…and it’s happening to /me/! Or I should say: “Me and Larkin.”

For whatever reason beyond This Old Homo Sapien’s ability to put 2,104 and 2,104 together (which makes 4,208 I think), Fate (or “God” if you will) has so deemed me worthy of such a tremendous miracle, that He (or She or It) has decided to catapult me onto World Stage Center.

With Larkin by my side, his trusting hand holding me steady from The Grace-Filled Shock Of It All. And I shall speak through cyberspace, television and radio media, and newspapers, journals and magazines:

“Citizens of Planet Earth: we are about to embark on the most epic journey imaginable. So hold onto your hookahs and whatever ganja you (hopefully) have on hand. ‘Cause without it, things are gonna be a /lot/ tougher than you’d ever expect. I don’t have any access to pot myself, except for some lousy shake that at least is from an organic marijuana garden. Still, it does little more than give me a carbon monoxide buzz. You are soon to become my servants, and I, your master.

“If you are comfortable with gay people for your best friends, then you will have no problem. Otherwise: your eyes shall melt in your face, and hemorrhoids shall infest every square inch of both your greater and lesser intestines! And even /that’s/ an optimistic diagnosis.

“You shall acquiesce to everything I demand, and do so with utter compassion, devotion, and gratitude. For I am Big Gay Brother whose destiny it is to right all wrongs in this world, and represent Planet Earth before The Andromedan Council.

“Whose commander in chief is Larkin Kelsey, and who has descended from his interstellar spacecraft solely to become my lover and BFF of all time. Eat your heart out, earthling brothers and sisters! For I am the absolutely LUCKIEST sentient being anywhere in the universe and multiverses, for eternity!

“If you don’t realize by now, that the story of my life holds any significance….then perhaps you should search for a mound of sand in which to bury your pathetic little pinhead.

“For I /am/ the Alpha and the Omega…who is also 100% gay. Do you hear me? Gay gay gay gay gay gay gay! And Larkin is my /most/ darling and belov-ed, that my tales can only give you a pale rendering of what a truly /fine/ man he is!

“For Larkin has given me adventure, cliff-hanging and tragic scenarios to play out, and Divine Ecstasy scattered through it all. How dare you even suggest there is anyone else out there who could fulfill such an incredible dream that will topple medieval notions which have cursed this modern world for way too long?

“Hearken to my words, or forever be the itchy polyp on God’s (or Goddess’s or Its) own anus!

“For no one but Larkin has given me this incredible destiny that marks me as the savior of all gay people worldwide…and by obvious extension, everyone else.”

– Ezekeil J. Krahlin (a.k.a. “Jehovah’s Queer Witness”)

PS: Well, that’s just how Larkin makes me feel. And if you can’t say your /own/ lover makes you feel just as exquisitely grand, I say: dump him (or her, or it), and clothe yourself in sack cloth for twenty years or more. And perhaps after that time, you will gain /some/ wisdom. Though by then, I will be off earthside and exploring Uranus.


I suddenly felt inspired to send Wyvern-Tard another nifty little postcard with my own personalized flair:

Notice that this time around, Randolph’s face has been /totally/ obliterated, whereas previously it’s only been a partial block-out. All done on a /subconscious/ level, mind you. That is, until I became aware (in one of my later postcard flurries) of what I was doing: paying Larkin my greatest compliment.

The “Zilla” reference hearkens back to the old days of Hole in the Wall Saloon…where I noticed that he signs the pool roster as “Zilla.” Some years later it struck me:

What other word comes immediately to mind when you see the word “Zilla?” Why, “God” of course, for that completes the title “Godzilla!” He is a Reptilian (a.k.a. a dinosaur) from the Andromeda galaxy, and represents God in my world. Bhakti yoga claims that should you devote yourself to another person with total love (and for a very long time), God will finally come to you through that person. And Larkin already knew this, so he chalked the word “Zilla” for many years until it sank in, and I realized the implication. Ironically, this is the year a remake of Godzilla has come out in all the movie theaters.

Once this new awareness erupted in my brainpan (around five years ago), I created a “Got Zilla?” button during the time I still had a button machine, which a year or so later broke down for good. So I thought it would be fun to send Larkin an “oldie but goodie” by printing out the logo once more, and pasting it onto the front of my “Free Me From This Bond” postcard.

What now follows is the reverse side of this postcard, entirely explanatory in light of my observations made earlier in this blog entry.

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