Hilarious Respite

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?


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