It’s All Good

Date: Mon, 10 Aug 2015 14:23:28
Subject:
It’s All Good (blog entry)
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: My Superlative E-friends

My blog post, “Blue Roses Blossom,” includes a scathing condemnation of Harvey Milk. For which reason I bring to your attention due to its direct opposition to current LGBT mindset. Sacred cows are /meant/ to be toppled!

For the ravages of time have proven me correct regarding his assassin Dan White: that instead of directing abject hatred towards him, we should have shown forgiveness; that he become transformed into Our Greatest Asset as a result (instead of him committing suicide). Along with many other anti-gay poseurs. Remember what the Buddha hath said: “we have no enemies, only teachers.”

Refer to my letter to the editor (the first I ever wrote to any gay rag, and which catapulted me into my role as an activist). That was back in 1985, same year I flew out to D.C. to stand by Randolph Taylor’s side:

Dan White Deserves Forgiveness

But please note that the title was created by the Bay Area Reporter and not by yours truly. For I never said he /deserves/ forgiveness, but that we should forgive him anyway. Their bias was an ignorant manipulation of my intent, for which I have suffered decades of unmerited scapegoating. Well, now my time has come!

Sean Harrison: you clearly remember that letter, and I greatly appreciated your friendly support. I will never forget those Harvey Milk heads you created out of artist’s clay (about 2.5 inches high and 1.5 wide), and attempted to sell on the streets of The Castro. I crack up in hilarity each time I recollect that adventure! Wish I had a photo of one of those heads, to include in my upcoming blog post, “It’s All Good” (of which this letter shall be included).

[ Here is where I would insert the image of a Harvey Milk head. ]

Now, I am in the difficult situation of pleading forgiveness towards Larkin. Since the Castro bartenders and customers have /finally/ figured out his treachery, and are now furious over Larkin using them to turn against me. Kicking me out of all the bars, isolating me socially, and possibly causing me physical harm. Thus my postcards to said bars, pleading that they show him kindness; and watch over him, that he does not injure himself in remorse. My prayer is they will not regard him with the animosity they did Dan White…as I ascend towards leadership and take the reins of Our Imminent Liberation.

For they now awaken to my role as Greatest LGBT Savior Ever. And that Larkin’s opposition against me threatens to sabotage the entire dream…not just mine, but that of every sexual minority on the planet. But I believe that Mr. Kelsey knows exactly what he is doing. For by playing my enemy, he’s placed these barkeeps et al into a most awkward situation. For if they do /not/ make up for their foolish rejection of me ASAP, they will go down in Gay History with unfathomable shame. In other words: Larkin has set things up that I may easily blackmail the entire San Francisco Homophile Tribe, to do my bidding!

Which includes providing myself and Kelsey with quality health care and living quarters, for a start. Much more shall I demand from them: you can imagine.

What a clever fellow, huh? No greater love is Larkin’s, that anyone shall know except for This Frivolous Faggot!

I like to think, though, that all those who play my enemy do such with conscious and willful intent. That in so doing they fulfill a Destiny Beyond Incredible, where I play the star role. Again: “we have no enemies, only teachers.” Since without them playing my antagonists, My Ultimate Odyssey would be a pathetic dud.

This is a complex scenario that I hope I’ve explained clearly enough for all of you, my e-friends, to grasp.

Sinqueerly yours,

Zeke

P.S.: My first two postcards with “return to sender” on them have today arrived in my mailbox. Even though they were mailed to ‘Manager & Barkeeps” (and /not/ to Larkin) c/o the correct addresses. Which bars they originated from I do not know, since the addresses have been pasted over by a yellow USPS sticker. Though they both came from the same batch (the original New Rule that got Larkin 86’d). But I will continue to send out my “New Rule” cards until I reach the 10th (and final) rule…emulating Moses’ Commandments. Rejection be damned, I’m on a Holy Mission! You’d think I was at war with /them/, instead of homophobes. I’ll drive them insane if it comes to that.

Besides, such notoriety I might gain from this will in the long run, promote my novel. Seeing as Larkin has thwarted my plan for advertising my book via the bar circuit, I really don’t care at this point /whose/ feet I step on.

Because they’re /all/ A-holes.


{{ Reptilian/Humanoid Reader: This postcard was mailed on August 5th, after a rather pathetic confrontation with Larkin the previous day. He was more drunk than I’ve ever seen him before; probably blacked out awhile later. (Enlarge this page for a better read.)

This postcard’s gonna cause him worry, since he’ll believe I also mailed it to the five gay bars in The Castro that he frequents (or used to, minus one, since I got him 86’d from all but Moby Dick). Seeing as that has been my habit for so many postcards over these past two years.

I feel better now.

I will next describe our most recent and fabulous clash that inspired the postcard above: }}

According to my several scouts (and my own observation) Larkin has not been sighted at any of his regular Castro bars since New Rule #1 went into effect July 21st or 22nd. I was therefore chagrined to discover him lollygagging at Twin Peaks Tavern this afternoon (August 4th). I saw him through the plate glass, cleaning up tables and commisserating with the patrons, like the two-bit showman he is. Since he neither works there, nor seeks to strike up new friendships except to extract from plump wallets free booze and perhaps a 5 or 10-spot here and there.

Not that he doesn’t give a lot of bang for the buck, what with his charismatic nature, brilliant camaraderie and conversation, and (of course) his damnable good looks. It is just that he’s totally thrust me from his world 2-1/2+ years ago, that I may no longer bask in His Seraphic Aura. And if you’ve been reading my tales these past few months or longer, you already know that I’ve been busting my cajones big time, to win myself back into His Good Graces. Infuriatingly enough, however, all I get in return is wads of spit aimed at my feet, and cigarette butts flicked in my direction (which sometimes I pick up for the free tobacco)…along with banshee shrieks of “Leave me alone!” and “Get the fuk outta my face!”

{{ To his credit, Prostatic Reader, he has never really completely disappeared from my life, and always arranges to see me whenever I have a hilarious bon mot to toss his way. This particular moment no exception. So I hollered at him once he stepped out for a smoke, standing 15 feet east of My Trembling Presence: }}

“I don’t care if you wear a colostomy bag, Larkin,” I bellowed. “All I wanna know is: how do I fit in?”

“That’s not funny, Zeke,” he scowled.

“Not funny? It’s fukkin uproarious! Where’s your sense of humor, buddy?”

He tossed his still-lit Camel 99 onto the sidewalk like a grenade: “Stop sending postcards to the bars!”

“Well that’s not gonna happen, Larkin. There will be ten of ’em mailed, six more to go!” I slaked my lips in the retort.

It was then I noticed he was really, really snockered…and could barely stand erect, wobbling like a seaweed stalk in the tidewater.

“My god you’re drunk, Larkin!” I pointed out (and not without a certain degree of satisfaction, though at the same time concerned about his well-being).

He then approached me and performed a karate kick with his right leg, swooshing his foot within inches of my face. I did not flinch, for I knew he loved me, and would never really do me harm. Then he marched down a half block, towards that shop-door recess where he often blazes a doobie.

I exclaimed: “You called 911 on me some nights back, told them I’m suicidal! They’re on to you now, they blacklisted your phone number. The police will never respond to your calls for help any more! You blew it!”

He did not look back at all, as he scuttled like an ocean crab into a convenient alcove, out of sight but not out of mind.

Fifteen seconds or so later, I hustled across the asphalt to the streetcar island where I could view him from a safe distance. Puffing on a second Camel, he glared at me like he saw a dreaded Amityville poltergeist. I called to him:

“Colostomy bag man! Colostomy bag man!”

“Get outta here!” he commanded. “Go home! Go home!”

“Why should I go home, Larkin?” I shouted back. “I’m home most of the time. I’m lonely. While you play billiards, softball and bowling, I’m sitting in my stupid room, friendless and wishing to see you!”

There was a truce in our battle, since Larkin did not shout back. So I took a deep breath and persisted:

“Your happiness at my expense, huh? Looks like the more miserable I am, the happier you are. Well, I just won’t let you get away with this! You’re a psychic vampire, feeding off my energies! This will stop, I assure you!”

He approached me then, halting just eight feet away; and coughed up a gob of milky sputum that landed four feet from my sneakers.

“You’re lucky that didn’t hit you!” he chided as he turned away towards Twin Peaks.

I just stood there, wondering what kind of silly threat that was, if anything. (Why? Would it burn a hole in my Thrift Town denims?) And, I must say, pleased at his essentially nonviolent retaliation. For I really knew that his antics serve to provide me with an outlet against his most difficult challenges. The fact that I did not address him with anger in any of these moments, showed him that I was in complete control, loved him dearly, and was ready to accept The Mantle of Leadership. Yet further horse hockey followed:

Larkin reentered The Glass Coffin, while I remained outside, a lonely drifter with aching heart. Yet within a few minutes time, he came back outside, that we may continue our “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolfe” scripted scenario. I was actually standing on the western edge of the streetcar island, marking me almost 20 feet north of Larkin, once he stood right outside the tavern’s door. Always a good policy to keep a clear seperation between yourself and Your Ultimate Paramour before the honeymoon takes off.

A Muni streetcar rumbled between our designated corners of the boxing ring, and halted before the red light. I watched as he spurt a raspberry from his lips, demanding that the car move along.

“Go ahead and push it!” I called to him. Knowing of course that that’s impossible, and the car may even roll backwards, crushing him in the process.

He gazed at me, and I gazed back. Neither exchanged a word, and I drank in his kind regard like a hummingbird to nectar. Though this might have been my wishful imagination, as was probably his intent (to keep me guessing…and I’ve been guessing for almost 9 years now). Really, all I wanted to do–and with almost irresistable passion–was dash into his arms and never leave. But naturally, like always, he forbade such a miracle to occur. Fuk ‘im.

But then I yelled: “Sloan shook my hand several nights ago. I said to her, I’m sorry that Larkin put enmity between us. She said: it’s okay, honey, we’ll take care of it. All the bartenders now know you’ve been using them to get them to hate me, and even cause me harm. They’re really pissed at you. So have fun with that!”

Larkin listened carefully, without even once attempting to cut me off or drown me out. But at this point I was quite hungry.

“Enough is enough,” I thought, seeing as I’m starving half to death, and must get back hovel to prepare dinner.

My Sinuous Sauropod turned about and lumbered back inside. At the last moment I called:

“I love you, Larkin!”

He flipped me the bird as he crossed the threshold to disappear amid the throng of geriatric zombies. And I departed once the light turned green.


{{ Now for Rule #5, which I sent out to those five gay bars on August 7th:

The above postcard brings to mind a letter to the editor I sent out to our two most popular LGBT newspapers 7 weeks ago, but never got printed: }}

Dear Editor,

I have no idea what some LGBT folks find so wonderful in our so-called Queer Community. My experience of many years living here (since 1973 believe it or not) has been mostly filled with sabotage of relationships and backstabbing. Not just in the alcoholic-dysfunctional scenario of gay bars, but in our everyday life throughout San Francisco. While I have achieved many breakthroughs on behalf of gay rights (which you may learn about on my web site at gay-bible.org), I remain vilified by petty idiots, some of whom are established and respected for their own pro-gay efforts. The exclusivity of San Francisco’s Homophile Family is almost as egregious as the worst of our homophobic enemies.

We cannot expect any sort of liberation if our own brothers and sisters in power mock and injure those good souls who fight bravely for same-sex-lover liberation. My latest overtures to a potential lover (of more than eight years courtship to prove my devotion) have ended up in the trash bin, thanks to wicked souls that persist in wrecking my devoted efforts. At sixty-four years of age, I must toss in the towel and admit that the latest object of my adoration is my last hurrah. However much longer I live–and I do hope it’s short–I could never extend my heartfelt affections to yet another amour who will inevitably be coerced and poisoned by the countless jealous spirits that haunt our unfair city.

The man I’ve adored for so long (and strived to bring him true peace) knows who he is…as do numerous other residents and patrons of our gay bars and neighborhoods. All I can conclude is: no wonder so many among us commit suicide that has nothing to do with the homophobia intrinsic to our fucked-up society, but everything to do with evil wrought upon our own kind, by our own kind.

Most sincerely,

Ezekiel J. Krahlin

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