The MCN Anti-Zeke Cabal

February 19, 2019

Some will guffaw, some will swoon, and some will foam at the mouth!

The MCN Anti-Zeke Cabal as Explained by Marco McClean, esquire:

Marco “I’m-not-your-butt-monkey” McClean’s analysis of the anti-Zeke phenomenon coming out of two MCN lists, in response to Bruce Anderson’s email query. A nine minute slice of sheer profundity from last Friday’s “Memo of the Air” on KNYO and KMEC. Click on the image below to get rollin’.


MY RESPONSE TO MARCO:

You explained to him very well, my particular situation there. I really didn’t expect the hostility I wound up receiving, when I first joined. However, hostility is often the result in the long run, on any list or other online venue I’ve posted to, almost always because of my gay activist contributions. But now, in this horrid era of Donald Trump, more nasty people feel extremely emboldened to attack anyone who speaks a progressive mindset. So I’m a frequent target. There are more right-wingers than ever online, and they’ve overrun many formerly liberal hangouts.

Though hostility has been a constant companion since the day I was born. I think that is the result of growing up in the lower middle class…there is a lot more dysfunctionality in the lower classes. Especially for the intellectual, geeky type such as myself. It is no great boon to see such a twisted ideology spread across this sorry nation to become more and more of the norm…our LGBT community no exception, though of course not quite as harsh. America bet on the wrong horse!

Now, I’d like to make a couple of corrections on your description about yours truly, followed by an explanation of my no longer calling in:

1) My health isn’t poor, it’s excellent…in spite of my bad teeth and lack of health care access. Though I did suffer a nasty attack of sciatica three months ago…for two days it was so bad, I almost had to crawl around my room instead of walk. But I’ve recovered..so well in fact, it’s like it never happened. It might have arisen from a possible B12 deficiency…and since I’ve started taking B12 supplements, it has entirely disappeared. Coincidence or cure, I don’t really know. But as a vegetarian, I am susceptible to such a deficiency, because I eat very little in the way of any animal product, which in my case is cheese. So I’m gonna keep the B12 in my diet from now on, just to play it safe.

2) I’m not from New Jersey, but close enough. I’m from Long Island.

3) Finally, the reason I don’t call in any more, is that I’m totally weirded out by the situation of phoning a distant locale, while I sit in my SRO w/o any social circle here. IOW: doing so accentuates my loner situation in the middle of the night, in what has become a very spooky neighborhood in a bad way. I also don’t eat out for the same reason: it accentuates my being a loner, when surrounded by happily chatting couples and families. Be that as it may, I’ve never felt comfortable calling in to radio shows. I rarely do, but when I started our over-the-air badinage, I thought it would be great for me. Instead, it brought out a more heightened awareness of my solitude…too much for my taste. I also think I have a bit of a phobia, similar to stage fright.

The moment we disconnect here I am, once again, alone in my room, late at night among the ghouls and other freaks that wander the Castro…the only thing separating me from them is my residency, though my two windows look over the bleak landscape 24/7, so it’s almost like living among the zombies. A lot of crazy stuff goes on below my window, and along the sidewalks and across the street…the horror of our dysfunctional society presses in on me with scant relief.

Oh, and they’re not all “libs” who attack me, as Mr. Anderson would like to believe. It started with right wingers such as John Retching. These pro-Trump types are the ones behind all this nonsense. They stir up the gossipy types, some of whom consider themselves “progressive,” thus they join the bullying, not realizing how they’re being manipulated by devious types. I find Bruce’s coloring the picture as a “liberal” problem both disingenuous and outright disgusting. Simply because right wingers always find ways to scapegoat lefties, and they work overtime doing this. And is why I will not renew my subscription to the Anderson Valley Advertiser…I do not care to donate my money in that direction. These creeps are empowered enough as it is. I am presently dealing with a brother who is a raving Trump advocate, and sees me as pathetic. I have made it clear to him that I want nothing more to do with him, now that all his inheritance duties as executor for our parents is complete. I have no idea whether or not he’ll respect that…these kind can be dangerous. So far so good, though, he hasn’t responded to my final “good riddance” email, nor phoned me. If he does, I’ll ignore.

So for me, this is personal. My discovery of my brother’s RW bent is rather recent…I had hoped for some real communication after decades of none going on. Instead, it’s only gotten worse, thanks to Trump’s absurd victory. Mr. Anderson can go eff himself. That’s it for now, and thanks again for setting Mr. Anderson straight on the “Zeke Matter.” For the most part.


The /real/ Zeke (Marco-is-not-my-butt-monkey) Krahlin


The Gray Box Anomaly

May 21, 2018

{{ Diaphanous Reader: I just emailed this frivolous post to the Mendocino Coummunity Network discussion and announcement lists, for mischief’s sake. }}

Date: Mon, 21 May 2018 17:01:21
Subject:
The Gray Box Anomaly (urgent)
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: MCN discuss, MCN announce

Has anyone else noticed a strange message that’s been posted to our list several times in the past two weeks, entitled “Promises Kept” (or maybe “Premises Expected,” “Prozac Effect,” “Prose Intercept,” “Proof Intact,” “Prune Intruder” or something else along those lines)…which vanishes shortly after first viewing, to make us think we either imagined or dreamt it? I just saw the message again this morning, while sipping on my first cup of ganja laced java for the day. I think I’ve viewed it three times so far, maybe four, though didn’t pay it much mind until this most recent arrival. I will now attempt to describe the contents:

Even though it is entirely composed in text, a small, floating gray box appears hovering just inches above my laptop screen. I gaze upon it, stunned into a hypnotic trance while attempting to read the actual post. Which is blurred in parts (including the subject title which seems to shift and wobble as my eyelids flicker), though perhaps that is an aftereffect, like vanishing ink. The words go something like this:

“We are wondering if you’d be interested in trying out our newest discovery [blurry text follows, then:] No obligation on your part, though we do request that [more blurry text]. If for some reason you don’t care to engage further, just [more blurry text], and we will not bother you again. Though we do request that you share this amazing breakthrough of superior promise with at least five other [more blurry text].”

At the very bottom it ends with the word “NAMASTE” in all caps, in a large, bold trebuchet font, followed by one short line of yet more blurred text just underneath. By the time I get to the end, the slowly rotating gray quadrate vanishes, along with the entire message a few seconds later. I can not find it anywhere in any of my gmail folders, including Trash and Spam.

Now I want to make it very clear that what I remember of the contents of this unusual email, may not be the least bit accurate, for they come to mind like a fading dream slipping through my fingers. In fact, the most solid recall I have is that levitating, gray cube hovering before me like a seductive sphinx…and those golden letters that spell “namaste.” For they remain seared onto my retinae like a faerie’s cattle brand.

Of course I still wonder if this /is/ my imagination, or a nocturnal specter; but at this third or fourth occurrence, I have become suspicious of subliminal intrusion of my email service. I checked my Amazon account, to see if I’ve made any purchases I’m not aware of. Likewise my bank account, to spot any possible withdrawals that look suspicious. In addition, I’ve pored over all my social media pages to see if I could identify any strange posts (either on my part or from others). So far, so good, nothing out of the ordinary. IMPORTANT:

My concern goes beyond the threat of subliminal spam that may coerce me to purchase some item or service unbeknownst to me until too late, and my bank account is wiped out (or the NSA knocks down my door). For maybe this is the intrigue of the shadow government, military psi-ops, dark science, religious cult, or some other devious group such as black hat hackers, intergalactic overlords, underworld demons or crazed heterosexuals overexposed to the rising tide of multi-sexual liberation (for examples).

But this is just Day One of my vigilance regarding this “gray box” message that may or may not be a will-o’-the-wisp summoned by my own subconscious. Yet because it does possess an element of subterfuge by the nature of its appearance and context, I am asking anyone else on this list to keep an eye out for a diminutive square box that drifts above a partially incoherent and blurred MCN message…but which you brushed off, thinking it just some brief hallucination conjured up by an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, or a fragment of underdone potato late at night during a restless slumber.

Thank you for your kind attention. I await feedback on any subscriber’s part with bated, purple-hazed breath.


Welcome to Hoboville

February 7, 2018

Jebediah and Ebeneezer were hangin’ out by the ol’ Penjulep pool hall one chill foggy Frisco mornin’, when Neezer started a-thinkin:

“Jeb, them darkie folks acrost the bay say Hoboville warn’t always the name fer this here redneck ‘hood of our’n.” Before he continued, Neezer spat a wad of Uncle Queerbasher’s Selekt Chewin Tobaccee into a hefty, open, black-leather bound book with a crimson ribbon for a marker that touched to the very ground, and rubbed for a moment against some hot, wet Rottweiler feces.

“They say this here parts wunst was called ‘The Caaastro’…soddymites all over the place, far as the eye kin see. Fornicatin’, vi-o-lay-tin’ tourist’s chilluns, and sometahms even the dawgs! ‘Twere a cryin’ shame it was, surely.”

Jeb stopped leaning on the side of the saloon, to stand his full 6-foot-7-inch height. Above, flapped a yellow, weathered poster that proclaimed: “No shooz, no shirts, no fagguts.” There was no point in keeping that sign up anymore, as the queers were long gone, relegated to a concentration camp on Treasure Island. But the owner, a refugee from the nuked state of Idaho, was too lazy to remove it. Come to think of it, there were no longer any coons, either, in this neck of the woods. Nor slant eyes, nor anyone with too dark, or too yellow, or too red a skin. He yanked the straw of hay from his mouth; some spittle dripped down his long, scraggly beard:

“Ye swear to that on the Holy Buy-bull, Neezer?” he questioned with a curl of the lip, and pointed to the book in Ebeneezer’s hand.

“Yes Sir, Jebediah,” boasted Neezer (who also displayed a beard dank with saliva, though shorter and wider, like a Mennonite). “I do believe I just marked the partikeelar secshun smack dab in the lower right page.” He paused, to heckle Jeb with silence.

“Read it Neezer!” Jeb finally ordered. “Ye knows ah cayn’t read. Tell me whut thu Good Book sez!”

“Okay, Jeb now simmer down y’all, jest simmer down. Let me clear my throat.” Ebeneezer hocked up a musty gob of phlegm, aimed once again at the Good Book…then read:

“The Prophet Hoosier from The Book of Heehaw 5:20-22:

“Any dood whar-in dee-klares dee-vine marruj to another dood, should immeed-jut-ly be put to death by command of our Chief Demon Overlord.

“A woe-man, however, may freely dee-klare marriage with another woe-man…under con-di-shun they willfully join in wedded bliss with an Unmarried Son of an Overlord, or with a Widowed Overlord Hisself. Fust choice is always The Father’s.

“But should one or t’other of the woe-men rebel, they should both be tied in nekked shame to a post in the center of the village, whar-in whoever is known to have cast the fust sin in The More-Men Clan, shall be offered the sacred privy-lij of stoning to death, the rebel-yus fee-male and her day-spik-ubul kunt sukker.”

Having read this passage, Neezer lowered the tome in holy silence… and Jebediah, too, remained quiet, chewing on the straw. After long, hushed moments, Jeb opined:

“Why bruthuh Neezer-dee-doo-dah. Thank the Good Overlord are Gran-pappies cum here in the fust place, be it they be homeless with not a cent in their pockets! They knew they wuz on a misshun to dee-klare rite-chuss shame on them sod’mites, and drive the divils outta here-un; peaceable like, or war like…whichever wuz best for the partik-ee-lar sit-choo-ay-shun.”

Neezer nodded as he chawed: “Yep, brothuh Jebe-dee-doo-dah. We done made for our-self-un and our chill-uns, gran-chill-uns, and evun great-great-gran-chill-uns, Juh-hoe-va’s land out of serpent’s soil.”

After further moments in silence (a harmonica played in the distance, some hillbilly tune), they decided it was time for another High-neekins, and stepped back into the dark cavern that was the Penjulep saloon. The clouds were hunkerin’ down into another neon jumble of plutonium madness, soon to unleash a deluge of flesh-melting rain.

So it was just as well the two patriots stepped inside.

Dark as it had suddenly become outside, the quaint establishment was even gloomier within…lit by a few candles, and a tin-can chandelier overhead. A doorless restroom to one side showed off a trough to pee in, and a seatless toilet spotted with caked feces along the rim and overhang. Privacy could be gained by pulling a thick, leather curtain acoss the doorway. It was made of homosexual skin, and sported the gravure of a suffering Christ on a cross, in pastel pink with bits of glitter. It bragged an enormous penis.

Beside the entrance to the lavatory was pasted another old, worn out sign that read: “Hetero patriots only. Keep it safe.” For while gay patrons had been banished more than a decade ago, customers could, if they so desired, fuck and suck to their heart’s content…so long as they praised Jesus in the process at least three times. Sort of a ritual in honor of The Trinity. But Jeb and Neezer were too wasted at the moment, for recreational debauchery. Instead, they were eager to play a round or two of Breeder Darts.

This game was once a regular dart board, with the face of former president Donald Trump pinned to it, back when it was a gay hangout. Indeed, it was the only African American gay bar in the city…and it was called “The Pendulum.” But that was a long time ago. Now, the face was replaced by a small man made of straw, with big, bright, red faggoty lips grinning back at you. Googly black eyes and yellow hair made of cheap yarn and a sailor costume completed the ensemble.

Neezer flung the first dart, but missed by more than a yard.

“Aw, shucks,” he pouted, then took a swig of High-neekins. “Your turn, Jeb.”

Jebediah missed, too…so far off the mark in fact, that the dart propelled through the open doorway and melted in less than ten seconds, in a searing puddle of rain right there on the concrete. But it was all in good fun; they were not the competitive type, living off their monthly stipend as they did, so generously provided by the slave labor from Treasure Island. For in this time, and in this world, heterosexuals ruled. God fearing heterosexuals, that is. God fearing, patriotic redneck heterosexuals.

But soon they grew tired of sport, though could not leave the saloon until the toxic waters ceased their cascade from the rabid heavens. So they stared with blank eyes out the grimy picture window, daydreaming about eviscerating dummy faggots you can purchase at Cliff’s Variety for just a dollar each, until the rains subsided, the clouds parted, and the lifeless brown sun shone once more, in all its befouled glory. There isn’t much to do in a post-holocaust world, now that the real faggots have all vanished.

It isn’t so bad, though, once you get over the dearth of electricity, health care, firemen, uncanned meat, clean water (the kind that doesn’t make your skin rupture into painful bubbles like wasp stings), soap, storebought clothes, police, vegetables and fruit, television, street lamps, automobiles, radio, antibiotics, dogs, cats and birds, clean air (the kind that doesn’t make you choke and cough up blood every two minutes) and online porn. You could always tell stories, though…but they seem to be in waning supply these days, too, as folk’s strontium tainted memories tend to fade into carefree oblivion with the passage of time. Yet time is all we have anymore.

“Hey!” Jebediah’s eyes lit up. “Did ye hear the one about…” but then his recollection drifted off into a funk, and he stroked his beard absentmindedly. Cockroaches skittered about the wiry, gray hairs and through his fingers, like an abundant sprinkle of jumbo-sized fairy dust.

“No, tell me, Jeb!” begged Neezer, always one to embrace a new story like a dollar-store jezebel.

He eagerly snatched up a few of those roaches, like movie theater popcorn, as he anticipated a hellacious tale to brighten up this weary life.

But Jebediah looked mortally crushed. “Nah!” he growled. “Twaren’t such a good joke after all. Jes ye ferget it.”

“No, no, I insist!” demanded Neezer with a friendly thump on Jeb’s arm.

Jebediah then glared at Neezer and whopped him off the stool with a loud “crack” on the splintery, cold floor. Some blood pooled about his companion’s knee, and the homo-jerky gunk surrounding it, discarded by other patrons over the years. Jeb is known for his short fuse. But he helped Ebeneezer back up and onto his seat, where they both resumed gawking at the gray, wet scene outside, and the occasional army tank rumbling up and down Eighteenth Street.

The barkeep plunked down two shots of Kissin Kuzzins Pansy Bourbon beside the elbows of Jeb and Neezer, arousing them from their vacuous revery. As tender of a booze joint, he sports the requisite two-foot-long beard that sweeps across the bartop with every drink he summons, collecting peanut shells, cracker bits, fag rinds and other debris in the process. No one could ever accuse him of maintaining his station with less then immaculate devotion. Even the saloon rats that feed on the droppings of lemon rinds and vomit are squeaky clean!

“Hey, boys, cheer up!” he said with a grin. “Annual Ass Lickin Day is almost here, and I think ye two are in for a treat!”

He was referring to a celebration wherein redneck patriots can get their rectums chewed out by select queer inmates, for just a dollar. By now, it is the biggest holiday in the nation, drawing more than a thousand tourists from all corners of the republic. In fact, that event alone keeps Frisco Town in the black, all year long. And the faggot who is voted Most Outstanding Ass Licker of the Year, gains his freedom equal to that of any redblooded, Amerikan breeder! Prizes for the two runners up are nothing to sneeze at, either:

Second place winner is assigned the coveted duty as Personal Ass Crack Tongue Washer for the Republic of Gilead’s Chief Demon Overlord, himself: Donald J. Trump the Fourth. And third place wins the lucky boon of an all expenses paid, two week vacation at the Gerbil Whirl Amusement Park and Sodomite Detention Center.

All remaining dozen or so queer anus kissers are required to strip down to their ankle weights and get violated, bashed, tortured or whatever those who pay a dollar choose to do with these unrepentant rump hogs. So long as not a single one of them survives this highest of holy days with the Hetero Lord’s crimson river of life still pumping through his arteries.

“Lordy, Lordy, how I miss the good ol’ days, Cletus,” Neezer addressed the barkeep in a far-off, nostalgic haze, chin resting in his palm.

“The good old days?” queried the barkeep as he snatched up several wolf spiders and tossed them into the snack jar.

“Ye know, when faggots wuz free to roam, and we wuz free to hunt ’em down!” Neezer sighed. “Now-days, ya have to wait fer but oncet-a-year befoh ye can have ainy fun with ’em. It’s all controlled, planned and advertized ta death…and thu awl-mightee dollar rules.” He then spat onto the floor, striking a large, black creepy-crawly that scuttled away with a clatter. “Gawd damn capital-izm!”

“I know, right?” Cletus sympathized. “Gummint’s got its filthy paws in ever-thang, anymore! Ye just cain’t get out there and shoot down a sissy boy whenever the mood strikes! Ye have to wait a whole god darn year ta gitcher ass licked at gunpoint…and wait in a long line be-foe ye kin do even that! Whut’s this country comin’ to, any-wize?”

“And that was some goo-oood ass lickin’, let me tell ya!” Jebediah piped up, as if startled from a deep slumber.

Finger lickin’ good, ha-ha!” quipped Neezer.

They all cackled like flustered hens over that joke, which surprised even Ebeneezer, who invented it in the first place. A lot of guffaws, knee slapping and back pounding ensued for several sparkling minutes. During that brief span of time, they forgot their worries, the encroaching doom of their world, and a sad longing for the love of another man they can never have…at least not in this life. Though a girl can dream, can’t she?

When they finally caught their breaths, Jebediah pointed a knobby index finger at his forever-to-be-unrequited enamorado:

“Neezey, God blessed ye mighty bigly, with that-thar orsome gift of the spoken pun! I should PUNish ye fer that!”

Cletus the barkeep nodded in vigorous agreement before turning his back on them, to polish the artillery shells he finds in the gutter now and then, waxing them up to be used as dildoes, that he presents to this or that favored patron.

That is: one who either leaves a big tip, or displays an impressive bulge that whispers a promise to engorge something sweet, huge and rock hard, up the bartender’s poop chute before the shift ends.

Well, the torpid mercury rains finally came to an end, and the sun bulged out from behind the clouds like a throbbing abcess. With that, a priest, a rabbi and an imam entered the establishment…grinning like they just told each other the grandest joke in the world. Jeb and Neezer looked up at the holy trio quizzically, grateful for the relief of something novel about to enter their otherwise necrotic lives. But the barkeep glared at them in severe displeasure. He yanked out a nook-you-ler shotgun from beneath the counter and bellowed:

“No! None of that here! We won’t have none of that here! The Lord is my witness!”

He blew them into a zillion bloody pieces of meat and bone; the rats feasted.

“Time to go, I guess,” Jebediah moaned in a hollow timbre…for neither he nor Neezer had any idea how they’d spend the rest of their sorry little afternoon, to relieve this ghastly boredom that haunted their every waking moment since the day they were ejected from a fat lady’s womb. But one thing they knew for sure, that kept their hopes buoyed even just a little:

They could always come back to jack off, suck off or fuck off at the old Penjulep Honkey-Tonk Pool Hall and Dancing Saloon. Though dancing is something you do by yourself, until you drop dead. Like Saint Vitus. What on earth do they put in the water these days? Lordy!


Homophobia in Real Time

January 26, 2018

Sometimes Bill Maher pisses me off, when it comes to his supposedly “stalwart” support of LGBT rights. Like some years back, when he said it was too soon for gay marriage, we should settle for domestic partnership, and stop whining about marriage, it’s just a word. And about two years ago, when a male guest on Real Time caressed his shoulder in a comradely touch, Mr. Maher jerked back in scorn to admonish: “No homo, bro.” Unfortunately, I haven’t saved a clip of either video, or took note of the episodes, to verify my claims. There’s also the time he declared in 2014 that “There Is a Gay Mafia … If You Cross Them, You Do Get Whacked.

However, on January 19th of this year, once more he spoke ignorantly on the queer issue and, fortunately, I did save the clip. Just view the short video yourself (it’s only 21 seconds), and come to your own conclusion before reading my disgruntled take on the matter, just below the link:

Video: Homophobia in Real Time

In case the video won’t load, or you are hearing disabled, here is the transcript of Mr. Maher’s own words:

“Now building blocks, basic building blocks of thought, like ‘there are facts’ and ‘things have degrees’ are being tossed aside. Mike Pence and ISIS are both homophobic, but Mike doesn’t throw gay men off the roof. So he’s better! This isn’t that hard, people!”

My Own Disgruntled Take on the Matter

Bill Maher should know better–that Mr. Pence is wickedly homophobic–and that our current Vice President would, indeed, persecute homosexuals according to Christian fundamentalist dictate. Just because they probably wouldn’t choose to toss LGBTs off a roof, they certainly would be overjoyed to terrorize, incarcerate and even murder them in equally gruesome ways. Such as stoning them to death. Or look the other way whenever a gay person has been bashed to a bloody, stinking pulp by one of their own Jebus followers (and make “godly” excuses for not bringing the criminal to justice). Or rounding them up in concentration camps to be tortured, experimented upon, abused and gassed to death. Do you doubt me? Then here’s a list of seven of his offenses that I grabbed from an online article…one of many that denounce Mr. Pence’s vitriolic stance against LGBTs:

1. Supporting a constitutional amendment to ban marriage equality

2. Signed a bill to jail same-sex couples for applying for a marriage license

3. Wanted to divert funding from HIV prevention to conversion therapy

4. Opposed repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

5. Complained about the passage of the Matthew Shepard Hate Crimes bill

6. Served on the board of an antigay group

7. Argued that passing ENDA would ban Bibles from the workplace

No two ways about it: Mike Pence’s anti-queer agenda is right in step with these zealous Christians who will use such laws (if any are passed) to make further inroads towards vilifying gays…leading to the same “final solution” that Adolf Hitler concocted for Jews and numerous other, marginalized groups. After all, look where we are now: the Trump administration just created a new office called “The Conscience and Religious Freedom Division” in the agency’s Office for Civil Rights. Which makes it legal for any medical service, including doctors, hospitals and even emergency medical technicians to refuse to treat a transsexual (or anyone else perceived as L,G, B or T), on the grounds of religious discrimination! In other words: Bible thumping EMTs would let you die in the streets for the love of their god!

See: SF reacts to feds promoting bias in health care

Quote:

Equality California Executive Director Rick Zbur called the move “a direct assault” on LGBTQs.

“This new rule would allow medical providers a ‘license to discriminate’ against patients if they disagree with their sexual orientation or gender identity,” stated Zbur. “The ability to access transition-related care, HIV medication, reproductive services and other necessary medical services are all under threat. … California has some of the nation’s strongest non-discrimination protections under the Unruh Civil Rights Act. In the coming days and weeks, we will work with our legal colleagues, the California Legislative LGBT Caucus and our allies in California Legislature to determine whether legislation or litigation is required to combat this new attack on the LGBTQ community.”

I’m sure Mr. Pence had a hand–probably a heavy hand–in creating this new office, which is targeted towards discriminating against sexual minorities (as well as women and other minorities they may choose on a whim or a wild hair up their halo-rimmed asses, such as the homeless, the disabled, immigrants and African Americans). I am therefore incensed over Bill Maher’s ignorance about just the kind of man V.P. Pence really is. Bill should know better, but he doesn’t. No excuse, considering he portrays himself as well informed over liberal issues, including sexual minorities. He either hasn’t looked into Mr. Pence’s bigoted history or, if he has, doesn’t think persecuting homosexuals is that bad, so long as they’re not thrown off a roof. I mean, Mr. Maher is aware of how the Religious Reich has taken over the Federal government, through Donald Trump’s stubby handed machinations…right? Yet he sees no danger of Mike Pence, as a New Testament zealot, being equivalent to Muslim fanatics’ own hatred of queers?

Thank god that Mr. Maher is not the last word on this topic, though he seems to fancy himself as such. Just another clueless hetero claiming to speak for a minority about which he obviously knows little…especially when it comes to who our enemies are, and how they operate. Mike Pence’s dominionist ideology is the Christian equivalent of Sharia Law. And we have a whole Presidential cabinet–and Senate, and House of Congress–filled to the rafters with them, now!

So, no, Mr. Maher, he is not “better” than ISIS.


ADDENDUM

Something I didn’t mention in my article, is the eeriness of the video clip. How smugly Maher presented his point in all its glorious ignorance…ending with conservative sell-out queer Andrew Sullivan grinning broadly, and applauding Mr. Maher’s equally eerie praise of Michael Pence. (FYI: Mr. Sullivan is not just a lifelong conservative; he’s also a devout Roman Catholic…so there you have his “queer Uncle Tom” credentials.) I didn’t plan it that way…just realized the fact with a little hindsight. As if that clip were specifically tailored for me to hammer home my point. I find it bizarre (though in a good way) that things seem to fall into my hands immediately, once I’m ready to expose an aspect of homophobia, or any other injustice. I rarely have to do more than one search, to come up with such helpful resources…whether image, text, or video.


You’re a Shmuck, Ellen Tosser

September 11, 2017

Date: Mon, 11 Sep 2017 03:00:55
Subject:
Fwd: You’re a Shmuck, Ellen Tosser (was: [MCN-Discussion]- Slavery in US prisons)
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: My Reptilian E-friends

I just posted the following email to the MCN (Mendocino Community Network) discussion list, addressing the homophobes who participate. Note that I have slightly altered their real names, as a well deserved mockery:

———- Forwarded message ———-
From: Zeke Krahlin
Date: Mon, Sep 11, 2017 at 2:49 AM
Subject:
You’re a Shmuck, Ellen Tosser (was: [MCN-Discussion]- Slavery in US prisons)

On Sat, 9 Sep 2017 22:19:34 -0700 ELLEN TOSSER squoinked:

{{ If you want to find an example of modern day slavery, look no further than US prisons. }}

I don’t give a flying fig how much good you think you do, or even how much good you actually do, on certain issues. Because /you/, as an ultraconservative Catholic, preach about, and participate in, vilifying gay people and women who choose birth control and/or abortion, and young people who have sex outside of marriage (yet are denied knowledge of safe sex and anti-pregnancy methods). Your vile ideology perpetrates immense and widespread suffering across this nation, and the entire world as well. You are a smug, heartless witch who’s found her niche in a powerful cult that, since it’s existed for many centuries and has infiltrated all levels of numerous societies, is regarded as a legitimate lifestyle…a religion that, while broadcasting how benevolent it is to all living beings, manifests egregiously ugly dogma against certain minorities, and free-minded women and youth.

You are rotten to the core…you are arrogant and self-glorifying to the point of retchingly obnoxious behavior. You gain support and recognition by the fanatic creeps that surround you, and reward you with copious adulation and, no doubt, material benefits and access to civic influence. Meanwhile, you and your Catholic/Christian-Fascist ilk work overtime to destroy anything good and righteous in this world, and spread misery to every corner. You leave no stone unturned in this diabolical mission…worshiping what you call “God” (whom you claim is “love”) yet who resembles with great accuracy the very Devil you claim to preach against.

Let this denunciation I herein present, apply also to anyone aligned with your blasphemous ideas, including certain scumbags on this list, such as: John Retching, Rabid Ravin, Bigthug, Mr. Laughing Tits, GFT, Daney the Dog’s Son, gdork, Marinating Marinela, Nicholas Willscum, John Lousy and Banshee Dean. No doubt I’ve left some people out, people who have either slunk back into their dark corner, and others who lurk in the shadows without ever posting.

You are all vile, loathsome creatures, whom Donald Trump represents as your hell-spawn leader, along with the Republican Party at large…along with these Christian zealots who lust for blood, terror and annihilation of those who stand against them. Using LGBTs as your key scapegoat, your target which you rabidly yearn to destroy. And through the ashes of that destruction, intend to advance towards other minorities, and women of choice. Remember, once upon a recent time, you used the same despicable tactics to resist the end of slavery, claiming “God” (who is “love”) to be on your side. Later, you did the same towards Jews. (And then there are the native peoples of this land, whom you’ve decimated on the grounds of a horrendous notion termed “manifest destiny.”)

I am sick of hearing your brand of hateful preaching broadcast over San Francisco’s airwaves and television, as well as in many churches and street corners where Jehovah’s Witnesses and other Jebus loonies gather to denounce homosexuals, declaring us the devil’s spawn…and in cyberspace. And produce countless flyers, videos and sermons denouncing us queers as an imminent danger to America, who must therefore be wiped out. With an increasing number of preachers, priests, ministers et al (and their connected politicians) spreading this evil bigotry with ever increasing force and popularity.

You have crippled myriad hearts and minds, many of whom have been driven insane to the point of losing their jobs, housing, friends and families, and now wander the streets, a danger to themselves and others. There are also more stable folks now homeless, who’ve suffered your antagonism as well, yet somehow maintain a viable level of decency and sanity…yet deprived of the good things in life because you have likewise ruined them (though not completely). Some are my dearest friends, whom I reach out to as best I can, yet their minds are hopelessly blocked by the brainwashing of Christo-Fascist dogma. IOW, I can only take them so far, but not far enough where they can finally be the captain of their own fate. Sometimes they turn against me, because they do not understand, thanks to your most effective psychological terrorism based on Biblical superstition.

But I do realize that, in some pathetic cases, some of your cohorts are members of the Democratic Party…the branch that has infiltrated and poisoned the ideals that party once stood for. But by now has grown so spineless and reprehensible as to have withered on the tree of Democracy, and no longer deserves to use that word in their party’s title.

You are accursed traitors to Liberty. You are hideous. You are the bane of all humanity. I do not care one whit if I get kicked off this list for speaking the truth, for AFAIC, it’s a small price to pay to keep freedom alive and kicking. Even if it dwindles down to a single ember, even if that single ember is yours truly.

See you on the battlefield. I am your worst dream come true. Whatever nasty screed you broadcast on this list, no matter how often: be assured that I will always be here to denounce you.

Sinqueerly yours,

Ezekiel J. Krahlin
Jehovah’s Queer Witness More Than You Will Ever Know


BONUS

Listen to Ms. Tosser’s horrid declaration posted some time last April, to the MCN discussion list, as read by KNYO radio host Marco McClean: click here or forever hold your pizza.


Larkin’s Cubes

July 15, 2017

Date: Sat, 15 Jul 2017 16:30:10
Subject:
Those Scooby-Doo Cubes Arrived Yesterday!
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney

So I put together my gift package for Larkin, see attachment 1. The
story cubes packet has been wrapped up in a man’s tie, and a very attractive tie it is. If you recall, I like to wrap my extra-special
offerings to Larkin, in a tie. He commented on that three years ago, said:

“Those are very nice ties you give me!”

There’s the card: a Peanuts theme starring Woodstock, standing in his nest on a blustery day, and chirping exclamation points.

Reminiscent of the illustration for chapter 1 of my novel, “Free Me From This Bond.” Remember that remarkable pillowcase I discovered while perusing Amazon for some relevant Scooby-Doo gift, back in March of 2015? I had no idea such a design existed, I was simply searching for “scooby-doo bedroom” stuff, on a whim. Here’s the image, to refresh your memory:

Of course, what makes it so remarkable is its uncanny resemblance to
the illustration in chapter 1: Scooby-Doo instead of Snoopy, crashing
at his doghouse. In that image (so lovingly drawn by S. Rohan),
appears Woodstock, apparently flustered over Snoopy’s unexpected
replacement. Again, to refresh your memory:

Open the card to see a blank space awaiting my pen, and I wrote: “THAR SHE BLOWS” in fat, outlined uppercase letters. That is one of Larkin’s trademark expressions, along with “Aargh!” The lovely, dark blue gift bag rests just beneath that card. I also inserted a folded printout of my email to Twin Peaks Tavern, seeing as I have yet to actually hand it to him… though I’ve tried, carrying it about in my pocket as I stroll the ‘hood. It will, of course, happen, but in such a way as to underline Larkin’s flair for the theatrical.

In addition, I printed out my recent tale, “Rays of Emerald,” and placed it in a legal sized envelope that I inserted into the gift bag. Attached are two more images: one, showing the Scooby-Doo story cubes wrapped up; the other, how the completed gift will appear in Larkin’s hands.

My final embellishment was to tape some small Scooby-Doo images to
both envelopes…pics which I copied offa Google Images and printed
out.

I will soon post a blog entry about this latest present to My Avuncular Ankylosaurus, showing more detail of each component. Now all I need do is walk around with this colorful token of love until our paths cross once more. I feel like a bower bird, decorating the entrance to his little nest with pretty geegaws, to attract a mate. Larkin’s such a sucker for thoughtful, diminutive gifts, especially when it includes a Scooby-Doo treat!


Rays of Emerald

July 7, 2017

Since Larkin’s incredible scenario of June 11th (the last time our auras clashed) I’ve been carrying around a folded printout of my email to Twin Peaks Tavern, asking them to welcome him back. (See my blog entry previous to this, called “Hug of the Century,” linked above…the email is at the very end.) It’s a great letter, and optimizes the odds in Larkin’s favor. Though since I am convinced this is a joke being played upon me by many members of the Castro scene, Twin Peaks will soon have him back, anywayz…with “moi,” The Most Welcome Guest Of All. I do suspect they’ve already made copies of my email, and are passing it around the bar, having a good guffaw, as they no doubt did with my postcard flurry two years back. And I’m sure Larkin is there, too, tickled pink (or whatever color a Reptilian Starship Commander’s scales turn to, when he’s highly amused).

{{ By now you’ve concluded that I’m pissing-in-my-pants eager to get that copy of the email to Larkin ASAP, even though I haven’t spoken such in this report you’re now reading. Until this, my eighth sentence. Yes, My Excrescent Reader, I’m securing the letter to my person or backpack (or, occasionally, a tote bag) every time I step out, awaiting the moment My Perplexing Plesiosaur appears before me once again, like a vision from Triassic Eden. And that moment just occurred short minutes ago: 9:05 PM, as precisely as I can guess. After running upstairs then bumping into my neighbor Michael and chatting him up about Larkin for a spell, and finally entering my room and looking at the Sony clock radio’s digital display: 9:14. }}

It has been almost three weeks since I emailed that request, just four or five days longer than the time I’ve been carrying that printout! But this evening, This Frabjous Evening, no sooner had I exited through the front gate, than here he comes barreling down the sidewalk. Hunched up and all slinky like and kinda shabbily clothed, tonight…I guess he was in one of those “incognito” (or “shadow chameleon”) moods. Especially as regards yours truly, for whom he desires not to notice his presence, quite often. Yet, frankly: deep within that widdle heart, I’m sure he craves the opposite. I’ve never seen him with a ruddy face before…though I’ve certainly seem him hostile more than just this one time! It honestly isn’t part of the look I’ve come to adore in all his varied expressions. Don’t know why, but it jars me.

So there he was, looming large in my reality, then passing by as swiftly as possible…though the partying throngs scattered about as they lingered between bars and clubs, made for a slow passage. I was momentarily stunned by his ghostly tentacles (like some deceased cephalopod come to haunt me), but I was by now immune to his venomous discharge. Thus I speedily recovered with more than enough split seconds to call loudly from behind:

“That was quite a spectacular roasting you gave me the other night!” Sucking in my breath to exhale the second part like a demon exorcised, I embellished: “You deserve an Oscar!”

Larkin had barely progressed more than twenty feet beyond where I first sighted him, the clots of revelers were that thick. Yet (with hindsight) I can’t help but believe he intentionally slowed down to grant me just enough time to blurt out my prepared bon mot, before drifting beyond my orbit.

I still had yet to hand him the copy of My Papal Dispensation, and he was about to cross 16th Street!

I managed to encroach amid the dense throng another few steps, then bellow these words towards Larkin who now stood balancing his feet on the curb, eager to distance himself as soon as the light changed. Or perhaps waiting patiently for me to speak my last three lines:

“Hey, I got a gift for you! It’s a printout of the email I sent to…”

It was a brief scene he had scripted this time around, and my dialogue a mere five sentences. In fact, I was the only character with any spoken words at all, if you don’t count the outdoor revelers whose voices were blurred background ambience, anyway. I knelt down halfway to retrieve the baggie-sealed envelope from my tote, while I arched my neck upwards to project my voice over and beyond the fluctuating wall of flesh:

“…I sent to Twin Peaks Tavern…”

I stopped, realizing that the light had just turned green, and the crowd was now surging forward, along with Larkin. So I quickly stood erect once more, this time with The Exculpatory Missive in hand, waving it at a receding Larkin who refused to glance back. I boomed forcefully above the din of traffic and laughter:

“…asking them to welcome you back!”

By now Larkin was more than halfway across to Noe Street, and I had barely progressed another yard. But my lungs are strong, my words carry far, and surely he heard:

“I hope it works!”

I stood watching as he reached the corner where Noe, 16th and Market intersect on the northwest point, expecting him to vanish in another moment. Suddenly he paused, turned around to look directly back to where I was standing by the bus shelter, still waving. I smiled with unbridled joy while he stared back, either poker faced or peeved…it was too far to tell. Though his button eyes ran a straight target to my own. Just as suddenly, after maybe three seconds of unabashed glaring, he turned away and took several steps before (guess what?)…

He did an about face and ogled me again! (Is “ogle” the right word here? I sure hope so!) Though he still was not too distant to hear me speak if I belted out my words like a platoon sergeant, I simply waved once more, and smiled. Finally, he turned away and disappered around the corner, and I rushed home to write it all down. That’s when I bumped into my neighbor Michael, on the carpeted stairway.

{{ FYI, My Drupaceous Reader, I write down every encounter with Larkin, as a matter of record. For his spirit is momentous, as is our association…at least in my universe. Everything’s an adventure of the highest order with My Brassy Brachiosaurus, and I just can’t keep my quill resting in the well, thanks to his inspiration. Imagine having someone in your life who always makes you feel like the luckiest sentient being in all possible universes. I rest my case. }}

“Michael! Michael! I just saw Larkin!”

Standing midstairs, Michael turned back towards me and grinned, waiting for me to share new information that he could take to Starship Central next time they beam him up (which is in a day or two, so, really really really soon). So I emit data…that is: I blabber on.

“Larkin did this and I did that, then I did this and Larkin didn’t do that, then he did both this and that simultaneously, so I was stuck holding the Old Maid card as usual, because I, in non-response, did neither this nor that…I did other! What choice did I have?”

Though I took all of several minutes just to tell Michael what it took me only those two sentences above to write down, and he had to go to work. Even though I had him in stitches. Well, at least I kick-started his night with a burst of sunshine and positivity…in my own, weird, gay-gothic cyberpunk sci-fi way.

I finally ascended hovel (that’s what I lovingly call my SRO, the SRO I’ve been living in since January first, 1983: “hovel” instead of “home”), and the first thing I do is check the time. Nine fourteen. I then seat myself before my Lenovo 100-S notebook, which found a new home barely two months back, perched upon my octagonal cabinet. Which is maybe 25, 26, 27 inches high, with just enough room atop to include a mouse and a dinner plate or bowl. As I began to type out a report of the preceding ten minutes (that is: “my latest Larkin encounter”), the visage of Larkin’s two rosy cheeks floated into my thoughts.

“He’s never had rag-doll cheeks before,” I mused. “It is so not Larkin!”

An icy shudder gripped my spine, then ran up and down in sickening waves, as realization struck me like a horse!

“That may not have been Larkin!”

What with being stoned out of my cranium on some quality strain I just purchased from mask-vendor Billy two mornings ago, and how this encounter was more like a blur, it went so fast. Did I really mistake another dude of the same, general morphology and facial cues, for Larkin? Was it actually wishful thinking so potent, I stepped into a parallel world of my own making, for a scant 48 seconds?

And if it wasn’t him, what the fuk was he thinking, glaring back at me–not once, but twice–glaring back at me from across a pedestrian-packed crosswalk?

Those damned apple cheeks! I get it: he’s throwing me off the track by putting some makeup on his face, like a drag queen. Rouge! Setting me up to begin doubting that was him, as memory of the episode sinks deeper into my twin hemispheres. After further pondering, I began to feel relieved as I reminded myself that Larkin glancing back at me–not once, but twice mind you–was his signal to reassure me that, yes, this is, indeed, My Larkin. For he has done this before, in previous adventures. He wouldn’t have stopped and gazed back at me two times (the second, to drive the message home), unless he already surmised that doubts would come to surface.

My relief was, alas, short lived. For a new doubt arose in my psyche, in the image of an irate stranger looking back at me, wondering if he should return to smack me around. An angel must’ve been watching over me (if my conjecture that he’s not Larkin, is true), for he thought strongly of assaulting me, twice, before something turned him away.

Or perhaps it’s all Larkin, for his shamanic sorcery is stupendously powerful, and infinitely clever. Surely more than up to the challenge of shifting his appearance in subtle ways, and controlling his behavior in a certain manner, as to make me think of the “stranger” theory in the first place! I’d know his voice anywhere, which makes it crystal clear as to why he didn’t utter so much as a syllable. Yet a stranger probably would…so this is a second clue that this rogue is, indeed, Mr. Kelsey. Then again, on the other hand…?

Thus, I’m stuck in some sort of temporal purgatory, still wondering if that really was He Who Lights My Path With Rays of Emerald, or not.


ADDENDUM

Date: Fri, 7 Jul 2017 00:16:47
Subject:
A Peek Preview: RAYS OF EMERALD!
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney

I started to type an email to you, but then decided to make it into a
story first. So, know this is to you, though it’s already a completed
tale. So you get to read it first! (It’s brief, just 3-1/3
pages…but I’m so PROUD of it, you’ll see why.) It’s in a temporary
folder for now. I still need to find some cute images for it, before
uploading it to my blog account.

http://gay-bible.org/temp/RAYS-OF-EMERALD.htm

Date: Fri, 7 Jul 2017 22:47:01
Subject:
Re: A Peek Preview: RAYS OF EMERALD!
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney

On Fri, Jul 7, 2017 at 10:12 PM, Eleanor Cooney wrote:

{{ Quite a story! }}

Thank you…lotsa fun comin’ up with unique metaphors. A bit of Lewis Carrol in there, and Lovecraft, and Jurassic Park: I’m sure you got ’em all. I had planned to lay out the whole dialogue I had with Michael while on the stairs: many interesting ideas were expressed. But the story came together without that, I knew it was perfect at a certain point…and I just had to let go.

{{ So, in retrospect, what do you think? Was it Larkin, or a doppelganger? Or both? }}

Oh, I’m sure it was Larkin. Just like him to suddenly appear so I could tell him about that email, if I couldn’t actually hand him the printout. He had kept me waiting o’erlong (almost two weeks). But when he really busts his gonads to evoke an extra-extra-special encounter, he then allows more than the usual time to pass, before we meet once more. That is so I can spend sufficient days to savor the delicious scenario, like sampling a fine chocolate truffle that you swirl about on your tongue in such a way as to delay its mournful dissolution.

And so like him to put that mysterious twist into the encounter, making me seriously ponder if it was someone else…whom I weirded out as a consequence. And that is why he did not speak…his voice would’ve blown his cover right off the lid. I’m wondering if some, or much, of the crowd that night were hired actors who followed Larkin’s script to create this latest mini-adventure. I suspect so, seeing as there’s way too much synchronicity /not/ to be contrived by human intent. Ergo I also wonder about all our previous magical encounters…were there actors helping shape the scenario?

Larkin /playing/ his doppelganger. Clever.

Speaking of the idea that Larkin may work with actors to create some of these adventures:

Back in the days of the ol’ Hole in the Wall Saloon, Larkin had his own following, “groupies.” They’d either show up with him leading the pack, or show up on their own and wait for him to make his appearance a short while later. Well, one afternoon I experienced a multi-doppelganger right out of one of the most popular episodes in that old sitcom, “Cheers.”

This is the one where the episode opens with lookalikes of all the regular actors…who looked kinda like them, but you could tell they were fakes. Norm was replaced by another, as were all the main stars. It was very funny. Instead of “Hi, Norm” when his doppelganger stepped in, they said, “Hi, Fred” (or whatever name they used; I forgot).

Well the same thing happened to me at The Hole! In steps this tall, handsome lanky dude the same height as Larkin, and looking like his brother! All the groupies were also doppelgangers of Larkin’s own followers. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing! Even the bartender, Gary, was replaced by a replica.

This lasted about 45 minutes, then they all swarmed on outta there. I had no one to share this bizarre event with, to ask about. Nor did anyone approach me that same day or any day after, to reveal the hilarious scheme.

Now, Eleanor, how could something like that just happen outta the blue? Of course it didn’t, it was scripted and rehearsed by those hired to perform. Which also suggests that the LGBT community (or a significant portion thereof) regards me highly…or they wouldn’t go through such an amazing dupe.

– Zeke


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