Misfortune is a Cookie Named Zeke

July 31, 2015

THESE ARE THE END TIMES…of my birthday month, that is. So let me toss in some email dialogs and finish with a delightful sci-fi fable in the fashion of Stanislaw Lem.

Date: Tue, 28 Jul 2015 11:20:10
This will put San Francisco on the Intergalactic Map
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: My E-frenz

“I am not going to stand here and act falsely humble!” – Gay Zombie Jesus speaking atop Twin Peaks to the gathering rabble on day 1 of his return.

Date: Tue, 28 Jul 2015 11:28:09
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: My E-frenz

Change “gathering rabble” to “surly rabble”.

PS: Barbara, my brother does /not/ have cancer, thank deity. He does a lot of charity work and left a msg. on my ans. machine that sounded to me, like: “I’m running around like a chicken with its head cut off [blah blah blah] cancer diagnosis.” So I told him yesterday that my prayers for him shall be redirected to all good souls with cancer. I had a /fantastic/ first conversation with you, BTW. Minneapolis is so fortunate to have your kind presence.

Date: Tue, 28 Jul 2015 12:03:44
Let’s welcome Barbara Lodermeier to our group!
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: My E-frenz

By “group” I mean email list, which now totals a whopping…[drumroll now]…FIVE!

But soon I’m gonna burst on the world scene like a thieving kidney stone in the night. At which point my emailbox, Twitter account, Facebook page, WordPress blog, and gay-bible.org web site will get so rapidly flooded by fans and enemies alike, it will bring down the entire Interwebs.

Barbara is the same age as This Queer Miscreant (2,015 years, give or take a few months), and hails from Minneapolis. So lucky to live in a town with a statue of Mary Tyler Moore! I can barely contain my envy.

Minneapolis, you have a bright angel in your midst!

– Zeke Krahlin (Jehovah’s Queerest Witness Of All)

Date: Thu, 30 Jul 2015 11:02:02
New Rule #4
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney

This latest New Rule shall be mailed to the 4 bars Larkin used to frequent (till I got him kicked out), as well as Moby Dick:

NEW RULE #4: Be kind to Larkin Kelsey, yet do not allow him to disappear from my world, geographically, socially or consciously. This includes watching over him, that he does not hurt himself (unlikely, but better safe than sorry). Know that whatever outcome is my lot with Mr. Kelsey, reflects directly upon the S.F. LGBT community at large.

It occurred to me just moments ago (as I exited Muni Metro at Embarcadero Station on my way to Posh Bagel):

There shall be /ten/ New Rules in toto. Mimicking Moses’ Commandments.

It /also/ occurred to me (2-3 days ago) that Larkin intentionally suckered the SF Queer Family into despising me, that I may eventually blackmail them into fulfilling my dreams. For the shame they’d otherwise suffer would be insurmountable…hence eviscerate all our achievements thus far, against a homophobic reality. And all sexual minorities would be wiped off the planet…and erased from The Book Of Life.

They now have no other choice but to honor me in every way possible. And I owe it all to Larkin, who must play a little while longer, my backstabber.

– Zeke


By Ezekiel J. Krahlin

Date: 25 Glaucus 50,970 A.Z.A. (After Zeke’s Awakening)
How My Cookies Conquered the World and Beyond
To: My Loyal Reptilian Subjects from Andromeda
From: Master Thaumaturge Ezekiel Joseph Krahlin (Eminent Overseer of Sector 357, Quadrant B)

There is no way to explain how I became the most powerful sentient being in the entire Milky Way Galaxy plus 14 neighboring clusters, based solely on cookie sales, without believing in the supernatural. I do not dabble in The Black Arts, nor have I in any other way consciously sought This Impossible Destiny. The cookies just fell into my lap (so to speak), one thing led to another until 50,970 years after my first cookie tumbled off the assembly line, and *voila* here I am.

It all started quite innocently on the 29th day of July, 2015 A.D., with a frivolous email exchange between myself and The Osmium Empress (a.k.a. Eleanor Cooney). Who as you all know so well from your brain-implant history classes, led us to a magnanimous victory in 38,112 A.Z.A. against the Axzyspuluk Swarm that threatened to teleport us back to the Stone Age when dinosaurs had yet to invent the rotating disc. Which disc is responsible for uniting two intelligent species–reptilians and humans–into an amalgamated imperium. For posterity’s sake, here is the exchange:

Date: Tue, 28 Jul 2015 12:37:59
Wanna go into business together? I have a plan…
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney

…forget literary endeavors, let’s get into the cookie business. Specifically:

Zeke’s Misfortune Cookies

Printed on each strip of paper will be one of my silly quotes, of which I have /many/ (as you all-2-well know). Such as:

“Help! I’m a prisoner in a Neptunian/Chinese cookie factory, and I can’t find the right wormhole that will lead me to freedom!”

I think it’s a fabulous idea, and if you are likewise inspired, run with it. We can split it 60/40, with the 60 part for you and yours.

– Zeke

Date: Tue, 28 Jul 2015 13:47:09
Re: Wanna go into business together? I have a plan…
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney

On Tue, Jul 28, 2015 at 1:28 PM, Eleanor Cooney wrote:

{{ It’s a winner idea, all right. But how to implement? }}

Once the money from my fame comes rolling in, I can hire some of the best to handle the business aspects. I was also thinking: you can add your own Morticia quotes. “Morticia & Gay Zombie Jesus” has a nice ring to it.

Gawd I’m on a roll these days!

– Zeke

PS: I saw Larkin yesterday afternoon, seated at the counter of Moby Dick and rolling the dice. His roommate Zachary was tending bar. I paused a moment at a spot where only Larkin could see me through the plate glass. Just in case he needed to talk. He didn’t, so I moved on. None of my scouts have seen Larkin at any other bar, nor have I, these past 7 days. Looks like my New Rule has trumped Larkin big time.

Date: Tue, 28 Jul 2015 14:34:41
Re: Wanna go into business together? I have a plan…
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney

On Tue, Jul 28, 2015 at 2:05 PM, Eleanor Cooney wrote:

{{ Imagine our web page!!! }}

My eyes, my eyes, my eyes are burning!

{{ I think you should make some Misfortune Cookies specifically for Larkin! }}

He’s gonna need a whole passel each and every day.
I’ll whip him up a batch of glop and tell him it’s okay.

– Zeke

Towards the final months of 2015 I finally made my breakthrough as an activist and author: celebrated throughout the world, with ginormos sums of cash flowing into my Paypal account. By April of the following year, my asset value increased from $1,550 to $4,325,000. Which empowered me to open my first Misfortune Cookie (tm) factory.

My cookies were a big hit, bigger than I ever hoped, infiltrating even the poorest nations and remotest regions with their playful mayhem. They made people laugh, something sorely appreciated in those tumultuous times of poverty, disaster, oppression and disease. But more than that:

These Misfortune Cookies (tm) are highly nutritional, composed of a base of gluten-free quinoa and brown rice flours sweetened with stevia. The remaining ingredients (a trade secret) ensure that my cookies will always be delectable, and with just the right, satisfying crunch.

In appearance, they look just like standard fortune cookies, except for a special logo stamped onto one side:

This symbol was originally my graffiti signature as a gay street activist, scrawled here and there throughout The Castro to mark my turf. But since my fame took off, it has become a seal of quality for all my products, including my starship franchise established 700 years later. But let’s get back to the 21st century.

Here are seven early examples of my Zeke-style quips (besides the one displayed in the email exchange above):

Many are called but few are chosen, so step right up for your lederhosen!

“Who wants to play Twister?” – the Elephant Man on his birthday

The way to a man’s heart is his stomach…either orifice.

“Can I meet you if I retweet you, can I eat you if I reheat you?” – Gay Zombie Jesus

“Crumpets in bed, crumpets in bed. Gnoshing on crumpets and getting good head!” – gay bachelor raconteur Neville Snidermannington III

Don’t count your chickens before they change horses in midstream.

“I am not Larkin’s stalker, I’m his boyfriend.” – Zeke Krahlin

Plus six examples from Eleanor’s Morticia alter ego (which tend to be more direct and blunt than mine, no pussyfooting about):

You will lose your foot in an accident involving farm equipment.

You will catch a tropical disease and be hideously disfigured.

A grand piano will fall on you from ten stories up.

You will be drugged and transported to a refugee camp in Somalia.

You will reincarnate as a leper in 11th-century India.

You will swallow a thumbtack.

The world went through many upheavels during my stellar rise to power, and my cookie factories spread across the globe to number 182,448. Not only had I led The LGBT Revolution to establish the world’s first gay nation, Athenia, but I grew so affluent I bought up every country that collapsed under the weight of economic catastrophe, one by one. By the year 2022 immortality had been invented in the form of a nasal spray, though reserved only for the rich.

But my militia stole the formula and distributed it to everyone else within the short span of five years. So I could then breathe a sigh of relief at that point (as I morphed backwards in physical age to 19), and continue my conquest of planet earth in relative tranquility as nation after nation fell into my hands until not so much as a square inch anywhere on terra firma was not under my direct ownership. World peace was finally a reality, under the auspices of yours truly a.k.a. “Big Gay Brother.”

And I owed all this ridiculous success to my Misfortune Cookie (tm) dynasty, which garnered profit quantum leaps beyond my fame as a revolutionary author and activist. You might say that the world was now my oyster, though I would object.

As the centuries marched forward, humanity expanded throughout the solar system and on to neighboring galaxies…under my leadership with co-commander (and Uber Soulmate) Larkin Kelsey, and The Osmium Empress for My Most Trusted Military Advisor. My cookies were the first cash cow from earth to be traded on the Intergalactic Marketplace. Which of course boosted my legendary influence another quantum leap or two.

My transcosmically irresistable Misfortune Cookies (tm) were on the table (or pad or squadunk or whatever passed for a dining surface) of every sentient family across 15 galaxies including the Milky Way, by the time the Axzyspuluk Swarm was subjugated to lowly factory workers. Ah, yes, the factories:

It had finally become necessary to dedicate an entire solar system to the production of my cookies. The one I chose had 22 inhabitable planets, and the sole mission of every denizen on each of those worlds was to manufacture enough cookies to satisfy the demand of more than 6,433 quadrillion eager consumers.

These factories provided almost 17,000 years of quality cookie production, but like all good things they came to pass, and had to be demolished. Along with their entire solar system, due to residual byproduct. Of course I transferred all residents to a new location long before The Cookieocalypse took place.

Co-commander Kelsey and myself stood a safe distance from the demolition, as we watched the planets and its star quietly break up into fragments, then dust. I was quite disappointed, expecting instead a glorious super-nova implosion with many fireworks in tow.

So I looked up at him and questioned why such an anticlimactic end. To which he calmly replied:

“Well, Zeke, I guess that’s just the way the cookie planets crumble.”

Don’t Mess With My Buddy!

August 30, 2014

[ Spaciotemporal Reader: this little masterpiece of sci-fi parody is dedicated to Stanislaw Lem (1921-2006), whose exquisitely hyperbolic tales of futuristic intrigue eventually drove me insane. ]

It was somewhere in the Crab Nebula that I visited a particular planet as The Milky Way’s Ambassador, and planned to vacation there for approx’ly two months. It was the year 2076. You may be reading my report years before that time, because this dispatch has been teleported to key moments in the past, but no earlier than 2017. By which time I had simultaneously become president of Athenia, world’s first gay nation (formerly Northern California), and Earth’s Star Spokesperson thanks to the Reptilians of the Andromeda Galaxy who chose me for such a position because they consider moi the most compassionate sentient being of this world and its galaxy.

I co-presided as Athenia’s commander with My Ultimate Soulmate, Larkin Kelsey, who was too preoccupied with Dark Matter Intrigue to accompany me on my journeys through the Crab Nebula. Now, this may seem peculiar to you, as Larkin is highly telepathic and can also travel anywhere in time at the snap of a finger. Yet in spite of his remarkable abilities, he is compelled to obey the dictates of An Even Higher Force: a force which rules over, and contains, every aspect of this universe, and all the multiverses ad infinitum. For lack of a better term, let us call this force “Universal Mind.” And this force so deemed that I must embark upon my journey as sole missionary.

The moment I stepped out of The Enterprise v1.2, the first thing that struck me was the planet’s extraordinary sky: like a rippling zebra skin, black elongated clouds sailed seductively against a background of light-gray firmament. Or like the comforter on Leisure Suit Larry‘s water bed, if you switch your perspective from up to down.

The Grand Poobah of this world welcomed me with open tentacles, and escorted me to all their finest hotels, restaurants, theme parks, media outlets, prostitution clubs (from which I refrained the attainment of full orgasm out of respect for My One True Love), 5-D entertainment centers and the average homes of Nebularean Residents. I must say here, that my greatest delight was visiting these domiciles of average citizens, for their hospitality was beyond any Malibu Integral Massage Therapy I could ever imagine, as it came with the most splendiferous arse-rimming perks.

Some days later, the Grand Poobah approached me to offer phenomenal pleasures beyond what I have yet known. He proudly spoke the following declaration which mesmerized me into such fevered temptation, I lost all reason:

“Sensations many you have great in your world that to heights of ecstasy bring you unbelievable. Yet assure you myself, kind vertebrate, that Nebulareans we can titillate your soul in ways never known before you’ve. We expose you can to incredible levels such of ecstasy erotic that again never you will return to former enjoyment ways of seeking!”

Of course I was greatly seduced to dive right in (considering all the sensual amenities already provided me in barely a week since my arrival), but a tiny alarm bell dinged in my cranium:

“But there is one man I love so much, I couldn’t bear to discover any pleasure that would make our delight in each other fade from my heart!” Of course I meant Larkin whose joy in my friendship is the jealousy of 42 thousand galaxies and 574 dimensions. “So with all due respect, I will refrain from your magnanimous offer.”

The Grand Poobah immediately flushed a refulgent pink, but quickly recovered to a sour green. “Course of, perfectly comprehend me. Forgive please indiscretion this. Cultural some differences never be bridged can, and would I dream not broaching social barriers your own.”

The Poobah promptly vanished, and I found myself escorted to an egg-shaped room by His Doppelganger Guardians, where I awaited the descent of The Enterprise v1.8. Which starship beamed me up and returned me to Planet Earth in the wink of a Tralfamadorian‘s orbital socket.

War swiftly broke out between Planet Earth’s Intergalactic Federation and The Crab Nebula’s Union of Soviet Socialist Face Suckers. In less than one week after their initial salvo, the entire Crab Nebula and 18 surrounding galaxies (plus four energy-sponging black holes) were obliterated into subatomic dust. A piece of wisdom you should all bear in mind:

Larkin Kelsey commands the entire fleet of the Andromeda Galaxy, which Reptilians were the first civilization in the entire history of the universe, to leave their home planet and terraform all other worlds. Their technology and understanding of Universal Law far surpasses that of any other sentient life anywhere in the cosmos (or any other cosmos). So when you try to turn me against My Dragonly Heartsong, there will be hell to pay. Or IOW:

Don’t mess with My Buddy Larkin.

Devils in the Details

June 11, 2013

[ Free Me From This Bond (sequel to the sequel): Chapter 4 ]

Arwyn, I don’t really care anymore…
From: Zeke
To: All Archdragons on Immediate Alert

23 May 2013

…whether or not you really love me. Shoving me in the way you did, suddenly placed me in the enemy camp. You have /not/ apologized in any way, to make up for this. Instead, you rubbed salt into my wound, by tossing a lit cigarette into my lap. And then, later, spreading gossip to Castro bartenders, that I am your stalker.

I hate to tell you this, good buddy, but I /always/ win such battles, as I am well seasoned in the Way of Gay Love. The sooner you surrender, the sooner you shall finally know true friendship.

Your suddenly yelling at me tonight, from Castro & Market, does /nothing/ to assert your desire to rule the Castro. I guess you need to know:

It is I, Zeke Krahlin, who rules the ‘hood, not you. Would that we were allies, we’d move ahead a lot faster to establish the Castro as once more, the Jewel in the Crown of LBGT liberation. But you don’t seem to care about that. All you seem to care about, is your own self-glory based upon your extraordinary good looks, and what limited wit you possess.

But I don’t care anymore. I am desperate for male compassion, even if it means getting fukked up the ass w/o a condom, or vice versa. So far, good luck, as I don’t seem to have contracted any form of STD, except perhaps herpes and shingles. But you /should/ know that your sexual and friendship teases have made me crave more than ever before, lovely men with enormous, gorgeous koks.

And it seems to be coming true…though with my lengthy history as unwilling celibate, I am not eager to rush into what may turn out to be nothing more than a sadistic joke by yourself (Arwyn) more than by anyone else. But you must know:

I will fuk and get fukked by as many gorgeous dudes as I can. If I contract AIDS or any other severe form of STD, I will know who caused my demise: YOU! When’s the last time you’ve ever had anything shoved up your ass besides a poodle’s tongue?

You must think me to be an utter /fool/ by still loving you after you shoved me. I can’t imagine then, what you think of me by still being here for you, after you flicked a lit cigarette in my lap!

You will not have to worry about my unwelcome appearances much longer. For I will soon move to Portland and be done with you and the LGBT community, for once and for all.

I hope you have a wonderful life without me (though I don’t see how you can, you scumsucking retard),

– Zeke

Fri, 24 May 2013 11:22:54
Re: Greetings from your new Account Manager
From: Zeke
To: Zelda T. (Twosome Press)

Zelda wrote:

{{ Gertrude Y. took an external position to further her career path, I have taken over a number of her files. Not to worry, I wont be going anywhere and I will see you through the rest of your publishing process. }}

Oh, that’s what they all say. Just kiddin’. It’s an honor to e-meet you, Zelda! Do you have any idea when the illustrator for my cover will be ready for first draft? Thanks.

– Zeke

Date: Mon, 27 May 2013 15:35:38
Re: Greetings from your new Account Manager
From: Zelda (Twosome Press)
To: Zeke

Hi Zeke,

I should have your first illustration proofs back to you this week.

Date: Wed, 29 May 2013 14:29:45
Re: Greetings from your new Account Manager
From: Zeke
To: Zelda T. (Twosome Press)

Zelda wrote:

{{ Hi Zeke,

Here are your first illustration proofs to consider. You are entitled to one round of minor changes free of charge, after that changes can still be made but they are subject to additional charges.

Thank you

Author Account Manager }}

I am very pleased with the color illustration “FMFTB.pdf”. So let’s go with that, no revision necessary. Kudos to the artist.

– Zeke

Click on image for a larger view,
or just buy the damn book.

Date: Wed, 29 May 2013 14:35:29
Cover Illustration is done!
From: Zeke
To: My Andromedan E-frenz

Enjoy! I’m quite happy w/the first draft…so I’m gonna go with that. (See attachment.) A bit heavy on the military theme, but I think it’s fun to lure in unsuspecting readers who don’t care for gay-activist tales.

– Zeke

Date: Wed, 29 May 2013 16:03:48
Re: Cover Illustration is done!
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ Stunning! I’m glad you’re using the photo after all! }}

Oh, yes, /most/ important to get Randolph’s handsome visage on the cover. Twosome made all this brouhaha about avoiding copyright infringement over the news photo. Yet the artist’s rendering is really quite identical. He captured those sky-blue eyes perfectly!

FMFTB is far more than just a book, as I’m sure you’ve realized for some time.

Impetus is my master. Causatum, the slave.

You were spot on when you said that publishing this book will change my world. However, I don’t think you also meant “change” would include this sudden flurry of difficult and almost-miraculous events that have ensued since I began my contract w/Twosome Press.

Arwyn’s a yo-yo. Now that I got his permission to take his pic, he refuses to let me do just that! And now, he doesn’t even wanna see my face anywhere in the Castro. Way over the top, and I told him so. And that /he/ should now get outta /my/ face. (This was out front by Twin Peaks Tavern.)

And for the first time in our almost-eight years of friendship, I said something very mean:

“I’m glad your parents died.” (They were killed in a car accident when he was just a boy.)

His shoulders drooped in resignation, his face turned an ugly shade of liver…and he quickly turned tail to reenter the tavern. I spoke those cold words once more–loud and clear–before the door shut and obliterated our mutual space.

It was a very sad encounter, but I feel strongly at this point, that he needs a walloping dose of his own poison.

– Zeke

PS: Though I now have Arwyn’s permission to use his real name in Book 2, I’ve decided to keep him fictitious (as Arwyn Miles). That way, he will never be able to charge me with anything I wrote about him, that he may find offensive. Or that he may /feign/ offense, just to be a bastard.

I never in my life dreamed that honoring this great fellow by publishing a book about him, would backfire…let alone in such a disgusting manner. Well, I’ve just started chapter 9 (which includes this e-missive almost at top).

No happy ending yet, anywhere in sight between My Own Sorry Self and the eternal horizon.

– Zeke

Date: Sat, 1 Jun 2013 13:24:36
If this is all true…
From: Zeke

…which by “true” I mean that Arwyn is setting me up to conquer him, as well as become notoriously celebrated. I also consider this possibility:

That Arwyn’s calling to bring Randolph Taylor back into my life is about to happen. And he wants me to focus all my love on Randolph, instead of upon My Devious Dragon. So he’s already triggered in me, hatred towards him (and consequent breakup of our once-beatific friendship). Or at least, that is what he /believes/ he’s accomplishing by acting uncorrigibly nasty towards yours truly. But it just won’t work, AFAIC.

Since I’ll only love him that much more, for his selfless dedication towards my own happiness. Let’s just say that going through the motions of seperation is an honorable sacrifice, even though he knows full well that my boundless affections for him only increase day by day, regardless of his behavior. Simply put:

I could /never/ be truly happy with Randolph, if Arwyn should disappear from my world. In fact–should such a sad outcome occur–I’ll coerce Randolph to prove his love for me by tracking down Arwyn, to bring him back into my arms. (Or at that point, I should say “our” arms.)

Few moments ago I stepped out to purchase another quart of vodka from K&D liquors. Which is across Castro Street and on the opposite side of Twin Peaks Tavern. So as I crossed Castro to the liquor store, I suddenly find Arwyn crossing my path barely 10 feet from me, on his way up the hill to collect those two miniature poodles (so I presumed). He turned his head slightly towards the right, to glance at me.

So I raised my own head to look back, with a righteous smirk on my face, though neither of us spoke a word. Surprised he didn’t start screaming “stalker” at me, as he did the last two times we passed by (like two tethered-but-enemy ships in the night). There is /some/ comfort in that, at least. But more than anything else, I really wanted to drop at his feet and weep abundant tears for loss of his friendship…or /dread/ of such loss.

But I’m sure he already feels my spirit, and thus does not require me to surrender my soul in some dramatic overture. Or perhaps he remained silent out of fear I might holler once more:

“I’m glad your parents are dead.”

Well, that’s good I guess. Be that as it may, Arwyn disappeared behind a Coors Beer truck pulling into the corner gas station. And when I entered K&D’S to purchase my vodka, I realized that I forgot to bring my wallet. So I turned tail and marched on home to rectify the situation.

Upon my return to K&D’s I noticed Arwyn across Market Street, talking to and hugging a couple of friends standing outside of Twin Peaks. So once I get a little drunk back hovel (I figured), I’ll step back out to stand around Twin Peaks, that Arwyn may notice my presence. I guess it is /very/ important at this time, to assert my visibility here in the Castro, and be a thorn in his side.

We’ll just have to see what comes of this latest challenge. Which obviously involves my efforts to assist a successful conquest of anger management on Arwyn’s part. It’s just that I /abhor/ placing myself in harm’s way, in order to achieve such a positive result.

We’ll just have to see, as I’m back hovel right now, sipping my hootch and composing this e-missive. Gotta go now to perform this latest deed of heartfelt outreach. Will report back to you, soon.

– Zeke (Friday, May 31 around 4 PM)

PS: Another aspect to my “If this is true…” statement, is: “if this is true…that Arwyn is a detective, and myself his faithful sidekick,” then our public display of mutual distaste will deflect the cult from targeting me. But until I know for certain, I /must/ deal with our present crisis on at least /two/ levels of reality. But one thing I know beyond a shadow of a doubt: I am most certainly /not/ a stalker. In fact, I am his very best friend of all time and space. And do /not/ appreciate his crude mind-fuks that started some time in mid January. My life sucks right now, like quickmud to a flamingo.

The only thing I regret, El, is not speaking out when Arwyn and I crossed paths this time. Oh well, maybe next time I’ll have my chance to speak my mind. Which is:

“Hey, you fukkin piece of shit. Your parents are DEAD. Dead, dead, dead! Yay! You are a murderer!” (Referring here to his vicious gossip that I’m his stalker, thus eventually reaching the ears of a homeless nut job who’ll terrorize and bash me due to society’s persistant vulgarity against gay folks. No blood on /his/ hands, so what the hey! He gets to rule the Castro roost, once I’m obliterated. Nice guy, eh?)

Arwyn is no longer any sort of hero in my eyes. He /must/ be Arwyn Miles throughout the entire trilogy. Nor do I /really/ have any more good words for My Randolph. This trilogy therefore, shall /not/ have a happy ending…much to my disapponitment and surprise.

I /have/ no friends in the Castro. Or anywhere else. It has always been thus. Gay people do /not/ have it easy, no matter where we live. Constant terrorism is the lot of our life, whether or not we find some way to repress this ugly reality in order to live out our lives, and perhaps carve out a somewhat fulfilling outcome.

Personally, I don’t think it’s all worth the trouble, when heteros already have their lives blessed with zillions of extra points the moment they pop outta the womb. Talk about lousy odds in the first place! (If you are a hetero now reading this, I say: “Go crap on your own sinful nest and stop blaming gays for your pornographic sins! You are worse than Nazis! I got you figured out even if no one else has. And you self-proclaimed bisexuals are no better.”)

The hetero world shall soon be cursed for their vulgar and willful ignorance.

This SF gay “community” is nothing more than a clique of wealthy queers who spit upon their own gay brothers and sisters, simply because they lack the money required for finding some sort of camaradery in their lives. It’s still “fuk you” for those whose finances cannot meet the demands of San Francisco’s elite privileges. I therefore conclude:

Curse the City and all its arrogant leaders, including our so-called “official” gay activists and celebrities. Whose only /real/ accomplishments have been to appease our heterosexual overlords. Anybody got a puke bucket handy?

Many are called but few are chosen,
So step right up for your lederhosen.

* end rant *

Date: Wed, 5 Jun 2013 13:58:49
Does Arwyn Really Give a Damn?
From: Zeke
To:My Andromedan Therapist

Didn’t realize till today after looking over my pic of Arwyn at Twin Peaks Tavern. While you can see his back and a bit of his face, you can /also/ see his full portrait in the reflection of the shade-drawn window just to his right. That is /his/ head, the one with crewcut hair. While rather blurry, you can still get some idea of how good looking /is/ this fellow. In case you’ve deleted that image in a previous attachment, you can also view it online:


While the back of his T-shirt exclaims “I give a damn,” I must conclude that such a passionate regard does not include /me/ in the least. Can you say “hypocrite?”

While he presently breaks my heart over and over again these days, he seems to be placing his face in positions where I can get a full image of his ejaculatory mug (while I’m hanging at Jane Warner Plaza), w/o him knowing (thank goddess for these digital palm-size cameras). None of this would be possible, BTW, were Twin Peaks /not/ completely exposed by plate-glass windows on both sides, looking directly onto Market and Castro…where any passerby and his lackey can gaze within and view every single patron to the minutest detail.

But even when My Fey Wyvern steps outside for a smoke, he keeps his face in a camera-friendly position relative to my location ten or more yards away. Dare I raise my Samsung ST76 to eye level and begin shooting? Is this what Arwyn wants: to play a game of cloak and dagger, where I get this thrill from daring to snap a photo or two, not knowing how he’ll react?

I do not think that Arwyn really considers me his lurker in the least. But that he feels such guilt over his recent abuses towards This Maligned Witness, it racks his soul to be reminded of his offenses by my visible presence. Albeit outside: either on the sidewalk, or the asphalt that now comprises the sacred ground upon which dwells the gracious memory of Officer Jane.

I missed a great chance two days ago, to snap a hot photo of Arwyn’s face while he was chewing the blubber with another Twin Peaks customer having a smoke outside. I was poised almost directly across (and 15 feet from) My Beloved Basilisk, seated as I was on the concrete divider seperating the plaza from foot traffic.

So you can expect a really /righteous/ photo of the man in a short while from now. And by “short” I mean one or two weeks from today, at the latest.

Or get strangled in the attempt.

– Zeke

Date: Wed, 5 Jun 2013 14:31:32
Re: Does Arwyn Really Give a Damn?
From: Zeke
To: My Andromedan Therapist

MAT wrote:

{{ I would definitely like to see the mug that launched a thousand quips! }}

Oh, that is shooting just below the hips!

– Zeke

Date: Mon, 3 Jun 2013 14:42:59
Re: Here’s the cover illustration…
From: Sammy D.

Sammy wrote:

{{ Your book looks excellent, Zeke! Congratulations! }}

Thanks, Sammy. I am /very/ pleased with the cover. Can’t wait till my first pub’d novel is released to an unsuspecting world. :)

{{ I’m happy to hear Chuck is doing better although I am also sorry to hear that he continues to be a douchebag. }}

A major douchebag, indeed! Chuck is typical of closet cases: asserts his machismo now and then to make others believe he /must/ be a hetero. So when a blatantly homosexual activist appears in their world, such as myself…they tend to go overboard with asserting their alpha superiority.

Several days back, I approached him to say hi and maybe shoot the oxen. Instead, he blasted insults at me and made a bunch of false accusations. His way of asserting that my poop could never smell as fresh and sweet as his. Anywayz, you get the picture.

So I told him to chill out immediately, get a grip, take a deep breath. He continued to scream, so I just walked away. Saw him next day, and he accused /me/ of being an asshole, ’cause I chose to walk on by instead of engage in further conversation.

{{ I did speak to him a few weeks ago and he said he is living in some sort of garage }}

I didn’t know about that…just that some church folks have reached out to him, and are making his world a lot more stable. Fortunately, they seem the progressive types, that is: not at all fanatic about their belief.

{{ he said that he saw the copy of the new Sandie’s Quest in hardcover that you had…..hey, that was actually on the NY Times bestseller list for one week a few months ago!! }}

That is such wonderful news, Sammy! I hope some day soon I’ll be right up there with ya! Funny how a book can linger in the shadows for years, then suddenly the whole world discovers it, as if out of the blue.

{{ We have gotten a lot of press on it that can be seen by doing a google search on the title. }}

Yes! Excellent review by Slate. I will check out more on this bittersweet renaissance of Sandie’s Quest, when I next have time. (I recently lost my wifi access from home. So I have to use public access to get on the ‘net any more. A real hassle, as it has wiped out my fast-flowing inspiration while “plugged in.”)

{{ If I talk to him I will yell at him for giving you a hard time, since you have been so helpful to me to know how he is! }}

Ha, that would be hilarious. I’m sure he’ll deny it, ask you to tell him the incident, etc. etc. But he certainly has earned the anger of many. And it greatly perturbs me when closet cases gather in the Castro and get pushy, rude and threatening with their desire to be perceived as heterosexual…mainly because such behavior deteriorates the safety of our neighborhood, and encourages even more homophobic violence.

Oddly enough, Chuck was screaming at me about my lover, who is a detective and now embedded in the gay bar right by the same corner where your bro and other houseless hang out (Jane Warner Plaza). I was excited to point my Arwyn out to him and some others, to show I didn’t make up the tales about him and myself, which comprises the major part of my trilogy.

Not that Arwyn steps out to talk to Rom et al, but he is there to watch over me, until said time the bust occurs. It will be simultaneously performed in three bars in the Castro. But Arwyn is very protective of me, and if he gets wind of Rom’s nastiness towards me, he will drive him outta there. As he does to anyone else that gossips against me.

So go ahead if you want, rake ‘im over the cinders. Or not. Either approach is just dandy with me.

Again, congrats on the latest reviews and popularity of a most seminal work. I am /so/ happy for you and your soulmate, Dolores.

– Zeke

Date: Mon, 3 Jun 2013 14:42:59
Re: Here’s the cover illustration…
From: Zelda T. (Twosome Press)

Hi Zeke,

Here is your cover proof with the revisions you requested. Please go in to your Account Centre and complete the Illustration Sign off form.

Zelda T.
Author Account Manager

Date: Tue, 4 Jun 2013 19:38:43
Re: Here’s the cover illustration…
From: Zeke
To:Zelda T. (Twosome Press)

Just tried to download the image, but it’s /really/ slow, then finally gives up. I’ll attempt a few more times. Right now, my browser says download time is approx’ly 26 hours (for just 16 MB)! My hunch is a server problem. No problem at this end, downloading from other services.

Date: Wed, 05 Jun 2013 08:19:29
Re: Here’s the cover illustration…
From: Zelda T. (Twosome Press)
To: Zeke

Zeke wrote:

{{ I was finally able to view it on Google Drive…it’s the downloading that’s a problem. I’m gonna approve the cover illustration right away. I am totally delighted. }}

Hi Zeke,

Thank you for completing that form. I have now sent your manuscript to be prepped for our design layout team. And we should have your project in the design queue in a week.

Thank you for all of your hard work,

Zelda T.
Author Account Manager

Date: Wed, 5 Jun 2013 15:01:22
Alexander Hamilton Post 448
From: Zeke
To: My E-frenz

1983 here in SF, gay activists Paul Hardman and Bob Basker co-founded the first–and still at this late date, the /only/–LGBT post of the American Legion, named after founding father Alexander Hamilton. Both have since passed on (1996 and 2001, respectively). You can learn more about them by googling “Paul Hardman [or “Bob Basker”] Alexander Hamilton Post.” Their history and dedication to the struggle for gay equality are both impressive and lengthy.

“But what on earth do they have to do with this chapter, this book?” you may well ask. So here’s my reply, that the world may finally know of their excellent assistance towards Randolph Taylor and myself, as a result of his suicide attempt in 1985, and my own outreach towards this excellent Marine:

When Randolph shot himself in 1985 (and survived) at the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C., I anticipated a glowing article about his history and achievements, in at least /one/ of our local gay papers. But neither the Bay Area Reporter (B.A.R.) nor the Sentinel (now long defunct) nor any /other/ LGBT media covered this tragic event. Randolph was not just a Nam Vet and anti-war activist here in SF, but also a gay activist and outspoken SFPD cop who did not hide his sexual proclivity. He was also the very /first/ “Mr. Castro,” way back in 1980. You may read that article here:


So I contacted various queer media sources in the SF Bay Area, including the B.A.R., begging them to cover his latest newsworthy event (albeit tragic), considering he’s our very own LGBT war hero of great achievement. So the B.A.R. finally came out with the following article:

Gay Vet Taylor Recovering in D.C.
Bullet Remains in Chest After Shooting at Viet Memorial


Which includes mention of yours truly, under my birth name of “Gene Catalano.” FYI, I changed my legal name to Zeke Krahlin in 1996.

Sean H.: you certainly remember that momentous year, seeing as you still resided in 2306, and we often hanged out in your room two floors directly above me, or during our occasional strolls throughout The City (often to the Inner Sunset for pizza).

During my desperate appeals for our Gay Family to send letters, cards and flowers of kind regards to My Randolph, the Alexander H. Post 448 of the American Legion got in touch with me, and offered their most generous efforts to provide Randolph with tremendous support. Including getting him back here to San Francisco with an affordable apartment, friendship, PTSD therapy, and other compassionate acts.

Any gay or lesbian (or transexual, transgender or bisexual) veteran who seeks camaraderie, genuine support and ultimate respect for their sacrifices: I heartily recommend they get in touch with the Alexander Hamilton Post. Their contact information is as follows:

Alexander Hamilton Post 448
P.O. Box 14939
San Francisco, CA 94114-0939.
Phone: 415-431-1413
Email: info@post448.org

I have only the greatest regard for our LGBT veterans, thanks to My Beloved Randolph Louis Taylor.

– Zeke

Date: Thu, 6 Jun 2013 19:27:11
Re: Gay Veterans Unite!
From: Zeke
To: Carlyle Lambourne

Carlyle wrote:

{{ Ezekiel,

I’ve been reading some very revealing articles in “The Progressive” about things that went on in Vietnam – atrocities committed by U.S. troops, such as making a game of running over Vietnamese children with trucks–even had a name for it–some kind of “hockey” I think.

For young men who had a conscience, like Randolph, that must have been part of the disillusionment and emotional difficulty. I am curious if he had made any any statement prior to the suicide attempt.

Regards, Carlyle }}

Yes, I think that Vietnam marked a new escalation in brainwashing and manipulation of US citizens. As for Randolph’s insight into this matter:

I think he was too damaged to expose the truth. As a result he finally saw me as the enemy, and spit in my face. I am now dealing with a similar situation with Arwyn. Simply because I stand for the truth.

Randolph refused to speak out against the persecution of homosexual soldiers, including their death through so-called “friendly fire.” I /did/ challenge him on this, but his lips remained sealed. I can only imagine what other horrors crushed his soul.

– Zeke

Date: Thu, 6 Jun 2013 16:46:00
What’s with your hacking alert?
From: Zeke
To: Sean H.

Hey Sean, just so you know: I haven’t received any email from you other than your genuine posts. IOW: nothing received that suggests a hacker’s usurpation.

I’m also quite curious as to who this hacker is…one of your PC service people?

Anywayz, you’ve received my email about Paul Hardman (Alexander Hamilton Post). After sending it, I then remembered your unpleasant experience with him. Once Chapter 9 is on my blog (which includes mention of Hardman), please feel free to expose his dark side. I will keep it up in the comments section.

After all, fair is fair. And the truth must be told.

– Zeke

Date: Thu, 6 Jun 2013 19:34:12
How goes the stitching of the new gay flag?
From: Zeke
To: Keith

Saw Gus a couple hours ago in front of Twin Peaks Tavern as he waited to cross the street. Pointed Arwyn out to him, who was seated at the bar with a poodle in his lap. (He does dog walking for money, among other chores, such as hustling older men for companionship.)

Gus simply countered: “I should take Levi for a walk now.” But I was too preoccupied with other demands to have the good sense to give
him a hug before we parted.

So, dear Keith, how is your sewing coming along, regarding my design for a new gay flag?

Please know that I am back on the Internet from my hovel, though with some technical difficulty.

– Zeke

Date: Fri, 07 Jun 2013 05:01:17
Re: What’s with your hacking alert?
From: Sean H.
To: Zeke

Donald V., 67, retired computer consultant, e-mailed me that he had received a link to a French porno site with my return address on it. He knew I wouldn’t send such a thing, and suggested that a recent addition to my e-mail contact list is probably the culprit. Sure enough (and I rarely add anyone to my contact list) the night prior I had received an e-mail from a screwy character I know in one of my circles, and added his e-mail to my contact list. So Don suggested that I change my password to that e-mail, which I did. My screwy associate sent me a message about a Bobby Rydell booking at a local casino near my house, via his stupid cell phone.

Date: Fri, 7 Jun 2013 09:25:10
Re: What’s with your hacking alert?
From: Zeke
To: Sean H.

Okay, here’s what you need to do to prevent this from ever happening again:

Use BCC (blind carbon copy) instead of CC, when you post to a group of netizens. That way, no one can see the email address of anyone else.

AAMOF, you really should /never/ use CC unless you get explicit permission from that person, to show his address. It is a violation of netiquette to freely use CC in mailing lists…and in so doing, you’ve compromised not just your own system and privacy, but everyone else’s on the list.

I have advised many folks to stop using CC, and even though I explain why, they continue to use it. When the Internet took off, many more people participated w/o any knowledge of this rule, and other rules of netiquette. Much to the chagrin of older geeks like myself.

And this is why I coined the term “anal og” for such types.

For a mailing list, use your own address in “To:”, then everyone else’s address in the “BCC:” slot. You’ll of course get a copy of your own email…a small price to pay to keep it secure.

– Zeke

PS: Haven’t you noticed yet that my own “E-frenz” mailing list never shows the addresses? Also, you were /not/ hacked: he simply posted back to you via “Reply All.” Therefore, you did not really need to change your mailbox password. I don’t even think it was intentionally malicious. Seems to be a case of two “anal ogs” not knowing the difference between CC and BCC, or “Reply” and “Reply All.”

Date: Fri, 7 Jun 2013 11:35:01
Re: How goes the stitching of the new gay flag?
From: Keith
To: Zeke

A friend borrowed my sewing machine on the same day (if I remember correctly) that I gathered the first fabrics and asked you permission to use your flag design. She’s still using it, but that’s fine since I also still need to find a few more colors (2 or 3, depending on what I end up using to make the snake – it might be hard to find it randomly in a thrift shop, so I have an idea for a material I can create by fusing a couple different things together, but I need to find out how to make it durable enough to sew into the rest of the flag without being too heavy for the 99 cent bin silk blouses I got for the color bands).

I did begin work on a new lantern in honor of the approaching comet, in the meantime. Here’s a video of what it looks like today but I still have a month (maybe a bit more but probably not less than that) to work on it, I think. It’s made from scrap wood, tape, scraps of plastic I got from a friend, hot glue, leftover paint, and led lights i got back when I was (LOL) employed. I think that’s why my zodiac sign is a goat. It is eating up all the trash and cannibalizing itself.

– Keith

Click on image to view the video.

Date: Fri, 7 Jun 2013 15:13:44
Re: How goes the stitching of the new gay flag?
From: Zeke
To: Keith

Keith wrote:

{{ A friend borrowed my sewing machine on the same day (if I remember correctly) that I gathered the first fabrics and asked you permission to use your flag design. }}

No problemo, I’m /very/ excited that you are honoring me this way (along w/the many other ways thus far). Of course, feel free to embellish and/or make the design much classier than my own clumsy result.

Funny story: I had that design (and another) copyrighted by the Library of Congress, back in 1990. Copyright numbers are six digits w/hyphen in the middle. Imagine my surprise when the only snake design I ever created, was given this number:


Now, the “666” is amazing enough (what are the odds, eh?). But did you know that the number 187 is police code for “homicide”?

{{ without being too heavy for the 99 cent bin silk blouses I got for the color bands). }}

Ribbon perhaps?

{{ I did begin work on a new lantern in honor of the approaching comet }}

Oh, I wasn’t aware of this comet. What is it’s name, and when is it due?

The lantern is /lovely/…looks just like medieval stained glass. And the colors are /remarkable/.

{{ I think that’s why my zodiac sign is a goat. It is eating up all the trash and cannibalizing itself. }}

Oh, please. You are wonderful /and/ funny!

<3, Zeke

Date: Fri, 7 Jun 2013 16:42:36
Proof of Copyright Number
From: Zeke
To: Keith


Click on “go back one page” link at top, to read a /poem/ about my design. I’m sure you’ll love it. Almost as much as you love me.

– Zeke, who misses your sweet company so /very/ much. Gus, too.

Date: Fri, 7 Jun 2013 17:23:10
RE: Gay Veterans Unite!
From: Zeke
To: Carlyle Lambourne

Carlyle wrote:

{{ Ezekiel,

I had known some gay Vietnam soldiers when Sonny and I lived in Washington, D.C. }}

That must’ve been quite an eye opener!

{{ They did have “damage” as psychological quirks and things that they didn’t want to talk about. I doubt that very many escaped, unscathed. }}

I am here to liberate such tortured souls. At least, the gay ones.

– Zeke

Date: Fri, 7 Jun 2013 18:12:00
AsIan Lady Hopping to the Pop
From: Zeke
To: My Exhausted Readers

Now, I’m sure you need another break from my Arwyn reveries and activist drama just as much as I do. So here’s a brief video of a very typical scene so often encountered in the eccentric city of Baghdad by the Bay. Dancing to some Chinese pop music from a boombox, this lady goes for the gusto on the north side of San Francisco’s main public library. You rock, Asian lady!

Click on image to view the video.

Date: Fri, 7 Jun 2013 18:59:20
Remember John Wesley…
From: Zeke
To: My E-frenz

…from chapter 7 (“Da Poifek Storm”) of Book 3: Free Me From This Bond (sequel to the sequel)? He kindly sent me a postcard from Vermont, before jetting off to Europe. Check this out (click on either image below for a larger view):

Seeing as his handwriting leaves something to be desired, here is my best effort to display his message in clear text:

June 2, 2013

Zeke: so thanks again for the interesting essay material and your wonderful hosting skills. It was great to meet and discuss life in San Francisco the way we did. Nice to know there are a few Kerouac cases still out there. Trying to get overseas on a Swiss Intelligence Visa. All this with no cell phone or personal Internet is a strenuous challenge. Good luck, see you next time. John Langley.”

Notice his last name appears more like “Langley” than “Wesley”…but his difficult handprinting may be the cause for this mistranslation. Or not. I probably misconstrued two or three other words as well.

[ Helpful Reader: if you can decipher certain words that I can’t resolve, please post me your solution. I will forever be grateful. ]

Suffice it to conclude:

John is such a sweet and handsome dude, I miss him so much already. His thick, cut kok was a dream to lick and blow. Not to mention his divinely sculpted body (OMG, those shapely legs! He’s 51 yet feels and looks 28), handsome face, angelic affections and darling friendship. So kind of him to post me this card. I have never before experienced such thoughtful regard by anyone with whom I’ve bedded down and loved. It’s like my life has only just begun, at 62 years of youth. I sincerely hope my brief affair with John will be more than just a delightful memory.

Oh John, thank you for thinking of me!

– Zeke

Date: 8 Jun 2013 20:46:49
Deliverance Seems Imminent
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

So yesterday morning (June 8th) around 11 AM, I encounter My Wily Wyvern once more, outside Twin Peaks Tavern where I sit at the far end of Jane Warner Plaza to soak up the sun and read Hermann Hesse’s book “The Journey to the East.” (Which book BTW, was presented to me as a gift four days ago by an elderly gentleman named Ron at Howard’s Cafe, and with serious medical conditions.)

I had just dined on a breakfast of a whole wheat (seeded) bagel w/cream cheese down the block, before showing up at the plaza, cup of coffee in hand. No sooner had I read the words “One of the characteristics of the Journey to the East was that although the League aimed at quite definite, very lofty goals…”

…than Arwyn marches from the Twin Peaks entrance, in my direction. Of course I’m totally aware of his imminent approach, and thus my soul bursts with joy. But I feign focus on the book, as if I’m not even aware of his presence, whether inside or outside TP Tavern. Next thing I know, Arwyn hovers above me seated in a red metal chair of great weight, that scumbags may be discouraged from stealing them from Officer Jane’s Holy Remembrance.

Instead of exploding into tears of joy, I maintain a grim face upon Arwyn’s appeal that showers blessings upon me:

“Look, Zeke, I don’t want enmity between us. I propose a truce. All I ask is that you leave me alone.” So I rebel (though still gazing into my book):

“Arwyn! I’ve never felt /any/ hatred towards you. I’m only giving you a taste of your own medicine,” thank goddess for this opportunity to speak my mind, albeit terribly brief. Thus I continue:

“I’ve /never/ stalked you, Arwyn! How do you explain all our hugs and sweet conversation from October to January? Then shortly after, you begin to treat me so mean. For more than 5 months now!” I then inhale to complete my diatribe:

“The reason I confronted you…”

Arwyn interrupts with a deep sigh, turns around and walks back toward Twin Peaks Tavern. I mock:

“Not much of a /truce/ if you insist on doing all the speaking, and I must shut up throughout! You’re a /bad/ dragon, a /bad/ little dragon!”

With that–and before he’s less than ten feet from the Twin Peaks entrance–Arwyn clutches his firm, reptilian buttocks with both paws, and jiggles his gluteus maximus in subjugation. I retort in a voice loud enough to be heard a half block down:

“You /bet/ I own your ass! I could tap that bumper all night long!” He ignores me, so I rant on: “You’re a /bad/ little dragon. A very /bad/ little dragon!” And just before he closes the door behind him, he hears my final blessing (for that day):

“You have a /wonderful/ day, Arwyn!”

There is something so belove-ed about This Fine Dragon, I can’t help but fight to the death (if need be) for our unique and most sweet affections. Arwyn is that beautiful to me. (If you believe I am deluded and helplessly infatuated, then all I can say is: “Go fuk yourself, arsewipe!”)

Date: Sun, 9 Jun 2013 13:32:09
Detective Fantasy #2
From: Zeke
To: My E-frenz

Following on the gumshoe heels of my first fantasy–where Arwyn and associates bust a murderous cult out of the SOMA gay bars–is /this/ dark tale of criminal intrigue here in the Castro.

So Arwyn spreads gossip among these bars in my own ‘hood, only because it’s the best strategy to keep me away from the Castro booze joints which have become too risky to protect me from violent attacks and further enmity. He slanders me as his stalker to all the barkeeps, guaranteeing I won’t slip up and enter a bar with total nonchalance, believing I’m quite safe only because I can’t perceive the web of danger that has descended upon this gay-historic precinct.

The remainder of this cult which I call “The Disciples of the Zodiac Killer” has recently migrated from SOMA (thanks to our diligent cooperation with the SFPD) into the Castro. Seeing as I’ve made myself their main target in order to facilitate Arwyn’s roundup of these culprits who’ve now infiltrated my own neighborhood. I am a sitting duck to My Dragon’s avenging retaliation.

Looks to me there will be a simultaneous bust across these bars, by more than 130 plainclothes under My Brave Dragon’s leadership. Don’t know exactly /which/ day (or time of day) this cleansing will occur: suffice it to say “soon.” Maybe within a day or two, but certainly not more than two weeks from now.

Arwyn and associates will handcuff more than 40 suspects, and escort them to the county jail cells at 850 Bryant. Which will result in a resurgence of Castro gay bars as both friendly and safe…after so many years being plagued by heterocentric ripoffs and gay bashing. Numbering those who shall be arrested will be City Hall politicians and others who are celebrated among San Francisco’s most elite and privileged.

And shortly after that Arwyn will phone me, to invite me over to his apartment (less than one block from my own residence) for dinner et cetera. It is this “et cetera” I look most forward to!

Date: Sun, 9 Jun 2013 19:59:59
RE: Gay Veterans Unite!
From: Carlyle Lambourne
To: Zeke


I’ve totally lost touch with those acquaintances from Washington area- I recall one named Marv Miles, another named Ken Parris, a fair number whose names I cannot even recall, anymore. Most were promiscuous in the bar scene (these were the last, innocent pre-AIDS days) so I hope that they matured and avoided HIV.

One Viet veteran (Terence Martin) that we knew in MA and was part Navaho later moved to Illinois, and haven’t seen him in years. He was one who described to me how the American soldiers sometimes shot Vietnamese farmers for “target practice.” Not like this was some rare, unusual thing, either. More like *of course* they did. He’s now in a stable, long-term relationship.

I think that what the military does to the psyches of naive young men is worse than the pedophiles in the Catholic Church.

Rgards, Carlyle

Date: Sun, 9 Jun 2013 23:47:11
Yet one more letter snail-mailed to Arwyn
From: Zeke
To: My Angels of Justice

Enjoy my latest salvo against one who pretended to be my gracious ally for many years:


How dare you fukkin insult me by treating me like someone who now disgusts you, after us being so friendly for so long? After my giving you such nice gifts, including tales about our adventures, which you so happily accepted over more than six years?

How dare you shove me when you’re twice my size, and wind up forcing me to suffer a slipped disk?

How dare you toss a lit cigarette into my lap, then expect me the next day to show you sympathy for the tragic loss of your parents?

How dare you slander me by gossiping at bars and to anyone else who’ll listen, by calling me your stalker?

How dare you propose a truce after all the enmity created was perpetrated solely by your own pathetic self?

How dare you try to scare or coerce me into hiding my presence from you in my own neighborhood, when it is you who is the sole spreader of misery, lies, and endangerment of my own person?

FYI: any of your so-called friends who approach me with a distorted and false hatred against me (thanks to your vulgar gossip): I will show them a copy of your signed permission to use your real name and photo for my book…just so they’ll realize something else is going on, other than your deceptive hatred against me. I’ll make enough copies, that they may even have this form to show you.

Also FYI: did you yet see my letter to Sloan (barkeep at the Mix), explaining your phony accusations, enclosed with a copy of your permission form, so she can realize my side of the story? The fact you gave permission for such, indicates a friendly association…as anyone who officially allows an author to write about them, shows great trust and suggestion of a longterm friendship.

Have you also seen the letters I sent to Tommy and Mike (and Bryan) of Pilsner Inn, revealing your spiteful attacks against me, in your self-instigated war to drive me out of Castro bars and even my own neighborhood? You flicked a lit cigarette at me in that bar. Something which if you witnessed another doing, you would have them promptly kicked out.

How dare you instill so much hatred by so many against me, simply because you are a sociopathic, peabrained idiot?

How’d you like me to place a restraining order on you, that you stay at least 60 feet away from me, and I start hanging out at Twin Peaks Tavern (and other local bars)?

How’d you like to be arrested for persistent and grievous slander against me, that arouses threats and violence against my person?

How dare you propose a “truce” when you have been the lone perpetrator in defaming me, and causing many to view me with mockery, disgust and hatred?

How dare you propose a “truce” where I “leave you alone” when that actually means that I make myself invisible to you in my own neighborhood, and that you never want anything to do with me again?

How dare you give me so many kind hugs and conversations, only to suddenly turn on me like a rabid wolverine…then blame me for your disgusting behavior and belittlement towards a good friend (as I am…or “was”).

Try showing this to a lawyer and see where it gets you. Ha ha.

– Zeke

PS: I guess you didn’t think your devious plan through (to destroy me) very well, did you? Welcome to my world. FYI: I always win these battles where scumbags try to wipe me out. I just never dreamed you’d become my latest enemy. So be it.

Date: Tue, 11 Jun 2013 21:05:05
The Screaming Machete
From: Zeke
To: All Saki Fans Everywhere

Okay, as I promised, here is the /second/ true horror story even scarier than “Skin in the Box,” which also involves Don Walz as the hapless messenger of evil tidings. Some time in 1998 or 1999:

It is well after sunset that Don buzzes my unit to bring me a “gift,” and thought would make for a hilarious conversation piece. Why on earth he thought of /me/ among all his many friends to be the recipient of such a diabolical curio is beyond /my/ comprehension. And must remain one of those secrets buried with him, now that he has passed on. Personally, I believe he was paranormally /seduced/ into delivering it unto my unsuspecting hands. For which reason will be clear as this tale progresses.

So I pick up the phone: “Yeah?”

“It’s me! Got something for ya!”

Why on earth do my friends refuse to identify themselves, and assume I’ll recognize their voice over this tinny intercom, after I’ve told them time and time again to state their name? It’s not like I don’t have enemies who often force me to screen my calls. I ponder before replying:

“Well who is it?”

“Don! Let me in.” He responds while chuckling like a demented crackhead (which he is not, though he does have his idiotic moments).

So I press 9 on the dialpad, that he may open the gate and enter. Then I step into the hallway and await his ascent up the cheaply carpeted stairway. Illuminated by dim, 20-watt light bulbs that glare naked from brass chains which dangle from the 14-foot ceiling. (My apartment building, 2306 Market–also called “Dolores Apartments”–was built in 1904, and is very much the haunted lair. Rumor has it that Anton LaVey, founder of the Church of Satan, once lived there, in the turret.) He appears holding some sort of machete sheathed in leather, with a handle that also appears to be leather, but is carved or shaped into some sort of face w/o any color other than dessicated cowhide.

Upon closer inspection the face appears to be a Mexican devil with a twisted grin. Its eyes seem to roll. I shudder. Once in my SRO, I withdraw the long, curved knife from its sheath to discover a slightly rusted (but still sharp) machete with several splashes of dried blood on it. At least I think it’s blood, due to its dark maroon shade. Could be something else though, but the overall impact is chilling. So I quickly place it back in the scabbard.

I set it on Desk #2: “This is hideous, Don. Where did you find it?”

“In a dumpster by Dolores Park!” he gloats.

“Well, it’s a scary object, and I don’t think I could live with this thing in the same room.”

“Oh. But, why don’t you keep it overnight?” he suggests. “If you don’t really want it, just pass it on to someone who does,” insists Don, who then says he gotta split to pick up Babe from a friend’s place.

So I’m suddenly left alone in my dumpy hovel, with a machete that grins evilly at me, no matter where in the room I stand. I find it most unnerving, and can’t concentrate very well on my computer’s BBS activities, or television. Before hitting the sack, I decide to pull the ladder out from beside the fridge, climb it and place the offending object on the loft. Out of sight, out of mind. Or so I believe.

But once tucked cozily in my bedding I drift into a most unsettling slumber. Dreams of a talking machete haunt my sleep. It jumps out of the sheath and lands on Desk #3, to chide me:

Your enemies created me, to slay you. Anyone who grabs my hilt will be suddenly compelled to slash you into many pieces!

Then this devil-hilt grins even wider, and screetches an ultra-high pitch that can only be heard by my disturbed imagination. My eardrums feel as if punctured by sewing needles, and a chill sweat drenches the two comforters meant to keep me warm on icy nights. I awake many times through the damp wee hours, looking up at the loft in fear that the machete will suddenly leap upon my bed and slit my throat.

Morning arrives at last, and I fix a quick breakfast of rolled oats and raisins, then depart for Muddy Waters Coffeehouse on Church Street, with this strange knife sheathed and secured in my backpack. After ordering a mocha latte and lemon bar, I notice Topaz seated four tables away. He’s a recent acquaintance I first met some weeks back at this venue: has an anteater nose, thick framed glasses, and long, straggly hair that falls well below the shoulders. No muscle tone whatsoever, just a flabby geek between the age of 24 and 32.

So I decide to show him the machete, rise from my chair and approach him.

“Hello ‘Paz, may I sit down?”

“Sure,” he invites. “What’s up, Zeke?”

I then tell him of the extraordinary item I received last night from a street buddy, and would he like to check it out?

“Only please, don’t remove the blade from its sheath,” I instruct, then withdraw the curious item from my pack and place it on the table.

But no sooner do I set it down, than he ignores my plea and slides it out of the scabbard. I am afraid now that he’ll suddenly swipe it across my neck…plus, it is a crime to expose a large knife in public, for which I could be charged with a felony. I grow most pissed, and wish to punch him out for this arrogant disrespect. I sit there in trembling repose as he holds the knife in his feeble hands, and closely examines the blade and hilt.

I’m ready to scream: PUT THE DAMN MACHETE BACK IN ITS SHEATH. WHAT THE FUK DID I JUST TELL YOU? It’s all I can do to restrain outrage.

“Hmm,” he muses while turning the blade several times beneath his glare. “This /is/ a strange thing. Don’t know what to make of it.”

Topaz finally replaces the machete into its sleeve and returns it to my hands, desperate to bury it once more in my backpack. I then excuse myself, wishing never again to associate with this wingnut dufus.

I have to get rid of this pronto, I later conclude on my way back hovel, where I stash the blade on the loft once more, and figure out how to dispose of it. All the while hearing the demon’s shrill laughter in the back of my troubled mind:

You will /never/ get rid of me for long! Someone /else/ will find me, and hand it to /another/ who brings it to /another/, who is compelled w/o having a clue to bring it back unto your presence, mocks the Sonoran Imp. Remember: he who wields the hilt will slice you to bits and not even know why, or remember!

Rivulets of icy sweat run down my temples and cheeks as I attempt to figure out how to defeat this monster. Dusk falls and I sit in my room, alone with the machete and still undecided how to dispose of it…or perhaps “him.” Then, around 8 PM, someone buzzes my hovel. It is Roman. A burly dude straight out of the Michigan woods and 6-foot-2. Scary dude, no doubt. Arrived in San Francisco about four years ago: a tentative friend at best. Definitely heterosexual, like many infiltrators of the Castro who feign gay friendly.

So I tell him to wait by the bus stop, I have something to show him. I run down the stairway with machete in hand, and open the gate to speak with him on the sidewalk.

“What do you think of this, Roman? Don presented this to me last night, but I think I should get rid of it ASAP.”

Roman examines the hilt and scabbard, then removes the blade from its sheath for closer examination. He then looks up at me with trepidation:

“Yes! Get rid of it right away. It’s a sacrificial knife that has killed many people!”

“Well, could you please get rid of it for me? Break it up into pieces first, and dispose of it in seperate trash bins!” I request.

So Roman departs with the Satanic weapon, which fortunately I never see again. Though I really have no idea whether he really shattered the knife and trashed it in various garbage receptacles. As far as I know, he might’ve sold it for a tidy profit. In which case the machete will find its way back to me, on some dark day.

Several weeks later I cross paths with Roman and ask him about that machete. All he says is “I got rid of it,” but does not elucidate as to exactly /how/.

I still see Roman from time to time after all these years…usually to purchase some high grade ganja. And I wonder: Should I ask him about the devil’s knife one more time? Or should I just keep my mouth shut?”

I still have occasional nightmares about pieces of a fragmented machete being drawn back together through some sort of dark bruja magic, to reform themselves into a whole, and hunt me down through the hands of naive mensajeros.

– Zeke

Moby’s Dick

March 28, 2012

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 2 ]

Date: Mon, 26 Mar 2012 08:07:37
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: Moby’s Dick

Ha ha, I really mean “Moby Dick’s”, a gay bar on 18th and Hartford, where I found Arwyn playing pool. Had no idea he’d be there, I just thought to poke my head in and see. I am so happy, Eleanor, that Destiny deems fit to keep bringing us together.

He was quite happy to see me, and I offered to buy him a drink. He said “Coke and biscuit” or something like that. I said (not knowing very much about drinking booze), “My budget’s really tight, end of the month and all, as long as it’s under ten dollars.”

He just turned away, said never mind, approached the bar and bought himself and his opponent a drink. Well! He’s like that: a man of action and few words. So I just went to the bartender (who was SO nice to me; I’m not used yet, to the gay community returning all their love, so it’ll take a while), and ordered whatever Arwyn just got. It smelled rank BTW, like a longshoreman’s breath after grungy-hot sex and a blunt.

Went back to the pool game, which is situated in a second room with a raised floor, and laid down the drink next to the first one and asserted: “Here’s your second drink.”

So much more happened that night, and I will write it all down soon enough. Just for the nonce, I wanted to tell you how beautiful my life has become, thanks to his friendship. BTW, he lost his gorgeous smile: no dental insurance like me, he’s lost a few teeth. I told him I’m sorry, but I’ll soon be rich and make sure he gets back that knock-out grin, and so forth. (“Meanwhile, why not drop over my pad to admire these rare etchings I just imported from Kashmir?” I offered.)

He called me over between games, where he was playing some sort of video arcade. Don’t know why he called me over, or what he said, but I looked closely at the screen, and remarked, “I’m not good at those games, never make it beyond the third level, I play that at home sometimes.” Then I told him what a good man he is, and how my life is so blessed because he’s in it. Then he interrupted and said, “You can sit down now.”

“Okay” I replied, and went back to the bench. So I watched him play the next round, where he later took a break for the restroom. And his opponent said to a friend there, “Arwyn’s a really good pool player.” Then I approached and said, “Let me tell you about Arwyn. He’s my boyfriend, and he’s a good man in so many ways, not just pool.”

Then returned to my spot on the bench.

Few minutes later, the game was over (Arwyn lost), and he gave the opponent a really nice hug. He loves to hug.

Then I walked up to him and said, “You know, Arwyn, you readily hug anyone who’ll give you that chance. Yet I haven’t had a hug from you since April 20th, 2007…so, can I get a hug from you now?”

He then spread his arms wide, and I reached up to embrace, but he backed away and said, “No! Return to your little spot; I want you over there,” he said, pointing to my jacket on that bench across the room. “No hug tonight.”

I was floored, and limped back to the bench. This is my Arwyn. I am so happy.

Don’t remember leaving the bar, or even saying goodbye to him. I just woke up a few moments ago, with a gorgeous black dude in my arms. I gotta stop drinking so much.

Love ya, El.

PS: Arwyn informed me that Hole in the Wall 86’d him some time ago. And I said, “I’m so sorry, you were the heart and soul of that place. They were jealous of our friendship, there wasn’t even any sex involved, it was a ‘bromance’. And here I was planning to reconcile w/Gary, in order to hang out with you again. I’m preparing a gift for you, that I was gonna mail to ‘Barkeep Gary Clayton’ c/o the Hole, and trust that he’d present it to you. But that’s not gonna happen now. So, if I’m standing on Castro and 18th with this gift, waiting for you to walk by, will you take it, or just skedaddle along like I don’t even exist?”

He didn’t reply, just kept tapping on the video screen to get the colorful marbles in some kind of weird alignment. So I continued: “Either way, I want you to know how much I love you, and the happiness you’ve brought into my life.” Then returned to my little spot on the bench, hugless.

Date: Tue, 27 Mar 2012 08:30:21
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: Re: Moby’s Dick

Quoting Eleanor:
> Did what you recount here just happen recently???

Yes ma’am. Last night. Last GLORIOUS night. *joy*

Earlier that day, I had strolled South of Market and passed by the new location of the Hole in the Wall Saloon, slowing down my pace in hopes that Gary would see, and invite me in. I was planning for some sort of reconciliation. Alas, no go, so I continued on my way to Trader Joe’s, and had a tasty jack cheese & avocado quesadilla (with a Diet Pepsi) at a tiny outdoor stand called “Urbano – Mexican Style Street Food”. Add two small containers of mild salsa to kick it all up a notch. (Where’s a spice weasel when ya need one?)

Then I returned to Hole in the Wall, only this time across the street, where I stood about nonchalantly, again in hopes of luring Gary out. Several patrons stepped out front to smoke and chat; none of them were familiar to me. This was around 4pm Sunday.

You see, El, it occurred to me to send a printout of “Free Me From This Bond” to Gary, along with the following gifts (which he would hopefully pass on to Arwyn):

A talking Scooby-Doo birthday card. Don’t really know when his birthday is, but I’ve missed so many (he’s 49 now, I think), that I want to start catching up.

A T-shirt I ordered from ThinkGeek.com, depicting a zombie with statement: “Zombies are people too.” Though the “are” is crossed out in blood, replaced by “were”. Check it out:

I had actually intended that shirt for a street buddy, Tony…but that’s a story for another time. Haven’t seen Tony for several months now; I actually offered it to another street dude I had over a few nights ago…absolutely cute, a real firecracker. (He left his knapsack and skateboard here; said he was gonna step out to buy some milk, and that’s all she wrote. For now.)

Two DVDs, the first one containing four ripped movies: “Clueless,” “Moneyball,” “Exotica” and “The Notorious Newman Brothers”, which latter you can view here:


FYI, I adore “Clueless,” one of the sweetest stories ever filmed. I always bawl tears of joy through the whole thing. It touches my heartstrings in the sweetest way, just like My Favorite Dragon! Since Arwyn is as big a fan of softball as he is billiards, I figure he’ll enjoy “Moneyball” immensely. “Exotica” is an intriguing, quasi-mystical Canadian film about the lives of people who work at, or attend, strip clubs (including a gay pet shop owner). “The Notorious Newman Brothers” is a delightful Indie parody on Mafia thugs, scintillatingly goofballish.

In addition to those movies, DVD #1 contains a collection of excellent music videos downloaded from Youtube (of course), and a slew of animal videos of all sorts: ducks, dogs, cats, goats, cows, birds, squirrels, ferrets, and on and on it goes. Really a great balm to heal depression. Though I strongly doubt I’ll ever be depressed again, at least not in any deadly critical way!

DVD #2 is a 5-CD collection of Laurie Anderson songs. I love Laurie Anderson, don’t you? Have you ever heard her piece, “The Ugly One with the Jewels”? Oh, here it is on Youtube:


OMG, Laurie is simply, tremendously original and a sheer delight.

Let’s see, I’m not done with the gifts yet. Also included are seven recent blog entries (printed out of course): “Yes Virginia, Santa Claus is Gay,” “Campitupalosaurus,” “Casper Titchworth,” “No Heteros in Space,” “A Rotten Deal,” “Kalmykia: Europe‚Äôs Only Buddhist Republic” and “Message to a Long Lost Friend“. Oh, and an eigth one, not so recent: “September’s Passage.”

Lastly, “The Book of Dragons,” which reviews (and details) you may read here:


So many rich and awesome paintings of various dragons around the world are included in this delightful tome, along with dragon folklore from Iceland to China. On the inside front cover I wrote in fine-tip black marker:

“To My Beloved Arwyn, the Dragon Of My Dreams. From your Bromantic Sidekick, Ezekiel (or) Eugene.”

Interesting that it occurred to me a few days ago, I should get him a book about dragons…since he is the Dragon of Hole in the Wall. Not thinking about it when I stepped into Pegasus Book Store on Shattuck Ave. Berkeley, I inadvertently laid my hand on The Book of Dragons in the mythology section! IOW:

Pegasus delivered me unto the dragons! Yikes.

Remember my painting of “Unicorn w/o a Horn” that I held onto for several weeks before shipping it to Randolph…so exquisite I kept showing it to people, including on campus (Merritt College, Oakland) where I was studying computer science: everyone was delightfully stunned. Well, I had a most intense vision of Pegasus while waiting for the acrylic strokes to dry (late into the night). He was so radiant and sweet, I wept on his shoulder…then he told me something amazing:

“Leave all your sorrows to me. I will bring Randolph back into your loving arms, on wing-ed saddle.” And that’s when I ran upstairs with the freshly painted sky-blue cotton sweatshirt, and knocked on Anthony’s door at 4:40am, weeping tears of epiphany.

These gifts are toted in a bag from the Disabled Veterans National Foundation (discovered in a Salvation Army discard bin) , in consideration of My Randolph’s tragedy…and the fact that Arwyn is a most courageous soldier in his own right, surely deserving recognition as meritorious as the Purple Heart and the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Between breaks in composing this missive, I stepped out with my gifts in hopes of finding Arwyn back at Moby Dick’s tonight, or perhaps another nearby bar or saloon. But nope, didn’t happen. So here I sit now, completing my latest Dragon Prophecy.

I have one photo of Arwyn BTW, taken some years back when he was (I think) on a gay softball team out of San Diego. Got it off the ‘net when searching for info on him for the Arwyn Chronicles.

Second from the right; as cute as he appears in the pic, he’s even more fantabulous in person. He’s just too rockingly gorgeous for words. I’d say he’s one of the most attractive males on the planet. Like a young, virile Randy Travis and, as ridiculously gorgeous as that is, My Favorite Dragon is a thousand times better looking. Besides, Mr. Travis does not possess a fine, scaly skin of shimmering emerald and ruby; nor does he sport a tail so long and powerful, it could knock over the Transamerica Pyramid Building in one fell swoop. And I haven’t even begun to describe the wings!

At night, when fanned out in full glory, the winged silhouette closely resembles the Brooklyn Bridge, with a span just as wide, perhaps a tad more so. The top side of these wings are, of course, encrusted with those glimmering evergreen and cranberry hued scales that deflect the light of the Milky Way in such a manner as to glint an overshade of purple and gold here and there.

Now, the underside of these wings is something else altogether spectacular: they are lined with a pearly white membrane with subtle shades that swirl around like the thinnest film of motor oil floating on a pond of milk and honey. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that these luminescent underwings are responsible for the majority of UFO sightings. But most folks are gullible, and prefer to believe in fantastic explanations, than one so mundane as a dragon.

There is another photo of Arwyn that once was displayed for a time at the Hole in the Wall: he was naked as a jaybird, full Monty and totally erect, with the Welsh flag draped over his shoulders and an outstretched arm. This man is so handsome, Eleanor, you wouldn’t even think of sex when gazing upon his birthday self. You would only see the work of Goddess’s Hand, and realize he is Her intended example how the perfect male should appear. There is more grace and courage in that man’s little finger, than in a thousand Navy SEALs.

Can you imagine if I hadn’t discovered Arwyn at Moby Dick’s? I would’ve been hanging out by Hole in the Wall for no useful purpose. And Gary would’ve received my blog printouts and gifts, and kept them from Arwyn, or even tossed them into the garbage. Destiny is on my side!

Who is more handsome than My Dragon Arwyn? I cannot imagine. I cannot imagine that the Universal Mind has even gotten around to it, or given it much thought…for not even Our Beloved Creator (pbuh: “peace be unto her”) can imagine anything more pleasing to the eye than Arwyn Miles.

To be continued…

Date: Tue, 27 Mar 2012 19:00:41
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: Moby’s Dick

Quoting Eleanor:
> Ooooh-eee! I get the picture! Celtic royalty!

Very astute observation, though I’m surprised you could read that much out of such a small image. Attached is a photo of Youtube activist Charlie Veitch, who resembles Arwyn far more than Arwyn does, himself, in that first pic.

Such a noble face and dynamite profile. And clearly: Celtic Pride all the way. I’d say that Arwyn looks like a cross between Charlie Veitch and Randy Travis.

Are we having heart palpitations yet? Quick, bring the smelling salts!

Oh, well, I might as well attach another photo, this time of Randolph Taylor…who is also another radiant Celt, of Irish/Scot descent. Gorgeous just doesn’t say enough.

Obviously, I don’t lack for male beauty in my life. Just male booty. :\

Date: Wed, 28 Mar 2012 11:23:56
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: Moby’s Dick

El, I just composed this piece as a possible solution to the homeless problem in the Castro, particularly as regards the doping of older men by desperate youth. I believe that Arwyn was once homeless, and if the economy doesn’t soon pick up speed, he may become that once more. Not that he’s spoken to me about this at all, but I have a hunch. So I think this letter to the editor fits quite well into my “Moby’s Dick” work in progress. I just emailed it to the Bay Area Reporter (which has banned all my letters for years now, thanks to one police commissioner now retired), and the SF Bay Times. I will expand my outreach later tonight, perhaps even gay papers beyond The City. Cheerz!


Dear editor,

Speaking of the sharp increase of young homeless dudes doping up middle-aged men at the gay bars here in the Castro: What do we expect, in a sucky economy that’s crashed and burned almost as horribly as the Great Depression? More desperate people robbing from those with excess wealth; that’s what. And until we evolve into a truly equitable society (at least within our own LGBTQQ family), that is how things shall remain. But what isn’t being reported, is the fact that many of these young men (with a few pathetic exceptions) are decent human beings who need some real kindness and financial support.

They might steal, but they’ll never make you miserable, or commit bodily harm. I know, because I have been a “victim” of these darling scoundrels at least several times, just in the past year alone. (Now, please don’t cite me the occasional exception of some lunatic who actually does get a bit violent, and damages your furniture or even socks you in the eye; they do not represent the majority of the robbers in question.)

Thus far, I’ve been ripped off of one laptop computer, two android tablets, all the quarters in my change jar, several twenty-dollar bills, a miniature remote control device for my seven-inch screen portable TV (but not the TV itself), and my entire Futurama DVD collection. A grand total of approximately $1,450. Whoop-de-doo. (All my computers BTW, I purchase refurbished, so their possible loss will never be an earth-shattering trauma. I highly recommend TigerDirect.com for such purchases.)

I am certainly far from affluent, unlike many of you “homo-owners” who reside here in the Castro, or visit. In fact, I can barely keep my head above financial waters, living on just a disability stipend in an SRO unit overlooking Market Street, near Noe. (If it weren’t for rent control, I’d most likely be out on the streets myself.) So any sort of theft impacts me far more than it does most of the victims of these thieving cherubs who promise eternal love in exchange for a drink or two.

The tragic fact is: our queer community has become infested with a terrible disease called “Libertarianism”. And by that, I mean “corporate-worshipping right-wing Republican anti-universal-anything capitalist pig elitists”…which same disease has seriously impacted all minorities, not just ours. The long term result of such an infection, is a rather large increase of poor folk, some of whom migrate to wealthy gay neighborhoods in order to hookup with older men, and/or burglarize their premises in order to survive or get a taste of some of the luxury they are otherwise denied. (Through no fault of their own, I might add.)

What little our community does for the sexual-minority homeless is limited to youth. IOW: once you hit 22, it’s screw you, and a helping hand to the misery of these cold, harsh streets and a friendless (and often dangerous) existance among a much larger crowd of homophobic thugs who rule the roost (even in the Castro, which has a false reputation of “gay friendly”).

Because the majority of wealthy queers in San Francisco do not listen to the strident pleas (on behalf of our poor) by wonderfully liberal folks like Tommi Avicolli Mecca, mugging and theft of our upper classes shall continue, and even increase. Because so many of you wealthy homo-owners only think of sex when taking home a sweet but desperate young man who’s learned the ropes on how to survive off our community…you do not have any right to whine, let alone put them in jail. Instead of befriending some of these glorious souls currently stranded, and using your excess wealth to improve their lot and give them real happiness and meaning in their lives, you fat elitists cling to your material possessions like barnacles to a cruise ship.

And seeing as your Republican kind are so powerful in both finance and politics, it is highly unlikely Mr. Mecca (or any other brave hearted liberal) will see his dream come true any time soon…at least, not via standard channels. But after meditating upon this serious issue, I’ve come up with a solution, albeit radical (though harmless):

We can actually befriend these homeless waifs, and organize a sort of Robin Hood gang that uses every possible legal maneuver, to seduce our wealthy older queers to coughing up a chunk of their bank accounts on a regular basis. Said profits will be funneled into housing, food, medical care, education, and so on…that we may assist our street crowd towards a decent life. Another benefit will result, in that we can then easily weed out the homophobes among the homeless population, thus making things safer all around, even for the very same affluent homo-owners who spit on anyone with less than $300,000 to their name.

I have homeless friends on these mean streets, some of whom initially robbed me, but now show me great love and respect. Simply because I did not play the Outraged Wealthy Queer card; I did not report them to police; I did not arrest them. And surely, were I rich, I’d be opening up homes for these incredible street urchins so sorely regarded by narrow-minded dolts who, I’m sorry to say, control so much of our queer community. But, being 61 years of age and in robust health, I certainly do have the energy to consolidate this street project to aid our most disadvantaged and abused.

I’m sure I’ll take a lot of flack from others for my bold proposition. But the time has come for progressive, even radical, solutions to be acted upon…and sweep away the detritus of right-wing ideology that has so badly damaged what remains of true community and compassion here in the Heart of Gay Mecca.

Sinqueerly yours,

Zeke Krahlin
Gay activist & homeless advocate since 1983,
a.k.a. Jehovah’s Queer Witness

How I Acquired The Cloak Of Invisibility, And The First Thing I Did With It

April 21, 2010

Actually, I’m not really sure how I acquired the damn Cloak, but it must have been a reward for one of my Odyssey adventures, which the gods have deemed to erase from my memory until a future time. I believe it was woven from Ariadne’s thread tossed aside in a forgotten ball, once Theseus made his escape from the Labyrinth.

But who wove it, and who gave it the power to make one invisible? And who presented it to me, and for what accomplishment? Alas, these truths remain hidden to me for a while longer…thus I must proceed with my tale without the benefit of any history. (Perhaps it was my spill in the River Lethe, battling some sort of beast or another, that washed away these memories.)

The Cloak itself is velvet black, with a honey shimmer to it…as if a lock of the Golden Fleece. were woven into its threads. It BELONGS to me…it KNOWS it belongs to me…as whenever I fling it about myself, it always falls upon my body in the most artful manner. It complements, it embraces, it cherishes me with dear caresses, and never clings! Yet it slides off with not a moment of pause–once I release my grasp–and falls graciously to the floor with a pleasant “whoosh”. Neither static-y nor clingy, no dirt or dust ever gathers upon it…for which I conclude the unknown existence of some Polyester-blend goddess (perhaps the offspring of that rotten cyclops Polyphemus, who once chased after some lovely trifle of a mortal named Esther. Perhaps the Cloak’s power of invisibility came from the blinding of this cyclops by Odysseus).

So I stand on the banks of the River Lethe, contemplating all the delicious adventures that will be mine, as the invisible voyeur of others’ adventures…when along comes fickle Eros. As I am presently concealed beneath the Cloak, he would pass right by me without knowing I’m even there…except for my stepping in his way, for which he is unexpectedly knocked over. After gathering his arrows, Eros stands up, stares at my new gift of the Cloak of Invisibility…and after a few moments says, “Dude: I have a great idea where you could use that Cloak.” (And where could that be?) I think.

“The Bedrooms of the Gods of course,” brags Eros, “why, you could write the steamiest novels the world has ever seen, by merely recounting what you witness! You’d be an overnight sensation, a romance novelist par excellence, and a multi-millionaire to boot!” (I would also know what tickles Apollo’s fancy) I muse, as one mortal who is very hot for a particular deity or two.

“Oh, yes, why, the benefits to your personal life would be enormous,” admits Eros. “You would have ANY God you want by the balls, and caress them whenEVER you please! I must apologize for tempting you
with mere lucre, Ezekiel…as I know you value the immaterial over the material, as should any seeker of truth. Now, just think what all that money could do for the poor, the lame, and the downtrodden!” (Then let’s go! You need not convince me further…I’m hot to trot.)

We arrive at the Bedroom Palace (teleportation? flight? memory still hazy, try again later) somewhere on the eastern slope of lofty Mount Olympus…which contains secluded chamber after chamber, to satisfy even the most finicky demands of privacy for which any goddess or god could wish. Solid, thick oak doors trimmed in eggshell white and 24 caret gold-plated brass fixtures, are so sturdy not even Hephaestus‘s mighty hammer could batter them down.

“Let me show you the bedroom where Apollo and Zeus do the nasty”, Eros leads me down a long, long hallway until we reach a room whose door he pushes ajar. I hesitate.

“Go right in, no one’s home. I’m right behind you” whispers Eros, nudging me through the entrance. We stand amid silken tapestry and drapes of purest white, purple, and gray that grace tall windows and a ginormous bed against the far end of the room. Rose-scented candles in sconces and on small tables lend a soft, gentle light to the entire room. Eros guides me into a closet large enough to fit a banquet table and all its guests. “You can hide here, in their wardrobe,” speaks Eros. “That, plus your Cloak to shield you, will make you completely secure from their finding you.”

I am about to ask some pertinent questions–such as how long do they partake in their love making (knowing that a single minute to a god is a century to a human, and that I could easily starve to death, or grow old and die in this closet, long before they’re even done with foreplay…thus you can understand my concern)–when Eros suddenly jumps back, says “I hear them coming”…then quick as a flash disappears.

I am left standing amid all the masculine trappings of war gods: the musky scent of leather and rough cloth soaked in godly sweat nearly puts me into a heavenly swoon! But I stand determined to witness what no mortal eyes have ever witnessed before: Zeus boinking the daylights out of Apollo! (Or is Zeus a bottom? Or are they more egalitarian in bed, than elsewhere? Do they like to french kiss? How much foreplay? Or are they rough and ready from the get-go? These juicy details, and much more, I am soon to find out!)

I hear voices and the door creak open, then shut. The Cloak of Invisibility is fully flung over my frame as I stand, shaking, knees wobbling in anticipation of my daring plunder into the most personal aspect of the lives of gods! A deep voice booms: “I don’t remember leaving the door open, do you? Is anyone here?” I stand, frozen, barely breathing. “Check the closet.” Arms push around the voluminous robes sliding on their hangers, but fortunately pass right by the spot on which I stand. I cannot see who it is. (Apollo or Zeus?) Not that I can’t see through my Cloak (of course I can), but the clothes shielding me that cover the Cloak block my view! Drat! I need to move a little forward…well, let’s wait till they calm down and get to bed.

“Uh, hey stud…lock that door will ya. I think we should, uh, mess around for a time. Don’t you?” I hear them disrobe: the gentle “shush” of togas falling, and the rattle of buckles. Again, one (I can’t see who) approaches the closet and plunks a heavy sword against the wall…it slides and crashes right onto my foot! Ouch! I better hold my breathe! Ouch! Damn friggin’ sword…must weigh as much as a horse…my foot is throbbing, god, this ain’t so much fun any more! Egads! Ouch, ouch ouch!

I can’t help myself; a moan wells up from my throat.

“Wait! Did you hear that?”

“What? Who could hear anything after that sword crash? Deafening! No, I didn’t hear a thing.”

“Well, I heard something, and it came from that closet!”

“And just what do you think you heard, little missy? Sure it’s not your bat ears ringing?”

(Little missy? One’s a fem? I can’t believe this! Wait’ll I get my book published! Uh-oh, he’s coming back to the closet!)

“Huh, maybe it was just an echo.” Arms swoosh through the clothing once more, and I stand frozen in fear. “Wait, what’s this?”

“What’s what? Lemme see what you’re talking about.”

I still can’t see either one of the gods, though their very breaths warm the cloak under which I tremble.

“Okay, whoever you are, come out of there now…we see you!”

(They do? I don’t believe them, they’re calling my bluff. After all, no one’s grabbing at me.)

“We can see your feet, fool! Look!”

(I look down and lo and behold! The Cloak of Invisibility hangs its hem just inches above my toes. I am not completely covered! I sigh, and drop the Cloak, and all pretense…and step out from behind the
wardrobe, to see…not gods, but goddesses! A pair of uber-dykes! What the hell is this all about?)

“Who are you?” demands the busty platinum-blonde, now hastily robed in a bedsheet.

(Ezekiel, madame…Ezekiel Joseph Krahlin.)

“Madame? You call the great goddess of the sacred hunt, Artemis, ‘madame’? Just where do you come from, little Ezekiel?” speaks the other, a voluptuous nymph of seaweed hair and piercing yellow-green eyes.

(Ummm…San Francisco, planet earth…that is, in my waking life. At present, I presume I’m in one of my vision dreams.)

“One of your vision dreams? Ha!” mocks Artemis, “Tell us who put you up to this or I’ll flay your skin and feed it to the Harpies!”

I’m not about to reveal my source…not when I’d have the wrath of yet another god upon my soul. So I just stand there, trembling, but lips firmly shut.

“Eros, eh? I should have known! That little imp is always messing up Mt. Olympus whenever he gets the chance!”

Too bad, they can read my mind. (He told me this is the bedroom of Zeus and Apollo.) I plead.

That’s your excuse, mangy mortal?” hollers Artemis. “You were going to spy on gods? This amounts to hubris of the highest order. I hope you realize the consequences of your heinous act!”

(Ummm…being chained to a boulder and having an eagle pluck out my liver for all eternity?) I venture an educated guess.

Taken aback, Artemis first glances at the nymph, then at me, than again at her partner…and they both burst out in laughter. “Come here, Ezekiel”, Artemis gently takes my arm, and leads me to a chair where she urges me to sit.

“No harm shall come to you, mischievous mortal. It is Eros who should take the blame. I have a plan for vengeance, but it will take me some minutes to work it out. Please enjoy Sylvia’s company in the meantime…I’ll be back shortly.” And with a wide grin on her beatific face, Artemis departs.

Sylvia and I have a heartfelt conversation about the homeless lesser gods in Olympus, and what can possibly be done about it, if anything.

Finally, after the passage of a little time, Artemis returns. “Boy have I got a treat for you, Ezekiel!” And she tugs my arm in a wish to escort me to parts yet unknown.

Artemis, Sylvia, and I (carried in Sylvia’s strong arms, due to my injured foot) proceed down enormous corridors, to yet another heavy wooden door, through which we enter. There, tied by his four limbs to the posts of a water bed, kneels Eros on all fours, his nether end most prominent. Sylvia sets me on the floor, where I stand, staring in disbelief: I do drool. “He’s all yours for the next twenty minutes, Ezekiel. I’m sure you’ll know what to do!” says Artemis, and they depart.

I do indeed…for twenty of the most beautiful minutes of my life, in sheer Tantric bliss! And this experience has shown me why, when spelled backwards, Eros means “sore”! So this ends the story of my winning the Cloak of Invisibility, how I first used it, and how I lost it in the heat of the moment before I ever got to use it more than once.

ADDENDUM: Were those succulent twenty minutes, the minutes of a god, or of a mortal? I leave you to ponder, and eat your heart out.

Parable Of The Laptop Billionaire

April 14, 2010

Once upon a future time–indeed barely a few years from now–a man will become so rich that even the combined resources of Bill Gates, Donald Trump and the Russian Mafia, will not be able to buy him out! In fact, on paper he will pretty much own the world.

Yet because of the complex and vast web of gov’t restrictions and global treaties, no person, no business will ever “own” the world. On the other hand, even though any major changes in his stock options, bank transactions, political stances, or favorite line of underwear, will inevitably cause one or more 2nd or 3rd world nations to collapse into utter chaos and misery (again)…he will NOT be held personally or even morally responsible.

In other words, he will not be a benefactor by nature. So you can imagine how much pleading charities will go through, to even receive a single red CENT from this Wealthiest Man in The World AND All of History. Oh, did I mention he was born with a physical anomaly that looked like two little goat horns poking through his forehead? They were surgically removed in his first week of life. (I just had to throw that in. “Zeus ex machina” and all that good stuff, you know?)

So you can ALSO imagine how many charities dedicated to feeding the starving children of Africa, will come begging at his e-mailbox every week! Eventually, he will stop to consider their woeful e-plea bleatings…and after some months of deliberation, he will present his decision (quote):

“I do not want to help these troubled tykes in the way that YOU propose,” he will proclaim on worldwide satellite link-up, his face commanding every TV screen on the planet. “But I do feel as you, that their situation is quite urgent, and the sooner generosity comes their way–and in greater and greater portions–the sooner will their sorrows end.”

“So what I will do,” he will then pause and look up from his speech; and the world will suddenly become a blanket of silence for a few, eternal heartbeats.

So what he will do, is buy all the destitute in the world (not just in Africa, and not just starving children), a laptop. And not just any laptop, but a really high quality laptop with the latest technology. They will even have WiFi!

But how will he produce 2.5 billion (give or take a few tens of millions of) laptops in the short span of 24 hours? Actually, that’s none of our business; he OWNS the planet…er, I mean “patent”.

So here will be all these starving kids in Africa, without a roof over their heads (and many without any parent, sibling, relation or friend in the world), on the scorched savanna, perishing right before the lenses of first-world camcorders…as they bring into every home in Amerika and the world, those shocking images of freshly dead, emaciated bodies of darkling elves curled around a Thinkpad X-999. (Time Magazine, front cover 10 August 2013: For Every Grave A Laptop.)

Most unfortunate, this collateral damage…though unavoidable when transitioning from standalone to network. Computer jokes–that is, jokes rendered by AI systems–will be made about humans as nothing more than “dumb terminals”. Despite this ribbing, Underground Queer IT Experts (both digital and analog) will become the New Heroes, and little children shall learn to hack all of us into a better reality.

And when they start hacking the world, they will first redistribute all the wealth, so that everyone will be comfortably well off. Of couse, by then the Laptop Billionaire will no longer be a billionaire. Not even a millionaire. Or a thousand or HUNDRED aire! There will BE no wealthy person on the planet any more! Interestingly enough, the Laptop Billionaire will also be a very handsome gay male, who’ll discover a new career in tasting flavored birthday cards for Hallmark.

There shall become writ this New Law of Government (and the newest Amendment to the United States Constitution: number 482 to be precise), which will also be Moses’ ELEVENTH commandment:

“Thou shalt own a laptop by right of birth.”

Yes, the right to own a laptop provided FREELY by the government, shall become as much a birthright as the freedom to pursue The Angel Of Happiness. And eventually, laptops will become so INTIMATELY embedded in our lives, that this New Law, this Eleventh Commandment, shall finally be altered to read:

“Thou shalt be TRANSFERRED to a laptop at birth.”

–the end *** BEEP [sleep mode]

“The day will soon arrive when biological and computer viruses will become completely indistinguishable from each other.” – Mighty Mouse Virus

A Groveling Knave Beyond The Grave

April 10, 2010

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