It’s the Restrooms, Stupid!

April 30, 2016

The “no-trannies-in-the-john” debacle is spreading across Europe now. This article’s out of England:

Lesbian Teen Kicked Out of McDonalds for Using Wrong Bathroom, Failing to Prove Gender

Nonetheless it inspired me to compose the following piece about the same thing going on in our nation:

One woman’s FB comment to a butch lesbian not being allowed to enter a woman’s restroom: “So what’ll happen when a feminine looking gay tries to enter a men’s bathroom.” To which I responded: “What makes you think this sexist bigotry will limit itself to gay men and women?”

It’s a 2-pronged prejudice sweeping across Amerika: anti-female and anti-LGBT. Bathroom locales are now the official bashing stations for every macho hero to invade. San Francisco and other gay friendly blue-state cities will not be immune to this bigotry. This will, of course, spread out from the restrooms to every aspect of our society.

Unless women dress and act ultra-feminine, they will become targets. And unless men dress and act ultra-masculine, they, too, will become targets. Male sounding names like “Sloane” and “Bobbie” will label a woman as “suspect”. And non-butch names like “Eugene” and “Marvin” will put some men on the danger list.

These will number among the New Commandments of the Virtual Republic of Gilead (which will be these entire United States, whether blue or red):

– Men shall not wear glasses, carry a book or umbrella; they shall not wear bright colors or allow their hair to grow below the ear lobe.

– Women shall not wear pants or shoes that are not high heeled, nor shall they pursue any occupation that is clearly intended for the male of the species.

– Men shall only speak in a deep, bass or baritone voice; women shall only speak in a shrill soprano or mezzo-soprano voice. (Any male who understands these musical terms shall be summarily executed.)

– Men shall either appear in public with a female partner, or accompanied by no one; vice-versa for the female.

– No one without an authentic birth certificate matching their gender shall be permitted to use a public or business restroom, unless they reveal their genitals to a security guard or other designated employee, or an officer of the law (and said genitals pass the grade).

– A fully mature gerbil shall be forced up the anus of each suspect. If the gerbil refuses to exit of its own free will, suspect shall be charged with homosexual urges and punished accordingly.

The list goes on, ad absurdum. I imagine there will be “speakeasy” lavatories that one can use for a steep fee. Citizens will be financially rewarded for reporting suspected abuse of a restroom. And there will be gov’t sanctioned, animated billboards to encourage bashing, such as:

One that depicts a classically wimpy type dropping to his knees in an attempt to give some uber macho dude a blow job. The dude will, of course, spit on the “faggot” (who bears an eerie resemblance to Harvey Milk) and kick him into a bloody mess. The animation will repeat itself in an endless loop, caption in gaudy neon: “Do not fear the preying queer.”

Then we’ll have another billboard for the fairer sex, depicting a dykish looking female (clipped hair, sneakers, Levi pants) suddenly being raped by that same uber macho dude. And the caption will declare: “YOU wear the pants, not the Billy Nance.”

There will be flyers, postage stamps, decals, TV ads, airplane and blimp banners and Internet pop-ups of that nature, proliferating the national landscape. And, of course, TV series like the one I depicted in my tale, “Queer Reality TV.”

As increasing numbers of heterosexuals get sucked into this pogrom, there will rise a great resistance composed of women’s rights and LGBT rights activists and their supporters. A little further down the line, African Americans will join in. The tables will turn, and once the dust settles, all restrooms will be unisex, with locks on every door.

Oh why can’t Amerikans make such cultural changes with ease, as the Europeans do? No, we have to be super drama queens around every little issue.

And every little tissue.


Ray Revisited

February 8, 2015

!!! WARNING. ADULT MATERIAL !!!

If you are underage, or in any way forbidden by your government or religious laws from viewing X-rated subject matter, please do not go there. If, however, you are not restricted by any laws in your geographical location, by all means click on the image above, to read my spicy tale.


You’re a Bad Boy, Brasus!

August 17, 2014

So three nights ago Brasus shows up to share with me some really strong ganja in a peace pipe, and deliberate upon Bryan’s untimely death. For which I remarked:

“The gay community here is now up in arms that these killers remain unapprehended, and at large. But such crimes have gone on for more than 30 years. Nothing has changed. There will continue to be brutal violence against gays in their own neighborhoods, so long as we remain disunited. I spoke with Linda (laundromat lady) about this murder, stating that horrible thugs are hanging out at her laundromat after hours when she is no longer there.”

Her response was snippy and uncalled for: “Well, I can’t be here all the time.”

So I voiced loudly as she swiftly regressed to the back of the laundromat, in order to avoid me:

“Don’t talk to me like that! Why does everyone speak to me that way? I’m only informing you of the situation. I realize it is not your fault.”

Linda obviously chose to invalidate me, but I stood by the doorway and awaited her return from the back room. As she crossed my path and exited, I declared:

“Look, you watch out for yourself, things are getting dangerous.”

But she merely wandered across the street to tend to her own myinistrations. But what I wonder is this:

Why would she brush me off, unless she doesn’t really give a rat’s ass about gay people? In spite of my handing her now and then, a printout of my gay-themed tale or essay, and her complimenting me on my fine writing? I can only conlude that she is part of the problem…in that hetero folks with some affluence move into the Castro and live a comfortable life. Yet lift not a single finger when anti-gay tragedies occur. Tragedies which could be averted, were this district populated by enough concerned citizens. Which it is not.

She does have some gay friends, but they are all homo-owning conservatives, one of whom she allows to use her laundromat some evenings, so he can set up his sewing machine and ply away. This may be a good solution to discouraging homophobic thugs from entering the place during off hours, but Linda does not really seem to be concerned over the anti-gay threat that overruns any laundromat once a manager departs. And her laundromat seems to be the only one in the Castro that does not provide on-spot attendance at all business hours.

Now, I’ve lived here in the same SRO since 1983. I know of various long term residents throughout Eureka Valley: the black homeowner Guy, who sells flowers on the corner of Noe & Henry; Les just a block up and across, who runs a grocery/liquor shop, and so on. Yet not a one speaks well of me to others, nor introduces me to their friends. While they appear friendly to my face (of course, they’ll take my moolah), I am outraged at the soulless lot of ’em! By their willfull exclusion of yours truly from our local society, they leave me far more vulnerable to attacks as I stroll my own sidewalks. They have compartmentalized me into oblivion. They are fiercely and pervertedly EVIL!

Even gay-identified residents don’t give a damn about homophobic violence on our streets. For they are mostly homo-owning wealthy shit-heads who enjoy reports of even their own gay poor and homeless being victimized by homophobic attacks. But when one of their own elitist kind gets murdered, it’s all “rah-rah” and “so sorry you were murdered, we valued you greatly”…and then, business as usual once more in a few weeks’ time. The Cult feeds on such deleterious sadism, using the wicked to promulgate the persecution and bashing of the few decent folks who remain (whether homeless or housed).


FIVE FACEBOOK MESSAGES TO BRASUS

[ Quadragesimal Reader: Brasus was a popular male name in ancient Thrace. Please read my tale about Sabazios and Brasus in my blog entry dated 23 July, if you want your eyes open. I prefer you read the entire piece; otherwise search that page for “Sabazios”. ]

  1. August 13 (late evening):FORGET ABOUT MY FRIEND REQUEST…my unfriending you in an anxiety attack was, apparently, the right thing to do. So if you friend me now, I’ll just unfriend you right back. It is clear to me now, that you have no desire to speak well of me to any of the new people in the Castro you have met and associated with. Whether they are shop owners, local residents, hot guys you meet at the gym (which you so juvenially call “heaven”), or even those without a roof over their heads. It’s like you showed up to usurp all the good works I’ve done these past 30 years or so. I just wonder: what the fuk is wrong with you? You have willfully chosen to allow (and even encourage) folks who live here, including those who are homeless, to at best, not know who the hell I am…and at worst, to hate me and do me harm. No good will can come of this, and I pity the outcome of your life. For I have /never/ lost a battle yet, and never will. What you have done to me is DISGUSTING. I look forward to your sudden and unexpected depature from 2306 within a few weeks from now.
  2. August 13 (ten minutes later):I’ve also observed that you don’t spontaneously hug me. I have to beg you for a hug if it’s ever gonna happen. As if you’re doing me a pity favor. Go fuk that and the horse you rode in on. You good lookin’ guys are so full of yourselves it makes me wanna vomit just at the thought of your unforgivable arrogance. When we hugged for the first time, it is /you/ who kissed me smack on the lips. But out of modesty, I deflected and kissed you on the cheek. You SET ME UP to think you were physically attracted to me…just so you could fuk with my head in the long run. Trying to make me feel bad when I showered you with affection at Last Call. You are a freak, and a curse on the gay community. Welcome to the Castro Country Club.
  3. August 14 (just before breakfast):I introduced you to the baristas at Bean There as “my wonderful and new neighbor and friend.” FYI, I also spoke /very/ well about you to our building manager. Ditto for Linda at the laundromat. I never dreamed that bringing up the suggestion you return the favor, would cause such a negative reaction in you. Or /any/ negative reaction, for that matter. My friend Johnnie used to introduce me that way, to his friends…until his father suddenly died, and he turned on me in bitterness. I have had /others/ speak well of me before their friends, but they were only passing through. Such kindness is extremely rare in my life, but I have experienced it…and it’s taught me to use that as a reliable measure of true friendship. Superficial friends are a dime a dozen.
  4. August 14 (just after breakfast):I am going by the assumption you are also a member of this secret society that Larkin runs, thus you are testing me. Over what? That I can stand strong when I am attacked through my greatest weakness, my Achilles heel. Which is this: fate has put me in a highly desperate situation for YEARS now…where I really haven’t even one good friend in this world. Will such desperation cause me to sell out my values, my ethics…that is, my SOUL? Or will I stand my ground even when it means my isolation will remain? Well, now you have your answer. Give my best regards to Larkin, next time you see him.
  5. August 14 (just after supper and right before watching “Toy Story of Terror“):This will be my last message to you, then I’m outta your hair. You have never messaged me back, not even once. Is that a friend, ya think? And you’ve never given me your phone number, though I’ve given you mine (on my business card). Now, I perfectly understand if someone doesn’t give his number to another he hardly knows. But you /did/ give your number to a person who lives here, and who is basically a skunk. I know this because you told me he texted you, and demanded you not text back. You’re doing the same kinda thing to me, by never messaging back. Enjoy your fake friends, Brasus. You’ve made the wrong choice. Once again. (In your next life I wager you’ll be born a dusty dog w/o a home, wandering the streets of Philippi for table scraps.)

[ Dragonian Reader: Jason Parsley is a gay journalist (and editor of South Florida Gay News) I discovered in February of this year. We have a loose association via LinkedIn, nonetheless I admire his devotion to gay ideals, and courageous coverage of controversial issues that most LGBT reporters would shirk. After he perused my gay-bible web site, and learned of my many years as a dedicated gay street activist (as well as author of countless gay tales, essays, poems and articles), he offered to feature me in his newspaper. Unfortunately, his publisher turned down that request, and Jason could do nothing further. He’s very cute, but just got married. Fuk me with a duck. ]

From: Zeke Krahlin

To: Jason Parsley

Date: Fri, 15 Aug 2014 12:03:43

Subject: Nice to see your name in a B.A.R. news article!Sitting on the toilet for my morning ablution,

While reading the Bay Area Reporter,

a journalistic institution,

Lo and behold I stumbled upon

Your name in an article called:

Gay prisoner shares story, his mistakes,

in newspaper column.

Your work is cut out for you,

You do a great job

Towards ending the stigma of el-be-gee-tees

Viewed by the mainstream as no more

than golems.

So hats off to you, my activist ally,

For forging ahead/carving out

Our own pro-gay map

not found in McNally.

Sinqueerly yours,

Zeke Krahlin


PRINTOUT ENCLOSED IN ENVELOPE AND TAPED TO BRASUS’S PORTCULLIS

[ Superannuated Reader: this letter fit easily on one side, but on the other, I printed out a lovely rendering of the blue rose. The image you see below (of the fingerpainted walls) is not, of course, part of the actual letter. Included just so you’ll understand what I’m dealing with: a crazy loon who is also a darling man. Thus, I’m trying to find a way to ameliorate his deleterious (though sweet) aberrations, that our friendship will be cemented. ]

15 August 2014

YOU’RE A BAD BOY, BRASUS!

I tried using soapy hot water to wash off your “dust art” on the walls of my little corridor. But they won’t come off! So it would be nice if you find some way to remove it…perhaps a commercial product just for cleaning walls.

I have too many folks scapegoating me as it is, and having Bohemian squiggles in my hallway only serves to enforce their perception of me as the village idiot. And could likely cause anger by the building manager, against U-No-Hoo. I prefer to choose my own battles, not have them foisted upon me by naive victims of cult telepathy…victims because they haven’t the foggiest clue they’re being used by negative forces to cripple my good works, friendships, secure habitation, etc.

Of course I do realize these present difficulties serve a higher purpose, that is: my initiation into a secret society that has watched over me (as well as harassed me) for many, many years…decades, even. But now–just before all my lovers and dear friends from past lives come to surround me–those who are already here (such as yourself and Larkin, and I guess several others), choose to vilify me for a while longer. Apparently it remains their role for the sake of my betterment.

So I also realize this is the purpose you also serve, much to my chagrin. Thus your behavior, while kind on the surface, bubbles just underneath with all sorts of inconsiderate games. Not the least of which is running away from me, that you may always have the last word. I confronted you on important matters of our association, but instead of hearing me out, you slam the door in my face. YOU’RE A BAD BOY, BRASUS! And though I love you very much (and that might be a problem in your little world of privileged egotism), I will not put up with it by pretending that undercurrent isn’t going on, just because I am sorely lacking in true friendship. But please realize this:

While harassment upon This Desperate Little Dragon by those he loves (and who love him back) continues for Sabazios only knows how long (and I wish it would end soon), there will be one among them who will cease his attacks first, to become The Affectionate Comrade Of My Dreams. And he will boast to everyone he knows and meets, about what a Really Good Man is Zeke! But what’s also important to know, is this:

Whoever is first to stop battling against me, will have my company five times more often than anyone else (friends or lovers)…for all eternity. I’m assuming of course, that will be Larkin. But you never know until the cake is done, who’s gonna apply the frosting.

Zeke

P.S.: Peace and love, even if you don’t come through for me. The worst that will happen AFAIC, is we’ll just be neighbors living out our own lives apart. Just like I am forced to do with everyone else here at Hotel California North…and the Castro…and San Francisco…and California…and these Disunited States…and North America…and the western hemisphere/northern hemisphere…and this sorry little planet.



ANOTHER ONE BITES THE FAERY DUST

Yet another queer was recently murdered here in our “Gay Mecca For Wealthy Fags Only.” Typically, there was an outpouring of the usual neighborly regard, in order to cover up the true bestiality of all those so-called “nice” people who inhabit the Castro. While they, themselves, are the real reason why such atrocities continue, and increase. Let me explain:

Decent people like myself are often ignored and forced into an invisible existence, soley because we are low-income and left-wing. Such stigmatization (a la gossip) leads to abuse, harassment, violation, bashing and death…due to the local community’s enforced elitism against those who don’t own a home or business. Yet when a member of their clique gets killed, they mourn in public as if to prove to the world that they are, indeed, really good folks. Which is pure horse hockey.

The person lately dispatched to a much better world, Bryan Higgins, was an active member of the Radical Faeries. Years ago, I attempted to join their commune, but was rejected because I refused to participate in any circle-jerk gatherings. Now what does that tell you about such a group, if they excommunicate you only because you have no interest in perverted sexual behavor?

I only know Bryan from popping into Rosenburg’s Deli where he worked, in order to purchase a pack of ciggies or, perhaps, a pint of vodka. He was not a particularly friendly type, which IMO made him quite typical of elitist behavior so common in the Castro. In fact, I asked him once:

“So what is your name?” To which he replied:

“Oh, call me whatever you want.”

Now that, my friends, I consider an asinine reply. Since I was showing him respect in wanting to know a bit about him. SF gays are often rude to me, they don’t know me from Adam…and I guess that’s the crux of the matter. I am not known to them, not part of this or that clique, and I’m definitely not a cute young dude. Though I’ve been part of the community since long before 1983, and have accomplished much good work in the name of Gay Rights…I may as well have moved to San Francisco yesterday. I remain a stranger in my adopted home town.

There was a celebration at Duboce Park just one or two days ago, to honor Mr. Higgin’s memory. All well and good but for one thing: were I to be so bludgeoned to death by a cabal of violent homophobes, no one would honor my history of devotion and sacrifice on behalf of gay liberation. I’d just be a blip on the radar of the Castro’s GLBT records, and promptly forgotten. In spite of my incredible acheivements, which many have stolen and claimed for their own vainglory.

So rest in peace, Bryan Higgins, though please know that neither the Radical Faeries nor the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence have shown me any acceptance or respect, though I have accomplished much on behalf of Queer Freedom. Same goes for all of the other organizations under our coummunity umbrella. Even though I’ve made my presence known to them numerous times, including resumes of my gay street activism and LGBT-themed tales. Offering them many of my ideas gratis, so long as they acknowledge my contributions rather than claim credit for themselves.

Now that I’ve vented (and thank you for your patience), I must give you some honor, though not in the smug fashion of elitist sycophants who remember you with pomp and circumstance. (In part I presume, out of superstitious fear that if they don’t, the gods may look down on them with disfavor…but also because, while not rich yourself, you were well connected with a major gay organization.) No one deserves the brutality that you suffered and which led to your death. Yet there are many gay-identified souls here and elsewhere who, like me, are completely ignored (even vilified) by those blessed with a cozy life, and celebrated by their LGBT peers. Who, when bashed or murdered, get barely a few lines in the local papers, if that. And certainly: no public memorial.

A dear friend of yours back in Michigan has set up a Facebook memorial page in your honor:

Feather-Lynn Memorial

I am sure that, now that you’re on The Other Side Of Life, you completely grasp where I’m coming from. And proudly serve as guardian angel to all those in our Homophile Family, who suffer through no fault of their own, social isolation and scorn by their brothers. For if you’re as sweet and spiritual as claimed by those you left behind, that is exactly how you’re spending your time in Avalon.

[ Now get this, Yoghurty Reader: the suspect is identified as a white male 20-30 years old, wearing a gray hoodie. A gray hoodie? Everyone wears a gray hoodie, fer Zeus-sake! Thanks for nothin’. This really quells the fear of good citizens strolling the Castro (or Duboce Park) at night, yessirree-bob-a-loo-la. (And which person will never wear a gray hoodie for the rest of his life, care to make a wager?) Way to go, douche bags. Then again, I wonder: are there more than just a handful of good citizens left in the area? I really doubt it.

There is also the matter of defending oneself with an effective weapon of legal choice: if not a gun, then pepper spray. In most cases, a one-on-one confrontation can be summarily thwarted simply by wielding a canister of PS before the attacker even makes his first strike. It is my wager that Bryan was defenseless. Too many gays walk the streets w/o any protection whatsoever. Had Bryan wielded such a weapon, he may have averted a tragedy. Which not only serves to protect him and live a full life, but would spare the LGBT Family from needless grief and expense. ]


WHEN IT COMES TO LAPTOPS, I’M A BOTTOM

From: Zeke Krahlin

To: Sean

Date: Fri, 15 Aug 2014 15:56:35

Subject: Found a notebook in freebox!

Six years old, in great condition. Compaq Presario V6000, 1 G RAM, 67 G hard drive, etc. Vista Home Basic (boo). Large, crystal clear screen, plays videos beautifully.

Still trying to complete all updates…refused to load Service Pack 2. That would clear up the wifi flakiness. But it does well via public access. Linux doesn’t seem to take well to it, both video resolution wise, and wifi wise. My USB wifi chip is supposed to work perfectly in Linux, but I’ve tried five of the latest distros with no luck yet. Not even Puppy Linux, which always before recognized Linux compatible wifi like a charm.

Problem is the AT&T free wifi set up in the Castro…it’s not good at connecting half the time, so can’t always tell wherein the problem lies. Would like to get this Compaq connecting at home, for updates…cause it’s a heavy weight to lug around.

Anywayz, good to have a backup system, as well as one to watch videos and test new freeware that might have a malicious virus or two.

– Zeke


HOODIES STALK THE ‘HOOD

From: Zeke Krahlin

To: Several Gay Papers in San Francisco

Date: Sat, 16 Aug 2014 22:15:37

Subject: Violence in the Castro

Dear Editor,

In light of the increasing, mostly anti-gay, violence here in the Castro, I’d like to point out two especially dangerous hot spots: Jane Warner Plaza (JWP) and Noe & Market Laundromat. Anyone who visits the Castro on a frequent basis is surely aware of the nasty bums loitering about JWP at all hours. They do not belong here, but take advantage of our generosity, and the fact that all gay neighborhoods are a lot safer and friendlier than the straight ones. Yet it is this very friendliness they abuse, since these scumbags see LGBTs as “faggots” and a silly joke in their Christianized Pathology. Glad to take our dollars, though.

Please realize that most homeless use the services of churches for food, showers and shelter. And that, even here in “Gay Mecca,” the majority of pulpits preach war against homosexuals. What few gay-friendly churches exist here, I can count on less than ten fingers. These religious institutions preach hateful dogma against gays, in exchange for their so-called charitable outreach. Then send these disturbed souls to gay districts in order to spread violent doctrine in God’s name. This is Nazi-style propaganda: fomenting hatred against sexual minorities through populux religion and Aryan airwave brainwashing.

I cannot enjoy strolling my own neighborhood, thanks to these pinheaded scoundrels who take up every outdoor public venue (seating, plaza and park). JWP is one such space that is particularly occupied by fuckups. Plus: living over Market Street between Castro and Noe, I often hear vagrant lunatics traversing the block and screaming at the top of their lungs, wickedly anti-gay epithets and curses. Sometimes very late at night, thus interrupting my sleep. As if they are doing God’s righteous work. Moving on now to Noe & Market Laundromat, six doors down from the intersection with Market:

I think it’s the only laundry service in the district without a manager or attendant for the full time it’s open. So when the manager leaves for the day (around mid-afternoon), scary dirtbags haunt the place. One of them recently confronted me and demanded I hand over five dollars. When I said “No way, get the fuck outta my face,” he seemed about to fly into a rage. Thankfully, he did not…nonetheless, he strutted back and forth by the laundromat, causing me unwelcome stress. He is but one example of the numerous freaks who occupy that laundromat through late afternoon and night. Now I ask you:

Why should washing one’s clothes be akin to standing unarmed in a battlefield? I do not blame the laundromat’s present attendant…for responsibility lies with the owner. He certainly needs to assign a second person to cover the remaining hours when the first employee is off duty. That is: if he really cares enough to stop providing a haven for homophobes and creeps.

Sincerely,

Zeke Krahlin

Long term (and bedraggled) resident of the Castro


THANK DRAGON FOR TRACE!

From: Zeke Krahlin

To: My Mendocino Muse

Date: Sat, 16 Aug 2014 14:12:56

Subject: Amazing!

Ran into Trace late last night (around 3 AM), and he looks GREAT! No more shopping cart BS, very clean and neat looking…and soooo handsome (honey-brown hair tumbling to his shoulders, like a seraphim; green eyes, etc.). Told him how glad I was to see him again, and how proud I am of him for struggling to survive after Hurricane Katrina drove him from his home state to San Francisco. You remember him, sent you a photo of Trace asleep on my bedding…tattoo over the left calf muscle that spelled “Baton Rouge.”

Well, here’s that photo again (see attachment)…really cute dude, but so much hotter than the image reveals. A truly LOVELY man, and I’m a truly LUCKY man to have his company once more.

He had a nifty bicycle lit up here and there with blue-white LEDs. Took him home where the next thing I know, he’s lying down on the bedding with his pants lowered, and darling fat wanger sprung up like a…well, you get the drift. He didn’t even want a couple shots of vodka first, a cigarette, or even some pot to smoke.

“Are you sure you don’t want some vodka?” I queried, surprised at his unexpected and bold move…though absolutely delighted like a hound with a jumbo Milk-Bone.

So I took a quick sip of my drink that was left unfinished when I stepped out to stroll the Castro. (I do that sometimes, late at night, just to check out the street dragons, and maybe find a sweet one to hold in my arms and stuff like that.)

He admired this lovely new jacket I found in a free box last week: thin leather with an inner hoodie shell of gray flannel. Well, I love that jacket and wore it every day, even in the warm weather. Never thought I’d part with it willingly, but there ya go, El. Without a nanosecond of hesitation, I yanked it off and gladly presented it to Trace.

He only stayed long enough for a quickie, but he did pull off his sweater and topmost shirt to bring it down to one. His torso was exposed up to his chest, during which time I got up from my chair and slid my arms about that sexy, smooth bod. To my surprise, he did not resist, but continued to remove the shirt, then put the outermost one back on…then donned the jacket.

“I gotta go see my people,” he said while gripping the handlebars of his road bike. “Let me out, Zeke.”

As if I were trying to hold him back. Ha!

“Gimme a hug, SIR!” I commanded. So he did, head nuzzled upon my left shoulder. I kissed him on the ear and whispered:

“I’m your dawg now, buddy.”

He left behind a large, red-and-white striped shirt like a candy cane, and light gray sweater (see pic). Totally clean and they smell wonderful…the gritty streets, ocean breeze, and his own friendly werewolf scent…a most seductive mix! The next morning I found myself thanking Goddess many times over, as I prepared myself for another amazing day.

Got my usual whole-wheat-with-sesame-seed bagel with cream cheese and a small coffee. I was in bliss, and still am, as I compose this email.

So I finally return back home to discover my first check from Friesen Press! Only $28 but hey, still a great reason to celebrate!

And soon enough, Trace will be in my arms again. Figuratively speaking that is. Replace “Trace” with “his bodacious kok” and “arms” with “mouth,” and you have an accurate picture. Hardy har hardon!

– Zeke


Hilarious Respite

July 30, 2014

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

July 22nd

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– Zeke


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

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

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

“Two thousand eleven,” he replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

“Yes, that will work quite nicely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

http://www.sabazius.com/thracian-religion.html

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


Two Visions

July 15, 2014

Friday, July 11:

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

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

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

“Oh thank God! Oh thank God!”


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

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

My Guardian Dragon has come to avenge me.


101 Hyde

June 17, 2014

Date: Thu, 12 June 2014 14:07:22
Subject:
101 Hyde
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor

It’s a post office in a seedy part of town, the Tenderloin. However, there exists a corner donut shop right across the street with a clear view of the PO. Just as I had wondered (how copacetic). Don’t know /when/ he picks up his mail, I’m guessing 11:30-ish, as he parties till late at night, and walks dogs, plays pool, drinks starting in the mid afternoon.

So mayhaps I’ll hang out at that Donut dive for an hour or so each day, and see what’s up. Oh if only they had wifi! Then again, the neighborhood is thick wih thieves.

Meanwhile, one postcard returned thus far, from The Mix. Doesn’t mean no one’s read it, and the gossip hasn’t sparked a flame that will rapidly spread and consume all the Castro hooch joints with Zeke’s spiritual fire! Or it may fizzle out like a wet cherry bomb. This is the card upon which I taped a small printout on the front, in which I suggested Larkin may be a drug dealer. Well, my jumbo postcards to the manager of each bar, should have been delivered by now…more likely, yesterday. Let’s see what my cage rattling will accomplish, eh, El?

– Zeke


Date: Thu, 12 June 2014 20:15:04
Subject:
Re: 101 Hyde
From: Eleanor
To: Zeke Krahlin

Eleanor wrote:

{{ Doing your bit to keep the U.S.Postal Service alive!!!! }}

And I have Larkin to thank for /that/ one, too! Most incredible man I’ve ever met. He’s given me so many opportunities to utilize old-school letter writing and posting. Which has only served to increase my appreciation of the USPS and its incredible history. But I’m tellin’ ya, Ellie:

If Larkin doesn’t do something really /spectacular/ for me on my birthday, I’m gonna go postal all over his sorry ass!

{{ That postcard’s a beauty. Pearls before schweinhunds. }}

I’m sure they’re all having a good laugh at my expense…while preparing my surprise birthday party coming up very soon.

On the side I scanned is a tiny image of Manannan mac Lir, the Celtic god of the Irish Sea. Looks rather like Larkin. I’m no longer surprised at such things, just delighted.


[ Goodly Reader: total of 12 jumbo postcards I’m mailing out to Larkin along with the small cards. Dispersed over a two-week period, that is: till the end of time…er, I mean “June.” Click on any image below to view the accompanying super hero. ]


6 Jumbo Wishes

June 10, 2014

Monday, June 9th: my jumbo postcards just came in! A collection of the US post office’s super hero designs back when 1-ounce stamps cost just 39 cents. (What year was that? You tell me.) I originally wanted these so I could print more content on them, than I could on a standard postcard. Intended for Larkin of course, until I realized I could just tape a printout on the image side of each smaller card, thus allowing me twice the space than on the address side. You can see the results in my previous blog post. Well, I still felt driven to purchase the jumbos, even after that realization. I still didn’t know why I succumbed to this additional purchase, until two days after ordering them:

Why of course! I’ll print out my entire appeal to the bar managers, and tape it to the front. Better than a regular letter in a sealed envelope. Since this way, exposure to my fundraising plea could reach more curious eyes before the manager gets a hold of it.

Certainly, in my struggles to get our local community to repair Larkin’s teeth and promote him as a professional party mixer, I need to maximize the odds of reaching the right person or people. I think the demand to be as clever as possible arises from the challenge to celebrate (and thus restore) a friendship, in which the battle is uphill all the way. Add to that a blustery wind of hostile opposition…including My Own Celtic Demon! So here’s the box it came in:

And the back:

Just opened:

This is how my printout looks, when attached to the jumbo card. Click on image to read the actual letter:

And these last two pictures show the postcard collection itself (minus “The Flash” shown above). Click on either image for a larger view:

So that Monday afternoon returning from “Bean There” coffeehouse, I slapped together My Six Jumbo Wishes, then hustled on over to the local post office on 18th Street:

The clerk observed Larkin’s address on the envelope that contained a Father’s Day card. He frowned a moment, then clacked away at the keyboard.

“Oh, that’s 101 Hyde Street!”

I suddendly lit up: “Finally! My lover’s a detective, and he likes to toss me all kinds of challenges. I could never find out the street address, but my mail still gets through. Nothing on the web, even when I search for the full 9-digit code. And the Inner Sunset PO, I asked them to look up the zip code, but they still couldn’t find the street.”

With a sigh of gratitude, I thanked him. He handed me 7 postage stamps (one for the weighty Father’s Day card that also contained a DVD copy of the film “The Congress,” and six for those jumbo postards). One stamp depicted a lily, the rest were of Harvey Milk.

So now I gotta go check out the location of 101 Hyde…maybe hang out nearby and surprise Larkin. Perhaps there’s a little cafe across the street, where I can watch, Maybe snap a photo of Larkin entering the building…print it out and paste the pic on a jumbo postcard and send it off. And this time, with the street name in the address.

Friendly Ghost Detective Agency always gets his man! (Whether in the jail or in the sack, I got his number and he’s got my back.)

Well dontcha know, on my way back home strolling up Noe Street: here came Larkin meandering down my way. Of course, I was most curious to see whether or not he’d speak, or gesture something. As we grew near, he lowered his head in passing. I guess he’s not gonna talk to me. I decided this time around to remain silent, like strangers. Half-a-block later, I turned round to see him grow distant in his approaching 18th Street (probably on his way to Moby Dick). He turned his head back to see if I followed (or possibly just to acknowledge me). I waved a hand and smiled. Where I’ve been standing in the same spot all along, gazing wistfully at my objet d’amour. Another 20 yards before he turned the corner and vanished, he peered at me yet once more, to see me standing at that same spot. Then he was gone.

As I continued hovelward, I surmised that Zachary had by now read my letter to him, as well as my fundraising idea to the newspapers. Both were enclosed in that ziplock baggie I handed him at Moby Dick, three days ago. (BTW Larkin, thanks for not himiliating me as usual, when I stepped into that bar…very big of you. I guess because you actually summoned me there, to give my gift to Zachary.) Probably, then, Larkin also read it, or Zachary conveyed its essential content to him. Which means that–by the time our paths had crossed once more (just after my posting the jumbo cards)–Larkin was well aware of my attempts to rally the locals around my fundraising scheme. And how it will likely put him on the spot regarding our own, increbile association since 2006. Including my criticism of wealthy patrons who adore him for his wit and good looks. Yet allow years to pass while his teeth drop out, and a great career as party mixer goes down the tubes.

But I also surmise that Larkin’s telepathic antennae inspired him to let me get another bounteous glimpse of his darling self, shortly after I exited the post office. His unique way of saying, “thank-you for sending off those jumbo postcards, and taking big risks for my sake.” Prayer is worthless without action, and I certainly do follow through. So now we must sit and bide our time, to see what sort of brouhaha I get from the managers (and the gay papers). If any. *sigh*

[ Fractured Fairytale Reader: buried among all my present musings is my theory that Larkin is a gumshoe, preparing to bust the remainder of a dangerous cult. Which theory I’ve discussed numerous times in past articles, but not recently. This would explain his elusive and sometimes antagonistic behavior towards me. Yet sporadically, he’d say or do something to lift my spirits, keep my hopes up high. Thus, these evasive maneuvers are for my own protection: to deflect our enemies from targeting yours truly any more (as they did back in our SOMA days, see my chapter in Book 1, “The Phone Call“). Perhaps even his housemate Zachary numbers among these curs. Thus, Larkin must step gingerly in order to keep him off my tail. So why does he live with him (you ask)? Ever hear the saying “Stay close to your friends, even closer to your enemies?” Perfect strategy for a private eye! And consider this too, O Haphazordous Reader: if my detective hunch is correct, Our Divine Dragon deserves all the love and support This Poor Humble Queer can muster! I can’t imagine the kind of danger he is in, placing himself as he has, smack dab in the center of a gay cult! So I cheer him on via whatever method I can…if not in person, then by postcards and letters. And praying, yes, lots and lots of praying. ]


UPDATE: Now that several hours have flown since my last encounter with Satan this afternoon around 3 o’clock, I grow more joyful in spirit. The sight of him is still sinking in…and as it does, my heart sings like a nightingale, and hummingbird wings sprout from these weary shoulders! And Michael J. croons “Remember the Time” (in a video I downloaded from Youtube) from my USB speaker. Good ganja. Thank you, Chris!


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