Larkin Squarepants

October 18, 2015

The following five postcards to Larkin were all sent in the Halloween spirit, starting on the 15th. Showing first the front, then the smaller-image address side. Since I don’t have a working scanner or camera at this time, I can only display the printouts I’ve pasted to this generic, SF tourist schlock. Please realize that I am posting this article in advance of the last four postcards shown herein.

[ Braxilous Reader: just at the moment I completed the paragraph above (this afternoon on the 14th), I suddenly heard Larkin Kelsey’s voice below my 2nd-story windows call to whomever: “You have a very nice evening!” So I went to the left-side window, saw His Gracious Self just below, and hollered: “You have a very nice evening too, Larkin!” To my surprise he did look up when I expected him to ignore me. Thus I expounded:

“You look ready for Halloween, what with that Grim Reaper expression on your face!” He responded by spitting up in my direction which, of course, did not even get near my window, but landed in a tiny splat near his feet. I rubbed it in:

“You’re the Queen Bitch of Castro Street!” He then bellowed his infamous “Aargh!” and marched away.

I believe he intentionally showed up right at the moment I began to prepare my series of Halloween missives to him. Yet one more piece of evidence that he is indeed telepathic. And that–in spite of his frequently crude behavior towards me these past 2.8 years–he actually harbors great affection towards This Silly Supplicant. Now, on with the postcards. ]

15 October (postcard #1): the friendship quote at postcard’s top is something Larkin said to me in May of 2014. And is the sweetest thing anyone can say to someone, in my opinion. Another thing to note is that, while he loves Scooby-Doo, he totally despises Spongebob Squarepants. Something which I learned about two years back. So I decided now–because of his latest BS–to start sending him Spongebob themed postcards and letters, in lieu of Scooby-Doo stickers, printouts and gifts. Though it has occurred to me that, being clairvoyant (as well as telepathic), he set me up to avenge him with Spongebob pics by pretending he hates that particular cartoon character. As I’ve indicated in many previous tales, he is a Brilliant Playwright of Life…and as My Guardian Dragon, he expertly paves my path with surprises laid down in future scenarios. Actually, my initial salvo of Spongebob attacks began in my blog entry just previous to this one. Jump to the end of that piece, to view it.

17 October 2015

Dear Sid,

This is funny, as the “Pearl” image above is reminiscent of your “Moby’s Dick” illustration. I ran across it while looking for Halloween themed Spongebob pics. So of course I had to send you a copy. This is the second meaningful coincidence involving your illustrations. The first, of course, is that Scooby-Doo/Peanuts pillowcase.

I’ve been sending you mail recently, because the contents give strong indication that my breakthrough as a global power is nigh. This is not an ego thing, for I am highly cognizant of being sure to keep my feet on the ground. (And explains why Larkin treats me like a POS: to keep me from falling over the edge in ecstasy.) Yet when such an incredible destiny is intended regardless of one’s wishes otherwise, you must learn to accept this role while maintaining a humble position. Anyone associated with yours truly in any significant capacity–during these past 10 years or so–will likewise become a major celebrity. Not the least of which is one excellent soul who provides the illustrations that complement so well, my tales.

I just saw Larkin again at Twin Peaks Tavern a short while ago (around 5:30 PM). He continues to behave towards me like a royal asshole, because that is what he must do a bit longer. He stepped out for his usual cig, and approached me with reprimands that I will wind up in jail if I don’t quit stalking him. Of course I pointed out that this is my neighborhood too, and I hang out here to meet my homeless buddies, as well as provide him with a space to talk with me, should he so wish. And that the police will laugh at him for using the cops for his own manipulative foolishness.

He then whipped out his latest cell phone and took my photo, while I smiled and waved. He smugly declared:

“Every time you appear in my presence, I’m gonna take a picture in order to build up a record of your stalking.”

So I pointed out that since we live in the same district, our paths cross frequently. And of course I heckle him now and then, for fukking up my life with lies about me…which has nothing to do with stalking.

“Have fun with that,” I chuckle. “You will only implicate yourself further, as a bully and a wing nut. The cops will get fed up with you.”

“You want me to put a restraining order on you?” he threatened. “Then you can’t come to my spot here at Castro & Market.”

“Oh go right ahead, dufus. I’ll then put a TRO on you, and if I’m at Twin Peaks before you show up, then you will have to go elsewhere.”

There was a subtle grin behind that poker face: his way of assuring me this is just a game, and he admires my spunky bravado. He then declared:

“Most of your letters I haven’t even opened. I can present them to the police, to show them how relentless you are, in spite of my wanting you to leave me alone.”

Well this is ridiculous, I thought, since he gave me his P.O. box with the specific request that I send my mail there. All they’ll see from reading those missives, is a story of a good friend towards another. Though I know he’s read every single one of my letters, and appreciates each one immensely. Plus, his telepathy voids the need to open any mail. He’s just twisting the knife in my back, to test my faith. Easy peasy, I can deal.

“Don’t be such a clown, Larkin,” I warned. “This is a matter for a civil suit, and the police can’t do anything about it.”

“That’s what you think,” he threatened. “You’re a stupid, stupid man.”

“Right, Larkin, you can read my beads like nobody else. You have me totally figured out.” He then snuffed his Camel 99 before adding:

“Just stay outta my space, when I’m here!”

“It’s my space too, asshole. You can’t bully me and think you can get away with it. But have fun trying.”

Anywayz, other macho exchanges occurred between us for a while longer, during which time I refused to depart as he tried to smoke another ciggie outside my view. But that didn’t work out too well, as I repositioned myself every time he tried to hide behind some shrubs, a lamppost, or a passing streetcar. He finally marched back into Twin Peaks as I goaded:

“Go ahead, get back into that glass coffin where you belong! And have fun hitting up lonely old queers with fat wallets.”

“Leave me alone!” he hollered for the fourth time in our latest confrontation before disappearing into the social mix of vodka-guzzling dipwads.

“I’m not bothering you at all, you are harassing me for standing out here and enjoying my people watching at this most historic corner!”

With that, I wandered a while longer back and forth by the picture window where he could see me. Then I meandered on home to type you this letter. Now that I am done, I shall step back out once more, to be a thorn in My Kimono Dragon’s side. He may have left by now, but one can always hope for another bout of feather-flying before the night wears on.

I am not phased in the least, because his crude regards serve the higher purpose of my playing his long-suffering hero. And as a result, shall lead shortly to the perfection of This Querulous Soul. All signs indicate that My Ultimate Breakthrough will align with the upcoming winter solstice.

Your friend and artistic associate,


18 October (postcard #2): quite self-explanatory. Thought I’d start introducing him to additional characters in the Spongebob Squarepants cartoon franchise.

19 October (postcard #3b): Alright, the following postcard was mailed in a fit of passion, well after I set up my schedule of Halloween bon mots. Please read carefully.

21 October (postcard #3): a little more sophisticated here, during this Spongebob Indoctrination of My Adorable Archosaur, Larkin Kelsey.

24 October (postcard #4): just more Spongebob foolishness with a gay/Halloween twist! Enjoy.

27 October (postcard #5): yet more Spongebob themes with a gay/Halloween twist! Enjoy.

My Halloween Epiphany

October 9, 2015


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 salty tale.

9 & 10

September 1, 2015

[ Transdevotional Reader: these are the last two of “Zeke’s 10 New Rules,” as declared through the humble medium of the postcard. Sent, as usual, via the USPS to Larkin and six bars in the Castro that he frequents. Or did frequent, seeing as this is also a game to try to get him 86’d from one or more of these boozy venues…in retaliation for his successful maneuver to get me kicked out of those very same locales. Which he succeeded in doing since his initial salvo back in January of 2013. Use your browser “zoom” command to more easily view the printouts taped to these gay-history-in-the-making cards. ]

Mailed on 28 August:

Mailed on 31 August:


I desperately needed a new backpack by early August, as my previous one was stolen by a handsome minx whose identity shall not be revealed herein. And my red satchel that served as a backup, was almost frayed to the point of inutility. Finances were scant, and my homeless pals never got around to finding me a decent pack for which I offered $10. So I hoofed it on down to Ross Dress For Less in order to see what they had in the way of such a need. Cost me a few pennies under $35, but it was a great deal.

So in their lobby, I transferred the contents of my satchel (including most importantly my HP Elite Book and its AC adaptor) into the new backpack, and marched off with a purchase well satisfied. I then boarded the underground Metro to enjoy my daily breakfast at The Posh Bagel located downtown. A couple hours later I boarded the L Taraval to return to my neighborhood, The Castro.

Just before I arose to disembark, my new pack’s yellow strap caught itself under the plastic seat, yanking me back down. A Latino matron was parked right beside me, so I could not crouch down to resolve this problem without looking up her chunky thighs. In order to avoid such embarrassment, I had to figure out how to free the strap without thrusting my nose between her knees.

Instead of politely moving aside (and there were many seats to do so), she just remained on spot, chuckling at my dilemma.

“That’s okay,” I declared while jiggling the strap in hopes of freeing it from a more awkward position (and sighed in resignation), “I’ll just have to get off at a later stop. No sweat.”

I continued to fuss with the unyielding backpack, accepting my fate of being coerced to travel well beyond The Castro and through the tunnel that would take me to Taraval Street and perhaps beyond.

But while struggling to achieve My Gordian-Knotted Goal, I wondered why the train did not move on, but remained stationary well beyond its usual wont. I paid that observation no further mind, and focused with Zen-like attention upon the liberation of My Beloved New Purchase that I had only acquired earlier that day.

In a sudden release, the strap was freed and I stood erect once more, and rushed to the door…expecting to exit at Taraval Station. Instead, I discovered this radiant and young Af-American lady holding back the sliding door in order to allow my exit at the correct stop. She had long, smokey-golden hair, a lovely blouse and rippling skirt both colored reddish-lavender…and a most kind demeanor spread across her enlightened visage. Clearly, she was an intelligent and brave-hearted soul.

As I passed through the train’s doorway and stepped onto the platform, I turned to her and said: “Thank you!”

More than that: before the doors shut I called, “You’re an angel! You’re an absolute angel!”

Were her skin lighter toned, she would’ve blushed like a radish. Her smile back at me was more glorious than an April mist. As the N Judah huffed forward, that Latino matron smiled at me in laughter. I looked right back, shrugged my shoulders and guffawed in full realization of God’s Little Joke.

I love my new backpack, for the sweet story that formed around it the very first day I flung it over my scapulae.


Just got this lovely card from my illustrator, Sid Rohan. The “Cosmic Cookies” on the back of this card refer to (of course) my “Misfortune Cookies” tale that I printed out and sent her (she doesn’t do Internet). I’m sure it happened without any conscious intent on her part…which makes it so much more magical.

7 & 8

August 26, 2015

[ Flocculent Reader: these are postcards 7 & 8, with only two more to go, to complete my “10 New Rules.” Mailed off to six bars in The Castro that Larkin frequents…or frequented, seeing as their execution any time after Rule #1 may have already 86’d him from one or more of these gay dives. Then again, maybe they had no effect whatsoever, in my desire to retaliate against him kicking me out of these same bars by unkindly accusing me of being his stalker. Either way, enjoy my latest “Frenemy Volley.” ]

NEW RULE #7 (posted 20 August 2015):

NEW RULE #8 (posted 24 August 2015):


(Tuesday, August 25th around 8:15 PM) I saw Larkin once more at Twin Peaks Tavern. He was buddying up with the typical old fart while I stood outside within clear view of his sight. My heart broke, yet I was joyful at the same time.

Minutes came and went before he finally stuck a Camel 99 between those lovely lips; thus I realized he was about to step out. So I positioned myself catty-corner to the tavern in order to behold him from any direction. Yet instead of standing outside and sucking on that stick, he marched down Castro towards 18th.

I ran across the street in order to stride parallel to My Darling Demon. About halfway down the block, he started to cut diagonally across the traffic. But he paused before a car and did His Little Victory Dance while the driver remained a captive audience. Then continued across to suddenly see me standing there, and naturally threw me an angry glance and rushed back to the opposite side of Castro Street. So I hollered:

“That’s what I like so much about you: always the kind smile and good cheer!”

He waved a dismissive hand in my direction, treating me like The Ultimate Nuisance Of All Mankind that he has since January 2013. I was not about to be silenced:

“You love anyone with a fat wallet. Otherwise, forget it!”

Once he turned the corner east up 18th Street, I hurried back to 17th & Market, where I was sure he’d return to Twin Peaks, figuring I would give up and walk home by then. Sure enough, a short time later he strode around the corner of Hartford Street and onto 17th, where I waited nearby. His fists were balled up in fury, and he pounded them together as he passed by. I did not flinch; instead I hollered:

“It all comes down to anger management, Larkin! It’s no big deal, really.” I wanted so badly to hold him in my arms and tell him how much he means to me. But he has denied me that honor for more than 2-1/2 years at this point.

“Get away from me,” he hollered from a distance. “Get out of my life, goddam fukker!”

“I can’t!” I called back, ready to burst into tears; for I could never imagine abandoning him. “I’m your friend.”


His cold rejection didn’t fool me for a moment, so I admonished: “Don’t take any wooden colostomy bags, Larkin!”

Yet he still ignored me, so I queried: “Where’s your sense of humor, buddy?”

Just before he reentered the tavern, I declared: “Get back into The Glass Coffin, where you belong!”

(Twin Peaks Tavern is nicknamed The Glass Coffin, because that is the one bar in The Castro where the elderly set hangs out…more so than any other dive in the ‘hood. I find it hilarious, especially now that I have recently turned 65, yet feel no older than 32. So be it: I have a youthful spirit. And a great love for Larkin, who must be 53 by now; though is so glorious in appearance, he appears 27 on a good hair day.)

So I stood outside another 11 minutes or so, during which time His Pea-Brained Housemate, Zachary, showed up. Therefore I had to position myself where the idiot wouldn’t see me, yet Larkin would. My Sweet Soulmate did not angle his face away from This Displaced Soul–as was his usual wont–but remained facing in my direction while chatting up a Methusalah queer. After smoking another Fortuna, I decided it’s time to return hovel and fill my belly with nourishment.

(Which these days was long-grain brown rice dabbed with Rosarita’s vegetarian refried pinto beans, steamed bits of green, yellow, orange or red bell pepper, chopped green onion, mild green or red salsa, vine ripened tomato cubes, marinated and grilled artichoke hearts…and topped with grated sharp cheddar once all the other ingredients are nuked for three minutes. Sometimes I’ll include a side dish of sour cream and onion CVS potato chips. A chill glass of diet Pepsi or Dr. Pepper completed the meal.)

Halfway towards Market Street I turned back one last time to gaze upon My Beloved through the plate glass window. Wherewith he smiled boldly and waved his arms with much enthusiasm. I gestured back with blown kisses and hand signals to indicate: “It’s okay. I will always love you, and thank you for the affirmation. Asshole.”

Thus I arrived hovel with a lightened heart. Nonetheless, once seated at Desk #2 I broke down and sobbed. I am such a wreck.

PS: As of a few days ago, a brown, carotenoid lump appeared on my right hand, between thumb and forefinger. Several weeks before then, it was just a flat, white mar. Melanoma? God only knows, ’cause I certainly can’t afford to see a doctor. FUK PRESIDENT OBAMA and his “Unaffordable Care Act.” I have only The Great Spirit to trust at this point, that I shall not be taken away from those I love…and even be victorious in my struggles for Gay Righteousness. Stupid drama.

Zeke’s 10 New Rules

August 17, 2015

[ Exfoliated Reader: these Ten New Rules are roughly drawn to satirize Moses’ Commandments, updated for LGBT folks as channeled through my specifically personal adventures. Originally broadcast separately, each New Rule was snail-mailed on a postcard, to six gay bars that Larkin frequent(s)(ed), as well as to The Dragonfly Emperor Himself. Which occurred during the months of July and August 2015. (It was originally five bars until I discovered that 440 Castro was his latest addition to his hustler dives.)

Note: the paragraph above was written in the past tense, as I planned to release this blog entry after all postcards have been sent. However, I decided to publish this piece today, in advance of New Rules 7-10. I also mailed a copy of my 10 New Rules to Larkin yesterday, that he may be aware of what’s comin’ down the pike. I will mail the remainder three days apart.

Click on the Sufi heart below each section, to view an image of the actual postcard. You will have to scroll down to find it…first the front and then the back. In two cases (numbers 2 and 3, and numbers 7 and 8) two sequential postcards are presented in a single blog entry. After August 30th, links to postcards #9 and #10 shall be provided. ]

  1. Do not allow Larkin Kelsey to enter, or remain in, any gay bar, tavern, saloon or the like, without my company. Except for Moby Dick, whenever his roommate Zachary is tending bar.
  2. Larkin must commute from his home on a motorless go-cart no less than 5 blocks in any direction. This go-cart shall be powered only by a flock of 20 chickens tethered to the front, like a bobsled. No other form of locomotion is acceptable.
  3. Give Larkin as many hugs as he can handle. And tell him each time, how much Zeke loves him. And wants him to have a beautiful life with or without me. If he is in a gay bar, tavern, saloon or the like when you do this, kick him out immediately after your hug…unless of course if I am standing beside him at that time.
  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.
  5. Like a popular sport, many denizens of gay bars go out of their way to destroy potential friendships outside their own circle. This must end. I fully trust my supporters (whoever they are) to bust their ovaries in order to make this change. And thank you ahead of time for all your good work. A new age is dawning, and it’s very gay. (This is writ in memory of Officer Jane.)
  6. We the SF Queer Family owe Friesen Press everything! For they are the only self-publishing venue that would even touch my novel, which is based on true tales of my adventures as a gay street activist here in Baghdad by the Bay. With Larkin Kelsey the protagonist, and my hero. So if at all possible, please publish the three sequels to my book, “Free Me From This Bond” via Friesen, as our community takes over the distribution of my writing. The link to the free version is My publishing advisor is Debbie Anderson, out of Victoria, British Columbia. 1-888-378-6793 ext. 307.
  7. Flush out all the obvious and not-so-obvious street people who are homophobic. Thus you shall protect those homeless
    who are either LGBT or friendly to us, who are the most vulnerable to violent attacks (certainly more so than those living indoors). Please base your judgment on behavior, not words. For some who are gay nonetheless act very bigoted, believing that is necessary to protect themselves. They gotta go, too, no excuses. This will also make The Castro a much safer place for residents and visitors alike. You can easily expose the not-so-obvious by calculated words or behavior that you impart. We can then build on this accomplishment, by forming a more cohesive union among all queers and their allies.
  8. The borders of The Castro shall be defined much as the earlier delineation that is termed “Eureka Valley.” That is: Dolores
    Street is the eastern edge, the outermost (Waller Street) border of Duboce Park the northern extent, 20th Street is the southernmost border, and Douglass Street the western limit. So please confine all New Rules within those limits. And be confident that our victories shall swiftly expand beyond these borders, to finally encompass the entire planet.
  9. Do not be fooled by The Naked. For most of these
    guys and gals who occupy Jane Warner Plaza almost totally nude, do not give a flying fuk about LGBT rights. They are wannabe celebrity poseurs, who use the relative safety of The Castro in hopes of gaining financial glory, at the cost of queer denizens and visitors, who only wish to have a nice time in a safe space. Most of these nudists are hetero, but those who identify as gay, are self destructive with a perverted desire to fuk up The Castro Reputation as much as they can. For if they were sincere in The Right to be Naked, they’d have already expanded their cause into other SF neighborhoods. Their purpose is merely to serve as puppets for the homophobic right wing: to convince tourists and TV addicts that The Castro is indeed a boiling pot of sexually diseased sodomites. Give ’em hell and get them outta here!
  10. Give all glory to the Hypnotoad! But if not, then give it to me. Or to Larkin Kelsey thanks to his many incredible (and often painful) lessons. Or to the many excellent LGBT scouts under His Command: such as yourself, perhaps. For I/Him/We am/are The Be-All & End-All of LGBT Equality. This is my last New Rule, which I trust you will take to heart. Have fun with your life; just know there are others also queer, but who must suffer the slings and arrows of homelessness, poverty, redneck location, et cetera. Do your utmost best for each of these long-suffering angels. I hope My 10 New Rules will be an inspiration towards a more egalitarian and LGBT friendly existence. Thank you kindly for bearing with me…Larkin be exalted!

The Curse of Abraham

August 14, 2015

It is beyond my comprehension why so much of my calling reflects a heavily Judeo-Christian metaphor. Except perhaps this is the society I was born and raised in: thus most Americans will not grasp my intent unless it is cloaked in such Biblical ideology. My take on the matter is like so:

According to Carl Jung (the father of compassionate therapy, and great advocate of respecting the folklore intrinsic to whatever culture), the major symbols of any nation are based on the religious mythos most common among its masses.

Therefore, the major archetypes of These Disunited States are based upon Christian icons. It is therefore less likely that the majority of its denizens would comprehend my message, were it based on, say, Buddhist, Native American, Celtic or other non-current belief system that has been usurped by our present mythology which holds a firm grip on its citizenry.

Ergo, in order to reach as many souls as possible within my own nation of birth and education, I must appeal to them via whatever mindset most agrees with their concretized brains.

Though for myself (as a shamanic animist by virtue of long-term examination of life’s truths) I boldly resent having to reach out to the populace via a highly ignorant and destructive world view that has decimated and persecuted many vulnerable populations across the world.

For Christianity is nothing more than a usurpation of previous, and earlier, ethnographic belief systems…which they then claim as originating from their own (so-called) Supreme Divine Command. For example: this “Golden Rule” they claim to originate from a person who never really existed (Jesus Christ) holds no precedent to earlier history. Yet this is patently untrue.

For there have existed many sage women and men–centuries and even millennia before The Christian Era–who’ve taught their people that to “love one another as one would love oneself” is the most basic rule of human life.

[ Scopulous Reader: another example is the concept of “End Times,” which many Christian sects believe will be a prolonged devastation of our planet, of Boschian proportion. This is utter horse hockey, a distortion of the much older, Celtic/Pagan version of transition into a new and glorious Age of Man…which we call the “War of the Wizards.” A tremendous struggle between the evil sorcerors, and the good sorcerers, a.k.a. “Black Hats vs. White Hats.” And just who goes by those titles, in this present era? The White Hats shall win, of course, but the climb to victory will be most extraordinary…and hilarious. To read my particular take on how this shall come about, read my cyberpunk tale, “The Mighty Mouse Virus.” As well as the final part of the last chapter in “Free Me From This Bond (the sequel).” Jump to phrase “letter to the editor” and you’re good. ]

Yet I really have no other choice than to inform the world through a Christian perspective, no matter how much I rebel against it. For changing the hearts of as many people as possible–to love their LGBT brothers and sisters unconditionally–is far more important than being a stickler for historical accuracy.

For the kindly soul who hath declared “let he who is without sin cast the first stone,” has long since evaporated into dust, leaving Yours Truly to pick up the pieces. This is no walk in the park.

I therefore compare my relationship with Larkin, as comparable to that of Abraham and Isaac of the Old Testament. For YHVH commanded that Abraham sacrifice his son, Isaac, to the knife…in order to prove his devotion to The Creator. You may learn about this dramatic stand-off by reading “The Binding of Isaac“.

For it has grown quite clear in my perception, that Our Creator has placed me in a tragic scenario, whereby I must be willing to sacrifice unto death, He Whom I Love Above Any Other, in order to prove my devotion to Homophile Liberation. Thankfully–because I understand the process through shamanic lore–I fully realize that Goddess shall halt this sacrifice at the very last moment…just as Jehovah did with Abraham.

And I believe that Larkin is totally aware of my painful dilemma. For he is such a Benevolent Spirit that he is more than willing to sacrifice His Own Beautiful Life, that I may gain a victorious destiny that will benefit all planetary souls. And he shall never flinch, even for a moment, to bring this about. Just another reason to adore him more than any other man I have ever met (even in my dreams).

And this is why Larkin fuks with me over and over again: for that is the only way I will rise above whatever adversity: by placing the Buddha’s compassion before every challenge that confronts me. In order to discover the joyful solution, rather than one that is vengeful and rife with anger.

You should be so lucky to have someone who loves you so much as Larkin does yours truly, who puts his affection immediately behind life’s sacred lessons (albeit sometimes tragic), without any hesitation whatsoever.

So what is my point here? I guess to demonstrate Larkin’s exquisite sense of Spiritual Martial Arts, and his devoted role in accelerating My Soul’s Progress, unencumbered by romantic attachment.

In spite of my wishes otherwise!

The following postcard I sent out to those 5 proverbial Castro gay bars that Larkin hangs out in–or used to hang out in before I blasted him–on August 11th. Whether he actually can frequent any of them any more, or not, is irrelevant in This Activist Gay Dude’s World. For I am Fate’s Hand That Cannot Be Halted At This Point.

Allow me to close this piece with a cute Twitter post:


Date: Fri, 14 Aug 2015 22:22:03
From: Sean H.
Re: The Curse of Abraham
To: Zeke Krahlin

Abraham is cursed. If I have this right, there was Isaac and Ishmael. To favor Isaac over Ishmael was unfair and ungodly; you never favor one child over the other. Islam, as I understand, is the legacy of Ishmael. For the organized church of so-called Christians to go after Islam is simply pot meeting kettle.


Date: Sat, 15 Aug 2015 12:00:15
Re: The Curse of Abraham
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Sean H.

On Fri, Aug 14, 2015 at 10:22 PM, Sean H. wrote:

{{ Abraham is cursed. If I have this right, there was Isaac and Ishmael. }}

That is one excellent analysis…makes sense even though my conscious intent was not that Abraham himself was cursed. But that all his descendents are cursed. To put this another way: these 3 Abrahamic religions are a curse on all of us; and most particularly on LGBT’s!

Thus, any religion or other world view /must/ come to fully respect
sexual minorities , or their ways shall perish. That is The Ultimate
Litmus Test by which Universal Mind shall judge our world, as far as I
can tell. Seems to me that a sliver of Christian churches will come
through unscathed; same for the other two branches.

The asking of God that one sacrifice who one loves most–to achieve a
greater purpose–arose from ancient shamanic ritual. And it manifested
in a variety of ways…each way giving birth to a major Odyssey within
their folklore.

For each of the Abrahamic religions to claim such brilliant tales as
originating from /themselves/ (instead of earlier sources), is a gross
distortion of Truth…and thus, blasphemy.

Anywayz, I thoroughly enjoyed writing that essay, and I’m glad you got something out of it. Imagine my visiting your church group one Sunday, to read to them “The Curse of Abraham!” Think they’d crucify me…or just stick a few spears in my side?

– Zeke

It’s All Good

August 12, 2015

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

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

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

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

Dan White Deserves Forgiveness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sinqueerly yours,


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

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

Because they’re /all/ A-holes.

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

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

I feel better now.

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not funny, Zeke,” he scowled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Colostomy bag man! Colostomy bag man!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you, Larkin!”

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

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

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

Dear Editor,

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

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

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

Most sincerely,

Ezekiel J. Krahlin

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