Free Me From This Bond

2012/03/23

Date: Thu, 15 Mar 2012 21:47:56
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: FREE ME FROM THIS BOND!!!

Dearest Eleanor:

I beg your forgiveness in my conclusion that promoting your book for free, or for as little money as possible, is no more simply accomplished than should the Internet not exist. Where would we be then…laundromat and university bulletin boards? calling in to radio talk shows? parading oneself around at various coffeehouses, bars and clubs, like some evangelist of your glorious novel? Ha!

THERE IS ONLY ROOM ENOUGH FOR ONE EARTHLY PROPHET, AND I AM THAT! (Would’ve said “he” instead of “that”, but out of respect for the noble, gracious, and heroic history of Woman’s Struggle, I give you: that. And, of course, to mock the patriarchy…a foolish notion if ever there was one!)

For Larkin, darling Larkin, has entered my life once again, and boy is he such a sweet angel! (You remember it was because of my school-girl infatuation of that Saucy Irish Knave, that I became lovestruck-inspired to compose not just one novel around him, but two: “The Larkin Chronicles” and “Friendly Ghost Detective Agency“. (For which I paid dearly, with 3 months feverish typing late into the night, that resulted in CTS in both forarms and RSI in each hand…with a touch of focal dystonia to spice things up.)

Which latter title you inspired me to transform from a chapter of the former, into its own unique opus. And that is precisely what occurred, so thank you very much, O Madame of the Luminous Void!

It makes so much sense at this point of My Awakening, that Book 2 should remain an unfinished novel, a work in progress.

I want you to know that I have walked many dark paths in search of Truth these past 30-odd years, in order to give birth to the next revolution: THE GAY or HOMOSEXUAL or QUEER REVOLUTION! (I have not been disappointed, but Dear Goddess, I sure as Hades came close to giving up the ghost countless times throughout my scatterbrained life…whenever I found myself confronting way too much so-called “reality” in such a wickedly brief amount of time!)

And it starts with the BLOSSOMING of the fine friendship (a.k.a. “bromance”) between myself, and Impeccable Larkin Kelsey!

And now that I have found Truth: Truth must be told!

Whoever Larkin truly is in the Scheme of Things (and who I am likewise): nevertheless am I lifted off my feet and swept into a dimension totally immersed in love and joy and friendship and gay hypersex!!

(To be continued…)


Date: Fri, 16 Mar 2012 07:51:18
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: Re: FREE ME FROM THIS BOND!!!

Quoting Eleanor:
> Is this truly so????? That’s sublimely wonderful!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’m pinching myself, too! If this is just another excellent manic phase, I have to confess that a lot of other folks are going through it at the same time. More later…

(had a GREAT time last night, though I did wake up in my own bed.)


Date: Fri, 16 Mar 2012 09:46:41
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: Re: FREE ME FROM THIS BOND!!!

; I danced in my galoshes and hoody yellow raincoat down Castro Street toward 18th, reveling in the glory that is the Rain Goddess’s own shower of benevolence upon this lone pilgrim: LARKIN IS BACK IN MY LIFE! (Though he never really left, of course.) Our paths started crossing again several weeks ago, and with greater and greater frequency, till now it’s almost every day. Well, that’s a bit of a white lie…let’s say about thrice per awesome week.

Flashback 2005:

Our friendship shiny new, like a green bud barely burst from the xylem, I had stepped into the Hole in the Wall Saloon off Folsom Street, sporting a quartz crystal that hung from a resinous cord about my neck. Barely an inch long and a fourth as wide, it sparkled in its natural, pentagonal glory; flat on one end, blunted tip the other…with a pleasant, ruddy touch to it, like beeswax. From within danced a lavender spirit.

Can’t remember at this moment (as I type), what meaning this crystal held for me, but I do sense it was quite special . I am NOT superstitious or caught up into worshipping material items (nor big into jewelry and self adornment)…but how this crystal came to me was nothing less than a Small Miracle, and probably had to do with My Beloved Randolph Louis Taylor…who I now believe, sent Larkin here as my Great Guardian of Life.

Yes, I remember now (somewhat): it came to represent the BULLET with which he shot himself at The Wall, back in 16 January 1985. One day, that crystal will be replaced by (or transformed into) the REAL bullet. Which I first felt as a lump in his back, lodged firmly against (and partly into) the right shoulder blade, before a surgeon finally removed it some months later. Long, angry scars already crosshatched his back, like the scourge of a whip.

I touched them, too. Bone-white keratinous comet trails of agent orange neatly incised by an unknown soldier’s cold scalpel. My fingers shivered as the icy demon travelled up my arm and penetrated to the bone, even unto marrow. A tear trickled down his arched back with the T-shirt scrunched up, that I may see such youthful freckles and a promise of Liberation writ therein.

To be continued. Meanwhile, please read my poem “September’s Passage” for a little more on that adventure.


Date: Fri, 16 Mar 2012 22:32:51
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: Re: FREE ME FROM THIS BOND!!!

Flashback 2005 (cont’d)

So I walk into the Hole in the Wall with a glittery amethyst crystal (which acquisition I cannot recall at this time, but I’m sure I was daydreaming about My Randolph when someone placed a small, faux-lizard-skin textured lily-white rectangular box in my hand), dancing joyfully upon my throat’s chakra (that indentation on one’s neck, just below the larynx). But somehow, in yanking off my winter scarf or jacket, I also jerk the crystal clean off its binding with a sudden “zing!”…and it vanishes to parts unknown, though surely in a perimeter not to exceed 10 feet in any direction. At least, that’s what my ears tell me; for surely my eyes did not follow. For the saloon is dark, with ink-stained-horse-flesh-curtained windows and lit only by scattered candlelight and a few dim overhead fixtures.

So barkeep Gary whips out this enormous yard-long, metallic dildo from below the cabinet, turns it in my direction and presses the vibrate button. But wait, it doesn’t vibrate, it lights up instead, bathing me like a Hollywood beacon (or an officer’s headlamps trapping me in Golden Gate Park by the windmills, paying a rakish hobo for a blow job: your choice). Like a…like, ummm…like a FLASHLIGHT, ’cause that’s what it really is (I soon realize, as my sun-kissed sidewalk-fevered eyes grow accustomed to the Stygian dusk.)

Bearded Hobbit Gary (“Garden Gnome Gary” also works) puts all his concentration into locating this crystal, methodically covering every square inch of the deeply gouged and splintered oakwood floor to a perimeter far exceeding the likely landfall. Alas he comes up empty, to which I remark: “It’s only a crystal, Gary, I’ll get over it. But thanks so much for the bother; I don’t even know how I got it.” By then, Larkin had stepped in to witness Gary’s spotlight search, and decides to perform his own examination of the scummiest floor this side of Bryant Street.

FYI, if you don’t already know, Hole in the Wall is themed for Satanists and Hell’s Angels of the homosexual variety. It’s dark, skanky, and often vulgar…as are most of its regular patrons (who frequently spit on the floor). Kind of a queer version of O’Henry or Steinbeck…or maybe even Nosferatu. But it is the only gay bar I know of, that plays real rock ‘n’ roll; not a drop of disco to be found anywhere, within its four or five (counting the open-door lavatory w/an ice-cube-filled trough in which to pee) walls. A dragon formed of colorful lights and copper wire spreads its eclectic wings over the entire saloon…in a frozen flight that defies any ceiling.

So he lifts the searchlight from Gary’s hold, and sweeps the floor first around my feet (where they relax upon the bar’s footrest), then radiates further out, stopping short of the nearest wall. Still, no luck. But I care not about my crystal (or any crystal), when such a fine and glorious lad like Larkin is paying me some attention, and making all sorts of physical maneuvers that I can admire from many angles (except from below), as he slowly swings the heavy rod across the splintery boards, methodically leaving no square inch unanointed by the light.

Coming up empty-handed just like Gary, he says to me, “Sorry!” and hands the flashlight back to the barkeep. But the moment he does, he freezes, and says, “Wait, I feel something!”…indicating his left foot which heel-part he holds frozen an inch above the floor. Larkin then steps back a bit, and collapses his gangly 6-foot-4 frame to pick up the object that had pressed against his heel like a stone. It’s the crystal! And he hands it to me: “Aaarrrrgh! Thar she blows!”

“Wow, thanks Larkin!” I commend. To which he replies: “Do you get it? Do you get the message?” while gazing deep into my eyes with those smoldering, dark orange-red irises, I’ve never seen the like! He is The Dragon! And I respond with utter sincerity and infinite joy:

“Yes! YOU are the light.” The rest is all implied, no words spoken, but all the same, telepathy declares the remainder: “Not some stupid candle or electric torch. You ARE my light, that guides me safely home through all peril; to your heart, to your smile, to your most darling affections. My gratitude is eternal!”

“Good!” he says, then turns his glorious, orange-haired Hibernian frame around, and exits through the horsehide curtains to tend to other pressing events which (I have no doubt) have something to do with defending, furthering, assisting, or celebrating, the gay spirit.

Or perhaps he just stepped outside for another smoke.

–End of Flashback 2005

To be continued…


Date: Sat, 17 Mar 2012 13:38:46
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: Re: FREE ME FROM THIS BOND!!!

Quoting Eleanor:
> Beautiful! Suspenseful! Transcendent!

The Muses do turn their gaze upon my humble soul. This is a Great Blessing in my life, as is Larkin, My Fighting Irish Angel.

THANK YOU TOO, ELEANOR!

More to come!…



Date: Sat, 17 Mar 2012 18:20:26
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: Re: FREE ME FROM THIS BOND!!!

Quoting Eleanor:
> An ice-cube-filled trough in which to pee? That’s a new one. To keep it fresh?

Don’t know about that, I guess so. But one thing I’m sure of: it certainly keeps the men fresh!

I’m surprised you didn’t know that many gay bars–particularly the lower-class ones, where brawls and cat fights occur with phenomenal frequency…come with public troughs for urinals. It’s a long, porcelain conduit (about seven feet), filled with gallons of those mini ice cubes.

Plus, there’s an equally long mirror just above the trough. For your viewing pleasure, of course. Though most intimidating for those of us w/o impressive girth and length, so we tend to stand at the far end, angled away and pissing against the side. Or we simply wait until the room empties.

Larkin has a way with making a sound effect whenever he whips it out: “thunk!” Don’t know how he does that, it sounds just like someone dropped a large, heavy block of wood on a thinly carpeted cement floor. Of course, I look away, I’m not the eyeballing type, and I do respect him totally…but the first time I heard Larkin’s impressive noise, we were alone in the urinal…well, not in the urinal but some day, perhaps! I flashed him a side glance with an expression like “Really?” before he zipped it up and exited. Larkin’s always a lark.

Then there was the time a rather handsome gent sidled up to me, and began jacking me off. Stupid bartender Gary needed something from the rest room right at that moment (there’s extra storage space for sundries tucked behind the toilet) and kicked us both out. Not outta the entire bar, mind you, just the urinal. Sadly, the gorgeous dude who lent me a rather talented hand, got so embarrassed, he slipped out the front door posthaste…and with a mighty itchy palm no doubt. For you see, I had the crabs. Ha ha, just joking. It was chiggers. Ha, joking again. No I’m not. Yes I am. It was a raging case of herpes.

This trough/mirror/ice cube motif is common across the gay nation. What with your youthful adventures, and gay friends, I was certain you already knew. Be that as it may, I guess the cold cubes keep the steamy urine’s odor from invading our noses like Visigoths in Marseilles.

What was the first gay bar to provide iced-filled troughs as a second sort-of watering hole, where both men and boys could gather and check each other out? I have no idea, but it might prove worthwhile to uncover (or unzip, as the case may be…though “unzipping” has a totally different meaning for us CyberGeeks…reminds me when Feedle and friend John at an early gathering of the Berkeley Unix User Group which I founded in 2001, pulled out their Palm Pilots and exchanged info by waving them at each other; and they called it “safe hex”).

I have this scenario for a standup comic entertaining at gay urinals. Wearing a raincoat of course, because they’ll piss all over me whenever I crack a joke that strikes ‘em as a tad too corny. What a great occupation for a size queen like me! But work is work, no matter the venue; or as I like to say: “Just another day at the orifice“.

Did you hear about the fourth little pig?
He’s the one the three other little pigs never talk about.
(noticeable pause)
He built his house with cow flop.

Oh, and this one’s for St. Patty’s Day (coz it’s a limerick, silly):

I once knew an alien from Venus
Who had two holes in his penis.
When we went to bed,
The first thing he said
Was: “I think there is something between us.”

And this: Is that a leprechaun in your pocket, or are you glad to see me?

Take my domestic partner, please.

At this point, I’ll probably need a short break, or drown in urine.

Cheerz, El!

###


Date: Sat, 17 Mar 2012 19:47:22
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: Re: FREE ME FROM THIS BOND!!!

Quoting Eleanor:
> I knew about the trough, but not the ice.

Sorry, I misunderstood. :\

> Prolly it has to be refreshed pretty frequently, what with the hot urine constantly melting it.

Yep. Usually that job goes to the barback. This being Saint Paddy’s Day, I’m sure all the cubes are green. Except for the cubic hairs, of course.

> That would be a good entry-level job for an ambitious up-and-comer: Gay bar pee-trough ice-boy.

Gay bar subculture is pretty darn amazing. And I’ve only glimpsed a sliver (coz me an’ alcohol don’t mix well; my dream is to open the world’s first gay marijuana infusion and herbal tea bar). There’s an entire male culture at places like The Hole; Monday nights you’re welcome to strut around in your underwear. I did that, once, lotsa fun. Well, Larkin’s presence made it fun…he kept checking out my legs. Gave me a lot of sweet attention that night..and of course I drank it all in (to the very last drop)!

There’s sometimes a Nekked Nite too. Stepped into one by accident: lots of saggy old men with flaccid…everything. Meh.

> I think we should make Rick Santorum do his community service thusly. In his sweater vest and nothing else.

Wouldn’t last a minute in there. He’d come to a sad end, like Mussolini. They’d put his remains on ice, and display him in a glass tomb at Harvey Milk Plaza. The plaque will say:

Did I mention they’d replace his head in that tomb, with Rick Warren‘s butt?

Cheerz, El

###


Date: Sat, 17 Mar 2012 18:20:26
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: Re: FREE ME FROM THIS BOND!!!

We’re showing our age, scratching our heads over why there’s ice in urinals, if it’s just a gay-bar thing or something more widely applied…when we have something called the Interwebs, with search hickies no less! So I asked the oracle at DuckDuckGo the obvious question, and got many informative results, such as:

http://www.ehow.com/facts_5163382_ice-put-urinals.html


Date: Sun, 18 Mar 2012 20:24:41
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: Re: FREE ME FROM THIS BOND!!!

Quoting Eleanor:
> Welp, I’m guessing you’ve spent more time in men’s rooms than I have

It would seem that way. Now I’m blogging about it. This is worrisome. :P

> did you ever see ice in a general-population urinal, either trough-style or regular-style?

My modest stipend does not afford me the luxury of clubbing and eating out at various bistros et al…where you would likely find an iced up trough now and then. So I’m certainly not the right person to interview for this topic. Ask Mitch. Tee-hee.

> And I’m guessing the trough-style urinal would be more of a gay-bar sort of fixture, for obvious reasons. Nyet?

I’d have to agree: the whole bathroom milieu is a staple of gay folklore. But the icy trough probably got its start in rather mundane environs, such as the Silver Dollar Saloon in Mobridge, South Dakota: a mixed Indian/white bar that I visited whilst on a five-week archeological dig as an undergrad, during which stay I turned 21 and imbibed my first legal elixer…

and got laid by a traveling musician right out of Iowa City, who sang and played electronic keyboard at some sleazy one-horse town night club, theme song: “Everything is Beautiful in its Own Way,” though his nether parts left me open to doubt. It was a 2-night affair, after which each time I had to hike 1.2 miles (along a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair–yes, I had hair back then: shining gleaming flaxen waxen long beautiful hair, right down to my shoulder blades–with rednecks and screamingly drunk Mandan, Hidatsa, Arikara and Lakota native Americans barreling down the road at 95 mph 4 in the morning, shouting “Yeehaw” and blowing me wolf whistles and cat calls as they rumbled by) to my rented bungalow where all five crew members had to arise at precisely 6am.

Real gay men might cry at a chick flick,

but we sure know how to turn a urinal into an altar of masculine adulation. The trough, of course, makes one think of horse cock. Or cowboy schlong. Or both. Though for the most part, should some drunkard fairy lay a hand on my fly, I say “Neigh”. A thousand times “Neigh” (by which time I’ve had the calloused blue-collar hand job, the turgid passion of fleshly male bonding and, of course, the Ejaculatory Aftermath: wham bam, thank you Sam). o_O

BTW, I once blew a handsome KQED radio host named Seth in the urinal of the old Stud Bar at its original location on Folsom and 12th.That was back in 1986. He’s since risen to international stardom in the Arthur Godfrey tradition of a live, outdoor audience. I tune him in every Saturday morn on 88.5 FM. Nine inches of gorgeous manmeat; I drool in recollection.

I like to think I gave him his start in show biz. A good BJ is most empowering. Plus: I work magic with my tongue. Good times.

###


Date: Sun, 18 Mar 2012 20:24:41
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: Re: FREE ME FROM THIS BOND!!!

It is indeed a dark and stormy night as I prance down Castro Street already somewhat drunk (thanks to my personal stash of cheap booze), and enter Toad Hall on 18th. Two more vodka tonics later I stumble outside, hoping to pick up some young hustler planning to dope me and then steal my money and valuables once we get home, under the premise of showing me a good time. Of course, at my advanced age of 61, “young” means anyone under 55, so long as he’s at least an eight. (Of course when you’re soused, there seem to gather ’round you, a lot more hotties in the 8-10 range than when sober. Go figure.)

My secret is to conceal anything particularly valuable (such as my real wallet and personal papers, $200 android tablet and spare, refurbished portable laptop purchased via eBay for less than $300), and lock down my main $425 laptop with a combo lock and alloy steel cable wrapped around a vertical cubbyhole shelf built into the desk. Which then makes the date-rape drug a free high, and the odds of my actually getting laid–or at least mightily felt up on parts that still count (such as my aching lower back)–greatly increased.

FYI, in the queer community, date rape is not a crime, it is a highly prized form of sexual intrigue…especially among the low-income-but-still-horny, elderly citizens such as myself. And when I say “low income” I mean the very low, such as SRO dwellers, who really don’t have anything worth stealing in the first place, except perhaps a few possessions, all easily concealed in one’s closet, ground-score file cabinets (converted to clothing and pantry drawers), or in boxes under the desk covered by worthless magazines and ripe underwear.

By the way, I am only saying these things to worry my lovely Larkin, and bring out his protective instincts. I do none of the things just described above: I might get a little drunk now and then, but do keep to myself, wishing with all my soul, for his funtabulous company…even with our clothes on, so long as we are in each other’s arms, munching popcorn while watching the latest Pirate-Bay-ripped DVD.

I’m being honest now, because I know that Larkin will finally read this, and I don’t want to come off like a cheap loganberry tart. Yes, I do play around now and then, but it’s only for lack of your darling warmth. Okay, Larkin? I’m sure when you come to realize what a blessing I regard you in my life, you’ll come running to my side, and never leave. I’ll give you three more months, then I’m moving to Portland to weep away the rest of my sorry life; and try to forget you, which I know will be a futile endeavor. You can always reach me by e-mail:

http://www.gay-bible.org/gaymail.htm

Toad Hall is a nasty place to hang out. Named after the original Toad Hall that burned down in 1979, this present incarnation only has the name in common, but none of the amenities. It is always super noisy, thanks to the cranked-up speakers, and has about as much personality as a dead rotting whale picked clean by seagulls and mestizo gang-bangers along the Great Highway. To be fair, one can say the same for any gay bar here in the Castro. But it does have a large picture window that allows me to gaze upon the passersby, in hopes of spotting Larkin, or my next victim of conjugal pretense.

As usual, nothing interesting is going on, either side of the plate glass…so I finish off the overpriced swill and step back out onto the street where, by this time (well after witching hour) the rain has diminished into a wet, cold drizzle, and a bold crescent moon hangs low over the Edwardian houses on Collingwood Street. (Where my good friend Marvin once lived, till he passed away from AIDS back in 1992; same year that I last heard from Randolph…it was a sad time. Come to think of it, I’ve had many sad times living here; though I hold my head high, even when on my knees and blowing some dude in the bushes. Just teasing you, Larkin. The bushes are long gone.)

No sooner do I make my exit than–thar she blows!–Larkin appears on the other side of the street in a fast pace towards that ridiculously expensive supermarket, Molly Stone’s, which replaced the old DeLonghi’s (which replaced the still older Cala Foods…I’ve been here a long time; I walk among ghosts more than real people these days). I hurry across the street to be sure my voice reaches him: “Larkin! You have a beautiful night, I love you and Goddess bless!”

Now, it has been his usual habit since my departure from Hole in the Wall four or five years ago, to either (1) completely ignore me, or (2) more recently, acknowledge my presence with a friendly nod or wave of the hand. But to my delighted surprise, he turns tail and speeds back in my direction. I can hardly contain myself, like an old friendly Labrador greeting its beloved caretaker.

Suddenly, the whole world loves me. More than anyone else. More even than Jesus, the Eiffel Tower, Randy Crawford singing “One Day I’ll Fly Away” (the 1980 version), your domestic partner returned in one piece from Vietnam (or Iraq, Afghanistan, Somalia, Korea, or whatever hellhole that has taken him away for a terrible and grievous time), a box of chocolates from Forrest Gump, a sweet child suffering cancer (and she is your darling daughter), quacky little ducklings chasing you around on the moist green grass by Stowe Lake…or Fry, Bender and Leela from Futurama.

To be continued…


Date: Wed, 21 Mar 2012 12:55:20
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: Re: FREE ME FROM THIS BOND!!!

Quoting Eleanor:
> BTW, I asked Mitch about ice in urinals. He said he’s only seen it in men’s rooms in bars, and he always assumed that it was there because it’s a convenient way for the bartender to dispose of “old” ice, in addition to keeping the pee-smell down. He said he saw a trough-type urinal in an Oregon bar, and that it had continuously flowing water (Oregon has no water shortage at all), so no ice.

I love Oregon. Especially in spaghetti sauce…ummmm. You actually asked Mitch; that’s cute.


Date: Wed, 21 Mar 2012 12:58:16
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: Re: FREE ME FROM THIS BOND!!!

Quoting Eleanor:
> Looking forward to savoring your latest installment in an unhurried way…..you’re a damned good writer, Zeke.

I blush. Thank you. And thank you for such tremendous support…I wouldn’t have gotten this far w/o it. Wait until you read it…it put ME through a lot of changes! I must’ve shed buckets of joyful tears in the process, now I need a mop.


Date: Fri, 23 Mar 2012 12:43:07
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Subject: Re: FREE ME FROM THIS BOND!!!

Larkin comes right up to me, and touches my shoulder. In a firm but kind and deep-throated voice, he commands: “Go. Home.” Then with one hand on my arm and the other my right shoulder blade, escorts me back across the street, and stops by the newsstand at Walgreens. He declares once more “Go. Home.” Then briskly turns about, crosses the street (again) and continues his march up 18th. His warm, strong touch on my back and arm lingers like a sweet dream of puppy dogs and lilacs. I am aglow. Stunned at this unexpected turn of events, I somehow manage to call out to him once more, as he disappears around the corner and up Collingwood Street:

“Peace my brother! You are a darling!”

No sooner do I commence to obey his command, than a young, spirited woman steps up and stentoriously declares: “Forget about him. This is about you. Zeke, you have done so much for our community, we couldn’t even begin to list all your achievements. You have sacrificed SO MUCH on behalf of our brothers and sisters, I want you to know that, and commend you at this time.”

Again, I am stunned. She is a bubbly, handsome sprite barely seventeen, with curly locks of auburn hair framing a beatific face that is vibrant with precognition. I have no idea who she is, never seen her before, and am about to explain my playful association with Larkin as I point in the direction of his retreat, when she interrupts me, and once more declares:

“Forget about him”. And continues to praise me to the heavens with words so eloquent I couldn’t help but take her hands warmly in mine, and remark:

“Yes, I have done many good works on behalf of gay rights, with hardly any acknowledgment or appreciation for more than 35 years. You are so sweet to honor me like this, I can’t thank you enough.” Then kissed her hand like a gallant knight. “I must go now,” I finish, “and see what my sweetheart is up to. Again, bless you and thanks immensely.”

And off I run towards Collingwood, just to glimpse Larkin one more time: alas, he is nowhere to be seen (the little scamp). His heart’s enduring embrace then guides me safely home.

(I would like to add here: whoever that woman was, my apologies for not lingering long enough to get your name, and to learn how you know about me. You are most welcome to get back in touch (see my e-mail link above), and we’ll schmooze over tea and crumpets. Again, that was such a sweet thing to say, you’re like an angel that suddenly appeared out of the dark, cerulean void and blessed me with bounteous honor. I truly hope we become BFF; you are a most remarkable lady.)





###
finis
kaput
the end
game over man
th-th-that’s all folks
to be continued in another true life faeggie faerie tale


Casper Titchworth

2012/02/03

My friend, I have been in the habit of downloading photos of men on the Internet, whom I find particularly handsome. One such cyber-hottie is a “Casper Titchworth” whose face and story I discovered over six years ago, while searching for something related (perhaps regarding Mark Twain, another famous steamboat pilot).

Sending you an attached image of Casper, whose face just delights me, to gaze upon, even for hours. I have never seen a set of ears before that I would ever call “outstanding”, but there you go. Notice how his fresh-cut hair drapes just a tad over those gorgeous ears…the noble bright-clouded forehead, those stunning eyebrows set above two luminous orbs of iris…all touched off by those most inviting lips (whose glory can not really be concealed beneath that janitor-broom moustache), and equally noble chin and jawline. The man’s a doll. Even more astounding: I see most definitely a spiritual light emanating through (and even from) his darling visage.

C. Titchworth was born around 1843 in Michigan, and became a steam and tugboat driver of some reknown. Unfortunately, he is also associated with the sudden disapperance of a steamship in 1874…as the captain of that same boat in 1879! As you can see here:

Owens Valley History: The Bessie Brady

I think there’s a typo in one or both dates…as I have no idea if he disappered with that ship, or they built a replacement, for which he was captain for a spell. Or any number of other possibilities. But I can tell you this, with the greatest assurance:

He is not a man…at least, not a normal kind of man. He is one of these mysterious guardians, such as you and I have discussed many times over the years. I recognize my own…but it isn’t gaydar, it’s Gabrieldar…a fanciful title I give to my equally fanciful “angel spotting”. I do consider myself the preeminent spotter among all angel spotters now present on this planet…perhaps even preeminent over all previous A-spotters, too! (Though this would certainly open me up to accusations of hubris by some of our more conservative and fervent members.)

We are (I have no doubt at this point) both members of this same circle of avatars (or angels, or guardians, or whatever)…whose mission on this planet involved having our memories totally erased, and implanted with new, false memories. This is akin to tales of Apollo descending to earth and reincarnated into a man, in order to understand better, the needs of Zeus’s most sterling creation (yes, of course I mean homo sapiens; please, stop monkeying around). Even older cultures preserved similar tales from generation to generation…of gods or angels descending to earth, in order to guide mankind away from their path to destruction.

And in Hinduism, it is said most implicitly, that while Krisna incarnates in each generation along with us, for most of his lives he remains unknown, an ordinary citizen in the eyes of his neighbors (except perhaps for a chosen few). But whenever humanity descends dangerously low to the point of no return, Krisna then makes himself known, and he is addressed as the “nth” (replacing “n” with a number greater than 7, not sure which) incarnation of the one true creator of all: Visnu.

For now, Casper must remain a friendly ghost in my dreams…though I am equally certain that he and I shall soon be together once more. There is a great force of spiritual kinship I feel with him, and others…some existing now or till very recently (such as my Randolph)…some existed somewhere in the past, perhaps the quite distant past.

There is also this short biographical piece on Mr. Titchworth, though it mentions nary a whit about his colorful career as a sea captain!

Casper_Titchworth.pdf

Which document told me something about Titchworth, that I never knew till now! That he is interred here in San Francisco! Obviously, I need to get out to his grave, and see what happens next. Care to join me for a midnight picnic?

Casper calls to me now and then, so I load that handsome mug of his on my computer’s LCD screen, and dream and meditate upon that glorious visage of the most gracious gentleman that ever my eyes have rested upon. Truly a dear friend, albeit ghostly!


My E-mail to Masked Lizard

2012/01/28



Campitupalosaurus

2012/01/12

FORWARD: I ask you…how could such brilliant, sweet nonsense such as the following comedy piece, NOT be inspired by a divine force of some kind? So my question is (after first reading the article entirely): Do my angels (of inspiration) deserve all the credit, most of the credit, some of the credit, just a tad bit of credit, or none at all? Enjoy (wrote this several years ago, then just left it sitting there in my “Drawing-Board” folder):


FIRST GAY DINOSAUR
by Zeke Krahlin

News anchor man or woman speaks on TV screen:

In the news this morning, archeologists uncovered the bones of a heretofore unknown species of dinosaur. Intensive DNA analysis from a jaw bone sliver revealed this species to be highly homosexualized. (Thus explaining its rapid extinction long before all OTHER dinosaurs.) We have managed to clone this new species into existence once again. So let’s give it up for the world’s first gay dinosaur: CAMP-IT-UP-ALOSAURUS!

Put on foam rubber T-Rex head w/punk-rock hair and piercings, foam rubber claws and large, bulky tail.

Campitupalosaurus (twisting to disco music, speaking in a slow, deep, breathy voice):

Tonight after the show, there’s gonna be a party in my mouth, and you’re all invited!

Dances a little more, then addresses the audience:

You know, it’s very difficult finding friends, being a dinosaur and all. And being GAY doesn’t help either, in a homophobic society! So where does a lonely gay dinosaur cruise, when there aren’t any other dinosaurs around? Well, certain LARGE lizards and reptiles are my only options.

Komodo island I understand, has some very BIG lizards… but I can’t afford to travel so far!

Maybe I could go to Florida. You know, all those hottie alligators!

But I don’t even have a job yet. So what’s left for cruising potential? Well, there are pet shops, veterinarian clinics, and the ASPCA.

Oh yeah, and I just discovered the Internet! So I placed my request on Craig’s list, in the following categories: “Activity Partners”, “Rants & Raves”. “General Community”, and…well, I also posted in “Men Seeking Men”… though I’m NOT a man, am I…but I AM male!

So, category wise, “men seeking men” was the best option among the other combinations. I mean: how else was I to identify myself as “gay”? There was NO category for “Male Dinosaur seeking Male Dinosaur”, and of course you already know that!

Oh, and one more category I included as an afterthought: “Casual Encounters”…though I don’t see how ANYONE would regard an encounter with a gay dinosaur as CASUAL by any stretch of the imagination. Do you? Anywayz, here’s the letter I posted:

==========begin msg.:

Subject: Lonely Gay Dinosaur Seeks Companions

Hello. I have recently been cloned into existence by scientists,
after many millions of years being extinct. And there is no one
else like me, around.

Do you like dinosaurs? Do you mind that I’m gay? I know it’s
totally unrealistic to expect to find ANY sex with my hominid
companions, so don’t sweat it. Just looking for kindred souls who
are gay themselves, or at least gay friendly.

I very much enjoy ancient history, fantasy role-playing, science
fiction films and books, angel food cake, and mountain biking. My
heart seeks companionship; my mind, intellectual stimulation; and
my scales, rough caressing. Please contact me!

==========end of msg.

Now, all I have to do is let the reptilians–er, replies come rolling in! Can’t WAIT to check my e-mailbox when I get home!

ADDENDUM::

Back in the Jurassic, I had a Triceratops for a boyfriend, but they weren’t ALL tops back then…some were TriceraBOTTOMS!


Welcome to *my* World!

2012/01/09




Preordained Blog Entry

2011/12/31


Too Fabulous

2011/12/29