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(A True Tale From The Castro. Eat your heart out, Armistead!)

© 2007 by Ezekiel J. Krahlin

From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Date: 14 Nov 2007, 10:06:06 AM
Subject: Speaking of Radio

Eleanor writes:

{{ Wait'll you hear my actual voice. }}

I presume you have recorded some, if not all, of your talk show sessions. I'd love to hear 'em.

{{ You'll be seriously impressed. I used to do radio stuff--I was the freelance "human interest" reporter for the local radio station. I was turned loose to do any story I wanted--interviews with strange eccentrics living in the woods, movie reviews, male strip shows, anything. I had a "following" of listeners who tuned in every week. }}

Sounds like you had a LOT of fun. I KNOW some of the eccentrics up there in your neck of the woods. For instance, Tom Cahill who lives in Fort Bragg. I presume he's still around, but haven't heard from him in 2-3 years. We had a bit of a falling out, due to his anxiety issues. I have a page of material by him, on my site.

We met under most interesting circumstances. He was an avid supporter of my Randolph, long before we (me & Randolph) ever met. The support was over Randolph's 40-day fast to get a Vietnam Veteran to speak (for 15 minutes) at the 1984 S.F. Democratic Convention. I met and fell in love with Randolph some months after his world-famous fast. Then approx. three months later (after we first met), Randolph was back on the East Coast, and shot himself at The Wall in D.C....and survived. I managed to resurrect news interest in him during this time, and even flew out to D.C. to stand by his bedside for three weeks. 1985 was my "Randolph Year"...most important year of my life, ever.

(You should know that Diane Feinstein--then mayor of Gay Mecca--denounced Randolph's fast as an "act of self-violence". And while the Democratic Party finally acceded to Randolph's prayer-felt sacrifice by Day 39, at the very last moment they betrayed him by refusing to give the podium to a Vietnam veteran at any time during the convention. So when I had the GREAT honor of meeting him several months later, I had NO IDEA he was already plotting his suicide. I only sensed he was a man in dire need of a true friend.)

It was during that time, that Tom Cahill looked me up, to give me support. However, there's something seriously wrong with the dude, as his support was rather lacking, even as just a friendly acquaintance. Nonetheless, perhaps you know of him. One more thing:

Tom fasted for 47 days on behalf of raising people's consciousness over prison rape. And I believe he himself was violently raped in well as being a Vietnam Veteran. Thus, his difficultfies having friends...I guess.

I also know a very talented black painter named Anthony Senna, who moved from my building here in SF, to the woods of Mendocino. I found him to be an unpleasant sort, and thus only visited him once, about nine years ago. We have not been in touch for seven years. Some of his paintings were absolutely exquisite...and I would NOT be surprised if he achieved at least LOCAL prominence for this talent.

But it was my two weeks visiting him, that I got to enjoy Mendocino's rare beauty, and tasty pastries at the downtown coffeehouse (which name eludes me now; but it's where I first laid tongue on that Yiddish dainty, rugulach).

Change subject:

I had a close brush with an opportunity to be a talk-show host myself. You can read about it here:

Radio Daze (Flirtation w/Liberation Radio)

It's a longish piece, so you might just want to get to the meat of it, which is my outline for the queer talk show. I still aspire to be a radio host, based on that outline. Here 'tis:


I have no idea how much time I'd have for a show: 2 hours once a week, every weekday? Assuming I will have that much time, here are some ideas for what I want to do:

- The show would be in segments, like so:

1) "Shock Jockstrap" - queer parody of shock jocks like Michael Salvage, Rush Limburger, Dr. Whora. My most outrageous queer polical writings will be in this segment (such as "I Hate Babies", "Hetero Shame Week", and "Dump on Bush"). I'll start a topic by reading one of my essays, elaborate a bit, then have call-ins. The mood for this entire segment is jocular, outrageous, irreverant. No serious moments.

2) "Shaman Ship" - my take on queer spirituality. A venue to feature my tales (like "Grandfather & Grandson", "Jesus on the Okra Winfree Show," "Brian & the Werewolf", and "Tales of the Little LGBTQ Vampire"). Also discuss my philosophy of "NeoPositivity", which is really a pagan's I apply it to my calling as a queer activist, and how it can be applied to all other activists (and even non-activists), to accelerate LGBT liberation. Call-ins and guests will be a part of this, too. Particularly, those sexual minority people who are going through difficult passages. I want to give them hope, joy, and purpose when they most need it. This would be my "healing" segment.

3) "Fresh Blood" - Feature undiscovered queer talent, whether music, poetry, tales. With a special invite to under-represented minorities within our queer family: folks of color, war veterans, homeless and formerly homeless, disabled, etc. Also, give more airtime to our lesbian artists. The idea here, is to use my radio show as an OPPORTUNITY for others (as well as for myself). These would be folks who for whatever reason, have not found a venue yet, in our other queer shows and entertainment.

4) "Queer Voices" - folks call in with their own original writings, music, etc.

5) "Ramblings" - my stream of consciousness discussions of whatever topic comes to mind. Such as my visions for Queer Destiny, and my aspirations to take back the Castro...and all queer neighborhoods...for ALL queers (not just white leather men). I'd include some of my stand-up comedy sketches and poetry.

This is just my initial take on what the show could be like. I am certainly interested in a cooperative venture, so that "my show" will also be "all queers' show". I want to turn my talents into an overall community venture, where tooting my own horn winds up tooting many others'.

It would be nice eventually, to maybe have a *few people working "my" show. I'd maintain loose reigns over the content, and give other unsung/unknown queer talent recognition and respect. The idea here is to use this show to empower more and more of my LGBT sisters and brothers, who were never before offered such a sparkling opportunity. Which is what I want my talents to do, always, no matter what medium is offered me.


BTW, I have the COMPLETE collection of old-time radio shows on DVD, cost $99. It is such a joyful pastime to lie back and listen quietly. Something about those old shows (including B&W films) that lends a tranquility to one's soul, even when the play is adventuresome or scary.

I just posted our last letter on my blog, called "Brain Chemistry". Only small changes, so I'm not asking you to read it. But I KNOW you'll enjoy the illustrations I dredged up...and this additional line I inserted:

[ Okay! I inspire the Muse who inspires me: A Righteous Honor! (Meanwhile, until my Cheer-Wick formula is approved by the gov't patent office, why not give my "Seventh Sealant Aerosol Prophylactic" a spin?) ]

From: Zeke
To: Eleanor Date: 14 Nov 2007, 09:51:09 PM
Subject: Skulduggery Afoot!

Eleanor writes:

{{ More later, but here's this: I know Anthony Senna, have known him for years. He's an extraordinary artist, and yes, he has a peculiar and occasionally unpleasant personality, but I excuse him for it because he's the real thing. }}

Ummm...he was kinda wicked to me. While still residing in my building (2306 Market), we'd invite each other over for coffee. One day in my room, he brought some fresh brewed coffee over. As we sipped our drinks, he mumbled: "My semen's in your coffee."

I slammed my cup down: "Whaaaat?"

"Never mind" was his witless reply. Needless to say, I chased him out and never really cared to hang with him again.

Not my imagination. He fancied playing around with black magic. I don't believe in that stuff, but those who do tend to be abusive. SOME are downright dangerous, like the characters in my Larkin Chronicles.

{{ I've seen him lately, and he looks dreadfully unhealthy--fat, bloated, shuffling along with a cane. Don't know what the story is, but I can find out. }}

Please do, but I request this favor; don't let him know we are in contact, don't even mention my name. The reason is this:

I believe this is no coincidence that we've been brought together. Did NOT realize until this latest letter of yours, that you may be able to help me in my psychic detecting. It is HIGHLY possible Anthony is part of this cabal, and that what you might glean from him, will give me another piece to this puzzle.

It wasn't till two years after he moved, that I contacted him, and he invited me up to Mendocino. Well, I had NO friends who lived outside the city, and I was DESPERATE to escape urbania for a SPITE of his unsavory behavior. I was surprised at the weight he'd put on 'cause all the time he lived in SF, he was skinny.

It was the Prozac, for which excellent results he'd swear up and down. He gave me the STRONGEST recommendation that I take it too...but I am VERY wary of pharmaceutical drugs. "Talking to Prozac" was a bestseller that year BTW. It was only years later, the ugly down side to Prozac was revealed in yet ANOTHER bestseller, "Prozac Backlash". So I'm glad I stuck to my guns.

I got to hang out with Anthony and a few other of his gay friends, two whom I knew from the 70's and 80's SF named John Rizzo, who is actually Mayan. And his facial features make it OBVIOUS. We met one day in Buena Vista Park, he took me home for sex but I didn't find him particularly exciting, as it turned out. He was polite, we had coffee, and then his LOVER came home...Steven Edwards with whom I wound up having a several years friendly association. He moved to Berkeley over a decade ago, changed his name to Robin Goodfellow, and married a lady called Gaia.

Anywayz, I found Anthony's friends to be unpleasantly gay-stereotypical. In that when we stepped out on the town (Fort Bragg), they'd act very goosey and flirt with some obviously punky teens who did NOT like queers. They stalked us, but fortunately dispersed after we entered a supermarket. Anthony and his two friends' behavior was like an INVITE to be bashed: they intentionally went out of their way to bring trouble. I wonder now if they did that only to see me injured.

Mayan John BTW was sent up to prison for several years for having an affair with jailbait. You'd think he'd learn his lesson but no...his eyes were poppin' every time a lovely boy would appear on his radar. Not that I don't likewise admire some boys' physical grace...but I do not GAWK and act GOOSEY so as to draw everyone's attention, including any homophobes or cops lurking nearby.

So I never returned to Mendocino after spite of my DESPERATE need to escape the big bad city from time to time, it just wasn't worth Anthony & Company.

Anthony DID live in my building, which DOES have a strange and dark history...and DOES tie in with this cult I am researching. I understand that Aleister Crowley once occupied an apartment here, way back in the 20's. And the apartment was one in the circular "turret". Here's a pic of my apt. building:

You can clearly see the turret. So whilst Anthony resided at 2306, he was eager to introduce me to Alan, a talented artist who painted this PENTAGRAM in the ceiling. Upon his death from AIDS, I was unexpectedly bequeathed all his art supplies (oils and acrylics, brushes, canvases). It's as if Anthony et al knew my destiny better than I even did, back then. (I believe however, their interpretation of my destiny is distorted. Anthony talked about a psychic tunnel connecting 2306 Market with Mendocino. If true, I certainly hope MUNI doesn't run it!) I even composed a poem in Alan's memory..

Don't be fooled by the copyright year, I just slapped that on. It was writ many years previous, inspired by one Kurtiss who moved into that same apartment while the pentagram painting was still freshly awesome...and with whom I had a brief affair. (My! I feel like the Mata Hari of the gay community!)

It was during Anthony's residency that, through his encouragement, I tried my hand at painting (with Alan's brushes). Now, I'm not the LEAST bit talented in painting OR drawing...but somehow I was tremendously inspired due to my supporting Randolph in his time of dire need. So we can place the story somewhere between 1985 and 1987.

I wanted to send Randolph a handmade gift this time, as he was once more hospitalized (1987), and all gifts were store-bought to date. Except for my MANY beautiful letters of course, a small percentage of which I had copied and still have in my possession...all digitized on my hard drive. Some day those remaining letters (must be several hundred pages, more than half hand-scripted) will surface--along w/Unicorn Without A Horn--to become a vital part of The Final Testament. What price Lady Fortune commands!

I had bought an extra-large sky-blue sweatshirt for a canvas...I thought Randolph would enjoy WEARING my painting. I tried to paint a silver horse like the one depicted in white silhouette on a matchbook cover (from "The White Horse," the only gay bar in Oakland: no longer exist). (Silver because Randolph's lustrous shock of honey-brown hair was turning brilliant chrome, strand by strand! As if Clotho herself were at the loom, unravelling and reworking until the entire pattern would one day be composed entirely of pure, silvery threads. His hair must be entirely silver by now: like a Super Hero out of DC Comics!)

Let me pause here, Eleanor, this is amazing! How you unwittingly INSPIRE me to write about remarkable events I've been MEANING to put down on screen for years. (Anthony Senna of all people!) My silver horse painting is a good example. You'll see why, in a moment. Funny how my writing is taking off like an arrow (launched from a crossbow; what the intended target is I've yet to discover)...while at the same time DETRACTING me from completing that scintillating piece, "The Friendly Ghost Detective Agency". Obviously, it needs to stew a while longer in the crock pot of my brain. :b

Alas, my painting was sloppy and a failure, as expected. But then a voice whispered "Just relax and don't think about it. Let me do the work," and my hand suddenly flew across the cerulean canvas as if guided by another. A beautiful silver horse took shape...a STUNNINGLY graceful stallion all chunked out like a Belgian gray. I was astonished, stood back and gawked, as tears of joy flowed down my cheeks. (Of course, this could all be about the paint fumes and nothing more.) As the acrylic rapidly dried (thanks to my handy hair-blower), the major muscle groups began to stand out like clearly defined shadows...thus the remainder of my work was simply a paint-by-number project.

As I stared at this magnificent painting which seemed to radiate a purple-silver aura, it turned its head directly at me and spoke: "I am Pegasus. I have heard your pleas on Randolph's behalf. I assure you, he will return to you if I have to bring him on my own strong back. Now, lean on my shoulder and tell me all your sorrows." My head was suddenly pushed into the painting, still wet from the thick coating of clear varnish I had added, then pulled my face away, thinking "Oh my god it's ruined!" But no, the painting remained in a perfect state, though now with a hidden imprint of my face. Then my hand, of its own volition INDEPENDENT of my mind, grab a sheet of looseleaf and wrote the following verse:

  • Paint me without a horn, that I may capture so many more through deception!
  • He who gazes upon the Silver Horse shall fall in love with he who wears it.
  • The hand that paints the Silver Unicorn is the hand of Christ alone. Blessed be!

(I think the original paper is still stashed carelessly away somewhere in my Humble Hobbit Hole! Those three prophetic lines are burnt into my memory like scarification.)

I was trembling, overwhelmed...grabbed the sweatshirt gingerly, holding it extended between two upturned hands, and hurried upstairs to Anthony's apartment though it be 3am, and knocked. Weeping, I spoke not a word, but presented my masterpiece to Anthony, who gawked.

"Jesus Mary and Joseph," he vociferated, "I've been struggling for YEARS to create that One True Masterpiece, as EVERY true artist yearns. And here you've done it on your first attempt! My lifelong venture as an artist is for naught! Thanks for nothing, Gene!" (All said in good humor, mind you. BTW my birth name is Eugene.)

I needed someone to witness, and Anthony was the only one I could bother so late at night, who'd understand. After some friendly conversation, I returned to my room to complete my painting until the sun finally rose in streaming bursts of purple and gray through rumbling cumulus; a brief sun shower washed our streets clean.

I titled the piece "Unicorn Without A Horn," though made it anatomically correct as a "pun" on horn: for it WAS there, just in a different location! It was all painted a shimmer silver, so rich and thick in layers no one could POSSIBLY wear the sweatshirt at this point. It appeared like a colorful merry-go-round steed, with its white-yarn mane and tail, and halo of silver-red-purple-and-green-threaded snippets of border material that I artfully arranged around the creature's head, looking back. At what? Perhaps at his sidekick Little Pony, which painting I did a few years later...and which you may view on my home page as the official emblem for the Final Testament.

Which image--as lovely as it is in its own right--doesn't come NEAR to doing justice to that amazing (and accidental) opus.

Sorry that I did not take photos of this masterpiece before wrapping it carefully in tissue and anointing it with a few drops of myrrh and frankincense, before sending it off to Randolph. AAMOF it was so lovely, I held onto it for several weeks, and showed it off to many. Some neighbors in my building who NEVER associated with me before, knocked on my door to view the unicorn...and they were all blissfully astonished. One lady even wept and exclaimed (as she dried her tears): "It''s!"

About the yarn: by 10am I had completed the painting...minus the tail and mane. After careful deliberation I decided to give it that nice 3-D multimedia panache by making those parts out of eggshell-white yarn. So I did a quick run to Cliff's Fabrics on Castro for the perfect medium. Using glossy clear acrylic for glue, I lovingly attached snippets of various lengths along its neck and rump. Lovely! It is finished!

Naturally, i did my homework on Pegasus to understand better, and what his connection is with Christ. I am NOT a Christian, though raised as one like many...thus NEVER get charismatic over him, or even give the masochist much thought. Here's what I learned:

Pegasus honors poets and considering my talents in that department, and taking into account my heart's sacrifice for Randolph...that makes good sense. He is a light, a beacon of joy, of devotion, affection and camaraderie, and a most loyal comrade; born of the blood of Medusa's dripping head (in the hand of Perseus), as it mingled with the foamy waves of the Mediterranean Sea. Guardian of the Innocent and Ruler of Myth, Pegasus is very much a Christ-like figure if you care to make the comparison. And (get this): He was greatly beloved by The Nine Muses!

Further studies over the years have made me conclude that the New Testament is far more Greek-influenced than Judaic. A subject which I bring up in my essay "HomoReligiosity".

What did Randolph think of my "Unicorn Without A Horn"? He absolutely cherished it. Along with my letters, it will some day resurface...hopefully when I'm still alive and kicking, and Randolph has returned to me, this time for always.

MORE ON PEGASUS: Just now, I stumbled onto this most interesting site about the Legendary Wing-ed Stallion, which explains clearly its Christ connection. Author compares the white horse in Revelation to Pegasus (quote):

Revelation 19:11 And I saw heaven opened, and behold a white horse; and he that sat upon him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he does judge and make war.

Consideration: The only white horse in the sky is the constellation Pegasus. Therefore we should look for new activity in Pegasus as a sign.

Much more of interest is on that page; a fun read. I wouldn't speculate so much on the Pegasus/Christ connection, but for that incredible revelation of my own, which Anthony shared that amazing night. Of course, having not witnessed my artistic rapture firsthand, one may easily conclude it was nothing more than exposure to the fumes of an acrylic clear-gloss spraycan. (In fact, maybe that explains everything about me! :b )

Now, I've put you between Iraq and a hard place, for surely you are tempted to ask Anthony about this remarkable painting. I trust you implicitly, Eleanor, so please disregard my earlier wish for you to NOT let him know about us. How about a compromise? Say nothing about me to him long enough to discover any possible intrigue that might assist the sleuth in me.

Or perhaps you should NOT divulge our new-found friendship to there may be danger afoot. Amusing is it not, that you are suddenly ensnared in my Friendly Ghost drama? Who'da thunk?

{{ The name Tom Cahill rings a bell, too, though I don't know him, I've heard of him and his consciousness-raising actions. }}

From what I recall, he told me via e-mail some three years ago, that he is closely involved with the local radio station up there in or around Fort Bragg. That may be why you've heard of him. Let me divulge one more tidbit about our strange, but remarkable, association:

When he contacted me via snail mail in 1985, in support of Randolph after his suicide attempt, I invited him to visit. He showed up a couple months later, dressed kind of "faggoty": red bowtie, clean, pressed white shirt and beige slacks, and LOAFERS. "So he's gay" I surmised, "No big deal." He offered compassionate support by holding me in his arms...which was nice, or so I thought. But several times during the holding, he'd iterate: "You know I'm not gay, don't get me wrong." This bothered me since (1) I was NOT attracted to him and (2) "You already stated that once, so drop it". I felt insulted if not downright betrayed, at a time when I was emotionally DEVASTATED over Randolph's tragedy, hence in GREAT need of some REAL physical nurturing. Tom's parroting that he's not gay when I really didn't give a flying fig, sort of drained my spirit, and perverted what esteem I had for him in his own struggles to right wrongs. (Including his courageous 47-day fast...which MIGHT have been nothing more than a mimic of Randolph's sacrifice, and a one-upmanship of the crudest sort. For he staged this fast only three months AFTER Randolph's.)

Well, apparantly I've done my writing for the day. Thanks ONCE MORE for the inspiration. Hilarious! I have a feeling we're gonna be FUN friends in the long run. The best kind!

From: Eleanor
To: Zeke
Date: 14 Nov 2007, 10:53:50 PM
Subject: Re: Skulduggery Afoot!

Oh-ho! The old neighborly semen-in-the-coffee routine! Fill it to the rim with brim! And gag me with a trocar! Bob, there's a frown on your head!!

I'm perfectly willing to be an "operative." Being a writer means that I go around spying all the time anyway, and I'm good at it, have no moral compunctions over it. Don't leave me alone in your house unless you want me to go through your bureau drawers and peek into envelopes. When I see Anthony next--I tend to run into him every couple of weeks or so--I'll start by just asking him how he is. He was a HUGE fan of my first gigantic China novel, COURT OF THE LION (set in the T'ang Dynasty, a hell of a piece of work)--after he read it, he said he "almost lost his mind" over how dazzling it was.

He admires me a lot (as he damn well ought), and it's easy for me to talk to him. Anything specific you'd like me to ask? It'll blow his mind if I mention the unicorn. What a night that sounds like. If there are going to be talking horses, I'll take Pegasus over Mr. Ed. I'll bet Anthony hasn't forgotten.....and that sweatshirt is out there somewhere, swimming back to you.

I made my living as an artist before I switched over to writing. My stuff is.....precise, strange, brilliant. You'll see.

Does Tom have a gravelly smoker's voice, with clear enunciation and modulation?

Standing by for instructions,
Agent Double-O Soul

From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Date: 15 Nov 2007, 02:52:41 AM
Subject: Re: Skulduggery Afoot!

Eleanor writes:

{{ Being a writer means that I go around spying all the time anyway, and I'm good at it, have no moral compunctions over it. }}

You speak flippantly, but I know better: you are a HIGHLY moral person who'd never betray a friend. It is only the scurrilous over whom you'd have no compunctions.

{{ When I see Anthony next--I tend to run into him every couple of weeks or so--I'll start by just asking him how he is. }}

I have NO IDEA how you might approach this delicate turn of events. I entrust you to your own wits.

{{ Anything specific you'd like me to ask? It'll blow his mind if I mention the unicorn. }}

Yes, go ahead and bring up the unicorn, and how we first met (at Just PLEASE don't mention the semen incident unless you want to trigger WW III! Spare me from further wrath; I'm up to my ears already, with pointlessly vindictive melodramas...I can hardly keep from collapsing in grief.

{{ What a night that sounds like. }}

Oh, that's just part and parcel of being manic depressive. I experience such intensely magical nights quite OFTEN...but I have to admit: the Night of the Unicorn was one of the BEST. My painting has a name BTW: "The New Age Shroud of Turin"...which I think is a very good title, considering its mystical origin, and the concealed imprint of my face! My Final Testament web site I ALSO regard as another opus, which I call "The First Masterpiece of the New Age Renaissance". Or I should say: my angels who give me these talents in the first place, also give me the titles.

{{ If there are going to be talking horses, I'll take Pegasus over Mr. Ed. }}

Oh, funny you should bring that up, Eleanor. Larkin LOVES to embrace his friends and holler "Wiiiiilbuuuuur" while giving them a big ol' bear hug, and raising them off the floor. Of course, he denies ME that thrill, ever since I was mugged and lost his friendship immediately after. In fact, he seems to ENJOY hugging his buddies overzealously if I am anywhere in the vicinity, witnessing. The BASTARD! He loves me so much, he prefers to press MY buttons more than anyone else's. But I forgive him, as I understand PERFECTLY why he's behaving that way. It's a test.

If I react in envy, I lose. But if I remain tolerant and respectful, I win his heart forever...for he then realizes I am truly a GOOD friend who'll never act petty and small-minded just because he isn't giving ME the attention I so crave from him. I am very HONORED that he puts so much ATTENTION into trying to hurt my feelings, whenever I appear in his vicinity.

But you also need to know this: whenever we are under the same roof (meaning, a gay bar) he will NEVER let anyone harm or threaten me. He's proven that SEVERAL times in the past 11 months. If someone starts to get belligerent over me, sure enough: Larkin will appear right behind the cur, hovering over him like a warrior angel, ready to strike him down at the least provocation towards me. They are quickly driven away, never to darken my door again. Yet during such scenarios, whenever I turn to Larkin to say thanks, he'll turn tail and disappear from my presence, like I had leprosy!

That's because (I've concluded) he's owned by drug dealers who despise me, and they could make his life VERY miserable if they every catch him (again) protecting me. He shows his love, always. It is just that this is a GANGSTER adventure, and I have to learn the ropes. And so I am, better and better. I just LOVE Damon Runyon characters and careful what you wish for!

You will be surprised to learn I have included a Mr. Ed reference in one of my gay fairytales: The Exalted Land of Andor. In that fantasy, Randolph was the first horse to land on the moon, with his sidekick Little Pony (that's ME). Which tale I composed way back in 1986, just for Randolph when he was back in D.C. still suffering the repurcussions of his self-inflicted wound.

So when I began to notice rascal Larkin, it finally dawned on me his connection with Randolph via his "Wiiillbuu-urrr" act. I KNOW Randolph as guardian angel brought Larkin to me. I never DREAMED someone as lovely and wonderful as Larkin could ever exist! And I have INCREDIBLY good taste in men: so it's HARD for anyone to conjure up a man more handsome than what I can imagine. Leave it up to Goddess to best me!

{{ I'll bet Anthony hasn't forgotten.....and that sweatshirt is out there somewhere, swimming back to you. }}

I'm CERTAIN he remembers very precisely, that night...and my lovely Pegasus painting. DO bring it up...he'll flip out! I am never one to hold grudges, and if he is ready to make amends in his own way, I'd be most joyful. I see no point in confronting him with the semen he'd likely deny it, even though I know he'd be lying.

{{ I made my living as an artist before I switched over to writing. My stuff is.....precise, strange, brilliant. You'll see. }}

I really look FORWARD to that!

{{ Does Tom have a gravelly smoker's voice, with clear enunciation and modulation? }}

If he does, his voice has changed over time. But I don't think so.

News flash! While researching Tom Cahill on the web, I discovered the following article:

Tom Cahill's Report from Iraq, 21 Feb 2003

How interesting...wonder where he is NOW, four years later? He even has an Iraqi e-mail address!

This is all moving so VERY fast...wonder where we'll wind up? Wow!

{{ Standing by for instructions,
Agent Double-O Soul

Go and tell Tone all about our new-found e-friendship. But keep the semen out of the picture (and the coffee), thank you very much! :|

From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Date: 15 Nov 2007, 02:34:40 AM
Subject: Re: Skulduggery Afoot! (addendum)

Eleanor writes:

{{ You're 5'7"? What a pair we'll make walking down the street--I'm 5'10". }}

I had a very dear friend, Sheila, back in the 70's and 80's...she was 6'1". We were SUCH good compadres, I miss her! I think she's been living and working in Seattle for the last 15 years.

{{ I've seen your building many times. It's a landmark, for sure. }}

But run by a slumlord: Arikat Realty. He gets away with substandard care because the building allows pets, including large, unruly Pit Bulls and Rottweilers owned by irresponsible masters. Once, our previous manager Mark Epstein, allowed a young Korean lady renting an SRO like me, to keep her boyfriend's THREE PIT BULLS stashed in her tiny room. We shared the same hallway bathroom, and walking by her door as I must several times daily, was no treat let me tell you! Snapping and growling and barking whenever they heard my footsteps.

MY concern is how easy it would be for an enemy to set up a fatal attack. They have easy access to my building, 'cause SOME of them live here, who then bring other troglodytes inside. Frankly, I believe that was Diane Whipple's fate, though it's been played down by the prosecution and media. (No doubt because of the likely intrinsic homophobia of the jurors themselves! Which may also explain why culprits Knoeller and Noel got off with a light sentence. I mean: how many jurors--and JUDGES--held boundless glee in their hearts, viewing the details of a lesbo's grisly demise?) Granted, the Presa Canario attack was an accident waiting to happen. But I think she was deliberately targeted for being lesbian: an expendable morsel to test the fighting rigor of a trained killing machine, and to eliminate a shameless faggot from the dog owner's proximity. Can you say "Kill two birds with one stone?"

Bizarre fact: shortly after Ms. Whipple's demise, I noticed a sharp increase in pit bull and Rottweiler owners, here in the Castro. And I KNOW it's not simply my awareness being raised to notice what already exists! Perversely, the media-sensational account of Diane Whipple's case seems to have directly inspired the current popularity of large/aggressive dog ownership here in San Francisco. Including my own LGBT community! What does this say about the character of my gay brothers/sisters, and of The City at large? A shiver goes up my spine: this is not good. Homophobia runs a deep, wicked streak. Quoting from web article "Canary Island Fighting Dog":

Since the killing of Diane Whipple, there has been a surge in interest in this breed. Breeders report people calling specifically stating that they won a dog "like the one that killed the lady in San Francisco." Experts feel that it rapid surge in popularity this breed will result in individuals of poor genetic stock and consequently more prone to serious, unprovoked attacks on people."

Here's MY memorial to Diane Whipple: "Rice Crackers of Good Fortune".

There is also the issue of tragic increase in pedestrian mortality and severe, traumatic injury from motorists of all stripes. The ginormity of SUV's make deaths more likely, as they strike the upper body (heart/brain/spine) as opposed to smaller autos that usually hit "below the belt" (so to speak). San Francisco, once celebrated for it's walker-friendly ambience, has morphed into a pedestrian nightmare. Too often a motorist is merely slapped on the wrist by a judge, on grounds that the driver "didn't see" the victim! (Even once is too often, IMO. I've suffered numerous near misses by rage-crazy motorists, even when I had the green light, and looked carefully both ways!)

Due to San Francisco's extremely lax regard for the protection of citizens from vicious dog attacks and motorist hit-and-runs, I have concluded thus: "If you want to murder someone and get away with it, acquire a big nasty pit bull or Rottweiler...or an SUV." (It's all so exasperating and rife w/terror...these jerkwads sicken me no end. And I can't afford to move outta there to a safer place.) The other reason slumlord Arikat gets away with substandard housing, is 2306 Market's location: the Castro, a highly desirable neighborhood.

{{ Love the pix of the hobbit hole! Cozy without being clausty, spare without being ascetic! }}

Well, since Jonny broke my spirit almost two years ago, I've let the room deteriorate. It's basically a dump now, but I have not the fortitude to restore it to it's cozy, pristine condition. Only Godesses's angels can fix everything now! If I could twitch my nose like Samantha to summon these heavenly house cleaners, I sure would!

From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Date: 15 Nov 2007, 03:18:27 AM
Subject: Gene Catalano says hello (fwd)

Let's see if we get a response. I'm afraid Tom's heroism is more of a cover for deep insecurities, than any genuine compassion. I CAN'T KEEP UP WITH ALL THE DATA FLOW COMING IN TO ASSIST THIS LONE DETECTIVE...ASTOUNDING! Who ARE you, Eleanor, to be so privileged as to be my main witness? Surely we are brother and sister in spirit...though I do have my reservations about reincarnation theory.

---------- Forwarded message ----------

From: Zeke
Subject: Gene Catalano says hello
Date: Thu, 15 Nov 2007 03:06:22 -0800

Hey, Tom. I've befriended someone in Mendocino County who sort of knows you: Eleanor Cooney. Did some web searching on you, to discover this e-mail from Iraq. Are you still there? How are things going? And...can you give me any firsthand data regarding the gay issue in Islam?

I am SO inspired by those very brave GAY souls who refuse to let the imams and their cohorts to terrorize them. Some have already sacrificed their lives in the name of brotherly love and gay marriage!

It is a shame that both Amerika and Muslim nations share a common prejudice: homophobia.

I'd LOVE to be a fly on the wall in Iraq, and report back to the gay troops on our victories and defeats.

Or are you ignoring the gay issue like Randolph did, and pretend it's irrelevant to the matters at hand? I sure hope not, but your cursory rejection of my contacts with you indicate my hunch is correct.

BTW: my legal name these days is Zeke Krahlin, just a reminder so as not to confuse you.

- Zeke Krahlin

---------- End of forwarded message ----------

Addendum: Tom Cahill's message bounced. God knows where he is; I sure don't! (No doubt trying to spare as many hapless hetero bozos as possible, from being raped. As if he could ever stop my pillaging the doors of mine the Ghengis Khan of Queer Exultation. As if!)