I invite all interested and curious parties to recent revelations of
criminal activities here in San Francisco's gay community. South of
Market bars, The Castro, the SFPD, homeless scags, and corrupt
residents in my apartment building. Also therein are various HONORABLE
citizens too...especially ONE who stands out a TRUE HERO among all
others: Larkin Kelsey.
I am releasing TWO non-fiction novels simultaneously:
1. The Larkin Chronicles (or "How I Earned My Wings As A Psychic Detective")
2. Friendly Ghost Detective Agency (or "How I Earned My Wings As An Angel")
The second book is a work in progress. The first four chapters are
done, and I expect the book to be complete at 7-8 chapters. In fact, I
have made available the UNFINISHED chapters, that viewers may enjoy
witnessing the author's progress.
I am taking great risk here (including possible violent attacks, and
being sentenced to prison for my unabashed honesty) for the sake of
putting an end to a cult-like organization that holds the entire US gay
community in its terrible grip! The Disciples of the Zodiac Killer.
These chapters are TRUE tales. The characters I encounter seem to have stepped out of a Damon Runyon book, only with a gay spin.
You will learn how my angels guide me in my actions and resolutions.
Though a very SPIRITUAL endeavor, my stories all come out of a PAGAN
perspective, as opposed to Christian.
You will laugh, you will cry, you will be infuriated at times. But I
ASSURE you that my amazing TRUE tales will take you on the Roller
Coaster Ride of Your Life! (Has NOTHING to do w/your own sexual
persuasion, and EVERYTHING to do with my sacred gift to totally
CAPTIVATE and CHARM those who read my scintillating revelations,
confessions, and unapologetic accusations.)
Anyone is also WELCOME to download the ENTIRE two books (plus the
unfinished parts) in a handy zip file, and enjoy them offline, as well
as press them to CD or DVD, and disseminate them anywhere you'd like. A
link is provided on the main menu, just for that purpose.
Click on the image below, and you'll have instant access to all contents just mentioned:
From: Zeke
To: Thomas
Cc: Peggy C., Eleanor C., James D., John H.
Date: 26 Nov 2007, 08:48:43 PM
Subject: Re: Preparation for the worst
Thomas writes:
{{ Ezekiel, I saved away all the information- hope you will take precautions. }}
Well, I have no place to hide out...no friends who live in a secure
location. My building is a low-security slumlord apartment building:
REAL EASY to sneak in and out of.
A LOT of people already hate me, and are just DYING for the moment to pounce, and tear me to shreds!
The ONLY precautions afforded me, are my wits. And when you think
about it: that's my GREATEST weapon and protection. I must remain
balanced and joyful, confident of a great destiny, and of my
irrepressible resilience.
This message is being cc'd to all OTHER trusted e-friends (as you see), all of whom I now address:
I just uploaded the FIRST version of my 2 books, set up for easy
pressing to CD or DVD. Includes the COMPLETE Larkin Chronicles, the
first four (of 7 or 8) chapters of Friendly Ghost Detective Agency, and
the UNFINISHED chapters of the latter. The (two) endings have already
been writ, which are stunningly beautiful! Feel free to read that now.
I INSIST...you will NOT be disappointed; in fact you'll be AWED and
DELIGHTED.
Once you unzip it to a separate, empty file, you'll see how EASY it is to open my books, and press to CD or DVD!
Permission is now granted by yours truly, to make as many CD's or
DVD's as you like, and distribute them to whomever, as many and as
often as it pleases.
As I continue writing (hopefully...'cause if sent to jail/prison, I
most CERTAINLY will be banned from getting anywhere NEAR a computer, or
from using any other writing/communication tool), I will of course
UPDATE Larkin.zip, and inform you whenever there IS additional material.
I think it's an artful concept, to share the development of the
remaining chapters with my admirers and other netizens FORTUNATE enough
to stumble onto my blog or website.
BTW, Peggy C. changed her phone number to:
415-xxx-xxxx
and gave me permission to share it with you. The OTHER phone number
now belongs to her wonderful daughter Julia. I suggest you CONTINUE
using that number to contact Peggy, as I believe Julia would consider
this an HONOR...and it would PROBABLY bring much JOY to her life, to
hold such sacred responsibility.
(BTW Eleanor, you need to have my phone number; 415-xxx-xxxx. You
are CERTAINLY invited to call me. Just know that I am on the Internet
OFTEN, and you may experience longterm busy signals. Perhaps I should
restore my Yahoo chat service? Let me know!)
As for the matter of prison: I will simply "entertain the troops,"
bring JOY to guards and prisoners alike. Surely, I will be SURROUNDED
by lovely men who will bend on one knee to thank GODDESS for my
benevolent and healing visitation! Then: I'll LIBERATE them all!
Hold me in lockdown? Ha! My psychic powers have grown SO strong,
they don't even wanna GO there! In fact, they don't wanna cause me to
have a WILD HAIR UP MY ASS (albeit it the hair of an ANGEL), and summon
the Wrath of Hera upon their measly weasly cheesly little souls!
I am VICTORY INCARNATE! Dripping with success, there is NOTHING that could EVER happen to me now, other than WIN/WIN scenarios! How divinely elegant. How JUST.
You all KNOW I'm doing the RIGHT thing, in every WHICHWAY possible.
I am ANSWERING to my conscience: for what I NOW understand to be Life's
Mission, to even shirk that for a nanosecond would cause me GREAT
self-loathing. AFAIC, I HAVE NO CHOICE! And I don't even MIND one iota;
in fact I am JUBILANT.
My angels show me visions of lovely men RESCUING me from an evil
fate, providing secret places to remain safe...along with LOTS AND LOTS
of camaraderie and HOT, DELECTABLE sex! What's not to like?
The Great Adventure begins...and with it, GAY LIBERATION. I will
likely wind up being transported from one paradisiacal hideaway to
another, ALWAYS accompanied by at least SEVERAL bodacious and HANDSOME,
totally DEVOTED gay BODYGUARDS. I repeat: "What's not to like?"
I've TAPPED INTO the psychic realm manipulated by our enemies, and
TURNED IT AROUND to my magnanimous favor! Do you REALIZE what this
implies, what incredible DESTINY this means for ALL good gay people
EVERYWHERE?
I wanted badly to present Larkin with My Chronicles BEFORE
Thanksgiving, but was delayed 'cause thought I needed to complete
numerous more chapters. As it turned out, those chapters have since
been SEPARATED from these Chronicles, and morphed into My Second Book
Inspired By Such a Glorious Angel Of A Man, a.k.a. "Friendly Ghost Detective Agency".
So today, I was ready to bring the completed Larkin Chronicles to the tacqueria where he works. (See "A Larkin Thanksgiving" to view the gift packet.)
I speedily walked the 10-or-so blocks, EAGER to share with him my
heart's gift. On the way, a honeybee got in my face and, being kinda
wary about stinging wing-ed insects since a child, I froze still (in
hopes it would depart).
It didn't. I shifted left, the honeybee followed. Veered right:
same. So I stood there, until it seemed to fly off. Taking my first
step, I saw that the bee was now hovering over my feet! And what did I
ALSO see when I looked down? This:
Literally CHISELED into the concrete, these words (though upside down):
YOU ARE MY EVERYTHING.
I was exultant. For some months back, I was strolling down the
street on my way to The Eagle, and just when I had this LOVELY thought
about Larkin, looked down to discover those chiseled words! Of course,
I took it as a benevolent omen.
Some weeks later, I photographed that Sidewalk Sundae Phraseology and added it to my chronicle entitled "A Larkin Reverie" at the file bottom. But the pic is ALSO attached to this e-mail. Neat, huh?
Now, I had FORGOTTEN the location of that concrete wisdom, so gave
it no thought when trucking on down to Larkin's tacqueria today. It was
The Humble Bee (now rare and endangered) who played Goddess's Messenger.
I was of course JONESING to bring this TREMENDOUS token of my love
and friendship to Larkin, and so DESPERATELY pleaded to the gods, that
he WOULD be there. As I approaced the tacqueria, I saw: Yes, he's
THERE! My goodwill overflowed to a homeless black man pandering Street
Sheets for a dollar. So I gave him a buck, hoping Larkin would witness
my benevolence through the large plate-glass window (but alas, he
seemed preoccupied what with slinging guacamole and refried beans), and
we conversed. The panhandler greatly appreciated my positive words, and
gave me TWO hugs (one left, one right) before I parted.
Such a delight to be in my beloved's vicinity once more! There was
my Angel Larkin in all his darling glory, despite his run-down
appearance and troubled demeanor. Plus I was looking FORWARD to their
delicious plate of Chile Rellenos,
after fasting since last night, to honor completion of Chapter Four.
Two other employees were there: a young, pretty Latino women, and an
elderly Mexican gentleman (short in stature and gray haired) whom I
figured to be the owner.
Right when I gave him my order, Larkin called "Adios!" and departed
for the day. "Great," I thought, "Larkin's gone, and now i'm STUCK
having to place an order w/o him, and I certainly CAN'T leave My
Chronicles hidden beneath this newspaper I purchased specifically FOR
that reason!" (Factoid: I entered a grocery shop to buy the paper, as I
had no coins. When I grabbed a Chronicle off the stand, the cashier
said: "Make sure it's today's, I haven't checked." I laughed and
replied: "Doesn't matter. I don't plan to actually READ it". Paid the
perplexed employee my dollar, got two quarters in return, and departed.)
So here I am, about to WASTE $6.95 for a meal whose intended PURPOSE
could not be completed, in spite of how DELICIOUS it would be after my
18 hour fast. The owner-cashier took my order, then announced it in
Spanish to the lady server...and invited me to have a seat, it'll be
right over. The woman called back: "It's not ready, maybe you'd like to
order something else?" Meanwhile, Larkin stood outside waiting for the
light to change: a mere 15 feet from where I stood, inside the
tacqueria! "Interesting," I thought...then said, "Thanks, but I really
had my heart set on those rellenos. I'll return in a day or two."
Then added before depart: "This place serves the TASTIEST tacqueria
dishes in the city. My compliments to the chef!" And left them glowing.
Should I approach Larkin in hopes he'd accept my belated
Thanksgiving gift? Or should I respect the dangerous locale, what with
Hole in the Wall just one door up, where my enemies would likely do him
great damage if they saw us in friendly commiseration?
I decided he already knew I have another gift for him (though
probably figured it was two Mad magazines and a large Hershey's
chocolate bar w/almonds, like for Halloween). And would make some
gesture towards me, to indicate everything's okay. He did not. Didn't
even turn towards me as he stood at the corner waiting to cross. I
stood there too, only on the OTHER side (bare arm's reach away), ready
to cross the intersecting street.
His light turned green before mine: he crossed, then sat against a
building ledge. Tied a loose shoestring, then lit up a cig and
lingered. What does this mean? Is it okay for me to approach him?
MY light finally turned green, so I crossed as if we never knew each
other in the first place. I figured since he's telepathic he
understands anyway how I feel, and respects and APPRECIATES me. And if
he really was ready to accept my latest gift, he'd have made some sort
of welcoming sign. I crossed on the other side of Folsom Street,
glanced at The Beauty one more time, then departed from his site.
One block up, back on the same side of the street as Larkin, I
entered the "Pick Me Up Cafe" (originally intended specifically for gay
clientele, it has long since been taken over by your average but
friendly Filipino family).
Quite hungry by now, I ordered their DELICIOUS veggie lasagna
w/salad. "Sorry," said the jovial young cashier, "we're out of that
today!"
Okay, Goddess is playing with me...kewl! And I ordered instead their
EXCELLENT avocado sandwich minus cheese, and with extra avocado. I just
LOVE avocado, and can't get enough of it. Toasted wheat bread with
EVERYTHING (including jalapeno pepper, mustard and mayo). I sat
enjoying the sandwich with a tall glass of iced tea, and thought:
Larkin can read my mind, he knows I'm here. If he wants to accept my gift now, he can just walk in.
Sadly he did NOT show up. But I DID enjoy a very tasty lunch, and
realized: "This is yet one more charming parable to write about: how
Larkin set me up 'cause he KNEW I planned to see him today." I laughed
to my thwarted self. (It's okay, Larkin. I love you always.)
I am just EAGER to bring Larkin These Chronicles, in case I'm
arrested or disappeared in some other way. He doesn't have a computer,
so can't visit my website, or view my writing on CD. So I just had an
EXCELLENT phone conversation w/Peggy, requesting she bring him a copy
of The Larkin Chronicles, to be sure he sees them. After all, he is SO
belov-ed to me, and I wrote these chronicles because I am SO inspired
by this most GLORIOUS of Men Among All Men. (Should I say: "MOTHER of
all men"? Hardy-har!)
Thus the magic in my life, these extraordinary and sweet parables
that seem to AFFIRM my future successes, and witness to the miracles
that shall spill over and beyond my OWN petty little world, to
eventually capture everyone ELSE on the planet, and turn their lives
into Heavenly Delight.
From: Zekester
To: All my e-friends
Date: 26 Nov 2007, 12:16:46 AM
Subject: Preparation for the worst
Tom:
As of yesterday, I have uploaded revelations of skulduggery here in
S.F. including photos and full names of actual people who have harmed
me, or threatened to harm me...some of whom are hard drug
dealers/runners. Some of whom are members of the San Francisco Police
Department. CIRCUMSTANTIAL evidence only, as MOST threats were
performed w/o any witness...or what witnesses were there are certainly
NOT on my side, and would ENTHUSIASTICALLY bear false witness against
me.
In the event I am arrested and sent to jail or prison, or badly beat
up and sent to hospital, or (goddess forbid) murdered, I want you to
contact the following trusted friends:
- Peggy C.
- Eleanor C.
- James D.
- John H.
- Joe N.
And also my brother Vincent who will, when push comes to shove, fight for my liberation.
This message has been bcc'd to all the above-listed people, for my
own protection and salvation. Anyone who needs to catch up with my
present intrigue should read ALL chapters in the following two books I
have uploaded to my website:
Which includes not only The Larkin Chronicles, but my latest chapter
of "Friendly Ghost" with notes on the remaining three or four chapters.
(It's a work in progress...should be complete w/7 or 8 chapters total
by Dec. 15.) It is only 3.8mb large.
Should I be confined to jail, prison, or other high security
confinement, or disappeared in any other way (wiped off social records
as if I never existed), I trust that my allies will do their best to
locate me, and start a fund raising venture to cover legal expenses. As
well as CONTACT me to ease the loneliness of isolation.
Not to mention drumming up media interest in my plight, and starting a "Free Zeke" mailing list.
Hopefully, none of these negative scenarios will come to pass, but
it's good to have my ass covered, considering the risky stand I've
decided to take.
Nonetheless, I want you to be COMPLETELY ASSURED that I am firm in
my stance, and totally at peace. I feel GREAT to be so magnanimous in
standing up against terror in any form whatsoever, regardless if it
results in my imprisonment or death. I am perfectly calm in my
righteousness. There is NO WAY I could ever keep silent, when
witnessing so much corruption that has been brought to my attention
(whether I like it or not). Fear for my own life and well-being is
trivial in comparison. I am that ethical.
BTW, I cannot possibly complete each of my remaining Friendly Ghost
chapters every 24 hours. It's turned out to be even MORE of an
excrutiating labor of love...but really, I gain MUCH pleasure from this
venture, regardless.
Regardless, too, of the high possibility these curs may attempt to
sabotage my life even further than they already have! In the event I
get whisked off to jail or some other high-security restriction...I
request that someone (or someONES) establish a fund to assist my legal
expenses.
Also: organize a media blitz on my behalf, and do your very best to
KEEP me in the public eye. I have NO ONE around me (except Peggy) who'd
do me that excellent favor. But it would NOT be fair to place such a
burden on ONE person...especially with the difficult challenges SHE has
in her own fantabulous-but-busy life (beating CANCER for one). PLUS,
this would likely put her life in danger.
In the event this unfortunate derailment should occur, please
contact Tom K. and start your own "Free Zeke" mailing list. His e-mail
is extensively publicized via Usenet as well as NUMEROUS web pages
scattered throughout The Dark Realm Of Cyberspace:
ALERT 2:37 AM NOVEMBER 24: I can no longer
access my gay-bible.org website, nor my ZekeBlog, nor my e-mailbox.
Hilarious! I am SO all over these fascist goons. Right in the middle of
composing Part 4 of the Friendly Ghost Detective Agency! I'm gonna have
to find a way to BURN this latest chapter to CD, and send it off to Tom
K. As well as telephone him tomorrowf. I'll give him the e-mails of four trusted friends (see below). Good thing I've downloaded ALL my web log articles for backup! I can snail-mail ALL of them to Tom K., in 2 or 3 diskettes! That is: if the police, FBI or CIA or whatever don't come smashing down my door in the middle of the night....which IS a possibility, drama queens they be!
This is a REAL WAR going on here, and I am
FRONT MAN. I am ffhe FINEST spiritual warrior the world has ever seen
since...er...Gandhi perhaps (though he was heterosexual and a wife beater
to boot...Goddess forbid!) I DON'T EVEN HAVE TIME TO SET UP INFORMATIVE
LINKS WITHIN THIS CHAPTER; THIS IS A RACE FOR TIME! Do you want to take
up arms and defend me, or back away and leave me to my own wits?
Personally, I am 110% CONFIDENT that I shall be victorious no
matter what...like the Little Red Hen who successfully baked a
DELICIOUS loaf of bread withOUT the camaraderie of her barnyard
associates. I don't even care if you're ATHEIST in your support...I
know better: that there IS an elegantly compassionate and humorous
God (or Goddess), who RESPECTS any and all non-nihilistic belief
systems (which of COURSE includes humanistic atheist philosophy)...and
ANGELS that watch over us wih the GREATEST benevolence and
brotherly/sisterly adoration. I AM BECOME LIVING PROOF. Neither Prozac nor its derivatives have ANYTHING to do with my UTTERLY REMARKABLE revelations.
LIKEWISE for Jesus the Christ...who is nothing more than a flimsy and
watered-down spinoff of Apollonian Mythos, thank you very much.
PLEASE NOTE: This passage has been inserted above
my current writing, due to the URGENCY of this sudden--though
anticipated--sabotage. Further down, I DISCUSS the likelihood of being
cut off from Internet accesss, brilliant QUEER PAGAN PROPHET that I am!
(And ALSO realize that my full consicousness of my Goddess-Chosen Role
is only VERY RECENT; not something I've known for years.) No sooner
than ONE HOUR after stating this possibility of Internet expulsion, I
am effectively SABOTAGED exactly as described! But just be aware that i
take the Buddhist spin: "We have no enemies, only teachers." And
in so thinking, I conclude that "MINE ENEMIES" are simply angels
playing a role in order to make me into a HERO. They are TELEPATHIC,
and know exactly the moments appropriate to push my buttons. DON'T HATE ANY OF THEM! They are angelic actors and actresses participating in a DREAM COME TRUE just for yours truly! By
the same token, you must REGARD them as adversaries, until they finally
drop their Swords Of Enmity. That's just how The Game Of Life MUST Be
Played!
So let's just see if I can keep this rude distraction at bay, and complete This Lovely Chapter Under Siege! I need to finish my report on the SEVEN CURS OF SOMA, which you shall learn about in a short while. Thanks for your patience, my belov-ed "e-friends"!
So I'm not imposing on his privacy in sharing this address with my
ADDITIONAL and TRUSTWORTHY e-friends, who number just four (e-mail
links embedded clearly denoted, since it seems I've just been CENSORED IN CYBERSPACE). I am snail-mailing this to Tom, who can then contact these decent people.)
(Please note
I've OBLITERATED certain data, such as e-mail addresses, last names and
my phone number...for this public, Internet version. The EMERGENCY
version remains intact, and will be mailed to Tom shortly.)
The first REAL testing of these scary waters is about to occur: I
e-mailed my URL for The Larkin Chronicles AND Friendly Ghost to Joe
Cote and Dennis Wallo less than two nights ago.
I WANTED to POST to BARtender RON:
aLAS his E-mail is SADly a-"NON".
Though guaranTEED:
both GOSssips will GAIN undiVIDED atTENtion,
In HOPES of foMENting
Vam-PIE-rish ConVENtion!
(BTW: I have a strong hunch that the poem above contains SECRET
CODE composed of only those uppercase characters. If so, I channeled it
unconsciously, in my desire to assist ZekeBlog visitors in stressing
the correct syllables. Goddess only knows how to crack the code...but
maybe YOU can, Dearest Reader.)
Here's what I BELIEVE will happen: They'll contact Online Policy Group
which hosts my web site gratis. (OPG is a gay-founded cyber
organization that supports low income activists with free web sites,
e-mailboxes, and mailing lists.) Undoubtedly they will ALSO complain to
tBlog.com, which houses my ZekeBlog. While these GOONS are likely too
scared to instigate a lawsuit, shutting down my Internet presence is
something they can EASILY get away with, no legal repercussion. Oh
right: , there's also my ISP, QwickConnect. Surely These Winged Dogs Of
Abaddon will cause a flurry there, too!
Unfortunately, my CD-burner no longer functions...I can only view
and play CD's. In the event my Internet access DOES get sabotaged, it
would be nice to burn Friendly Ghost AND Larkin Chronicles to CDs, and
distribute them strategically. Anyone up for the job?
Well, this is all absolutely CAPTIVATING, how my life has taken this
sudden turn to ADVENTURE, INTRIGUE and (hopefully very soon) ROMANCE
and LOTSA HOT JUJUBE. Who knows? Maybe my One True Love is sitting in
isolation up there at San Quentin THIS VERY MOMENT! And he's
bodaciously BUFF, sinfully HANDSOME, absolutely LOYAL to his dearest
friends, is a master CAT BURGLAR, LOCKSMITH and IMPERSONATER (so when
he's released he can use his gangster connections to break me outta
there and go in hiding where we'd live our sweet lives together, in
total anonymity from the world except for those kind souls we know are
TRUE friends)...and I am totally a 10+++ in Those Mercurial Eyes Of His (by witch
I am eternally spellbound to be HIS prisoner, gladly, for LIFE. And
(finally *gasp*)...let's not forget this Righteously Courageous Dude's
GINORMOUS and ESTHETICALLY cut wanger, okay? Can you say "Popsicle
Paradise"?
(Uhhh, I gotta leave the keyboard a few moments to tend this sudden urge for relief. Thanks for your patience: back shortly.)
In a Glorious Nutshell: be careful what you wish for! My adoration for Damon Runyon-esque
characters since I first read his delightful tales at age 11, about a
kind-hearted gangster (you know, the type who rob a bank and
successfully flee in their get-away, but wind up going to prison just
the same, 'cause a little girl just got hit by another car not related
to the robbery, and the gangster HAD to stop in order to save her
precious life)...has apparantly come to haunt me in a REALLY big way!
It was my mother BTW, who bought me that book as a holiday present:
a collection of Yuletide short stories by Amerikan writers from the
20's and 30's, possibly The Algonquin Round Table.
I remember the hard cover: a pale lemon-white with a full-length
vertical bar of red. Two inches wide in front, it wrapped around the
binder, back cover same width. (Believe me, I really STRUGGLED with
that description...uurggh! Funny how sometimes the SIMPLEST design can
be so difficult to put into word...er, "words". (No, take that back: "word" is good.) So sayeth my Guardian Angel Randolph. You can read about him in my abridged collection of missives entitled "Luv Letters From Jesus To His Daddy". I'm nothing if not DELECTABLY SACRILIGEOUS.
BTW, it wasn't
until several years AFTER coming up with the title "Final Testament"
for my website, that I learned it's also every Muslim's beloved
nickname for the Quran! Badda-bing, badda-boom.
It had that nice, fresh-book smell, almost cedar.
Stamped in red intaglio on the upper right corner was a tiny but
delightful outline of Santa w/sleigh and reindeer. Don't recall the
title, maybe: "America's Most Beloved Yuletide Yarns"...perhaps "12
Days of Christmas Tales". Here's a good deal: why not read Runyon's "Dancing Dan's Christmas" right now on the Internet! Or watch the film. Or listen to it
from the old-time radio archives (just a 3.4mb download...quick)! But
whichever way you choose, make sure you're curled up in a cozy spot,
hot cocoa in hand.
Anywayz, I FELL IN LOVE for the first time in
My-Then-Mayfly-Brief-Life : in love with Runyon's Brooklynite Anti (and
colorful) Heroes. I yearned to be in the strong embrace of such men
that do not exist ANYWHERE in these Long Island suburbs. (Except the
Juicy Good Humor Ice Cream Man with his tawny-gold hair and immaculate
white pants cockily set off by a silvery change belt dispenser
that I yearned to GRAB...and hold right there, not take or steal.
Heavy, warm coins adminstered by God's Own Angel...quarters from
Heaven! But It wasn't the coins I sought, it was the WHOLE PACKAGE. The
idea of hefting that luscious weight between those brawny thighs. O Sweet Masculinity! (Not
that I was consciously AWARE of my longings at such a tender age, mind
you. Freud would have a field day with me...an ORGY in fact.)
I SCREAM FOR ICE CREAM (IN MY JEANS)
(c) 1998 by Ezekiel J. Krahlin
Dad, thou art my Sundae Special!
Drive up in a truck 'cause it
rhymes with fuck; drop your change
belt and shove that pink, hard
treat where it tastes most sweet!
Then let me, Daddy, Daddy, let me
do you any way I please! Let me
tear off your shirt, and rest my
head on your manly chest as I
reach through your fly to find
something big to suck on! And let
me slide those spotless white
pants over your muscular legs,
which you raise in the air to help
me out! Please, Daddy, please let
me do even more! Let me make your
big nest slippery with my saliva
(your buoyant eggs shall ride the
waves of ecstasy!), let me taste
the sweetness of your crown (and
the first dew that drops on my
lips!), let me pierce your tight
sphincter with the dart of my
slippery tongue, and let me raise
your legs so I can pierce even
deeper, my hot breath smothering
your fiery balls, your cock so
stiff it feels like it's going to
burst from your skin! What bursts
instead is a fountain of ice
cream...
for we are in Candyland!
My mother (of all people) gave me The Book That Corrupted Me.
Thus began my romantic fantasies for men...and ONLY men. No woman could
even come CLOSE to the peerless bravado and dash of Damon's Daemons.
So it's Mom's fault I'm gay. She's 89 now, in a Florida nursing home
for the demented elderly. My Dad's 90 and bravely by her side each and
every day. It'll do him in. I can't imagine his suffering; only pray. I
would so love for one of Zeus's Own Messengers to perform a humble but
most sincere request of mine:
Go hither to my earthly matriarch who doesn't remember Her Number 2
Son any more. She is expected to part this fleshly veil in a short
time...
Oh dear heaven! I think she just died, I suddenly feel her presence
so strong; I weep as I type. She says The Friendly Ghost Detective
Agency will shake the world to its core, and there are NO words on
earth OR in Heaven to express even remotely, how proud she is of me.
And begs forgivenes for the lonely and neglectfully ABUSIVE childhood I
suffered from her own hands, and those of my Dad, and of my only
(older) brother Sandy. And regrets terribly that my maternal
grandparents were purposely kept from enjoying the company of Their
Little Grandson, even though we all lived under the same North
Massapequa roof. They loved me SO MUCH and were SO SAD that I had to be
isolated from them.
WE INTERRUPT YOU FOR THIS SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT
Before I continue, it is of utmost import
to include an apology to my family for the negative accounts that
follow. Described below in some detail are descriptions of an unhappy
and dysfunctional family. Before anyone takes offense, allow me this
redeeming (and LIKELY) hypothesis:
Such a unique destiny as mine demands an equally
unique upbringing, most important: a TOUGHENING of one's mettle. The
usual nurturing family would surely NOT fulfill This Mandate From Up
Above. I therefore extend my utmost gratitude to both my
parents (Anna Elizabeth Catalano; Vincent Arthur Catalano, Sr.) and my
only sibling (Vincent Arthur Catalano, Jr. a.k.a. "Sandy") for having
the GUTS to play this out: a most difficult and massively grievous role, albeit sacred.
"We have no enemies, only teachers." (Buddha)
"Love thine enemies." (Jesus)
WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULAR SHOW
My grandfather, George
Gerrie (Scottish surname: "Gerrie" with a hard "G") had a harsh
childhood and was sent to America while still very young...leaving his
bereaved mother with a violent drunk of a husband, and his beloved pet
pig...abandoning them somewhere in the dingy outskirts of Elgin.
My parents RARELY talked
about their heritage (Mom, French-Scot; Dad, Italian). It was only
these past few years I managed to eke from my mother, some
background detail. Grandpa George was understandably morose as an
adult. His wife (my Grandma, whose first name I've long forgotten...or
maybe was never told), abided by him like a loving angel.
Is it possible he was
kept from me, because he suffered spells of violence? Is it possible
that my mother killed him? I only know that on that day when I came
home from school, my mother told me that Grandpa died. She said he had
turned away from the kitchen window after commenting on the lovely day,
then slipped and banged his bald pate on a corner of the wall, cracking
it open. She was not crying. She was not grim. Mom was matter-of-fact
about it, perhaps for the sake of sparing my little child self from
trauma. Though I'm not so sure. BTW it never occured to me until just a few short years ago, that my mother would ever kill anyone let alone her own father!
It is of course my
utmost HOPE that such morbid consideration is but a far flung fantasy
emerged from A Dark Corner Of The Mind. Though I DO fear that it is yet
another of my psychic glimmerings which ALWAYS turn out to be 100% accurate (though the revelation may take YEARS). It has all the familiar earmarks. There is also THIS sad truth:
When I was just a tot,
my mom would frequently wring her hands, exclaiming her deepest hope
that I wouldn't wind up like my cousin Patty, who died of a drug
overdose in a psychiatric ward! Now, how do you think that would IMPACT
an impressionable little boy? Can you say "psychological baggage"?
Plus: my father would sometimes remind me what a weak, pathetic loser I
was. UNlike my jock brother who joined varsity and later, The Citadel,
a military college in Charleston, South Carolina. Cracker's answer to
West Point! I felt unloved, unwanted, a financial burden...or IOW:
learned to despise my parents at an early age, but kept it to myself. My brother never bonded with me, either...we NEVER shared any fun moments whatsoever.
An Athlete, a Cadet, and an Eagle Scout. So where is his merit badge for BROTHERLY LOVE? Sandy has neither spoken with me, nor written a letter in the last 30-plus years!
Though I've phoned him twice
And written him thrice,
His lack of sibling concern is NOT
very nice.
(Can you say "Typical Amerikan Nuclear Family Dysfunctionality" three times as fast as possible? Raised like a stranger by my own flesh and blood!) He's four years my senior; as an older brother he's supposed
to reach out to me! But he never did, and he's now what...61 years old,
retired from the Nassau County Police Department. Never fulfilled his
dream to be a detective. Yet look at where I'm headed now, at the ripe
age of 57: a bona fide PSYCHIC detective with the world soon at my
fingertips! And growing younger daily.
Since I hated my parents, I thought nothing of rifling through their
bedroom dressers while no one else was home. One day (at the tender age
of 11), I found hidden beneath my father's neatly piled boxer shorts,
this Bantam paperback: "Female Psycho Ward". The head nurse was
depicted (on the front cover in glossy printer's ink) scowling with
heaving breast and hair a-tousle, ripping the blouse of a buxom Candy
Striper. Behind them, a bloody pitchfork lay slanted against the
pea-green wall, while several attending nurses peered aghast through a
lucite partition. I was likewise aghast upon reading a lone paragraph
contained therein.
"How could you marry that man? Well, you're no prize
yourself! Did you think I never suspected, never longed,
wept, AGONIZED over what might have been? What
SHOULD have been? The devil's pitchfork is too GOOD
for you, vermin bitch! Slut! God damn putrid WHORE!"
She turned around, swept a livid hand beneath the sofa
cushions to reclaim a far-flung wedding ring. Instead, a
displaced needle drove clean through her index finger,
bone and all. She howled in wrathful agony: a toreador's
picador! Should she grab the pliers now and yank it out?
Or ride out the storm, continue her dirty deed until
Butchie (her "man") returns?
A couple years later I decided to treat myself
to a day at a carnival staged one weekend at the John H. West
Elementary School's baseball field a few blocks from my home. So I
returned to their bedroom and stole nearly the entire contents of their
"New Mexico or Bust" fire hydrant coin bank. $45 worth of quarters! I'm
sure Mom and Dad knew I was the thief, but they never confronted me.
Though a few days later I heard them in the bedroom, remarking on the
disappearance. Perhaps they spoke in stage whisper through a closed
door, hoping I'd confess. Perhaps they felt regret for my difficult
childhood and decided this time to be lenient.
I only remember ONE gift
presented me from my grandparents. Through Grandma's hand: a miniature,
plastic drum. My mother took it away.
I remember several weeks
after Grandpa's passing, I was shunted from the shared bedroom to that
of my deceased grandparents. (Grandma died in Syosset Hospital two
years prior.) The room was now revamped for a child: I ABHORED the clown-theme linoleum floor! The first night I slept on Grandpa George's bed, I dreamt of him:
His tall, gaunt frame
towered above, leaned over and tapped me awake. "Look under the bed. A
gift awaits you," were his only words. I awoke drenched in the pale
beams of a full moon. A chill November night, acid stung my sinuses:
the scent of crisp, dead leaves wafting through a cracked window cold
as steel. A Silurian moonlight exhumed Those Gaudy Linoleum Clowns from
a dark retreat.
What's under the bed?
Buried deep within the
secure illusion of a comforter, I shuddered: nuzzled further and
further away from Hade's Cliff while dirty red talons scratched and
clawed for purchase. It CRAVED my trembling soul. The wall's massive,
particle-board hand abruptly SLAPPED me on the back, hard. I froze,
held breath as a ghastly demon finally scaled Hell's Breach and
crouched, still. It stared from deep, hollow eyes less than one arm's
reach from my own. A dog howled from a neighbor's backyard and the
demon scattered.
I finally mustered up
the bravado to crawl out from beneath my heavy blankets, slip under the
bed and secure my gift. There it was, like a Tinkerbell spark in the
dark: squarecut diamond ring of elegant design. I showed it to my
mother the next day, describing my dream about Grandpa. She took it
from me, like the toy drum. I never saw it again.
The
toy drum and Grandpa's ring weren't the only things in my possession
she tossed out. I was artistically precocious: mostly drawing these
incredible abstract designs, alien creatures, and mazes. But also by
eight or so, wrote fantasy tales w/pencil on looseleaf. Years later on
my first Xmas vacation from college (which campus was a solid
thousand-miles-PLUS away from my strange, cold family), I asked Mom
where she stored my childhood whimsies. "I threw them away," was her
curt reply. She doesn't even know what time I was born!. "All I
remember," she said, "it was hot and muggy, and dark outside. Either
early dawn or dusk." And I don't have my original birth certificate,
either...but now with so many hindsighted years, I wonder: Did she
throw THAT away, too?
I have a re-issued birth certificate dated TWENTY YEARS after I was born. (My Mom claims the old hospital that stored my certificate burned down in 1955.) But this re-issue doesn't reveal my TIME of birth, just date, place and name! (Which name by the way is not my present one. Click here
to see legal proof of my name-change.) I felt ashamed for my family's
treatment of me, so desired for YEARS to have a new, full name. Finally
did it in 1996, never looked back.
Carl Jung
once said that the gods and godesses (or "archetypes" as he coined it)
always find a way to manifest no matter how hard society tries to
suppress their ubiquitous spirit. In our modern day, they emerge
through electronic media: celebrities from movies, TV and sports. Also:
comic books. This theory adds a new layer of appreciation to my lonely
childhood. Were it not for those idiot-box cartoons that delighted my
soul as a tot, I would've gone hopelessy, permanently stark-raving MAD! Warner Brothers' "Looney Tunes" were my greatest enjoyment. So I'd like to unofficially declare Sylvester the Cat our Patron Saint of Neglected Children. Or Daffy Duck. (They were my two all-time favorites, but any Looney Tunes character will suffice EQUALLY well.)
Back to my plea: If an angel could so kindly rekindle my mother's memory of moi (Eugene Frank Catalano by birth), to tell her THANK YOU for that wonderful
Christmas book...and also for that LAVISHLY illustrated Mother Goose
Fairytales. Those exquisite, gold-gilt images so joyfully colored,
still shine brightly like Heaven's own vision in THIS mind's eye! And
in so knowing my gratitude, she may depart in bliss, and come to my
rescue. As a Guardian Angel to secure my victory, and that of all my
gay brethren. Nothing would make her happier!And so my prayer has been answered the very moment I request it here, in writing. Witness the miracle!
WE INTERRUPT YOU FOR THIS SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT
Before anyone takes offense, allow me this redeeming (and LIKELY) hypothesis:
Such a unique destiny as mine demands an equally
unique challenge, most important: a TOUGHENING of one's mettle. The
usual nurturing friendships would surely NOT fulfill This Mandate From
Up Above. I therefore extend my utmost gratitude to both my enemies and seemingly clueless friends alike, for having the GUTS to play this out: a most difficult and massively grievous role, albeit sacred.
"We have no enemies, only teachers." (Buddha)
"Love thine enemies." (Jesus)
WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULAR SHOW
Please view the following image of what I have titled "The SOMA Seven":
depicts 7 different oddballs out of two SOMA gay bars who have been
(and some day may AGAIN be) a danger to me.
The four people depicted
above AND the three below, are ALL close friends of Gypsy's
(*shudder*)! With friends like those, who needs ENEMAS, right?
Top image from left to right: Ron Hennis,
bartender at the Eagle Tavern. Look at those eyes: what do they tell you? VAMPIRES EXIST! To
learn the dirt on Ron, read "30 Pieces Of Silver" and "The Mistake You Made". Both are chapters from my "Larkin Chronicles" BTW, which gave birth to this Friendly Ghost adventure I'm now writing.
Dennis Wallo (front),
customer and former friend. We met at the Eagle around 11 months ago. I
was MOST impressed by his boundless knowledge of ALL spiritual belief
systems...truly genius! Unfortunately, he is totally CAPTIVATED by the
Black Arts, and was used by Gypsy in a (fruitless) attempt to deflect
my outrage, and muddy my ASTUTE observations. Dennis "wallows" in some
pretty dark muck!
Dennis lives in a classy
RV, complete with fridge, TV, stereo, DVD player, and
Buddhist/Hindu/Catholic/S hamanic art decorating the walls. Darn it, I
should have photographed his vehicle when I had the chance! I think
I'll mosey on down to SOMA where he often parks on Harrison Street
somewhere between The Lonestar and The Eagle...and take a pic of his
RV'S rear bumper. I mean, posting his LICENSE NUMBER on the web would
be most helpful! Maybe I'll have the photo up in a few days.
Behind him is Joe Cote,
who turned on me since I accused Gary Clayton of allowing speed freak
(red-headed bicycle street punk) Chris to violently threaten me. He
utterly FAILED to chastise Chris with a prompt boot out the door. Gary
tends bar at Hole in the Wall Saloon on 8th Street & Folsom. In
retrospect, I believe Gary PAID Chris to drive me out. Since our
falling out, Cote has been gossiping to EVERYONE who'll listen, in an
attempt to have me kicked out and perhaps even injured. As confidant to
my grievence against Gary, he decided to violate that trust!
These two bars (Hole &
Eagle) BTW are under the same ownership: a now-elderly interracial gay
couple (Caucasian and dark African).
As a consequence (or not) the bartenders of BOTH establishments are a tight clique...or should I say "coven"?
Then there's Gypsy (a.k.a.
"Pappy", "Arthur", and my all-time favorite: "scumbag"). Yes, there's
ALWAYS Gypsy. LIVING PROOF THAT SHIT CAN WALK. (Even more astounding: it TALKS sometimes, too! Will wonders never cease...woddan a MAZE ink woild!) Since they broke up my friendship w/sweetie Larkin, I can't frequent any
gay bar w/o Gypsy or cohorts snooping around my proximity. Looks like a
syringe in his clenched fist, but that's just the reflection off a beer
bottle. Synchronistic or what?
Bottom image from left to
right: Jerry is Hole in the Wall's evening weekday bartender. He was on
duty when a nighttime regular, Mike, invited me for a few rounds of
pool. He wound up drugging and mugging me. You can read about it in the enclosed Larkin Chronicles under article "A Handsome Mug".
I've concluded that Jerry and certain street thugs have an AGREEMENT to
split the costs of whatever valuables they obtain from skulduggery. It
was on one of Jerry's Tuesday night shifts, the crime was committed.
Gary Clayton is the Hole in the Wall's weekday bartender (Mon.-Thurs.), the one who did NOTHING when a speed freak LOUDLY AND CLEARLY threatened me with extreme violence.
Lastly is Chris Altman,
ALSO a bartender at The Hole. His jealousy over my friendship w/Larkin
inspired him to allow a customer's unruly dog to ATTACK me, and
consequently drove me out for complaining. You can read about that fiasco in the Larkin Chronicles under "Dark Mojo at the Hole". To cut to the quick, do a search on "Weekend bartender Chris A".
I dowloaded all pics from
the web site of either Hole in the Wall or The Eagle, but one ("Joe /
Dennis" which photo I took myself). That was the ONLY pic I could find
of Gypsy, but he's so unique in his seedy appearance the photo will do
nicely, thank you. Besides, I've come up with an absolutely PERFECT
description of Gypsy (oh how I despise needing to write and speak his horrid name so often):
"A cross between Yosemite Sam and Colonel Sanders".
I described him like that
to an acquaintance, Eric (former cab driver of Korean descent, occupies
an SRO at the Twin Peaks Hotel, one block west of the notorious Lucky
13 and Metro bars. (Heck, they're ALL "notorious" as far as THIS little
pup is concerned. Should go w/o saying!) Several days later, we cross
paths again, and he remarks in gales of laughter: "Your description of
Gypsy really nailed him to a T! You said I'd know who he was right off
the bat."
I had informed Eric that Gypsy barbacks at the Lucky 13 Sundays and
Mondays, at night. He often stands in the doorway, smoking a cig. (I'm
sure he'd positively love to smoke THIS fag, too!)
HERE'S THE KICKER
As I suggested earlier, Siddhartha's declaration, "We have no enemies, only teachers," I take to heart. And in so doing, have conjured up my OWN 21st-century makeover specifically for GAYS in my essay, "NeoPositivity".
If you haven't read it yet, I STRONGLY recommend you do so NOW. Your
very LIFE and TRUE HAPPINESS depends on it. It will also--as a secodary
benefit--clarify my approach to life as a gay activist. And help you
understand MUCH BETTER, my ideas expressed herein. AAMOF, you'll be
like a ship without a rudder in ALL aspects of your life until you DO
read my brilliant essay. (No false humility here, I assure you!)
The
GREAT THING this gentle philosophy implies is that NO ONE is actually
out to "get me". They ALL play a Goddess-designated role for my
betterment. This mean my parents (and brother) were DIVINELY INSTRUCTED
to NOT go easy on me, that I may fulfill my destiny...as much as it may
GRIEVE them to honor This Sacred Command. For in being raised in an
unhappy family, I became highly motivated to seek SPRITUAL
FAMILY among my gay brothers here in San Francisco. As well as REACH
OUT to gay homeless people who've suffered even more family dysfunction
than I've EVER experienced. And--like a Bodhisattva Warrior descending
into Hell to liberate agonized souls--embrace them and pull them back
up with me, out of the muck and mire of human detritus and misery.
Likewise my SOMA "enemies". I believe that life holds many precious secrets that are ONLY revealed---one by one--when you sorely EARN the right to know each particular (and sacred) truth. And my incredible-long-suffering starting from earliest childhood has RIGHTFULLY earned me this new-found knowledge, a Fountain Of Wisdom for my gay brothers first, everyone else second.
As you most likely know by
now, I've just about run out of ink for my printer. And since it seems
I'll be unable to connect to the Internet for the forseeable future, I
can't even order more ink cartridges! (Not that I can afford to
until the first of next month...and if rent control for all of
California is abolished, as will most likely happen in a ballot some months from now...my
monthly rent will JUMP from $310 to $750, leaving me with barely enough
for food...forget about eating out or even COFFEE, let alone printer
and other computer expenses).
If you care to subsidize my efforts a bit, you can pursue the cartridge situation by reading the enclosed article,"The Agony & The Inkstasy" and do what needs be done to OBTAIN the necessary cartridges and snail-mail them to me.:
Tom, PLEASE e-mail all
*.zip files I mailed you, to my four other e-mail friends listed above,
including my phone number which is:
415-Counter march and right about.
Heck, if anyone can afford
to send me an entirely UPDATED computer in the form of a wi-fi friendly
LAPTOP (preferrably w/Linux fully installed instead of Windoze), I'd
GREATLY appreciate it. I understand that DELL has just such products. One can't fight this Information War effectively, w/o a functioning laptop out in the field. A good soldier merits good ammo. Hey, nice EQUIPMENT there, buddy! (Factoid: "There are no heteros in foxholes".)
As usual, once I start to
make a MAJOR breakthrough, I am SABOTAGED and derailed. But being a
true disciple of Buddha, I am far less upset, than amused. It is all a
delightful game if you so choose to see it that way. And in so seeing,
I save the souls of ALL my enemies, even the most VIRULENT, and gain
them as beloved amigos and amours. They make me into a magnanimous hero by playing the role of My Greatest Adversaries.
I am hoping AND praying
that my two remaining ink cartridges (one color and one black) will
miraculosly continue to print PERFECTLY for the next 8 days: sufficient
to complete ALL my "Friendly Ghost" chapters. In the spirit of Chanukah
(when the empty oil lamps CONTINUED TO BURN for eight more days), I
wish YOU and those whom you adore, a very JOYOUS holiday season withOUT
KKKristian arrogance of any stripe!
Sinqueerly,
Ezekiel J. Krahlin
Queer Visionary Extraordinaire
UPDATE
9:06 AM NOVEMBER 24: Please DISREGARD my bone-shaking alert at top of
document. I can once more access the Internet, and all my vital
CyberArsenal. What a spooky little trick played on me, eh? Though it
DID serve a good purpose, renewing my APPRECIATION of this global
communications sysem that mimics telepathy so remarkably well. (AND it made for some pretty intense writing, did it not?)
But let's not rest on our olivers...oops, I mean "laurels";
consider this a DRILL for the possible (even probable) day when I
really WILL be under attack, arrested and/or isolated in some other
devious manner. Now, I gotta REMAP those links for my ZekeBlog, remove
e-mail addresses and my telephone number, and post This Incredible
Fourth Chapter Of The Friendly Ghost Detective Agency. Whew! (I was
just about to PHONE you, Tom, were I not able to go online this
morning, after crashing a few hours from an excessively overworked,
all-night streak of impassioned prose.
PS: Yes, I like my brain chemistry, too, Eleanor. I am unabashedly cock-a-hoop. BTW, my mother sang WWII war songs to me as a baby, instead of the usual nursery rhymes. Her maiden name is Anna Elizabeth Gerrie, born in Brooklyn, 1918.
Mom & Dad, 2004
CAISSONS GO ROLLING ALONG
by
1st Lieutenant Edmund L. Gruber
Over hill, over dale, as we hit the dusty trail,
And those Caissons go rolling along.
In and out, hear them shout, counter march and right about,
And those Caissons go rolling along.
Then it's hi, hi, hee, in the field artillery,
Shout out your numbers loud and strong,
Where'er you go, you will always know
That those Caissons go rolling along,
That those Caissons go rolling along.
In the storm, in the night, action left or action right,
See those Caissons go rolling along.
Limber front, limber rear, prepare to mount your cannoneer,
And those Caissons go rolling along.
Was it high, was it low, where the hell did that one go?
As those Caissons go rolling along,
Was it left, was it right, now we won't get home tonight,
And those Caissons go rolling along.
Why do computer printers and ink continue to be a MAJOR headache after all these years?
Maybe if I wear a glass jockstrap to next year's Gay Pride Parade and lose it
in some bawdy backstreet hustle, my "Prints Charming" will come to the rescue!
From: Zeke
To: Thomas
Date: 22 Nov 2007, 06:25:38 PM
Subject: Re: Bon mots
Thomas writes:
{{ Definitely so, and exactly the right day of the year for the contemplation of that perspective ;-) }}
Stepped out to do laundry, wondered why so few people were around, and the streets unusually quiet. Then it hit me: THANKSGIVING! A real "I coulda had a V-8" moment. :b
{{ I cannot complain about 35 years with the almost-perfect life-partner, }}
Well, you COULD but you're not a New Yorker like me.
{{ The purpose of counting blessings is for one's own mental health. }}
I don't just count my blessings, Tom, I JACK OFF to them too: Let's see (break out the lube) there's Jonny...(more lube) and Randolph...(still more) Larkin...(yet even MORE lube) Troy...(okay, we need a BUCKET here!) Dean. The list goes on, along with the boners.
{{ So many little things that we take for granted that are very big things... }}
One could get VERY Freudian over THAT comment!
{{ to be healthy, to be able to drive, to be able to see, to be able to walk, to have a meal on the table, to have a roof. }}
Don't forget our enemies. They make us better people, whether we care
to admit this, or not. And doing the laundry: only 2nd on my shit list
to a visit to purgatory.
{{ Hope you're having a great Thanksgiving. }}
I am VERY grateful for my talents as writer/philosopher/activi st/visionary and All Around Bullshit Provocateur.
So HAPPY about this tremendous breakthrough in my writing (Larkin Chronicles and Friendly Ghost Detective Agency). Fitting that my first best-seller is also the Ultimate Revenge Upon Mine Enemies.
My chronicles will also bust wide open this shadow conspiracy which you
so correctly surmise EXISTS. You'll see! I will VERY SOON become one of
the world's greatest heroes to ever emerge from the Muck of Humanity's
Cesspit.
In giving thanks, we SHOULD include ourselves. For we have been
LIFESAVERS towards each other in a very fucked-up "woild". I'd be like
a "boid widda bwoken wing" w/o your many years' kind support and thoughtful musings.
Otherwise, I'm sitting here in my ramshackle SRO by my lone some, as usual.
About this Woody character. He is one of those street goons who rants
and gestures violently in public, making the Castro a miserable
experience for tourists and residents alike.
Since he was driven out, another fruit-loop has taken that place, Dane...who is even crazier
than Woody. And though gay himself, behaves very homophobically. He's
quite tall, dirty blond curly hair, skinny and usually scruffy in
appearance, straight out of a Dickens novel. Stalks, harasses people in
the Castro (including yours truly), screams at the top of his lungs.
Threatening behavior bordering on violence. NOT a pleasant encounter
for any tourist or resident wanting to enjoy The Castro.
UPDATE 7/7/08: The San Francisco Bay Guardian foolishly glorified Dane
as one of San Francisco's great eccentrics! Talk about scraping the
bottom of the barrel. Obnoxious hobos are a dime a dozen, and can
easily be found in ANY city anywhere in the world. OMG, they even label
him a "Good Samaritan". Where's a barf bag when ya need one? Well, at
least they provide a pic of him, that you may steer clear of this bogus
do-gooder:
I do give Dane credit for yanking an accident victim out of a burning car.
Yet his horrid behavior (which is most of the time) spreads much misery
throughout our bedraggled community. Another example of the police
failing to do their job (by an appropriately forceful reprimand and
temporary expulsion from our streets), when they could easily do so.
WE INTERRUPT YOU FOR THIS SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT
Before anyone takes offense, allow me this redeeming (and LIKELY) hypothesis:
Such a unique destiny as mine demands an equally
unique challenge, most important: a TOUGHENING of one's mettle. The
usual nurturing friendships would surely NOT fulfill This Mandate From
Up Above. I therefore extend my utmost gratitude to both my enemies and seemingly clueless friends alike, for having the GUTS to play this out: a most difficult and massively grievous role, albeit sacred.
"We have no enemies, only teachers." (Buddha)
"Love thine enemies." (Jesus)
WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULAR SHOW
I tried being friends with Woody many times, but he always winds up
harassing me while pretending he doesn't know what he's doing. Playing
the "mentally disturbed" card to trick soft-spined liberals into
believing he can't help himself. (I'm a HARD-spined liberal, FYI.) He
also feigns homelessness, which he is not,
in order to garner dollars from sympathetic (though clueless)
passersby. I frequent a coffeehouse on Church near Market...and so does
Woody (who bears a hilarious resemblance to Buzz Lightyear of Toy Story
fame). He will interrupt and "act out" whenever I'm sitting outdoors,
trying to meet guys. Jumping around like an ape and hollering weird
phrases, so that my possible friend is scared away from both that
coffeehouse and myself. Woody does this INTENTIONALLY. It is a
homophobic reaction at my harmless attempts to cruise the cute ones.
In general, associating with Woody condemns me to social
loneliness...which is "his plan" all along. I once designed a button
just for him,
in hopes of winning him over towards respecting me. Didn't work.
But that's not the worst of it:
Six years ago I was bashed by a gay crack-head
named Matthew. Not seriously mind you, as I had a strong friend nearby
who stopped it; but my attacker got away. Matthew did terrorize me
however. While I was still in his grip (after he smashed my head
against the wall several times, sudden-like), said: "Next time I see
you, I'm gonna eat the skin off your face." (A Hannibal Lector
wanna-be, no doubt.)
At that time, my apartment building was covered in thick, black gauze
for stucco removal and replacement, with scaffold surrounding the
entire structure, from the first floor to the fourth.
This meant ANYONE and his homeless cousin could easily clamber onto the
makeshift boards and rap on a resident's window, begging for a
cigarette (which DID happen at least once). Or break in and steal...or
bash, or rape, or murder. Worse yet, the illegal Mexican laborers hired by our slumlord were typically homophobic,
making all sorts of gay-hateful comments while standing on the
scaffolds, beside our apartment windows and peering in. I know because
I heard them, and "Yo entiendo espanol". (There was a lawsuit
over this BTW, by 13 outraged residents including myself; a year later
we won. I got $8,000...though it should've been $40,000. More on that
later.)
So naturally I was frightened that Matthew could be lurking somewhere
nearby, and at any moment climb the scaffolding and break into my room.
(He did know where I lived; for in the past he was very mellow, and I
enjoyed his visits.) I slept with heavy furniture blocking my two
windows, that I may have a fighting chance to fend a surprise attack.
It was a NIGHTMARE manifest in real life...very Freddy Kreuger.
During this time, someone would buzz my room every few days, via the
front gate intercom, and speak in a gravelly tone: "I'm gonna get you,
I'm the DEVIL." Of course, I feared it was Matthew. This would go on
EVERY DAY for almost three months. It wasn't until several weeks after
it stopped, I learned that WOODY was the culprit. He disguised his
voice well.
So after all these years trying to temper Woody's scary behavior, I
finally gave up and told him to NEVER speak or go near me again. Of
course he didn't take me seriously...so now after almost five months
ignoring him, he is bothered by my aloofness, and threatens to be, once
again, an unpleasant and dangerous stalker in my social meanderings.
But I have a STRONG will, and will deal with it accordingly. I
understand he is out of jail on his own recognisance (don't know for
what), and the slightest slip-up could land him back behind bars.
Unfortunately, street denizens like Dane and Woody are NOT the
exception, but the RULE of what's come down in the Castro regarding the
street scene, what with all the homophobic homeless who claim turf rights here in the Castro. They in fact DRIVE OUT, HARASS and BASH whatever gay
homeless may attempt to find sanctuary in this, the supposedly-GAYEST
neighborhood on the planet. The hetero homeless BICKER and FIGHT in
broad daylight, as if even their hetero clashes were far more righteous
than any gay couple holding hands. And the POLICE do nothing to thwart--let alone discourage--these hillbilly antics.
The streets of San Francisco have become frighteningly dangerous as a
result of The City's own failure to be truly gay friendly (except in
lip service). I suspect that our local government's "gay friendliness"
draws the line between the affluent and the low income and poor.
Dumping the homeless (who are MOSTLY hetero, ergo homophobic) in gay
neighborhoods is an effective social engineering
strategy to keep queers in their place, and discourage them from
rebelling and taking civil disobedience to the streets. I've met numerous homeless gays who are terrorized, bashed, and driven out of the Castro by the majority homeless who are HETERO in proclamation.
Violent ex-convicts are released by California's prison system, into
the big cities (Sacramento, Los Angeles and San Francisco) stranded on
the streets where they must fend for themselves. This turns
neighborhoods into dangerous breeding grounds for violent crimes (and
break-ins) that often go unchecked by our local police force. Gay
neighborhoods are especially vulnerable.
Intelligent ex-cons manipulate the dumber homeless to terrorize
neighborhoods so they can have the streets to themselves at night, and
more easily run drugs, burglarize, mug and in general cause whatever
mayhem suits their mood. They even share maps in prison of the gay
neighborhoods, bars, and amicable connections. (You
can learn a LOT as a gay street activist, if you're not afraid to get
your hands dirty...along with certain OTHER body parts!) So when
they're on the outside again and need a place to hole up (or hide out),
just where do you think they go? To a GAY BAR to hook up with some
desperate middle-aged fag too stupid to know better. Remember the
brutal murder of a longterm patron out of the (now-defunct) black gay
bar, the Pendulum (due to reopen after being closed for three years, god help us)?
That was commited by a street tough, Jim McKinnon, who was couch hopping one gay residence after another.
He even stayed for a couple weeks at the apartment of weekday bartender
"Joey" (that short Portugese guy w/Russel terrier "Jackie O"; I can't
remember his real name), before moving in with patron Gary Lee. In
fact, he impressed everyone there (including myself) with his good
nature. Even paid me a back-handed compliment among the afternoon
patrons: "You know," he said pointing directly at me from the far end
of the bar, "if I didn't know Zeke so well, I'd be afraid of him." That
gave me a warm glow, and I later thought: "Hmmm, Jim's not such a bad guy after all, and kinda good lookin'. Maybe I WILL have him over."
Little did anyone know at that time, he had already committed the
murder...the corpse of the gay man who housed him was still rotting in
the bathtub, covered with a mountain of baking soda! Fortunately, that
was the last time "good ol' palsy-walsy Jim" made his appearance at the
Pendulum, and the last time I saw him. A week later the news broke; he
was arrested, awaiting trial. Scary to say, but he's up for parole in
another year. And just where do you think he'll seek company and comfort? Three guesses!
Reflecting on this gnarly case, I'd like to bring up something just as
sinister, if not more so, regarding the Pendulum regulars. I first got
wind of this crime when I heard them talking in a huddle. Asked them
what's up, and they told me that a regular had just been murdered, by
this guy Jim. I shuddered to think it was the same "Jim" I had
befriended there, and was visiting me every four days or so, to smoke
some pot and hang out. So I asked them to descirbe this Jim. They
hemmed and hawed, would only divulge that he was white and "average"
looking, with an "average" build, and "average" height. They refused to
give me any further description, acting like they really couldn't: he
was just that average.
So of course I stopped seeing my Jim for a while...'cause he's
an average looking guy, too! Imagine how I felt, these regulars hoping
to set me up to become McKinnon's next victim! I asked and asked around
the Pendulum, and those who knew him, refused to say more, but that he
was "average". They certainly didn't have my best interests at heart!
This is a prime example of what a wicked streak runs through so MANY of
my gay brothers...whether black or white, rich or poor, handsome
or...er..."average". And such wickedness nurtures cults into existence, like feeding human flesh to that alien plant, Audrey Jr., in Little Shop of Horrors.
Jim will not be the first murderer of a gay victim to be released, and
found once more socializing in The Castro. Years ago, my friend John H.
(who then lived at 2306 Market as I still do) pointed out to me, a
sleazeball standing on the sidewalk by Andy's Donut Shop. "He strangled
[so-and-so], and served eight years in the poky. Can you believe he's
back?"
The shit piles up! I wonder how many other murderers mingle DAILY in our gay bars and sex clubs? Does that give you a boner, or what?
Another ex-convict, "Monty" terrorized our neighborhood for two years before being locked up again.
He'd stand on the corner of Castro and Market, big, black and
paranoid...to intimidate anyone and everyone within his immediate
locale. His favorite pastime was intimidating peaceful white homeless
dudes, especially the gay
ones. "What are YOU looking at?" was his particular phrase of choice. I
saw danger written all over him: but he saw something in me that would
make him run the other direction whenever I approached. (Wasn't body
odor or bad breath, I guarantee! And it certainly wasn't my size; I'm only five-foot-seven.)
One evening while watching the news, Monty's face appeared on the TV
screen. He was wanted for the brutal beating of his current girlfriend,
gouging out her eyeball before he fled. (I'd say the lady made a poor
choice in a partner, wouldn't you, girlfriend?) Now just where do you think he ran to when the heat was on? To The Castro of course,
where he entered the Pendulum in hopes of finding urgent refuge. But a
police officer had to die in a car chase turned bad (first gay cop to
perish in the line of duty BTW),
and his partner suffer brain damage, before Monty was finally apprehended. A youth scholarhsip award was established in 2006, to honor Jon Cook's heroic life.
(See my article "Murders in the Rue Castro
for additional comment on this, and other heinous crimes which haunt
our community, as a direct consequence of society's willful homophobia,
and The City's failure to respect its own gay citizens by any
significant measure, right here in so-called "Gay Mecca".)
Bagdad Cafe on the corner of Market & 16th WELCOMES this filthy, smelly hobo to occupy a sidewalk table...every single friggin' day!
Why would anyone even want to EAT there, let alone sit BESIDE this
bacteria-laden freakazoid? Are they INSANE? Am I missing something? Is THIS the best The Castro can offer its gay tourists? WHY would any business in Gay Mecca willfully CHOOSE to insult and undermine a queer community's hard-won reputation?
This is NOT compassion, this is community sabotage. Is that how heteros
perceive gay neighborhoods: as a DUMP for their refuse, including human
detritus that project HATRED and homophobia as their contribution to
the cause of Gay Sanctity? BITING the hands that feed them, just
because we're QUEER? Fee fi fo fum, I smell a CULT around this bum! Boycott the place, and tell 'em WHY. Bring 'em to their knees and make them cry!
As if this weren't bizarre enough, Bagdad Cafe seems to GENERATE homophobic filth of its own accord. Click here to read of an incident in October 2002, when some crazed bozo RAN INTO the Bagdad Cafe, grabbed two butcher knives
from the cook's station, and THREATENED people with it (screaming
"faggots" at the top of his lungs), until a cop shot him dead! Worse
yet, the family threatened to SUE the SFPD, and blamed the gay community's own drug problems for this idiot's violent outburst. Read MY take on the matter (click here), where I CHASTISE the lunatic's family, and PRAISE the police. Still
MORE bizarre is the fact that the cop who killed "Akbar" was the
partner of the first gay policeman (Jon Cook, see above) to die in the
line of duty while attempting to apprehend ANOTHER crazed street
denizen! Only four months PREVIOUS to the Bagdad fiasco.
My conjecture is this was a SETUP, not simply an unhappy incident due
to society's homophobia. And the employer and perhaps some employees
are BEHIND this obvious
design to devastate our gay community, and bring FURTHER violence upon
us. The Zodiac cult has their filthy hand in the Bagdad Cafe, and
goddess only knows how many OTHER businesses here in The Castro.
Not all the homeless are bad; indeed I AM a homeless advocate...and once had many, decent
houseless friends until things turned wicked over 15 years ago. But I
most certainly am NOT a bullshit advocate. The Castro has been FLOODED
with homeless redneck types who terrorize neighborhoods, particularly
gay people and women. They especially don't like yours truly,
for my brazen gay presence and attempts to make the neighborhood safer
by blowing the whistle on this rampant homophobia that has become the
Law Of The Asphalt. Keep in mind that MOST of these thugs are bisexual
themselves. But they're only "gay" for money, drugs, food or shelter (I
call this "street capitalism"). The rest of the time, they swagger
around doing their "macho thang"...which includes threatening and
bashing homosexuals. Can't tell you how many times I hear late at
night, these hillbilly goons hollering "faggot" from the top of their
toxic lungs.
They make it a source of PRIDE to argue in public with their
"wimmen"...as a display of hetero rightness to teach us queers a lesson
about Mother Nature's Proper Decorum. They think nothing of
aggressively panhandling you, even scaring you into "buying protection"
when you're on the streets...and if you decline, call you "faggot"
behind your back, in front of your back, and to the side of your back.
Even many GAY houseless play the homophobe card, in order to reduce the
danger of being fag-bashed themselves. My life is often put in harm's
way due to my notoriety, whenever I walk the streets of Gay Mecca's
Heart. For this reason I composed my wicked little farce, "Welcome to Hoboville" in 2003...a kick in the groin to This Enemy Occupation. I also carry pepper spray and wear steel-toe boots.
But most shocking of all, is how many gay people themselves gain
sadistic pleasure in my troubles! Rather then offer a hand in
friendship (or call 911), they ENCOURAGE these 'phobes to harass me. In
fact, I've been left out in the cold by my own community. No matter
which pro-queer group I join, I wind up being vilified, isolated, and
driven out. (No matter how GOOD my intentions, and EFFECTIVE my
strategies.) My conclusion is that there is a powerful cult embedded
(and in bed with) our LGBT family, manipulating who can and cannot be
part of their world. The internalized homophobia of my gay brothers
plays to their advantage...along with substance abuse, misogyny, racism
and class snobbery. They grabbed the reigns of power during the Harvey Milk
Era, and have grown overwhelmingly strong and far-reaching SINCE
then...running ALL the gay bars and clubs here in San Francisco, AND
our organizations. And, worst of all, they have festered into a nationwide carbuncle of toxic pus.
Speaking of San Francisco's dangerous streets: I was surprised and delighted
to read Caille Millner's take on the shifty bums that have turned this
Walker's Paradise into a dark and scary pedestrian nightmare: "Back to the Streets of San Francisco" (S.F. Chronicle, 11/2/07). A bluntly honest and condemning piece of journalism; she's a brilliant (and lovely) young woman! Do promise you'll take a gander...please, please, please. (SUPER pretty please with agave nectar on top!)
Caille and others ARE waking up to how dangerous our streets have
become, and how this ties in directly with homophobia. But she, like
others, only perceives the tip of the iceberg...and would regard my
strident claims as nothing more than a nut job's conspiracy theory. And
that is precisely how this cult operates: surreptitious and diabolical. Using wicked gossip
to make Truth-Speakers like me come off as blatheringly insane. Which
in turn, makes potential friends my enemies...and true friends
nonexistant. At best, I've managed to have friendly acquaintances over
these difficult years. Some who read this now, consider themselves a
good friend. But don't friends hang out with each other on a regular
basis...go out for coffee and shmooze? Not meaning to guilt-trip anyone
here, but I DO want to point out: That is not happening! (And you can't blame a hectic lifestyle on this, as you DO find the time to spend with others you regard as amigos.) Please realize you are unwittingly being manipulated by cult members using subtle persuasion and crowding your social time to keep me at bay. But I'm not knocking what I DO have:
Preface: I salute those GOOD police officers that certainly do exist here in our Unfair City...and commend their especially difficult
work in the line of duty, amid so much corruption in their own
department. So please don't take my criticism as speaking out against
the entireSan Francisco Police Department. Just MOST of it. Thank you.
When I first told Hank that I've formed a tight network of trusted
contacts, to bring justice to certain criminal activities occurring
here in Eureka Valley (a.k.a. "The Castro") and sometimes other places
popular with queers, he politely answered: "The police might want you
to leave it to them". So to mimic his what-I-thought-was-a-clue less-suggestion, I left it at that (for the nonce). However, the next two days I pondered Hank's suggestion, because every person with even the least
amount of smarts knows that corruption goes on everywhere, in every
part of The City. Money laundering downtown, and drug dealing/gang wars
in the 'hoods. Including Eureka Valley, right here where I've lived in
a simple SRO since (hold on to your colostomy bag) 1983.
WE INTERRUPT YOU FOR THIS SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT
Before anyone takes offense, allow me this redeeming (and LIKELY) hypothesis:
Such a unique destiny as mine demands an equally
unique challenge, most important: a TOUGHENING of one's mettle. The
usual nurturing friendships would surely NOT fulfill This Mandate From
Up Above. I therefore extend my utmost gratitude to both my enemies and seemingly clueless friends alike, for having the GUTS to play this out: a most difficult and massively grievous role, albeit sacred.
"We have no enemies, only teachers." (Buddha)
"Love thine enemies." (Jesus)
WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULAR SHOW
So when I next return to the coffeehouse, I make a point to explain
to Hank that the police department is also corrupt, else they'd have
already cleaned up the neighborhoods, and these problems wouldn't exist
in the first place. Like when I told some cops about the goings on
South of Market: after listening a few minutes, one Blue Meany drops a pasty pastry paw onto my shoulder, says: "Why don't you just shut up about it?"
There is one cop who wears a badge numbered "666". I mean a REAL police badge, not the one depicted below for comic relief!
Don't know his name (and don't care to), but he's certainly not to
be trusted (I'll just call him "Officer 666"). He's wiry, short (about
5'5"), and is often seen in Eureka Valley riding a bicycle, especially
the Church Street corridor. He is hostile to me, indicating very
clearly he's on the wrong side of the law, the good, the sane, and
Anything Else Compassionate And Loyal. I once asked him why he wears a
"666", that he might be an impersonator and not a real cop. His
reply: "I requested that number by the Police Chief, because I want to
leave an impression on those I meet." I didn't tell him to his face,
but my opinion is thus:
Yes, a very bad impression. Any cop who wears a 666 badge is egomaniacal, therefore not to be trusted by any good citizen. Has nothing to do with Christian mumbo-jumbo, and everything to do with vainglory and bullyism. IOW: an abuse of your authority. (Albeit a highly creative
abuse; I'll give you that much. It might win you a prize in a standup
comedy competition, but you fall flat on your bony face when it comes
to representing an officer of the law. You're a Public Relations
Nightmare!) Were I your superior, I'd strip you of your badge and place
you on two-years' probation, and keep you off the streets for the
entire period. You'll be a fulltime pencil pusher. (Impersonating an Officer of the Underworld is a highly egregious offense!)
But I'm not his superior, so this satirical bon mot must suffice:
Officer 666
If you have a problem that can't be fixed,
Just call on Officer 666.
He'll mend your heart lickety-split,
And leave you some money and give you no lip.
Hey, that's my kinda cop: 666.
If you're stuck outside (keys locked in the car)
Just call for him, he's never too far:
"666? Oh, there you are!"
He'll carry you home, safe in his arms,
And tuck you in, and rock you to sleep,
And steal your heart while you count sheep.
He's not very pretty when it comes to the face,
Or just about any other body-place.
But he'll please you "on-your-knees-you",
Just by his commanding voice
and 12.75 yards of lace.
assigned to Eureka Valley and paid for by the local businesses. You heard me: local businesses.
That means NOT you, the pedestrian, the tourist, the average citizen
and resident. During the numerous times I've witnessed a hate crime,
there's never a cop around, whether "special" or no. We need two or three
beat cops DAILY, in order to turn around the increased harassment and
violence that's been plaguing the neighborhood for nigh unto 15 years!
But that's not the half of it.
There was a "Special" beat cop in Eureka Valley for quite a few
years name of Jane W. (lesbian BTW). Friendly enough, but she didn't do
her job of protecting gay pedestrians, when she could have done so. Two incidents come to mind personally:
Oh, about seven years ago, it was evening and dark; I was walking
from 2306 to Cala supermarket. There was Jane on the corner of 18th
& Collingwood where The Edge is located, chatting with another
officer parked in his car. He blocked the entire crosswalk, so that
everyone had to walk almost to the CENTER of the busy intersection, to
get by. (It was a chill November eve; sun had set long ago.) Yet
immediately behind him was an available parking spot. I approached the
cop (interrupting chatty Jane who leaned against the passenger door),
and spoke:
"Pardon me, officer, but you're blocking the walkway and I'd like to
cross the street with minimal risk." He looked up at me, obviously
bemused by my interruption. I gestured to my left: "There's a free
parking space right behind you."
The policmean grinned: "I don't want to take up a spot I don't need."
"But you are illegally blocking safe accees for pedestrians," I briskly
replied. "No skin off your teeth to pull back a few feet."
By this time, Jane's face became somewhat grim, her thin lips pressed
even thinner. "Go on now, it's safe to walk around me and cross," he
blithely remarked while rush-hour cars hurled themselves recklessly
from four different directions. High beams blinded me if I didn't look
down.
Disgusted, I asked Jane to assist me in making a citizen's arrest. She
ignored me and looked up at the sky. The seated cop tapped his
calloused thumb against the open window's cold, chrome frame.
"Alright, this isn't gonna happen,"
I realized, so turned away from The Two Dipwads in Uniform, and huffily
marched home. NO WAY was I going to oblige Their Highnesses and walk
AROUND asshat's car.
Approximately one year to date I approached Ms. Jane regarding possible violence by one homeless man named Woody.
I greeted her, she smiled back. Then I requested her ear for a brief minute or two:
"Jane, I know you're no longer assigned to The Castro, but maybe you could pass this information on."
She cocked her sparrow's head: "Oh? What information?"
"You know Woody, right?" I ventured.
She nodded: "Yes, he has been banned from Castro Street three years ago
because he ran into shops, smashing and throwing things around. And
terrorizing everyone in general before then; for years."
"Yes, I know all about Woody's antics. Known him since '87, and he's
been a monkey on my back ever since," I prefaced. "I just want to tell
you that his behavior is getting out of hand again, he's been acting
aggressive towards me, and others who hang out a few blocks up, around
Church and Market. I figure you could inform..."
She raised her hand to cut me off. "Woody's dangerous. He's strong and
can lose control. I suggest you stay away from him," she barked. "Go to
the Mission Station and draw up a report."
Jane was now glaring at me. (What did I
do?) My intent was simply to alert whichever officer now covers the
neighborhood around Church and Market Streets. But since I didn't know
who that was ('cause I hadn't seen a cop in that area for months,
except dinky "666" whizzing by now and then on a Schwinn), I figured to
tell Jane, who could pass it on to the correct officer.
Furthermore, I know Woody at least five years more than Jane. He is not
so dangerous I need to avoid him...besides, this IS my neighborhood,
and has been since 1973. No one pushes me around my own turf and gets away with it!
I also realize that filling out a form with the PD is an ineffectual
way to nip potential danger in the bud. From my own experience, the
best solution is always a neighborly alert to the beat cop.
"No, filling out paperwork is not my style," I looked at Jane in
friendly exasperation. "I figure you'd know the beat cop, and could..."
Again she summarily raised a hand to halt me (impudent child that I
am). "Well, how do you expect me to help if you refuse to act
lawfully?" She glowered.
"Wow!" I thought, "I didn't know it was illegal to NOT fill out papers. What's up with this bitch?"
I was about to inform her that it is ALSO legal to inform a cop of
possible trouble...which usually suffices to squelch it. But the moment
I opened my mouth to address her abusive demeanor, she raised her hand
once more, as if warding off the plague:
"Look, Zeke, you're wasting my time. Just stay away from Woody. There's my advice."
"I'm not asking for advice You Blue Shrew. I was only trying to be a responsible member of our community," I wordlessly pondered, ready to tear the gun from her holster and teach her The Lesson of a Lifetime.
"Oh, whatever. Sorry I even bothered you, OFFICER Jane." And we parted company, not on the best of terms.
Missy Jane also writes a "Crime & Punishment" column for the gay rag "Bay Area Reporter".
She often makes light of serious crimes by creating "cutesy" subject
headers. But I don't think depicting violence, theft and mugging of
gays as a Comedy Of Errors, good PR. (Even the column's title is somewhat facetious, and derogative!)
FACTOID: Jane W. is also President of the Patrol Special Police Association! I found this following quote by her, in a pdf document downloaded from the web (the hyperlink is my embellishment):
I received a degree in criminal justice from Shamanan University
in 1986. I was hired by the Honolulu Police Department where I worked
undercover in Waikiki and was reassigned to the patrol division. After
a meritorious career in Honolulu, I moved to California and received my
POST Basic Certificate from Sacramento Safety Center. I was hired as a
Police Officer for the town of San Anselmo and I attended night school
at the University of San Francisco. In 1993, I joined the San Francisco
Patrol Special Police where I was assigned walking a foot beat in The
Castro and Upper Market neighborhood.
Sorry to say , but for the most part it is my conclusion that the San Francisco Police Department
(and the Super-Duper SPECIAL Police) remain seriously homophobic as
well as pathetically LAX in suppressing street crime and
harassment...when it could be handily dealt with. Though I was impressed by this year's first anti-Halloween event,
with the excellent show of force by the SFPD. Now, if only we had such
stalwart regard and presence by the police department all the remaining 364 days each year. Homophobes don't take a vacation, you know. Some even reside in Eureka Valley! And (sadly) some are cops themselves.
Jane, it's good that you possess a "meritorious" background, but
that's not evidenced in your patrol of Eureka Valley. A good cop has no cause whatsoever to treat me rudely, and disregard the dangers on our streets.
Hawaii 5-O credentials notwithstanding. Or a campus crawling w/shamans.
FYI: The Larkin Chronicles are also my accounting of criminal
goings-on that I have been called (by my angels) to report. If anything
awful should happen to me, I've informed my friends to contact the SF
police, and a couple independent detective agencies (since SOME of the
local cops may ALSO be involved in these crimes, thus cannot do their
job). Give them this link: "gay-bible.org/truetales/index.htm#larkin". Therein dwell my notorious chronicles (originally named "True Tales from South of Market"), shining brazen in the light of day for all the world to witness.
Or simply show them this page.
I have also provided a convenient link for my allies to download these Larkin Chronicles, "gay-bible.org/share/Larkin.zip",
in the event my web site and/or blog should be sabotaged or shut down.
Always a possibility, as some criminals are also damn good hackers...or
an eventual court decree may demand their removal from public scrutiny.
Anyone reading this who cares to advocate on my behalf, is also welcome
to download "Larkin.zip". These chronicles will INCLUDE all my
"Friendly Ghost" installments, one more each day until completed.
NOTE: I will release a new installment each
day...no less than 5 parts total, no more than 7. Interested parties
must RE-download each time a new installment is posted. And overwrite
or delete the previous Larkin download. Thank you for your support!
These chronicles are a convenient gathering of my observations in
this matter, to make it easy for law enforcement or PI's to do their
work. I trust I will not get into serious trouble...in fact, this will probably be my debut into public renown as a freelance psychic detective.
The fact I've DOCUMENTED these crimes--and posted them to the world via
my web site, ZekeBlog, and Usenet--is also good protection...since
"they" know if I'm messed with, their geese will be cooked for sure!
In fact, even if my sudden demise is NOT their fault, they'll be in hot water anyway (think about it)...so
they'd better start hoppin' REAL SOON to round up the BEST and most
GORGEOUS bodyguards they can afford, to protect and honor me. Since
they now have a VESTED INTEREST in not just my survival, but also my
well-being and even more: my HAPPINESS. I mean, next time I get in a
bad mood, a wild hair up my ass just might trigger mayhem!
witnessed yesterday (unexpectedly and humorously), my detective
skills. His name is Hank: a friendly hard-working young cuss, Asian
features, and my very first witness! Here is what occurred:
WE INTERRUPT YOU FOR THIS SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT
Before anyone takes offense, allow me this redeeming (and LIKELY) hypothesis:
Such a unique destiny as mine demands an equally
unique challenge, most important: a TOUGHENING of one's mettle. The
usual nurturing friendships would surely NOT fulfill This Mandate From
Up Above. I therefore extend my utmost gratitude to both my enemies and seemingly clueless friends alike, for having the GUTS to play this out: a most difficult and massively grievous role, albeit sacred.
"We have no enemies, only teachers." (Buddha)
"Love thine enemies." (Jesus)
WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULAR SHOW
First, flash back to February last year, when I approached an
unkempt, scraggly jerkwad smoking a cigar right in the doorway of Muddy
Waters. I politely asked him to move away, so the foul stench wouldn't
poison the patrons inside. Personally, I was reeling in nausea from the
stinging vapors, and craved fresh air. I could not return to my table,
until dipwad evacuated the doorway. But he did not. Instead, he spit a
huge gob of brown and yellow phlegm at my feet, and cussed me out. (Oh, sophisticated San Francisco, the most "European" city in Amerika!) FYI: It is now against the law in San Francisco, to smoke anywhere within 20 feet of a door...so my demand was most reasonable.
He numbers among a cluster of jerks who frequent Muddy Waters, and
usually sit outside, puffing their tobacco in the doorway...which smoke
gets sucked into the coffeehouse like a vacuum. They are also HELLA
homophobic. I confronted one such loser--a fat toad of gross proportion
and face--who I caught ranting about faggots, how he wants to kick 'em
all out, remembers a time before any of them moved here.
(As if! As if not a single queer were born in Baghdad by the Bay. Oh, sophisticated San Francisco!)
I walked right up to him and said: "What a vulgar attitude! You're just
a parrot for Michael Savage!" (M. Savage is a shock jock on SF radio
station KNEW, 910 on the AM dial. He foments hatred and hysteria against homosexuals,
liberals, the homeless, and other assorted, long-suffering minorities.)
Toad-man just stared at me with those buggy eyes. I continued: "Why do
you hate gays so much?"
"Because they fuck each other up the ass!" was his uncivil reply.
"News flash," I retorted, "heteros boink each other in the rectum, too.
It's a form of birth control." Toad-man then looked away from me, did
not utter another syllable. Several "comrades" (partners in crime) were
sitting around The Toad, one of whom was amiable to me in the past. So
I said: "Steve, tell this guy he's wrong." But Steve was mum, shrugged
his shoulders. Three others there also remained silent. "Aren't you all
a bunch of sorry suckers!" I declared, pointing to a wiry rodent of a
man: "Especially you, who walks around with petitions for liberal
causes. No skin off your back to correct this fool's anti-gay bigotry!"
He remained silent, like the rest. Disgusted, I entered the coffeehouse
with a new appreciation of just how deeply rooted homophobia remains,
even among native citizens of "Gay Mecca"...even right here in the
gayest neighborhood on the planet: "The Castro". (Oh, sophisticated San Francisco!)
They have a ring leader: a pot-bellied, weak-kneed curly-gray-haired
1st-generation Irish-Amerikan called "Robert"...also a blatant cigar
smoker.
Jerkwads gravitate around him, including The Toad. They are mostly
loud-mouthed, macho-bravado goons, with Robert as their anchor and raison d'ideotie.
He is a house painter, hiring lost souls under the premise of honest
employment. At least, that's the draw, the surface appearance. Loser
types gravitate in Robert's direction, like orphaned asteroids...and I don't think they're all looking for work.
(Eventually, my complaints about the tobacco smoke got to the
previous owner, Hisham...a Palestinian who owned the small chain of three Muddy Waters,
the other two on Valencia Street: one near 16th, the other, 25th. Two
months after my unpleasant confrontation, signs were placed in both
sides of the door well, forbidding tobacco smokers from that hotspot.
But Hisham was personally rude to me, mocked me for complaining...and
gave me no credit for raising his awareness.)
Sorry for the lengthy flashback, but it was a necessary fill-in for
what follows. In sum: there's a nasty little crowd hangs out at Muddy
Waters, with this prick "Robert" at the helm. They do not like me; in
fact, they loathe me. The hostility towards me is so thick, I couldn't
cut it with the keenest scimitar: I'd need a Star-Wars-grade laser
beam. And I thought until yesterday, it's solely because I'm an
outspoken gay activist, and they're hopelessly, viciously homophobic.
Naive little moi!
Now let's return to the near-present, that is: three weeks
ago...which by then Hank had replaced Hisham as the owner (and Muddy
Waters on Church Street renamed "Church Street Cafe"...this new owner's
got a very practical business acumen).
I was
sitting there alone as usual, enjoying my coffee when I observed a
scummy low-life rummage through the doorway trash bin for bottles and
cans. (This goes on several times a day, by the shabbiest slimeballs
you couldn't imagine.) Bad enough he spit and blew snot chunks in the
entranceway: he also scowled at patrons (including myself), and loudly
cussed. Which this day (as opposed to countless previous times I've
witnessed such depravity by an assortment of unsavory baboons),
inspired me to approach the cashier: a petite, angelic Asian-Amerikan
lady (as so many are, like fairies or elves). Also very considerate and joyful.
Anywayz peoples, back to my story. So's I walks up to the cashier,
and suggest she remove the doorway trash bin, in order to put an end to
these obnoxious scenes...which no doubt are bad for business.
Several days later I return to the coffeehouse, notice the
entanceway trash bin's absence...look up to see Hank tending the
register. I order an iced tea; Hank says, "This drink's on the house.
My wife told me about your idea to move the garbage container inside."
Wow, did I swell with pride! Several moments later, enjoying my drink,
Mickey-Mouse "Robert" steps in, belligerently questions Hank about the
trash bin's disappearance. To which Hank replies, "I decided to move it
inside". Robert asked "Why?" Hank responded with a non-verbal shoulder
shrug. (That's when I realize Hank's a Cool Operator.) Robert storms
out, exclaiming huffily about the homeless denied their cans and
bottles.
Hmmm, interesting (I put on my thinking cap, never dreaming that
Robert would have any interest in a trash can). With Robert now outside
and beyond earshot, I come up to Hank and remark, "Well, that's
curious, why Robert is upset over this." Hank's unexpected response: "He cares about homeless people".
"Ha!" I guffaw, "how unlikely. He just uses them for drug deals." My
thought then, is that he wants certain homeless folks to access the
trash for bottles and cans, which once redeemed for moolah, could be
used to buy their fix. Naive little moi!
Several days later I return to the Church Street Cafe for my daily
java. As I sip and read the paper, Hank summons me from behind the
counter: "Psssst!" So I step up, where he hands me a flyer regarding
the rules for San Francisco eating establishments, including: "All
food-serving venues must provide a trash receptable by the front door, at all times during business hours."
I hand it back to him and chuckle: "Wow! No good deed goes
unpunished." And sit down once more, to ponder the situation. Some
moments later, I had the answer, and tell Hank to get a trash bin that
allows you to deposit garbage, but not remove any (like with
spring-activated spikes to thwart retrieval). He appreciates my
suggestion, says he'll look into it. Then I ask, "Did Robert hand you
this flyer?"
Hank replies, "No. Someone must have phoned the business bureau and
complained, because a representative showed up today, told me about the
trash bin rule and gave me this flyer." I was amused: "Oh, Robert
called in. Obviously." Hank said, "We can't prove that, it could have
been anyone." I suggested: "That's how these idiots operate: very
surreptitious, secretive. Let me think more on this."
I return to my seat awhile, to ponder the matter...then it hits me:
So I jump to the counter, lean across and blurt in a controlled,
staccato whisper directed only to Hank's ears just four feet away:
"It's a drug drop! Someone's very perturbed about the trash bin being
removed. He doesn't care about the homeless, the few bottles and cans
they retrieve. No one would be so upset unless they used it for a drug
drop." I add: "Notice how few coffeehouses provide a trash can
outside...they're onto these dealers, plus it's really bad for business
to have skanky punks loudly pawing through the trash in the
entranceway, cussing and spitting, intimidating the clientele. When you
walk around The City, observe the coffeehouses, and I think you'll see
very few providing a doorway refuse. Who'd compain about this, except
drug runners?"
(Note: I might be wrong about Robert, though his behavior towards
me--or lack thereof--and that of his cronies (rude, belligerent,
threatening) is druggie-typical. The trash bin incident is but ONE key
indicator. Evidence: circumstantial. Significance: strong.)
Hank nods, agrees with my surmisal. I grin smartly: "Told you
I'm a psychic detective. Answers just come to me; it's a gift! I simply
need to be patient, sit back and wait. Problem solved. On to my next
case!" And I depart for the day. Stepping out, I turn my head back to
see Robert sitting outside on a hard, cold, metal-wire chair (new since
Hank took over) that finally replaced the moldy,
spit-and-coffee-stained, weather-and-homeless-beat en pigeon-poop
upholstered chairs...glaring at me with those rheumy eyes. I pause to
smirk back knowingly ("I got your number"), then turn away and
walk home, bemused. For I know that victory will be mine, and a new
alliance has formed...and my first witness to my growing psychic skills
has finally occurred. Fantabulous!
I know Robert et al hates me...but all along till yesterday, thought
it was exclusively the homophobia issue. He never directly insulted me,
leaving that to his cohorts...but all along, had surreptiously fomented
reptilian venom against me: gossip gossip gossip blah blah. Ha! Did I
learn something new. And in so doing, also formed a new friendship.
But the most amazing outcome in this jigsaw puzzle (finally pieced together...huzzah!), is that through Hank, another person witnessed my skills as a psychic detective. That alone is a Victory Of No Small Measure. And I am totally confident that such witness is an affirmation of victory against the druggies who think they rule this neighborhood, and bully anyone who challenges them. I quaff triumphantly from The Chalice Of Righteous Jubilation! (And I don't think I'm counting my chickens before they change horses in midstream. Do you?)
From: Zeke
To: My E-friends
Date: 17 Nov 2007, 10:11:44 AM
Subject: Important Question!
Considering I am about to EXPOSE these rats via distribution of
the Larkin Chronicles, with their REAL NAMES, accurate descriptions of
their appearance and hangouts, plus some PHOTOS:
What do you think are the odds of them retaliating with a
lawsuit, in order to lock me up for slander, false witness and perjury?
After all, what I actually witnessed was NOT witnessed by anyone
else...of if they did, they are aligned with the scumbags (not me), and
will LIE against me. Also, all other evidence I have is CIRCUMSTANTIAL,
thus most difficult to prove in court, even with legal assistance. And
the onus of proof would be upon yours truly, for making accusations
that Gypsy et al deals drugs, threatened me, etc.
IOW: their word against mine.
Furthermore, should the goons take me to court, I would INSIST
on a jury...that their ugly souls be exposed to the Proverbial Light of
Day. Do you think it's likely they'd be willing to risk such exposure,
just to get back at me? After all the confrontations I've had, none has
gone out of his way to kill me, burn down my building, or have me
arrested. They seem to draw the line with gossip, and an occasional
anonymous mugging. Beyond that, they know their schemes could then
backfire and THEY'D land in prison.
I am counting on Larkin to do the right thing...I put my
life in his hands by exposing myself to danger. I don't think this is a
mistake.
It is my belief that Larkin is
actually my ALLY, who has infiltrated the enemy ranks in order to flush
'em outta here. It is possible he's a narc, or some other kind of agent.
Either that, or he's owned by drug dealers who despise me, and they
could make his life VERY miserable if they ever catch him (again)
protecting me in any obvious manner.
For there is this to consider: 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 view 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!
Anywayz, you know my Larkin Chronicles are already out there on
the web (my site and blog, as well as posted to Usenet groups). My next
step is this: Wednesday I drop off a printout of my chronicles at
Larkin's workplace (tacqueria on Folsom & 8th), where I'll leave it
on a table when I exit. The envelope will say "Larkin Kelsey" in large,
bold letters (like the other packet I left him for Halloween).
Then about two weeks later, I plan to post a brief e-mail to
two key characters who are most likely NOT my allies: bartender Ron,
and customer Dennis Wallo (who I befriended for several months). Both
seem to be very good friends w/Gypsy. Subject header: "The Larkin
Chronicles". Message body will simply contain the URL. They'll know
what I mean by the title alone, for I jokingly told them some months
back that I'm considering changing my stories from "True Tales from
South of Market" to "The Larkin Chronicles".
They associate with drug dealers/business people who possess
extensive networking, powerful connections, and copious wampum. IOW,
they can EASILY afford the best attorneys.
So: you know my story pretty well. And the hard-drugs are NOT
my focus...it is the general corruption and consequent death and misery
their antics create. I am, after all, 100% in support of decriminalizing all hard drugs.
Be that as it may, dealers are PARANOID, and do NOT grasp my reasoned,
balanced spin on the matter. They are scared...and I'll probably make
them even MORE scared by this further advancement of my chronicles.
If you have any time to reflect on this matter, I'd MOST
appreciate it. But I respect your own busy life, and would never
begrudge you if time does not permit that luxury. Regardless of your
opinion (if any), I intend to go through with this no matter what. I
believe I'm on a Great Odyssey,
which includes rigorous tests of both courage and scrutiny. I could
NEVER live with myself, if I don't speak out in public--one way or
another--about egregious wrongs that I have both witnessed and
suffered. Remaining silent, I'd become a partner in crime!
Okay, 'nuff said. Thanks for your consideration. No matter what
your response, I will seriously regard those words as ONLY arising from
the best intentions.
From: Eleanor C.
To: Zeke
Date: 17 Nov 2007, 02:15:41 PM
Subject: Re: Important Question!
You're definitely stepping into serious territory when you name names, post pictures, and so forth.
I'd be more worried about them doing you
physical harm than about them going after you with a lawsuit. You've
said you know the details of your own demise, and if you're confident
that it won't be at the hands of these characters, and if you have the
stomach for the ratcheting-up that may very well follow, then go for
it. Remember, though--lawsuits are expensive. If they decide to sue
you, then papers will be served and you MUST respond. You seem to be
brave and dauntless, and I'm sure you've thought all of this out, but
be ready!!
{{ I'd be more worried about them doing you physical harm than about them going after you with a lawsuit. }}
I've already confronted these idiots in the
recent past, making myself vulnerable to bashing as a result. Nothing.
I don't think they want to put themselves in any position where I am
FORCED to file police reports and bring on media interest. They KNOW
I'm very good at drumming up public/media attention and outcry...as
well as writing with a sharp and accurate tongue.
Besides answering to my conscience, another
reason I'm doing this, is to find out how Larkin will respond. For this
will likely put him in a position to defend me against bullies...in so
doing may enable him to EXTRICATE himself from this dangerous cabal. In
fact, they might just DUMP him entirely, as our friendship (and my
dogged persistence like a...er...Presa Canario) may make him a hot potato in their hands.
{{ You've said you know the details of your own demise }}
Not quite. I know my DESTINY...the details of
my demise are NOT known. My visions show me coming out of this latest
intrigue smelling like a rose, with a Great Love and bunches of true
friends.
{{ Remember, though--lawsuits are expensive. }}
I have NO money or resources to hire a lawyer.
I'd be totally dependent on the state. If the attorney sent me is a
jerkwad, I'd have no choice but to represent myself. I think my
STRONGEST defense is the Larkin Chronicles themeselves. Imagine a jury
mandated to thoroughly study My Opus (sounds "myopic"...hmmm). What a
unique audience!
From: John H.
To: Zeke
Date: 17 Nov 2007, 04:56:07 PM
Subject: Re: Important Question!
If Larkin's cronies have criminal records, go for it.
In that event they can't afford to file any suits.
If not, I might be hesitant, but considering their playground, the Judge would
most likely throw such a case out.
Internet complicity is hard to prove anyway.
{{ If Larkin's chronies have criminal records, go for it. }}
They ALL have criminal records, minus Larkin.
{{ In that event they can't afford to file any suits. }}
This is my hunch too.
Besides, I have a life-long record of mental disability...always a convenient out.
From: Peggy C.
To: Zeke
Date: 18 Nov 2007, 12:57:29 PM
Subject: Re: Important Question!
Hello, My Shamanic Warrior!
I don't think you are likely to be sued,
but I do think you are putting yourself at risk of other probably worse
kinds of retaliations. I am wondering what the result of the expose
will be:
Fewer drugs in the SOMA?
A better relationship with Larkin?
Behavior changes in the bad guys?
I don't know the answer to your question
I am afraid, but I hope you stay well cuz I like having you around and
healthy so you can continue your good work.
{{ I do think you are putting yourself at risk... }}
Being sued is impossible: I am immune to that, due to my poverty income. It is going to prison that I'd dread.
{{ Fewer drugs in the SOMA? A better relationship with larkin? Behavior changes in the bad guys? }}
All of the above. But the most IMPORTANT
reason I'm so persistent, is because I've been grievously wronged in
several vulgar and harmful ways. And the threats of further attack
remain. Since no one else is here to defend or avenge me...I have to do
this myself. I REFUSE to back off, as then they'll do FURTHER damage to
me, and around me. Since I have no fear of death...or even going to
prison if I really must...I have attained the upper hand.
Under consideration that Larkin may be going
through HELL in caring about me under a most scary scenario...I MUST
respond by honoring him through courage, perseverance and fidelity.
I have concluded that--should this ever go to
court--my BEST defense IS "The Larkin Chronicles". Imagine a jury
required to read the entire work with utmost attention. What a unique
and empowered audience I'd have!
Be that as it may, I appeal to the Highest Court that exists...and it ain't situated anywhere on earth. These Lofty Judges reside in the clouds above Mt. Olympus.
{{ I hope you stay well cuz I like having you around and healthy so you can continue your good work. }}
I will likely NOT be well, if I don't answer
to my conscience. I would despise my lack of spine and wither into
dust, should I never hand my chronicles over to one who I think will
surprise EVERYBODY with his Magnanimous Righteousness.
From: Thomas K.
To: Zeke
Date: 17 Nov 2007, 08:34:45 PM
Subject: Re: Important Question!
I am not a lawyer, but I know that courtrooms don't
really have complete predictabilty- there is an element
of chance, with little that is so cut-and-dry that the outcome
is certain.
One key to avoiding litigation is to make sure to give your
own personal feelings, not assertions of factual matters that
can potentially be disproven. Eg., if you were dissatisifed
with a work that a contractor did, and want to complain
publicly say "I was not satisified with his work", not
"He is incompetent". The first statement is making a statement
about your own feeling, which is definitely true. The second
statement could be challenged with examples of other satistified
customers, or state licensing, etc, etc.
I suppose that the second advantage is that if you don't
have a lot of savings, their own lawyers will cost more than
it is worth for them to pursue you. The natural advantage
of not being burdened with wealth.
{{ One key to avoiding litigation is to make sure to give your own personal feelings }}
Thank you for your considerate evaluation, Tom. One more line of defense has just occurred to my enfeebled mind:
I was subjected to a date-rape drug via a Hole-in-the-Wall patron. This could have caused brain damage.
So if a jury decides my perception is seriously skewed, they might
conclude it was due to my drink being spiked w/o my knowledge.
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 prison...as 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:
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
viewpoint...how 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
while...in 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 scene...one 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 that...in 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!
(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-gre
en-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...it's so...so...INNOCENT!"
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 heroes...so 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
Anthony...as 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 alternet.org). 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
situations...be 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
issue...as 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:
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."
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
To: saadoon@uruklink.net
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 enemy...me: the Ghengis Khan of Queer Exultation. As if!)
Here is my Thanksgiving Day gift to Larkin (which I will leave for him hidden under a newspaper at the tacqueria where he works. He's busboy/dishwasher/food handler/customer-cheerer- upper there...except for me, but I'm a special case):
I got the colorful folder at Walgreens (where else). It has a "mood
wheel" with six different faces (reminiscent of Snow White's seven
dwarves minus one): Stoked, Happy, Confused, In Love, Mad and Wigging
Out. (I have a name for missing Dwarf #7: "Out To Lunch".) The perfect gift from one manic-depressive to another.
The folder opens to reveal a book (in print-out form) I composed in
his honor: "The Larkin Chronicles"...and a sparkle-turkey Thanksgiving
Day card. The bright orange colors won me over: a reminder of my early
days with Larkin. Back then (almost two years ago), his hair was dyed a
stunning orange, looked soooo good on my Irish Guardian! Glitter really
brightens a card for most occasions, don't you think? But in my case,
provided an additional (and unexpected) bonus, for its rubbing scattered sparklies across the pages like fairy dust.
I never like to just "buy" a card, sign it and pack it off. Instead
I prefer to embellish it with my personal touch. I address him here as
"President Abraham Larkin"...not out of pure whimsy, mind you. But
because for a while he had a code name, "Lincoln" so he could enter The Hole in the Wall Saloon (during weekend bartender Chris's shift) w/o the owners (who 86'd him) getting wind that "Larkin" was back. Since he is tall and skinny like Prez Lincoln--and his first name sounds so similar--it was
funny. Now, Larkin has no idea I know about his "Lincoln" episode
(since I was also 86'd and could only hear his goings-on via the Eagle
Tavern grapevine). So my own variation on the Lincoln theme will, I
hope, tickle his funny bone.
The radiant heart with a Z in the middle is my own graffiti
signature. I use it often to communicate with my street buddies. It has
become my unique trademark, since I started using it for a logo on my
calling card:
As for the dancing silver-blue horse: that's a digital photo I glued
into the card. It's from a painting on my room's transom: bleach-white
yarn for the mane and tail, acrylics for the rest. It was my attempt to
duplicate as best as possible, that gorgeous silver "Unicorn Without A
Horn" I painted for Randolph way back in 1987. As lovely as it appears,
it pales in comparison. (And I don't have any pictures of the original. *sigh*)
Finally: that's my "shaman jacket" depicted on the book's cover. Here's a close-up:
It's a camouflage jacket hanging from my front door (my only door; I
live in an SRO). I painted the door fixtures in gold acrylic, BTW. The
dragon was painted by a bodacious dude working out of a tiny shack by
the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk.
All honey-blond, hazel eyes, and muscles for days...he sure knew what
to do with a spraygun, and where to put it! All over a plain white
tank-top, that is. My gift to myself for my 33rd birthday; so that was
July 1983. I was kinda worried that I might die at 33, like Jesus and
Alexander the Great (among possibly other celebrated heroes). So I
thought it wise--and even sensible--to treat myself to maybe my last
birthday gift ever!
Months later the tank-top began to erode, but I loved the painting
so much, I preserved it by cutting out the front (burnt the edges with
a candle flame for effect), coated it w/clear acrylic, then attached it
to a gold-leaf cloth canvas safety-pinned to my jacket. The
piece-de-resistance of course are those bright red stick-on letters
purchased from Cliff's Hardware. Intentionally ambiguous. The jacket's
now 15 years old.
I wear my shaman coat but rarely (that's what gives it power);
usually when I make my occassional appearances in the Castro,
vociferating insane prose from The Faggot Bible (another creation of
mine). I'll also wear it if you're a darling dude, in exchange for
hootchie-cootchie. Or if you're Larkin and agree to spend 20 friendly
minutes with me over coffee, once a week (no strings attached). Goes
w/o saying.
Gay people are the only minority without the
stalwart support of either family or church. No other civil rights
movement in Amerika (or the world, for that matter) has ever succeeded
without the support of both.
In similar irony, homosexuals are the only minority where public vilification, segregation and violence are sanctioned (even encouraged) by church and
state across the airwaves, newspapers, books, and cyberspace. (So much
for separation of the two, eh? They may as well be Siamese twins!)
It is a shame and a CRIME that in these modern times, anyone
need suffer egregious prejudice simply for being honest and upfront
about one's sexual preference. Sad to say, black people still fail miserably
in the light of their two greatest heroes, Martin Luther King and Jesus
Christ, when it comes to brotherly compassion and societal respect
towards their own LGBT brethren.
I applaud Rev. Benjamin Reynolds' courageous declaration in the face of bigotry by his own African-Amerikan congregation.
This is precisely
what needs to be done by gay people of color in leadership positions,
who've kept themselves deeply hid in the closet all their lives. By
remaining so, they become partners in crime to these terrorist
thugs who happen to be colored same. White racists pee their pants over
the idea of black-on-black violence. And this black church-ordained
fatwah on black queers is a big contributor towards driving white bigots rabid with joy.
It is unfortunate (and quite an eye-opener) to realize:
Where are gay
black activists speaking out in their churches, peacefully but
stridently disrupting their preachers whenever they deride gay people
from the sanctity of the pulpit? (I doubt that white activists would be
anywhere near as impressive...for obvious, albeit ludicrous, reasons.)
I believe this would be a most effective
form of civil disobedience so badly needed to wake up black
congregations across the nation. And I therefore suggest that the good
Reverend Benjamin take up this call, as leader of this movement. Which I'm sure will take off like wildfire once a brave and outraged gay black (whoever that will be) takes up the torch.
MLK had a dream. I have a vision: That one day (and I believe it will be soon) black gays will rise up in all their churches and demand the same respect and equality
that they so righteously demand from white folk. And whichever heroic
soul of color chooses to lead the way will gain tremendous respect and
adulation in the long run. This could be you, Reverend Benjamin Reynolds...and I hope it is! (Why not me, you ask, considering my forthright comments herein? Simply because I am not a person of any color at all, just plain ol' vanilla-white.)
As far as Pastor Cleveland's anti-Christian claim that his homophobic stand is a "biblical position," I have only this to say:
"I have a position for you, Pastor Cleve: BEND OVER."
Don't! You have no idea what it took to get there...all unplanned
and unwilling on my part. I wouldn't wish it on my vilest enemy, this
"borderline schizophrenia". Took over 18 years struggling for my sanity
withOUT any medication or decent health care. One thing I learned about
Amerikan society, is NOT to seek help for anything "mental". Help is
the LAST thing you'll get, if at all. Instead, you will be VILIFIED and
PERSECUTED from every direction, from all KINDS of idiots.
But I came to understand the hidden BLESSING in this, though my soul
was hammered MIGHTILY, to be shaped for a greater purpose than Mere
Career Satisfaction. Get ready for this windy "aside":
--begin rant:
I think it's the German in me, that yearns to capitalize as many
nouns as possible. And I'm sure you ALSO wonder why I usually don't
enclose end-punctuation within quotes, which is the grammatically
correct way to go...but understanding the eccentricities of authors,
you deem it wise not to bring this up, as some of the very BEST writers
are miserable at spelling or/and grammar.
But since I telepathically feel you twitch with every punctuation
violation, I think you deserve to hear my rationale: It has always been
a pet peeve of mine, this way of ending a sentence WITHIN a quote,
instead of embracing the entire sentence, by placing the final
punctuation where it REALLY should be...at the actual END and not up
its tight little rectum! E.g.:
"Dick and Dick went behind the barn to play with their pants down,"
said Jane with a red-stained fist in granny's cherry pie, "and they
won't be back until after the Cow Mutilation Jubilee".
(Notice where I placed the period.) I am adamant on this, and as
soon as I take over the planet as Big Gay Brother, I will mandate
certain CHANGES in English grammar. In sum:
I DON'T GOOSE SENTENCES, I CARESS THEM!
(Granted, some especially dirty sentences like to be goosed;
but please note:) I'll make everyone GOOSESTEP to my new grammatical
mandates, if need be! (Hmmm, speaking of "man dates"...)
There, I've said it. The ugly truth. I feel like washing my hands,
like Lady MacBeth over her curs-ed wash basin (which just went on
auction at e-Bay for 12,095 euros). "Out, damn spot, out! Or
exclamation point! Or comma! Or (yuck) colon and semi-colon! To
spelling bee or not to spelling bee. That is the question, if not the
mark itself?"
Now of course you wonder why I did NOT therefore place the
interrogation point in the above paragraph AFTER the closing quotation
mark. Am I hypocrite? Am I slovenly? No, neither, as this is one of
those rare exceptions in Zeke's Bible of Grammatical Suppositories.
Since more than one sentence is contained in that quote, then ALL
ending punctuation MUST remain contained therein. Why leave that one
little punctuation mark to stand out in the snowy cold of a blank
space? Brrrr!
--end of rant
Back to the point at hand: I learned that we ALL suffer in one way
or another...some more PHYSICALLY, others more MENTALLY, while many
suffer BOTH. And that I should USE these difficult burdens as teachers
of wisdom, patience, courage, and sympathy for one's fellow person.
Evil and suffering exist for one thing only (I have concluded):
To give us each constant opportunity to become a hero by testing our
mettle and standing up against dark adversity. For Buddha was correct
in claiming: "We have no enemies, only teachers", and: "A wicked man
revels in his mischief until it backfires, but a good man may suffer
until his charitable works bear fruit."
Judeao-Christian equivalent: "The rain falls on the good and evil
alike," and "Follow my path in this life and you will be sorely
persecuted. But the rewards are eternal."
The Book of Job
is an excellent example of long-suffering by one truly innocent. Even
his family and most-intimate friends condemned him on superficial
reasoning. Job was finally vindicated many years later, and his agonies
turned to pure, unadulterated bliss: He was blessed with MANY female
concubines and vast herds of sheep.
As for myself: keep the concubines, thank you very much. But the sheep OTOH... :b
You are witnessing the phenomenal explosion of my healing powers,
which CLEARLY are through my writing. This is the result of YEARS
walking a dedicated and stoic path on behalf of Gay Freedom. I am
ECSTATIC to have finally made The Big Breakthrough...realizing that you
must be a rather EXCELLENT person in the Universe's eye, to be called
to witness my transformation into global recognition and fame. You
CANNOT achieve such lofty heights with fame or fortune as the
goal...you MUST relinquish all material things, become a RENUNCIATE if you are indeed sincere.
I recognize a kindred soul in you, regardless of your atheism. For
your book DISM possesses POWERFUL healing properties in every
direction: for yourself, those near and dear to you, and to anyone else
fortunate enough to read your account, hear you speak, or (best yet) to
meet and befriend you.
{{ Can't you figure out a way to synthesize
it and put it in tiny little spray bottles we can carry around on our
key chains? I can just see the ads on late-night TV: Feeling morose?
Black waves of pessimism closing in around you? Old gloom and doom got
you by the cortex? Try Uncle Zeke's Cheer-Wick! Contains genuine
unadulterated Fairy Moans. Next time the inside of your brain seethes
like a Hieronymus Bosch vision of eternal damnation, remember: One
quick spray chases demons away! Freshens breath and whitens teeth, too!
}}
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?)
{{ You must, MUST extensively include the
evil bar fly queens in FRIENDLY GHOST. Work them into the plot. Such
types are eternal, universal and ubiquitous, whether gay or straight,
male or female, American or Chinese, twenty-first century or seventh
century, and the incarnations here as you describe them, in that
particular time and place and circumstance, will make your story take
on classical dimensions. }}
That is how it seems to be unravelling. They are the Enemy
Archetype: they are the Golem, Queen Olympia, Brutus, Judas Iscariot,
the Wendigo, the Wicked Stepsisters, Frankenstein's Monster, the Blue
Meanies, and all my ex-boyfriends rolled into one! My soul is like a
Phoenix rising from the ashes of past lives, manifest through my
keyboard as Author of Truth and Witness to Evil.
A New Odyssey, a New Mythology is emerging from my spirit to light
the way for our troubled world. Behold Excalibur! Behold the Holy
Grail! Behold the Ark of the Covenant! Behold Pandora's Jar! (Where is
all this shit coming from, and how the FRICK can I pay for storage? A
hero's treasures require a Persian bureaucracy: Where are my eunuchs?
Heck, where's the marijuana you promised me for Veterans Day, Randolph?)
{{The new image atop the "Muse" page is divine. }}
Yes, I'm so glad I decided to search for a more artful image that
would really do you Justice. (Ach! Capital "J". Mein Katzenjammer
ghosts must be lurking nearby!)
"Calliope," she of the beautiful voice, "is considered to be head
of the Muses, associated with the full moon. She is known for heroic
poetry and literature, as well as eloquence in writing and speech."
So tell me dearest Eleanor of Mendocino: I know you are truly
eloquent in both pen and tongue...but can you SING like a nightingale
too?
BTW, I decided too many readers wouldn't understand my reference to
"homunculi", so I figured to put a link in there. I found a really good
page on this subject, take a gander:
Don't you wanna just cuddle up with one...or wear it hanging clumsily from a necklace, to freak out the JesusFolk?
{{ Stand by for an actual pic of Yours
Truly on Halloween.....got to get Mitch to load it into his computer
and send it to me, but that'll happen soon, I promise. }}
I certainly look forward to the photo, wondering what sort of
costume you adorned. A remark about Mitch: what an EXCELLENT lover and
best friend you have in him, for sharing that terrible, prolonged
burden of your mother's tragedy. Now THAT'S what I call a REAL MAN. The
Angel of Destiny will soon unlock me from my Cage of Deprivation, to
discover the world. Rest assured you will be the FIRST e-friend I'll
visit in real life.
And I won't be a burden; I'll have moolah up the wazoo, and will
rent a hotel room somewhere nearby for a week or two. It will be SHEER
ECSTASY to once again linger along the stunning Mendocino coastline,
sojourning with truly DECENT people. After all my YEARS reaching out to
the morbidly dysfunctional (and LOVING them to pieces), you have no
IDEA how much I value salt-of-the-earth types. (With a little cracked
pepper sprinkled in, for zest.)
{{ Imagine the parade for "Hetero Shame Week!" The mind boggles! }}
Yesssss! My precioussss...yesssss! On chains, with balls. BIG balls!
A revival of Puritan punishment and Holocaust nightmare...IN REVERSE:
dunk them in icy water, throw rotting dead rats at them in the stocks,
make them wear the scarlet A for "anti-gay". And of course, the human
bonfires...always the bonfires. Homophobes stink like the devil's own
feces, so we'll have to wear hetero-proof gas filters. My Faggot Bible
will be reproduced millions of times over, the first edition's covers
crafted from only the FINEST breeder flesh that GayDeutschmarks can buy.
{{ Here's the rest of what I wrote for the makers of "Freedom To Marry," back in 2004:
"Laurie and Carmen have pulled off
something quietly earth-shaking with their extraordinary documentary.
"Freedom To Marry" cuts cleanly through all the murky, distorting
layers of disinformation, fear, political propaganda, and willful
ignorance purveyed by the anti-gay-marriage crowd, revealing what the
fight for same-sex matrimony is really about: reason, justice, human
rights, plain common sense, compassion, the next logical step along the
road to civilization. (snip) }}
I only wish they had the space to include your ENTIRE review!
{{ And here's a letter I "ghost-wrote" for
Carmen and Laurie in response to "Kristin," whose letter is included
below mine, who wrote to them whining about gay people and public
displays of affection and having to "explain" to her children:
Dear Kristin--
There was a time in this country when it
was illegal for a black person and a white person to get married. You
could go to jail for breaking that law. People who were against
"interracial marriage" often said it was "breaking the laws of God."
People were genuinely shocked and horrified at the sight of, say, a
white woman and a black man (or vice versa) even just walking down the
street together. And yet today, the sight of an interracial couple
hardly draws a second glance. This proves that attitudes do change,
that what's shocking in one era is acceptable in another.
As for gay people kissing in public, all I
can say is that not every gay person kisses her or his partner in
public, just as many heterosexual couples do not kiss in public. There
will always be a certain percentage of people, gay or straight, who are
more demonstrative in public than everybody else, and there will always
be some people who don't like to see it. Probably you can think of an
instance when you saw a man and woman "carrying on" in an inappropriate
way in a store or a restaurant, and thought it was vulgar. It happens.
If your children see a gay couple being demonstrative, and they ask
questions that make you uncomfortable and unhappy, then my advice is to
do the same thing you'd do if a straight couple were making a display
you didn't like: distract the kids and move on to something else. When
kids see that something is a big deal to their parents, they
automatically pay more attention to it. If you don't make a fuss over
it, they'll quickly forget it.
I'm sorry that you are upset about gay
people. It's not the intention of gay people to take anything away from
anyone. The truth is that most gay people are not really different from
anybody else, and they only want the same things everyone wants: love,
security, a family, legal rights. As for God's intent, well--many gay
people would tell you that they feel very strongly that they are gay
because God made them that way. Being gay (or straight) is no more a
"choice" than the color of your eyes or the shape of your head. It's
just the way some of us are. And gay people are definitely a minority,
so you really shouldn't let it worry you. Live your life, enjoy your
blessings, and don't fret over things like gay marriage.
BELOW, KRISTIN the "CHRISTIAN'S" complaint:
It is a shame that homosexuals have to
exploit something so pure as marriage that God created. When are you
people going to figure out that God made you and He is hurting so bad
for the lifestyles you impose on society. You try to make it seem that
your normal- well your not and your breaking the laws of God- and you
chose to have different belief systems just so you can be accepted and
feel like everything is alright. It is not alright to see two men and
two women together. It is selfish that gays bring children into the
mix- If only the gays could see how much God truly loves them and wants
them to obey and He has made it very clear that it is an abomination
yet gays turn their head the other way-forgetting who created them and
what true purpose God wants from them.
I am so sick and tired of seeing
homosexuality all over the Media-I can¹t even go to the grocery store
without having to explain to my 3 children why two women or men are
kissing. It is not fair I even have to be put into that situation and
again is the selfishness of the gays !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Kristin Scott }}
Three points in friendly criticism:
(1) You only compare gays kissing, with heteros overly displaying
their sexual appetite. That puts gay-kissing on a par with much more
vulgar behavior. Gays displaying affection is sweet and innocent...same
as straights. You saw things more HER way, than from a gay--or even
universal--perspective. In her mind's eye, two heteros holding hands is
lovely, while two homos doing same is BLASPHEMOUS and DISGUSTING. For
that sad lady to view heteros in the same light, they'd have to be
humping each other, knickers down, in the middle of a kindergarten
playground.
Remember, the "Lady" Kristen comes from a bigoted mindset that sees
two gays kissing in public as far more repulsive and sinful than a
straight thug bludgeoning and raping a little girl. It is this mindset
that inspires judges to claim that gay inmates have it lucky in
prison...and to sharply INCREASE a defendant's sentence simply because
he's homosexual. This is REGARDLESS of whether or not the crime charged
has ANYTHING to do with sex.
You CANNOT and will NEVER change her mind by diplomacy,
intelligence, and concrete evidence no matter how much you pour it on.
(Hmmm, pouring CONCRETE over goosey Kristin...nice!) They are NAZIS at
heart, whose greatest aspiration is to overwhelem all others with
violent bullyism. Unfortunately, civilized reasoning with these
barbarians only makes you a Neville Chamberlain to their Adolph. A bitter truth; please don't take it personally.
(2) To inform Ms. HeteroScrooge not to worry because after all,
homosexuals are a definite MINORITY is not IMO, an effective
strategy...as well as erroneous. This is playing the "tyranny of the
majority" card: one of the powerful weapons homophobes use to justify
denying us equal rights. They claim we're only 2% of the population
(not 10%), based on the OBVIOUS reality that THAT is the percentage of
homosexuals courageous enough to step out of the closet. The remaining
8% still hide in terror...and I can't really blame them. But the gay
family ALSO includes bisexuals, no?
And according to Kinsey's (in)famous research, EIGHTY PERCENT of all
humans are born bisexual. Which therefore means that gays are NOT in a
minority, they are the MAJORITY when you count bisexuals...that is:
NINETY PERCENT OF THE ENTIRE HUMAN SPECIES!!! Knowing this, I therefore
conclude that the gay issue is NOT a minority issue, but a MAJORITY
issue of hypocrisy and social engineering by those in power who KNOW
EXACTLY WHAT THEY'RE DOING.
Nonetheless, keep in mind that blacks were LESS than 10% of the
population when they SPOKE OUT, DEMONSTRATED and RIOTED in the 60's and
70's. It is Historical Truth, that the victory of a long-suffering
people has always been the story of puny David against behemoth Goliath.
(3) While your critique was spot on, clearly the perception of one
who DOES practice the Golden Rule impeccably...you were way too gentle
on the bitch. This is WAR, war of the most vulgar and heartless kind.
Such is the nature of homophobia, as the most vivid and bloody
manifestation of extreme heterocentrism. And the war's been raging for
nigh onto 20 centuries! The ONLY time liberation will come for sexual
minorities, is a revolution so profound, so deep-running, so usurping
on EVERY level, as to be indefatigable and unconquerable. Though not
necessarily violent.1
First, we start by converting all boy/girl salt and pepper shakers
to boy/boy and girl/girl. It may seem trivial, but I assure you, sweet
ally Eleanor, IT'S NOTHING TO SNEEZE AT! (Ha, ha, how sneaky of me!
Your turn!)
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Date: 12 Nov 2007, 06:59:43 PM
Subject: Re: Eleanor, My Muse
Eleanor writes:
{{ Uber cool!!!!!! Love it!!!! }}
Well guess what, E.? I elaborately edited and added to it,
and just now 'tis done. Also, I changed the image at top. I think this
time around, the essay does you honor. I beg you (pretty please with
fair-trade maple syrup on top): go back and read it once more.
Actually, I didn't change the first two sections at all. But the
THIRD...whooey...you'll like IMMENSELY. Again, the URL:
Mine enemies scared him away from me, two days ago. This has to do with the intrigue I've gotten wrapped up in, that is The Larkin Chronicles.
I'm in the middle of a hidden (though EVIL) war, which shall soon be
revealed to the world via "Friendly Ghost Detective Agency".
For YEARS there have been people screwing up my relationships,
whether friends or buddies. They keep me isolated, and have been doing
this now for over 22 years. Some still live in my building. This is NOT
a paranoid delusion, it is very REAL. Even w/o this cult on my
back, I find the gay community here extremely vindictive and
small-minded. So what if you're in a gay 'hood or bar, where it's
considerably SAFE from fag bashers. 'Cause vicious queens fill in that
gap, whose favorite pastime is to rip up loving relationships between
two guys. With gossip, drugs, alcohol, money, violence, you name it.
(Oh yeah, I almost forgot: they also employ homophobic homeless people for their dirty schemes!) So you still gotta stay in the closet or (goddess forbid) these nasty homunculi
will crawl out of the woodwork and destroy the both of you! It is
precisely this hostile atmosphere based on ENVY and POWER that fosters
the formation of cults. They thrive in such environments like
staphylococci in a petri dish!
These vermin have the dubious honor to star in my essay: "Gay Turncoats in our Midst". Writ ten years ago, I'm troubled to say NOTHING has improved from this sorry state. We have a new
methamphetamine epidemic...and I don't know of ANY gay bar that is not
controlled by a criminal element. (And they're not even gay, except the
runners! IOW: gays remain underlings to hetero overlords, even in their
own "gay" hangouts.) Gypsy for example, runs drugs through at least
three bars, and he's as hetero as a turd is brown. And that's why the
bartender on duty didn't kick him out when he threatened me, LOUDLY:
Gypsy owns their souls.) I could go on! But I'll save my strident ranting for "Friendly Ghost".
Dean will come back, once he figures out what's up. I WARNED him
about these people...he'd be approached, and they'd gossip bad things
to scare him away. He said, "Oh, I can handle that, no problem.
NObody'll mess with me". Well, guess what...he probably thought I was
making it all up, and when push came to shove, he went down in the
first round.
Just what they did with me and Larkin: drove him away, made him
think I did some nasty things to get him fired, lose his apartment to fire damage, and get 86'd from all the SOMA bars. Which incidents all occurred within the short span of three weeks! He was even homeless
for some weeks; but a "friend" took him in. ("Friend" being a code word
for pusher.) THEY did all that, not me...but Larkin will not allow me
to speak to him...he'll just rush away with his ears covered. Anywayz,
I will win this war, and have him back, too. What really happened was
they taught him a painful lesson about choosing friends (such as moi) of whon they don't approve. They DESPISE me.
Now, I have TWO strikingly handsome, tall and sweet buddies AVOIDING
me in my own neighborhood. And they both hang out only half-a-block
from each other: Larkin, at the Metro bar; Dean, at Church Street Cafe.
(Heartbreak Hotel
has nothing over me; I'm livin' "Heartbreak 'Hood"!) They haven't yet
met, either. But I'm sure they will, eventually. I told Dean about my
adventures around Larkin, that he now hangs at the Metro (and
drug-dealer Gypsy at the Lucky 13, a straight bar just several doors
up).
Dean started: "Hey, I like Lucky 13, I used to go there a lot". So I
suggested he resume his patronage: "Do a little spying for me...Gypsy's
easy to spot: he looks like a cross between Yosemite Sam and Colonel
Sanders". (IOW: a real skank.) "And while we're at it, Dean, why not
check out the Metro, see who this guy Larkin is, without him knowing
you and I have any association." (Also easy to spot: 6-foot-4, skinny
drink of water and damned cute...like Randy Travis's better looking and younger brother.)
I said these things a few days before they chased him away.
Dean is a great guy; it wouldn't surprise me in the least if he visited
both bars to figure things out. He's a hottie too, BTW. In fact, I
could never bet on who's more darlin': Dean or Larkin. 'Cause it would
be a toss-up each and every time. Except perhaps when Larkin's on a
whiskey binge, which is when he looks and smells like a ratty ol' dawg.
But even then, he's funnier than a barrel of monkeys with vibrating
dildoes. The guy is so excessively funny, I'd say he's a comedic
genius. I have never smiled so much in my life, till I discovered The
Amazing Kelsey (Larkin's surname). Whenever I think of him, I grin
beatific...even now while we're separated by This Wall of Pure Evil,
when lesser men than myself would knot their faces in a permanent
scowl, gnash their teeth in rage, and plot unutterably wicked vengeance.
Weird, weird, weird...but a remarkable odyssey just the same!
This is a GREAT adventure, and I know it, and I know why...thus I
don't get particularly upset any more, now that MOST of the jigsaw
pieces have fallen into place. I can finally see the Big Picture,
almost completely frozen in Time's Stained Glass:
Ezekiel stands triumphant amid all this chaos and evil pandering.
From the Eye of The Hurricane, he snatches his beloved brothers out of
The Swirling Abyss. Still dizzy and perturbed by The Storm, they
continue to loathe and heckle for a while longer. Though Ezekiel knows that Wing-ed Victory has his back.
Soon, these exquisite men wrested from The Devil's Own Claws (thanks
to u-no-hoo), will bicker among themselves for Zeke's hand in domestic
partnership!
But Ezekiel could NEVER choose one beauty over another. So what to
do, what to do? Draw straws? Hardly! He'll bed down with each buddy, a
different one for every day of the year.
"Whoa! Slow down Little Pony!" Victory speaks. "That's the LONGterm goal. At first and for a time, you must settle for each day of the WEEK. Larkin of course, can be your Ice Cream Sundae! Until, that is, when I...er, I mean "Randolph"...finally shows up. Or if
Dean doesn't turn on the charm spigot too freely. Then of course
there's Jonny, the one who broke your heart which led you to Larkin,
and SOMA adventures! Before that: Troy. Oh god, Troy! A conquest unconsummated ("Like all the rest" quips your quicksilver tongue.)
It still burns bright, this longing for Troy, like a Beacon for
Shipwrecked Sailors. Such valient devotion shall soon be rewarded. My
Dear Ezekiel: you shall have him in your arms, with all his glorious
manhood and brotherly affection for eternity. I promise you this, and a
whole lot more. Beloved Lttle Angel, thou art the Silver Lining in MY
Cloud, I tell you what!"(And those silver strands in your hair, no doubt.)
I can't write more on this now, I want to save my declarations in this matter for the Larkin Chronicles. (Wait a minute; I'll simply ADD this letter as the latest chapter: 14. Easy as blueberry pie--my favorite)!
In the First Year of the Return of Our Lord, there was a little
angel who wouldn't fly. Not that he didn't have wings, nor were they
damaged in any way. He just wouldn't fly. And this was a mystery to all
the other angels who did, and looked below and saw the little angel
like a mite moving across the brown and green face of Urth.
I must regress here for a moment, for my story comes from the
future, addressed to you who are, indeed, one of the angels in my
tale--as we all will be in a time very close to your own. (Indeed, most
of you will not shed your present forms before witnessing the Evolutionary Rapture; but will, instead, regenerate your deoxyribonucleic acids to form new, and youthful, bodies.)
Anyway, from time to time a curious brother or sister from above
would pay this little angel a brief visit, to walk beside him and ask
the obvious question:
"Little angel, why don't you ever fly?"
And a shadow would cross the brow of the little angel as he puffed
up his chest and replied: "In memory of Man before he earned his wings,
I walk the earth for all eternity."
Then he'd pause, and a certain weariness would shake his frame as he lowered his head: "And because...because I am waiting."
The visiting angel would then lean closer and ask, quite dumfounded,
"Waiting for what, little angel? There is nothing left to wait for."
The little angel would then raise his head and look straight into
the visitor's eyes: "I am waiting for a tall, handsome angel to take me
in his arms and fly away with me."
After the little angel gave this two-part reply (which was always
the same), the visiting angel would shrug its wings and take flight.
One day, while the little angel was window shopping, a pair of wings
on a rack at J.C. Penny's caught his eye. He came in and caressed it,
admiring the downy texture and soft, opal hues. Best of all, it would
not shrink and was machine washable. (The little angel hated doing
laundry, which was only second on his shit list to a visit to Purgatory.)
"May I help you?" A salesman courteously addressed the little angel
who gasped at this breathing creation of bronze, muscled flesh and jet
black hair. His green eyes flashed as the little angel admired those
tight, full buttocks from which extended a sinewy tail that promised of
anal delights beyond the little angel's wildest dreams. A lump swelled
in the salesman's crotch and began to burst the seams of his fly. "He's
a real devil," thought the little angel. He almost caressed the
salesman's thighs, but withdrew his hand and sighed. "I was admiring this pair of wings," said the little angel. "May I try them on?"
The little angel emerged from the dressing booth with the new pair
of wings inserted into the slots between his shoulder blades. He tossed
his old wings into the moleculizer.
"They're on backwards," said the salesman. "Here, let me help you."
The little angel shuddered in ecstasy as the salesman's warm hands
touched his shoulders with a gentle caress, and lingered. He felt some
fingers slip into the rear pocket of his pants, inserting a piece of
paper with a televideo number. He almost threw himself into the
salesman's arms.
"Oh, how I could love this man. He would be a wonderful father,"
thought the little angel; and in the telepathic union of their two
minds, he pictured himself in the naked embrace of the salesman, tail
wrapped around the little angel and beginning to enter his anus with
increasingly eager prods.
"But he's not the one. Who is the one?" The little angel put a stop
to these delicious thoughts, paid for the wings, and walked out.
The sun was intense as the little angel crossed the mall to enter
the Santa Cruz Bookstore. As he thought a cloud across the sky to
shield his eyes, a centaur almost ran over him. "Oh, excuse me, little
guy," said the centaur, "I should have been watching where I was going."
The little angel admired the centaur's muscular torso as he reared
back and stamped his hooves with delight. "Say, you're a cute little
fellow. How about a ride?"
The little angel tried to climb up, but kept slipping. "Say, aren't
you used to those wings yet? Here, let me help you up." And the centaur
tenderly lifted him in his arms to set the little angel on his back.
The summer breeze tingled the little angel's face as they raced down
Pacific Avenue to the ocean, where they sat and talked a spell.
Seals cavorted in the backwater beneath the piers, and pelicans
gathered around the centaur and the little angel as if in serious
contemplation of their conversation.
The little angel removed his shirt and dazzled the centaur with the
physical perfection of a sixteen-year-old boy. His tiny nipples stood
erect in the ocean mist, and a halo of light played around his auburn
hair. His eyes sparkled like cracked ice in champagne, and the muscles
on his ribs and arms were only beginning to bud.
The little angel smiled: the centaur suddenly bowed his head and
covered his eyes, and the pelicans averted their glance for a moment.
"Is the sun in your eyes?" asked the little angel, who sat closer to the centaur in order to block the intense rays.
The centaur looked up and gently kissed the little angel.
They sat for a while in silence. The waves crashed on the hot sand,
and the sea foam hissed. Each was in his own thoughts, yet their eyes
did not leave each other, and thus many thoughts were shared.
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Date: 10 Nov 2007, 11:01:45 AM
Subject: Re: How's your writing going?
Eleanor writes:
{{ As for the writing, tous vas bien, merci. An overabundance of brilliant ideas, really; the trick is in prioritizing..... }}
So glad for you! I'm also being showered in abundant rains of inspiration. You have been such an inspiration, like my other e-friend, Tom Keske. Though we've been corresponding for over 9 years now. Our bouncing comments back and forth has been a constant inspiration.
My letters to you have proven a new and excellent resource of ideas.
When I release my piece "Friendly Ghost Detective Agency," you'll see
the opening part's a direct passage from one of my recent letters to
you.
BTW, I want to find an illustrator for my gay Dr. Seuss parody...that
part in a larger piece (which I have since edited to perfection). I
realized I can lift that out, polish up the beginning...and voila, it
would make a fantastic adult gay parody that COULD be a best seller.
I may have found my illustrator...lives in my building, very
creative with the pencil. I think sketches for this would be HILARIOUS.
The images have been swimming around my head like mutant sugar plums,
the last two weeks.
BTW: Don't you find it a merciless and unforgivable intrusion
when you're caught up in your writing, that from time to time you must
leave the comfort of your desk to void the body of waste matter? Or
prepare food? Or tend to whatever other daily and necessary chores
(like bathing/shaving/dressing/ brushing teeth/walking the
garbage/throwing out the dog/etc.?
I should leave you to your important writing, now. I'm sure you're having LOTS of fun working on that horror story.
From: Eleanor
To: Zeke
Date: 10 Nov 2007, 09:47:28 PM
Subject: Re: How's your writing going?
Zeke:
"Friendly Ghost Detective Agency" is a truly
inspired name. I hope you use it as an actual book title. It sounds to
me like a novel. With a gay gumshoe protagonist. I'm serious! That's
the kind of title that takes you to the top of the bestseller list!!!!!
And I think the time is absolutely right for an adult gay parody of Dr. Seuss. It could be a classic!
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor
Date: 11 Nov 2007, 12:47:44 AM
Subject: Re: How's your writing going?
Eleanor writes:
{{ "Friendly Ghost Detective Agency" is a truly inspired name. }}
Wait'll you see the tale...it's actually non-fiction.
{{ I hope you use it as an actual book title. }}
It is the latest chapter of my Larkin Chronicles...which is already a book, as far as quantity of chapters go. You'll see.
{{ It sounds to me like a novel. With a
gay gumshoe protagonist. I'm serious! That's the kind of title that
takes you to the top of the bestseller list!!!!! }}
Oh, you don't know how on the mark you are, Eleanor! Yes, this story
brewing in my mind is with myself and Larkin as detective
partners/lovers. It is a fantasy morphing into reality. I am become a
bona fide psychic detective, and I've already solved my first crime,
with another as witness. But that is all explained in "Friendly Ghost
Detective Agency". You will see it soon.
{{ And I think the time is absolutely right for an adult gay parody of Dr. Seuss. It could be a classic! }}
Yep. I'm on a roll...so much is falling into place for me, I could never again doubt the magic of the universe.
{{ It was fun spying on Zeus and Apollo. }}
Technically, I didn't even get close! Eros tricked me; instead I almost witnessed two dykes getting it on...something I care not to see, ever (goddesses though they be). Alas, I lost The Cloak Of Invisibility in my haste to salvage my sorry soul from the Wrath of Artemis. It all turned out well (in the end: heh!), as I did get to boink the daylights out of The Angel of Love's Passion Himself!
But I sure wish I could get That Cloak back! Well, you know where I
left it: in the wardrobe of Artemis' bedroom. Since you are female, and
highly regarded by the goddesses for your excellent prose (as well as
loving your mother so kindly for so long; and sacrificed much in so
doing)...perhaps in tonight's dream-travel, you can get a foot into
Artemis' chambers. The excuse itself would be a snap:
"Artemis, do you mind if I peek into your
closet? It's every woman's dream to peruse the wardrobe of a goddess;
and I'm no exception!"
Play around with The Cloak all you want. I know that--impeccable,
trustworthy soul that you are--you'll eventually return it to me, the
rightful owner. At least, I think I'm the rightful owner. I remember standing by the River Lethe (drenched in the most scintillant, refreshing water I've ever quaffed),
with that resplendent, water-logged Cloak draped over my left arm. My
memory goes no further. If only I could afford a hypnotherapist! (Come
to think of it, once The Cloak is back in my keep, accessing all the
moolah I'd ever want--and then some--will be a breeze. I'll sing no
more, those Thin-Wallet Blues!)
{{ Love the links--the Hephaestus illo was a find.... }}
Wasn't it though! I deliberated on choosing that among various worthwhile sites. While they provided more vital info on the nature of Hephaestus,
none depicted him so graphically as a cripple. So the gimp page won
out. Do you know he's the spouse of Aphrodite, Goddess of Love? What a
lesson their partnership displays to mortals: the loveliest of all
goddesses marries the most deformed of all gods! I like to tell people,
"If you really want to learn about human nature, study the Greek myths." As my first shrink (I wear 'em out hella fast) Dr. Gilbert Weisman once said: "The Ancient Greeks were a very cerebral lot." (He also introduced me to gov't disability, and got me off the streets. But that's another story.)
I am so glad you enjoyed my Invisible Cloak tale! Did you notice how
I picked up the "thread" of Greek mythology on behalf of gay rights, by
literally using Ariadne's thread
as the common link? I'm very proud of my quite special gift to draw
from a rich, classical distant past, and breathe new life into it, in
order to foment revolution.
Yes, I had so much FUN finding the appropriate illustrations...the
magic of which was they fell right into my lap. (I'd like to say
"laptop" to be punny, but I don't own one *sigh*)...very little time
spent tracking down each one. But I really don't know what I'm
looking for, except in a most general, themed way. So it's always a
surprise and delight, to see what The Muses toss my way on LCD. Like a scavenger artist rummaging through garbage dumps, I do same in cyberspace.
Discovering and manipulating images to enhance my writing is but one
among numerous unique benefits to web-based authorship (as opposed to
conventional tree-pulp publication). Another, is hyperlinking:
providing links to other pages in cyberspace. A link can be a pun, or
additional resource that could NEVER exist on paper. I can take any story or poem (does not have to be an essay or news article), and enhance it with such links. Thus my articles/tales/poems/lett ers/etc. become information rich in ways I never dreamed of when I first composed them!
Here are several other web-writing benefits:
You can provide a message board or web log for your
readers. Besides the excellent feedback, it's a great way to brainstorm
and keep in touch with kindred souls around the world.
Publishing your work on the Internet costs from nothing to very little...and does not waste paper or ink. And it's instant: no waiting around w/fingers crossed for an editor's blessing.
Free copyright protection: just post your writing to a
newsgroup, and it will be permanently and irrevocably stamped with the
date and time of its posting. This approach is not for everyone, though
it certainly is for this left-wing ex-flower-child radical activist and raconteur!
In cyberspace, there is so much excellent (and free) material on any subject you can imagine, you could do most of your research from the comfort of home. And a lot faster.
Did you know I played a significant role--albeit not famously--in
shaping cyberspace as it now exists? (Or maybe I'm just having an Al
Gore Moment.) As a member of KAY*FOG bulletin board service years and
years ago, we discussed and expounded upon concepts like hypertext and
hyperlink, free/cheap international communications,
telecommuting/travelling, virtual realities, free/cheap quality
education for all, and so on. We thirsted to see these ideas take root...we saw the future and craved it (prophetic geniuses that we were, this little cabal of hungry hackers).
I even worked at PC World Communications under the management of
Andrew Fleugleman (Founder of the Whole Earth Catalog, and shareware) .
You will find me quoted extensively in Microcornucopia Magazine (Sept./Oct. Issue, 1998), regarding a solution to these proliferating virus attacks. My idea became incorporated in every early antivirus program...though I got not one red cent for my idea! I also created the world's first and only full blown ANSI-animated story, called "SallyJones".
Before I came along, no one thought to use ANSI except for elaborate
single-frame art (often for BBS welcome screens), or very simple, quick
several-frame pieces (colorized versions of ASCII images).
My piece was such a hit, that BBS sysops around the world featured
my "keyboard of the future" sequence on their sign-in screens. Even Russian sysops! Alas, modern CPU's are way too fast
to play SalllyJones, unless you run a utility to slow it down. I don't
have such a utility...but then again, I haven't searched that hard. I
tried a few freeware
versions, but they don't seem to function. My real plan is to knock
apart the entire animation, and convert each frame into "gif"
format...then stick them all back together again with a simple
gif-animator. (Don't know why I've never gotten around to it after all
these years...but I will soon.)
Of course, it is now much more obvious to you, how I will become a likely candidate for the Nobel Peace Prize...and maybe take over the entire planet through the sheer brilliance of my gifted intellect.
No false humility here! I write for the sheer PLEASURE of it. My first goal is NOT the money...it is to use my "white magic" to liberate the souls of my gay brothers and sisters. Affluence will result as a consequence, in order to empower me further.
You can see now why I'm on disability, as "mentally disabled". I am TOO MUCH for most people to comprehend. Holding down a regular job ALWAYS spells disaster for me!
Actually, I'm not really sure how
I acquired the damn Cloak, but it must have been a reward for one of my
Odyssey adventures, which the gods have deemed to erase from my memory
until a future time. I believe it was woven from Ariadne's thread
tossed aside in a forgotten ball, once Theseus made his escape from the
Labyrinth.
But who wove it, and who gave it the power to make one invisible?
And who presented it to me, and for what accomplishment? Alas, these
truths remain hidden to me for a while longer...thus I must proceed
with my tale without the benefit of any history. (Perhaps it was my
spill in the River Lethe, battling some sort of beast or another, that washed away these memories.)
The Cloak itself is velvet black, with a honey shimmer to it...as if a lock of the Golden Fleece.
were woven into its threads. It BELONGS to me...it KNOWS it belongs to
me...as whenever I fling it about myself, it always falls upon my body
in the most artful manner. It complements, it embraces, it cherishes me
with dear caresses, and never clings! Yet it slides off with not a
moment of pause--once I release my grasp--and falls graciously to the
floor with a pleasant "whoosh". Neither static-y nor clingy, no dirt or
dust ever gathers upon it...for which I conclude the unknown existence
of some Polyester-blend goddess (perhaps the offspring of that rotten
cyclops Polyphemus, who once chased after some lovely trifle of a mortal named Esther. Perhaps the Cloak's power of invisibility came from the blinding of this cyclops by Odysseus).
So I stand on the banks of the River Lethe, contemplating all the
delicious adventures that will be mine, as the invisible voyeur of
others' adventures...when along comes fickle Eros. As I am presently
concealed beneath the Cloak, he would pass right by me without knowing
I'm even there...except for my stepping in his way, for which he is
unexpectedly knocked over. After gathering his arrows, Eros stands up,
stares at my new gift of the Cloak of Invisibility...and after a few moments says, "Dude: I have a great idea where you could use that Cloak." (And where could that be?) I think.
"The Bedrooms of the Gods
of course," brags Eros, "why, you could write the steamiest novels the
world has ever seen, by merely recounting what you witness! You'd be an
overnight sensation, a romance novelist par excellence, and a
multi-millionaire to boot!" (I would also know what tickles Apollo's fancy) I muse, as one mortal who is very hot for a particular deity or two.
"Oh, yes, why, the benefits to your personal life would be
enormous," admits Eros. "You would have ANY God you want by the balls,
and caress them whenEVER you please! I must apologize for tempting you
with mere lucre, Ezekiel...as I know you value the immaterial over the
material, as should any seeker of truth. Now, just think what all that
money could do for the poor, the lame, and the downtrodden!" (Then let's go! You need not convince me further...I'm hot to trot.)
We arrive at the Bedroom Palace (teleportation? flight? memory still
hazy, try again later) somewhere on the eastern slope of lofty Mount
Olympus...which contains secluded chamber after chamber, to satisfy
even the most finicky demands of privacy for which any goddess or god
could wish. Solid, thick oak doors trimmed in eggshell white and 24
caret gold-plated brass fixtures, are so sturdy not even Hephaestus's mighty hammer could batter them down.
"Let me show you the bedroom where Apollo and Zeus do the nasty", Eros leads me down a long, long hallway until we reach a room whose door he pushes ajar. I hesitate.
"Go right in, no one's home. I'm right behind you" whispers Eros,
nudging me through the entrance. We stand amid silken tapestry and
drapes of purest white, purple, and gray that grace tall windows and a
ginormous bed against the far end of the room. Rose-scented candles in
sconces and on small tables lend a soft, gentle light to the entire
room. Eros guides me into a closet large enough to fit a banquet table
and all its guests. "You can hide here, in their wardrobe," speaks
Eros. "That, plus your Cloak to shield you, will make you completely
secure from their finding you."
I am about to ask some pertinent questions--such as how long do they partake in their love making (knowing that a single minute to a god is a century to a human,
and that I could easily starve to death, or grow old and die in this
closet, long before they're even done with foreplay...thus you can
understand my concern)--when Eros suddenly jumps back, says "I hear
them coming"...then quick as a flash disappears.
I am left standing amid all the masculine trappings of war gods: the
musky scent of leather and rough cloth soaked in godly sweat nearly
puts me into a heavenly swoon! But I stand determined to witness what no mortal eyes have ever witnessed before: Zeus boinking the daylights out of Apollo! (Or
is Zeus a bottom? Or are they more egalitarian in bed, than elsewhere?
Do they like to french kiss? How much foreplay? Or are they rough and
ready from the get-go? These juicy details, and much more, I am soon to
find out!)
I hear voices and the door creak open, then shut. The Cloak of
Invisibility is fully flung over my frame as I stand, shaking, knees
wobbling in anticipation of my daring plunder into the most personal
aspect of the lives of gods! A deep voice booms: "I don't remember
leaving the door open, do you? Is anyone here?" I stand, frozen, barely
breathing. "Check the closet." Arms push around the voluminous robes
sliding on their hangers, but fortunately pass right by the spot on
which I stand. I cannot see who it is. (Apollo or Zeus?)
Not that I can't see through my Cloak (of course I can), but the
clothes shielding me that cover the Cloak block my view! Drat! I need
to move a little forward...well, let's wait till they calm down and get
to bed.
"Uh, hey stud...lock that door will ya. I think we should, uh, mess
around for a time. Don't you?" I hear them disrobe: the gentle "shush"
of togas falling, and the rattle of buckles. Again, one (I can't see
who) approaches the closet and plunks a heavy sword against the
wall...it slides and crashes right onto my foot! Ouch! I better hold my
breathe! Ouch! Damn friggin' sword...must weigh as much as a horse...my
foot is throbbing, god, this ain't so much fun any more! Egads! Ouch,
ouch ouch!
I can't help myself; a moan wells up from my throat.
"Wait! Did you hear that?"
"What? Who could hear anything after that sword crash? Deafening! No, I didn't hear a thing."
"Well, I heard something, and it came from that closet!"
"And just what do you think you heard, little missy? Sure it's not your bat ears ringing?"
(Little missy? One's a fem? I can't believe this! Wait'll I get my book published! Uh-oh, he's coming back to the closet!)
"Huh, maybe it was just an echo." Arms swoosh through the clothing once more, and I stand frozen in fear. "Wait, what's this?"
"What's what? Lemme see what you're talking about."
I still can't see either one of the gods, though their very breaths warm the cloak under which I tremble.
"Okay, whoever you are, come out of there now...we see you!"
(They do? I don't believe them, they're calling my bluff. After all, no one's grabbing at me.)
"We can see your feet, fool! Look!"
(I look down and lo and behold! The Cloak of Invisibility hangs its
hem just inches above my toes. I am not completely covered! I sigh, and
drop the Cloak, and all pretense...and step out from behind the
wardrobe, to see...not gods, but goddesses! A pair of uber-dykes! What
the hell is this all about?)
"Who are you?" demands the busty platinum-blonde, now hastily robed in a bedsheet.
(Ezekiel, madame...Ezekiel Joseph Krahlin.)
"Madame? You call the great goddess of the sacred hunt, Artemis, 'madame'? Just where do you come from, little Ezekiel?" speaks the other, a voluptuous nymph of seaweed hair and piercing yellow-green eyes.
(Ummm...San Francisco, planet earth...that is, in my waking life. At present, I presume I'm in one of my vision dreams.)
"One of your vision dreams? Ha!" mocks Artemis, "Tell us who put you up to this or I'll flay your skin and feed it to the Harpies!"
I'm not about to reveal my source...not when I'd have the wrath of
yet another god upon my soul. So I just stand there, trembling, but
lips firmly shut.
"Eros, eh? I should have known! That little imp is always messing up Mt. Olympus whenever he gets the chance!"
Too bad, they can read my mind. (He told me this is the bedroom of Zeus and Apollo.) I plead.
"That's your excuse, mangy mortal?" hollers Artemis. "You were going to spy on gods? This amounts to hubris of the highest order. I hope you realize the consequences of your heinous act!"
(Ummm...being chained to a boulder and having an eagle pluck out my liver for all eternity?) I venture an educated guess.
Taken aback, Artemis first glances at the nymph, then at me, than
again at her partner...and they both burst out in laughter. "Come here,
Ezekiel", Artemis gently takes my arm, and leads me to a chair where
she urges me to sit.
"No harm shall come to you, mischievous mortal. It is Eros who
should take the blame. I have a plan for vengeance, but it will take me
some minutes to work it out. Please enjoy Sylvia's company in the
meantime...I'll be back shortly." And with a wide grin on her beatific
face, Artemis departs.
Sylvia and I have a heartfelt conversation about the homeless lesser
gods in Olympus, and what can possibly be done about it, if anything.
Finally, after the passage of a little time, Artemis returns. "Boy
have I got a treat for you, Ezekiel!" And she tugs my arm in a wish to
escort me to parts yet unknown.
Artemis, Sylvia, and I (carried in Sylvia's strong arms, due to my
injured foot) proceed down enormous corridors, to yet another heavy
wooden door, through which we enter. There, tied by his four limbs to
the posts of a water bed, kneels Eros on all fours, his nether end most
prominent. Sylvia sets me on the floor, where I stand, staring in
disbelief: I do drool. "He's all yours for the next twenty minutes,
Ezekiel. I'm sure you'll know what to do!" says Artemis, and they
depart.
I do indeed...for twenty of the most beautiful minutes of my life, in sheer Tantric bliss!
And this experience has shown me why, when spelled backwards, Eros
means "sore"! So this ends the story of my winning the Cloak of
Invisibility, how I first used it, and how I lost it in the heat of the
moment before I ever got to use it more than once.
ADDENDUM: Were those succulent twenty minutes, the minutes of a god,
or of a mortal? I leave you to ponder, and eat your heart out.
Henri_Gordien: I'm better, thanks. I was quite tired yesterday. I had a 4 hours nap on top of my 8 hours night.
Henri_Gordien: How is life in California ? Are you in S.F. ?
Quacktivist:
Personally, I'm doing great. Generally, things suck here in US for
gays...our pathetic gov't continues to make homosexuality a pivotal
issue. I will laugh heartinly, when institutions collapse from their
useless homophobia. I don't think the US wil exist for much longer. It
will divide, broken up by anti-gay dogma and heterosexist supremacy. 8-)
Henri_Gordien:
Well, to me, it seems that more or less all governments are coming to a
point where their lack of proficiency is getting so big that they
simply more a nuisance, and helpless considering the problems that we
face.
Henri_Gordien: In other terms, I don't expect much anything except from Up Above (if only).
Henri_Gordien: Well, you know, Revelation and all that, supposedly.
Quacktivist: Yes.
I agree. And the big joke is that ALL or MOST present gov'ts are
seriously hung up on the gay issue. Gonna be a rude awakening for many,
when the Karmic Balance goes full throttle...and my visions say this is
it, into the holidays. I sure hope so! Anywayz, my visions also show
NEW ideas and institutions rising that will be extremely pro-gay, as
well as compassionate...formed by a mix of people of various beliefs
(Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Atheist, Pagan, Shaman).
Quacktivist: Yes, well, Revelation has secret code in it, that even the Bible Code folks don't know. HInt: it's VERY gay supportive.
Henri_Gordien: Can you explain "into the holidays" ? Do you mean you see things as happening during the next holidays ?
Quacktivist: Revelation otherwise acts as if homosexuals/bi's/trannies don't even count or exist...or at worse, will be condemned to hell.
Quacktivist: Yes, 2007, from Halloween through New Years.
Henri_Gordien: Well, it's THEIR translation ... this bunch of fools.
Henri_Gordien: Oh, ok ... I so strongly hope you are right !
Henri_Gordien: I
have been working like a dog with my buddy (my spiritual grand-mother
and step-mother) and we feel dropped and abandoned in the middle of
nowhere.
Quacktivist: Time
will tell...it's already picking up in my personal life...impossible
things have become possible for me...very nice things of course. I'm
ahead of the times.
Quacktivist: Where is this "middle of nowhere"?
Henri_Gordien: Well, you proved me that you have spiritual ears and eyes in a very good condition. :-)
Henri_Gordien:
Well, the doors of the World Above are mostly closed. It's a bit a case
of "Father, father, why did you abandon me?" (not sure how it
translates in English)
Quacktivist: It ain't just my eyes and ears, baby!
Henri_Gordien: LOL
Quacktivist: Yes,
that's the correct translation, dear. We are all the Story of Christ in
our own unique ways. However, this wisdom was known long before Christ.
In fact, it's basically Apollonia, and even shamanistic (the first kind
of religious practice).
Henri_Gordien: Yep
Quacktivist: Apollonian
Henri_Gordien: You know, there is something that I did not tell you yet about this crazy story about Apollo and all that...
Quacktivist: Do tell
Henri_Gordien: Well, I told you that my spiritual mother is Lilith, right ?
Henri_Gordien: This is a sort of obvious thing to me... I feel her blood in my veins, in fact.
Henri_Gordien: So, the thing is, Lilith is also called Lilitu, and she also is Leto.
Henri_Gordien: (click ... puzzle falling into place ...)
Quacktivist: Mother...in what way. There are three levels to word "mother".
Henri_Gordien: She made me remember of scenes that happened Up Above.
Quacktivist: This Lilith came to you in spirit, or in the flesh, to show you these scenes?
Henri_Gordien: Like once, I was with her and my twin sister, we were babies, breast-feeding - each having a nipple
Henri_Gordien: In spirit
Henri_Gordien: The first time I met her, I barely knew her name - I went to see her in order to ask her for help
Henri_Gordien:
Another very vivid memory was when my twin sister and I were given our
bows and we were hunting for the first time - we were maybe 6.
Quacktivist:
Okay. There are also various traditions of the Lilith Story:
Kabalistic, Gnostic, Pagan, etc. What IOW kind of scenes and clothing
to indicate a time period or style? Which tradition is your Lilith
adventure?
Henri_Gordien:
She welcomed me - she was like a queen on her throne, we did some sex
magick (she initiated me - I had no experience of that)...
Henri_Gordien: Well, I'm a neo-shaman, basically, with a European culture.
Henri_Gordien: So
for instance, when I was introduced to Lucifer by a fellow shaman, it
took me quite some time to understand that he in fact was also Hades.
Henri_Gordien: I was spared any heavy religious teaching, only had a backrgound in christian orthodox church when I was a young adult.
Quacktivist: Sex magick? And you don't recall? Did they do a video or something? :o)
Henri_Gordien: Oh, yes, I do recall, why ? :D
Henri_Gordien: I
had gone to see her with the help of a "certain Alpha" - I did not then
know that he was my spiritual father. And... Gods know why - I had
brought the two male lovers that I had then (for a short time).
Quacktivist:
Because your telling of Lilith, etc. is from a very different origin of
my telling. I think there are about 5 different lines of Lilith
Legend...and do NOT have a common spiritual or cultural ancestor. In MY
telling, it's an ADDITIONAL and equally legitmate telling...a totally
NEW one.
Henri_Gordien: OK
Henri_Gordien: Lilih was seated on her throne, welcoming me inside her while I was seated on her thighs.
Henri_Gordien: Would you like a full account ? :-)
Henri_Gordien: Incidentally, this was the exact position of a sexual paredric union.
Henri_Gordien: Are you still there ?
Quacktivist:
Three kinds of "mother": physical, spiritual, and ancestral...the
latter implying "mother of us all"...the first two implying a
distinctively individual claim. Meaning that a very limited number of
people can claim direct birth from Mother Goddess. A full account would
be nice...unless it's full of hetero (or even gay) porn.
Henri_Gordien: ok
Henri_Gordien: Well, I like spiritual porn ! :))
Henri_Gordien: I suppose you also do
Quacktivist:
"Paredric"? I don't like any porn. Erotica okay, porn no. 'Cause porn
promotes violence and humiliates the diignity of humans, esp.
women...since most violent porn is hetero based.
Henri_Gordien: Sure... I used the wrong word. I meant it was both unrestrained and a total blessing, spiritually speaking.
Quacktivist: I
understand. People nowadays use word "porn" sometimes, to just mean
"erotic". But I believe it is vital to maintain a strict distinction.
Henri_Gordien: Sure... so let's call it divine erotica.
Quacktivist: I love to walk in the rain: abundantly showered in Zeus's sperm!
Henri_Gordien: Lol !
Quacktivist: I dream of ice cream in my jeans.
Henri_Gordien: Ok, so I'll continue if you like, I really don't mind - there is a gay side and a hetero side
Henri_Gordien: We had the "mignons" come near us, their dicks fully erect. I let Lilith choose the one who had a slightly bigger one.
Quacktivist:
Dad, thou art my Sundae Special!
Drive up in a truck 'cause it
rhymes with fuck; drop your change
belt and shove that pink, hard
treat where it tastes most sweet!
Then let me, Daddy, Daddy, let me
do you any way I please! Let me
tear off your shirt, and rest my
head on your manly chest as I
reach through your fly to find
something big to suck on! And let
me slide those spotless white
pants over your muscular legs,
which you raise in the air to help
me out! Please, Daddy, please let
me do even more!
Let me make your
big nest slippery with my saliva
(your buoyant eggs shall ride the
waves of ecstasy!), let me taste
the sweetness of your crown (and
the first dew that drops on my
lips!), let me pierce your tight
sphincter with the dart of my
slippery tongue, and let me raise
your legs so I can pierce even
deeper, my hot breath smothering
your fiery balls, your cock so
stiff it feels like it's going to
burst from your skin! What bursts
instead is a fountain of ice
cream...
for we are in Candyland!
Henri_Gordien: LOL... my tale will look very modest. :-)
To continue reading, click here.
(It takes a very fun turn!)
As one who often performs "automatic writing" in my stories, essays,
letters, and poems, I do NOT understand some or even MOST of the hidden
meaning in my works. I believe that is because it is up to select
OTHERS to do the interpretation. However, being so analytically JUNGIAN at heart, I can sometimes DISCOVER these meanings on my own...at least in part. Take my Samhain poem:
At first, I just used the word "pumpkin", then decided on Jack o'
Lantern, as it would be more colorful and POETIC (duh). Then I thought
maybe there's ANOTHER word for pumpkin that I could use, so looked it
up on the web. Came across "Friar's Lanthern" and "Ignis Fatuus", to
learn this:
means strictly a fatuous fire it is also
called "Jack o' Lantern," "Spunkie," "Walking Fire," "Will o' the
Wisp," and "Fair Maid of Ireland". Milton calls it "Friar's Lanthern,"
and Sir Walter Scott "Friar Rush with a lantern." Morally speaking, a
Utopian scheme, no more reducible to practice than the meteor so called
can be turned to any useful end.
--end of quote
Being a zealously dedicated activist for gay liberation, one could
say that I am chasing the Will o' the Wisp...the impossible dream. I
just didn't realize that "jack o' lantern" came from that. But I can
see how: it resembles from a distance, an elusive light floating in the
mist. How appropriate for Halloween!
(I also did NOT see the adherence of a pumpkin on my crotch as
nothing more than a joke. Only after reading it over a number of times,
did the hidden meaning dawn on me.)
Now, since gay rights is an issue of sexuality, I have a genital
metaphor for that: "a huge orange wick". IOW, I get a "boner" over gay
rights. And I am so DEDICATED, that at this point, NOTHING will
extinguish or "damp" that fervor...even if I have to die for my
beliefs, unfulfilled.
But it is only when one REACHES that point of ABSOLUTE devotion,
does the REAL magic kick in! All MUST seem hopeless for a time, in
order to test one's METTLE.
So the orange wick is TRANSFORMED from a sexual symbol, to one of
enlightenment, represented by a flame, suggested by the Jack o' Lantern
"aglow"...and the color orange. Very Kundalini (rechanneling sexual urges into selfless ones), AND alchemical (transforming base desires into lofty ones).
This will o' the wisp, this friar's lanthern, is now permanently
GLUED to my crotch (my dedication to gay liberation). NOTHING can
thwart me now, for I remain PERMANENTLY erect with pride, burning with
the orange flame of enlightenment. (Orange is the color of spiritual
achievement in most Asian beliefs.)
This also ties in with certain medieval mystics who claimed to experience intensely EROTIC communion
with our creator. I've certainly dinked a lot of angels (and other
mythical creatures) in my dreams. Even been arrested once or twice by
the Astral Police for lewd behavior in a mixed cloud.
There is also the HUMOR of the Great Spirit to consider here: what a
funny image of me, walking around with a glowing pumpkin stuck in my
crotch. Not to mention (but whoops I'm going to anyway) that I
presently have a SWOLLEN left testicle, due to an injury incurred by
slipping off a chair and landing HARD on the floor...my right leg
pressing DOWN on the fambly jewels.
Now if ONLY I could have such big balls ALL THE TIME, without the
pain! No doubt this occurred to serve yet ANOTHER spiritual purpose
(besides the obvious metaphor of having "big balls"): some of my most
dangerous enemies are part of a black magic cult, originating BTW as
"Disciples of the Zodiac Killer",
which members advanced up the ladder of gay leadership in the Harvey
Milk era, and now run MOST gay venues in SF, but most especially the
bars and sex clubs/bathhouses. IOW: orginally run by the mafia (years
and years ago), now replaced by the gay equivalent.
If you haven't heard of them, it's because that's the way they
want it: they are very surreptitious, sneaky, back-stabbing and
manipulative. And excel at avoiding the public or media eye...mostly
because they control some of that, too, as well as a portion of our
police and sheriff departments. Anywayz, as part of their Black Artz, they stick pins in voodoo doll effigies of those they seek to malign.
No doubt a pin or two has been pierced through my surrogate balls,
and so seeing me limp down Market Street will lead them to believe that
their magic really DOES work. I don't mind, I'll play the game (savvy psychic detective
that I am)...even when I'm THRUST into an awkward or scary situation
against my WILL or WISH...be it that GODDESS'S WILL always comes first
in MY book! Just gotta keep on my toes, figure out the latest game
plan, the latest assignment ASAP.
I'm the Bad Boy of Avalon, the Bodhisattva
of Bawdy, the Lounge Lizard of Jehovah's Many Mansions, the Trick in
Your Treat and the Spice in Your Meat, the Cream in Your Ersatz and the
Egg in Your Beat...
better stop now while I'm still a talking head...'cause once
decapitated, no more gift o' gab! (Though I understand that Aztec myth
describes a deity in the form of a female skull that speaks
incessantly, and the only way to regain SILENCE is to bury it back in
the ground, deep.)
Gawd I need my coffee.
Good day.
- Zeke Krahlin
(the Paul Harvey of Tawdry Queer Revelations)
