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For the Record
01.30.08 (12:08 am)   [edit]

(The following declaration is an ADDENDUM to a thread I insitigated in "alt.pagan" newsgroup, entitled "Under Attack".)

This missive is addressed for the few in this thread who DO have ears to hear...NOT to these homophobic idiots attempting to SKEW my statements in a similar fashion to the distortion and lies by those researchers and media outlets in question. (Seamus, Midwinter, root, sarchasm, Medusa Slox, Stacey Weinberger.) For the sake of Socratic dialectic, this article ADDRESSES the culprits listed between those preceding parantheses. Missive ALSO addressed to any FUTURE readers of this piece, which I will soon post to my blog, and web site.

Please note that TWO of the above listed may not have ATTACKED me, but their participation in NO way involves any support of my viewpoints. And in so refusing to acknowledge my significance, they become partners in crime.

Midwinter et al:

Your IMMEDIATE reaction was to jump all over me, as if whatever's put into print MUST be truth. NO ONE is that stupid. Ergo, I conclude that your TRIVIALIZATION of my viewpoint is BECAUSE I am specifically a GAY activist, and you INTENTIONALLY mocked me. You WILFULLY played into the SF Chronicle's OBVIOUS defamation of gay people. You are part of the CONSPIRACY, which is REAL, which is UGLY. You can bellow and rage all you want, accusing me of being deluded. You just CAN'T get the black tar of maliciousness off your baby mentality.

Ergo #2: YOU are a homophobe.

When balanced news reports finally came in (thanks to the dedicated reporters of GAY media, FYI, NOT hetero, no, not a one), they clearly and accurately REFLECTED my conclusion on three out of four counts re.: (1) skewed data, (2) vainglorious researchers (willing to ravage an ALREADY sorely persecuted community for their own greed), and (3) INTENTIONALLY HOMOPHOBIC news reports (beginning w/the SF Chronicle). While none of the truth-speakers went so far as to suggest (4) CONSPIRACY as I surely have, everything ELSE I claimed was CONFIRMED by numerous and RELIABLE accounts. Even the NEW YORK TIMES apologized, fer chrissake!

It's not that I believe everyone (or anyone) MUST agree with EVERY premise of mine...but once the EVIDENCE poured in, favoring THREE of my FOUR major claims: any DECENT person (one who is also not homophobic), would not hesitate to admit my veracity. And therefore, even if they have strong doubts about an actual CONSPIRACY behind these SUSPICIOUS events...they would now CONSIDER that possibility, due to my success correctly interpreting 75% of my surmisals.

But did YOU (and cronies) care to acknowledge wherein I was right as rain, and that (to put this politely) you reacted too summarily...that maybe you should have HELD OFF your attacks for a day or two? OF COURSE NOT. And why is that? (C'mon everyone, sing along!)


You (et al) PERSERVERED in your anti-gay skulduggery as if NO accurate corrections followed via balanced media sources. You CONTINUED your outrageous attack upon me, accusing me of being overly reactive, and giving a bad name for gays. Such deliberate OBFUSCATION is indeed the strategy of anti-queer breeders. It NEVER fails. And because they believe they can GET AWAY WITH IT, these foul bullies continue the persecution!

Further: you and your ilk totally IGNORED the various comments of SUPPORT and AGREEMENT I received in this same thread. AS IF that never happened. As if! Now for a rundown of the support I received herein:


"In the minds of many amerikans it doesn't matter whether or not anybody implied it at all. Just hearing it under the terms of 'higher- rate by this much' is enough to make a lot of really stupid people think even more idiotic thoughts than they did a few moments before."


"So far, I am indeed of the opinion that the original article was presented in a way so as to imply without explicitly saying so, that homosexual men are responsible for the outbreak of a new 'bug' which has the potential to endanger society as a whole."

"Jim" :

"Besides there would be no modern druidry if it were not for the gays."

Truth Inc.:

"You'd be an extremist too with that kind of hatred against you."


"Finally, hospitals are breeding grounds and exercise gymnasiums for such things."

You, Midwinter (and cronies) have been ZEALOUSLY deriding me, in an OBVIOUS maneuver to DERAIL and OBFUSCATE the truth I've presented. As one who specializes in gay issues, as I have for MANY years, I have developed keen INSIGHT and superior deductive REASONING. Which reasoning has become so ADEPT, I can (like Sherlock Holmes) deduce MANY conclusions from a single thread left in a carpet. I do not EXPECT even my greatest allies to possess this remarkable gift...but I DO expect those who are truly non-homophobic and PROGRESSIVE, to give me DUE respect and consideration...even to ideas which upon FIRST presentation, appear OUTRAGEOUS. YOU do not, thus leading to my precise deduction that YOU (et al) are definitely biased AGAINST gay people. While of course, PRETENDING to be queer friendly.

Nazi tactics all the way! Infiltrate and obfuscate. Sabotage and camouflage. Boink the masses and diddle there asses. Screw the faggots, treat 'em like maggots. BETRAY the truth with tongues so loose! For WHATEVER reason, I am the SOLE remaining gay activist in AMERIKA that has NOT sold out to breeder terrorism. I take NO dollars, NO public fame, NO empowerment from the hands of you HETERO LIZARDS.

After YEARS and years of studying gay and anti-gay reports, it is CLEAR to me, there is a social-engineering style REAL conspiracy, using GAY people as the main scapegoat. I am NOT afraid of being labeled CRAZY, realizing that is ONE of the CURSES I must suffer, in order to bring TRUTH into the light of day. In THAT sense (and ONLY in that sense), you BREEDER culprits are my angels too, who willingly play the role of ENEMY, that I may become HERO. For the Buddha says, "We have no enemies, only teachers." So THANK YOU for being such breeder ASSHOLES, in order to portray my GREATNESS by contrast.

There is NO WAY to uncover the truth--that anti-gay actions are a result of consciously organized CONSPIRACY--withOUT accusing certain factions of complicity. And NOT being hesitant to say so in public venues (such as Usenet), for fear of being regarded LOONEY. For here is ANOTHER truth I now toss your way (for I believe that pearls, even when tossed before swine, do NOT lose their luster):

If you don't bother to CHALLENGE these beasts, get folks riled up, we'll NEVER discover the truth. And THAT attitude is but ONE of various ways to ACCURATELY determine who and who is NOT homophobic...and to what degree. I am MORE than willing to throw myself on The Sword, in order to get to the BOTTOM of things. Obviously, this includes exposing HETERO SCOUNDRELS such as:

Seamus, Midwinter, root, sarchasm, Medusa Slox, and Stacey Weinberger.

Last Wednesday
01.28.08 (10:33 pm)   [edit]

Last Wednesday (January 23), I visited the tacqueria where Larkin is employed. When I arrived (earlier than the other times I showed up), Larkin was not there...approx 11:20am. So I thought that maybe Larkin was fired? Or he was out with the flu? I was however, determined to hang out for a considerable while, just to prove (to myself, if no one else) my fortitude and resilience in this Surreptitious Armageddon. Even if Larkin was eliminated, and I was expected to forge on w/o my beloved!

So instead of walking out, I ordered a double a la carte of chile rellenos, and a medium sized coffee...and sat at the usual table, waiting for my tasty meal. Considering that, if Larkin did not show up, I'd still radiate a positive attitude, enjoy my meal and move on. But after a few minutes, despite my plate arrived and a full cup, I almost broke down!

"Where is Larkin?" I wept in my heart. "Did they fire him? Will I ever gaze upon him again?" And between my silent tears I thought: "Without my beloved Larkin, I am determined nonetheless, to speak and fight for the truth, and to GUARD his magnanimous spirit...but what a PAINFUL calling that would be! Randolph all over again!"

I continued: "This is just like living in Nazi Germany, where those you love you can't admire, else they'll be disappeared! I can't even ask an employee at the tacqueria, if Larkin is okay, if he was fired or will show up later. So hard to tell the difference between enemies and friends!"

Needless to say, I was ready to break down and cry, pouring copious tears over my rellenos, when Larkin finally strode in, in his usual, puffy (and seedy) bright red and dark blue ski jacket! I wanted to dance for joy, and hug him in so many ways...but I couldn't!

O Larkin, what an angel you are to me! You bring such tears of joy in my life! You put me through so MANY incredible changes, and I don't regret a SINGLE one of them! With your sweet presence, the chile rellenos were especially delicious, as was my medium-sized coffee, which I lingered over additional minutes (as it were like a yummy dessert), simply as an excuse to dawdle a while longer to enjoy your delightful presence under the same roof!

It was with great regret I finally departed (but none too late, in order to respect the danger imminent should we be discovered, for Hole in the Wall Saloon is right next door), we passed so close as you were by the door bent over the chalkboard menu, when I departed with much soulful angst. (I wanted to pull you up from behind, arms wrapped tightly around your torso, my cock pressed firmly against your ass-crack, tell you how MUCH I adore your very existence!)

Five days later (as I walked up Market Street to Walgreens to purchase an item that would allow me a $40 additional withdrawal to be spent on eating out), our paths crossed again, to my surprise! You crossed diagonally from The Metro as I passed 15th to enter Walgreens. I looked quite different in my new "Burns" security guard jacket, and sunglasses and watch cap. At the last moment you recognized me before we parted in opposite directions. Yet a half block further you looked back for a moment, to glimpse myself paused and gazing back at you, my body leaned against the lamppost.

You are heaven to me! And should you permanently disappear from my difficult life, I'm afraid I would ultimately perish. Certainly, I would continue to frequent for many weeks (if not months) that tacqueria where you were employed, in hopes that your disappearance would only be temporary...and that eventually, you'd show up again. What other choice have I, but to prove my faith by unbroken attendance for a considerable time to come? If I MUST play the sucker, so be it...you are worth THAT much to me!

The ink expenses for printing out my latest reveries have proven too much for me this January...as they've forced me to decide between eating out or printing out! And I've decided this month, that EATING OUT holds priority. So I apologize to you, my beloved Larkin, for not offering you more insight regarding my feelings towards you (via my printouts). BUT I do believe I've provided you with MORE than enough information (prior to January), to share with you my TRUE feelings, and a TRUE accounting of the evils I've been up against...for YOUR sake, as well as for mine!

Hopefully, I'll be able to purchase MORE ink, to send you my latest missives and thoughts. You'll just have to wait until some time in February...ideally just before Valentine's Day (Feb. 14), so I can shower you with my literary tears of joy and inspiration of a friend who is unconditionally in love with you! And that would be ME (of course). You are a BLESSED man, and I wish to be your BLESSED buddy for all time!

If I am asking too much of you, my apologies. Though my previous essay (dated Nov. 11, 2007), "Blessed Be My Wednesday" speaks eloquently of my love for you, my angel Larkin! And to let you know that I will show up EVERY Wednesday at the tacqueria, for the indefinite future. My Wednesdays are INDEED most blessed! (Or Mondays if I make it so, for I know you also work at the tacqueria on THAT day, too. But I promise: ALWAYS Wednesday, you can count on my appearance.)

"Do not save your loving speeches
For your friends till they are dead;
Do not write them on their tombstones,
Speak them rather now instead.

- Anna Cummins
My Compact With Larkin
01.24.08 (9:28 pm)   [edit]

Of course, by "compact" I intend definition #2. ( You COULD cite #1, with intent to make some anti-queer WISECRACK. But you wouldn't do that, would you, my DearQueer Reader!)

My Beloved Larkin,

As true love must always be UNCONDITIONAL (which affection and friendship I've already proven to you in a MYRIAD of ways, none of which has been EASY, nor do I think YOUR unique brand of kindness has been easy, either), I offer this, my LATEST expression of fervent admiration towards the most excellent fellow and genuine angel that you are:

Whatever wealth I gain as a result of my opus, "Steal This Blog" (composed of these two books: "The Larkin Chronicles" and "Friendly Ghost Detective Agency"), I shall reward you with AT LEAST fifty percent (50%), and even MORE if I can so afford. Please realize that it is unlikely I'd gain profit from literal PUBLICATION of said opus, as it is illegal to include REAL names and photos of any person in my books without their explicit permission. It will have to be a clandestine sensation distributed through the collective underground by numerous agents on a global basis. And THAT is precisely how I see these writings will take off!

Of course, I'm including YOUR real name/description in my books, without your acknowledged permission. Thus leaving me open for you to SUE me for considerable monies, should I profit in any way from these writings. Let this be a test of my FAITH in you, and in the miracle that is our friendship. I put my complete TRUST in you, that such a tragic outcome is NOT in the cards.

But you know by now, I am an HONEST man, and will be sure to share with you any monetary success I make INDIRECTLY from my opus. For example: I will probably be well PAID to give lectures and open-mic readings of my tales arising therefrom. These monies I shall keep close account of, that I may live up to my promise that you, likewise, will benefit. After all, it is your MARVELOUS inspiration that has caused these wondrous true tales to flow from my fingers, and onto the World Wide Web. So you certainly SHOULD receive at least half the credit for the creation of these two, amazing novels.

With such profits, I hope you become rich enough to live your life any way you please. MY suggestion is to promote you as a party mixer for gay events and gatherings. Seeing as you are a natural GENIUS of gay comedy! I've never met anyone else who has all the snappy lines and comebacks as you do, dearest amigo...you're absolutely BRILLIANT, a genuine treasure of our Gay Family (albeit underappreciated, though I hope to change all that). But certainly, you would be free to pursue a life any which-way you please, for my unconditional adoration of you comes with NO STRINGS ATTACHED.

Including of course, whether or not you choose to be a FRIEND and/or LOVER to yours truly. For I consider the very KNOWING of you, that someone as incredible as yourself exists (and that I have the TREMENDOUS honor of meeting for even a moment in time), makes me the LUCKIEST (and most bless-ed) man on the planet, if not the entire universe! Of course, I don't see WHY at this point, you'd NOT want to hang out with me as best friend...but that is none of my business, if things go that way. For I will STILL love you immensely, and be HONORED to shower you with the financial benefits that will likely come for your inspiration that gave birth to "Steal This Blog".

Let this be an early VALENTINE'S DAY GIFT to you, my sweet darling. You need only sign YOUR name to this compact, to activate it. MY signature has already been placed.

Ezekiel J. Krahlin

Larkin Kelsey

The Future Belongs To MOI
01.21.08 (9:55 pm)   [edit]

You hold in your hand a small, flat packet: a belated birthday gift you received in the mail just moments ago. Your friend said it was a small painting by that faggot artist so popular these days. You hope not. You're sick of seeing his insipid face on the cover of Time (the last three issues, for God's sake!)...and, all in the short span of one week, on TV pap like "Okra Winfree," "I Love Lucifer," "Glove Connection," "Married With Mutants," "FBI: The Unsold Stories," and "Masturbate Theater". Enough is enough, already! "Actually, the pervert's a fuckin' genius," you admit to yourself. "Anyone who owns a piece of his art becomes an instant celebrity--and rich!" (Not by selling the painting, but by charging admission to view it.)

Musing over the packet's contents, you sit at your desk and turn it in your hands with delicious anticipation. Pondering, you get swept up in a whirlwind of reveries...and land somewhere in the future, on a barren strip of land that goes nowhere in every direction. When you look down, grass grows under your feet, and all about. When you look around, people pop up like mushrooms. You find yourself part of a small crowd of fourteen, and know who you are, and know this is the month of Horus in the year 2335.

You rub your eyes and say to the woman beside you: "What a strange daydream I just had. Can you imagine: men with no hair on their heads?"

The stately dame smiles at you and replies, "There are stranger things in sky and ground than bald-headed men...though not by much," she adds, scratching her own shiny pate in bemusement. Jewel-encrusted tattoos on her skull make her look twenty years younger.

A late arrival appears, looks around, and brushes lint from his toga top. "My deity, the traffic was awful!"

"Am I late?" his voice booms in the peaceful ambiance.

The dame narrows her eyes and snaps at him: "My astute young fellow. Obviously you are on time, or we wouldn't all be standing here like turkeybots in a Formularium. " She withdraws a Cylinder of Deimos from her sleeve and, with it, taps him on the shoulder. "Besides, I can hardly bear..."

A sharp, electric "crack" breaks the conversation, then all is silent for a few, expectant moments. A powerful resonance grows from the ground to your ears, as the image of a building takes form, hovering only inches from the ground. Its looming presence dwarfs the small crowd. It appears massive and ornate, like a nineteenth-century museum, and slowly turns (as if you are walking around it, only you stand still). Once the main gate faces the visitors, it halts. Grand marble steps lead to the gate, and are bordered by two Doric columns. Around each pillar writhes a silver android python. They flicker their sinewy, orange tongues within a hair's breadth of the tour guide who stands atop the steps.

"Ahem! Do not feed the snakes," he reprimands a child caught feeding bionic mice to a python. Embarrassed, the offending lad quickly backs away from the leviathan reptile that recoils in dismay.

"Let the tour begin," the guide continues. He waves his hand with a flourish toward the stone lettering above the gate: IN MY MUSEUM THERE ARE MANY MANSIONS.

"Many mansions indeed," remarks the guide. "As a matter of fact, we have yet to discover an end to the number of rooms. Some Krahlinologists hypothesize the number of rooms to be infinite; that this Great Talent discovered a way to continue His existence into other dimensions, where He is happily painting canvas after canvas to this very day." He pauses. "But, like deity, this is just a romantic notion."

"Each room is dedicated to a single painting," continues the tour guide. "And as we discover new rooms, we discover new paintings. While The Artist has been dead now for over two hundred ninety years, we are still charmed by the presentation of His latest work, just as if He were alive today."

"But when will He be undead?" interrupts a visitor (obviously a devotee by the anxious tone in her voice...by those subtle, but distinct, random scarifications of the body that must always remain exposed to the air and the light of truth...and by the twelve, Siamese-cloned androgynous consorts who perpetually tend to the cleanliness of her suppurating wounds).

The guide expounds, with a melancholy timbre to his words: "Nobody has ever viewed His Postmortem Contract, for it is piezosecured in the NuVatican's Sacred Vault. So no one knows, not even the NuPope. " He sighs. "Remember the vision of three NuSpanish children some seventy years ago, who claimed that the Holy NuVirgin revealed the year of The Great Artist's Resurrection to be twenty-two seventy-two?"

"Yeah," replies the questioner in discouragement (as several consorts wash her wounds in silent empathy), "I was only a hatchling then. It never happened."

"That's right," the tour guide recalls. "And the resulting global riots almost toppled the world back over the edge to the Premetamorphic Era--the era which defined all of humanoid history prior to 1999--the era our Great Artist strove so long and hard to pull us out of: to lead the world into our own, enlightened era."

"The POSTmetamorphic Era," comments the boy with the bionic mice. He is petting one.

"Er, yes," replies the nervous guide as the two pythons eagerly lash their tongues at the boy, who stands less than two meters away. The decorative snakes are now completely unraveled from their marble pillars. They sprawl across the landing, heads hovered over the topmost step.

"But please, put your mouse away!" cautions our tour director as simulated beads of sweat roll down his high forehead.

The lad retreats down the stairway, and the pythons withdraw to resume their coiled embrace of the columns . But they glare at the scruffy-haired youngster: for protruding from each of his numerous pockets is a semi-automated rodent's nose and whiskers.

The tourist guide straightens his musclelet in relief, and continues: "This incredible museum is just part of Our Great Artist's wonderful legacy that has done so much good for the world--and continues to do more, as we evolve along with His art each time a new discovery occurs. Knowing the brilliant and clever man He was, we do not expect to uncover the last room, the last painting, anytime in the near future."

An impatient teenager speaks up: "Okay, okay, cut the education scat. We all know this stuff from hatchery school. On with the tour!" Her four arms (one pair longer than the other, identifying her as a future biostronaut) are stubbornly folded across her chest.

The affronted guide widens his eyes: "Very well. But there's no need to be rude."

"Why not?" retorts the teenager, "You're just a hologram."

"True," quips the guide, "but an interactive one."

Our museum escort turns to face the gate, which rapidly vanishes into the ceiling like a reverse waterfall. The museum descends into the ground--marble steps, columns, and all--until its floor is submerged half a meter beneath the grass. It moves forward and swallows everyone up. Now, we all stand in the main lobby. The walls are built from large, mortared blocks of stone, in the fashion of medieval castles. The interior is dark and cool, lit by a single torch set in a sconce.

"The museum itself," continues the guide, "was also created by The Great Artist. But He had to wait almost fifteen years before His dream castle would be converted from blueprint to edifice...which is how long it took NuTechnology to catch up to his dreams. This NuTechnology of Hologramacoustic Engineering, by the way, is another invention of the Great Artist.

"Can you imagine?" whispers an elderly gentleman beside you, "People living in buildings that don't move? And they were solid, too!"

"Let us now enter the first vault." the guide turns his back to us, as the museum moves forward and rotates, pulling us into a small, tiny chamber with just a small, tiny painting on one wall. The diminutive masterpiece seems to illuminate the entire cell in its own unassuming, but saintly, way. Several visitors gasp and swoon. The painting, entitled "Don't Tread On MOI," seems to speak:

I sing, I dance. I celebrate. Deity's promise to man is fulfilled in me. Who am I to deserve such honors? I do not know. Deity says: "No man earns it. It is simply given. A gift." I do not know. But I do know one thing: I am truly blessed! Isn't that my message? That we are all truly blessed? I am here to wake everyone up! I am truly blessed to have the gift to show everyone else that they are also truly blessed! Blessed among the blessed, I am! You can never catch up to me! I won the golden apple! Here! Take a bite and see how wonderful it tastes! Sing with me! Dance with me! And don't forget to give me a little credit where credit is due! Was I really such a bad guy after all? Didn't I teach woman and man to think for themselves?

"For such a simple design, it sure is a talkative little piece," you joke to yourself, as joy leaps in your heart like frolicking ponies. "He should have named it Yakety-Yak," you think, and start chuckling, for you suddenly realize you are conversing and laughing along with the picture: you are joking with the snake! There is laughter all around you.

The tour guide wipes tears of joy from his eyes and composes himself. "Yes," he remarks, "it is always a pleasure to renew this experience, as common as it is these days. And to have it, all we need do is take a moment to look at any of the Great Artist's works, to which we have fingertip access anywhere in the world...for NuCivilization has long since manufactured billions of quality reproductions for anyone to own, for free! This is the Great Legacy of the Great Artist: through his paintings we gain the capacity of true joy: that is, oneness with the Deityhead."

"Why, that's like the snakes outside the museum!" exclaims an enthusiastic tourist. "And those stripes are like the ones I saw from an old holo-pic called 'Noah's Ark and the Slave Booty.'"

"Correct in both cases," the guide affirms. "The colors in those stripes were once referred to as a 'rainbow,' after a once-common meteorological phenomenon that occurred worldwide, until the Great Artist copyrighted it and took it with him to his piezo-mausoleum. With his death, the rainbow colors died also, until, by this time, few people even know what they are. The Artist wanted to mark the great loss to the world of his own existence, by taking with him what he (and apparently many others, at that time) considered to be the most aesthetic symbol of the soul of art."

The tour guide then took this visitor aside and sternly whispered, "The holo-pic you mentioned is censored. Don't EVER bring it up again. Ever."

The guide smiled and turned back to the crowd: "The Great Artist painted 'MOI' before he was self-realized. The incredible message to be carried through his hand had begun, though the artist himself did not know. He decided to copyright this painting, for he knew it was clever enough for another artist to steal. When his nation's government returned the 'proof of deposit' certificate for 'MOI,' the number assigned to it was 187-666. The Great Author chuckled over the number, for the last three digits, in PaleoChristian mythology, signify the devil, often represented as a snake (the classic example being the serpent in the Garden of Eden). The Author thought, 'There is no way to predict what number they'll assign to any work. And this is the only design I have done that incorporates a snake. The odds against 666 must be astronomical to the Nth degree!' Little did the Great Artist realize at that time, the profound machinations the cosmos had begun working, through him, and through this painting.

"The Artist created several versions of 'MOI.' This version he duplicated by hand, many times over, and peddled them on the streets. It is made of a combination of cloth, vinyl, and paint; pieces made separate, then appliqued in layers. Through 'MOI,' he invented the 3-D patch, a truly remarkable innovation for his time...but something so common today, we don't even think about it, like hydroponic cows."

"He also painted several 'flat' versions suitable for picture-reproduction in the form of two-dimensional patches, stickers and buttons. The back of this particular 3-D patch is coated with a special glue that allows you to stick the patch on the back of your coat, or to any other reasonably flat surface. It could be re-attached over a hundred times before requiring fresh glue! The glue would not leave any residue on the surface receiving the patch...and some adhesive still remains on the patch to this very day!"

"What's so amazing about that?" challenges the teenager with four arms (now waving them about like a windmill). "We have glue now, that'll attach your own head right back onto your neck, and instantly restore all severed nerve, blood vessel, muscle, cartilage, and tendon connections."

The guard narrows his eyes at her and says, "Shall we try it on you?"

"I never saw this picture before," you intervene. "I thought you said all his known works were copied en masse throughout the world. Is this a newly discovered piece?"

"No it isn't," says the guide. "It is actually his first known piece. Known to the people of his time, that is. Because of his copyright on the rainbow, this is the only known piece hidden from the world. This Museum is the only place you can view it. Apparently, this is your first visit to The Museum."

"Of course," you emphasize, "I know what is in the Great Artist's heart--it only takes one picture to tell you that. So I could never dream of repainting it myself to have at home, and show my friends."

"Nor could I," agrees the guide.

"Nor could I," chirps a chorus of voices from the crowd. "Nor could I."

"Let's move on," the guide commands, and vault number one is suddenly plunged into darkness.

When you can see again, you are once more sitting at your desk, still turning the birthday package in your hand.

And...it is still unopen.

Jesus On The Okra Winfree Show
01.19.08 (12:14 am)   [edit]
Jesus On The Okra Winfree Show
I Can't Believe It's Not Beelzebub!

Jesus Christ returns to planet earth and, of course, He is invited to a LOT of talk shows...in order for us to understand better, what this man called Jesus is really all about. So it is on the Okra Winfree Show He is asked the question:

"Jesus, what do YOU think was the most important advice YOU ever received in Your lifetime as the Suffering Messiah?"

Jesus deliberates on this a few moments before answering: "Well, Okra, I don't consider My incarnation as The Messiah among the most relevant of My past-life experiences. Even so, during that existence, I received so many excellent words of wisdom, that I really CAN'T pick a favorite. But I'll tell you this: I shall never forget the WORST piece of advice ANYONE gave Me, in ANY of My multitudinous lives."

Okra Winfree leans forward in profound curiosity and says: "Okay, Jesus, and what was that?"

Jesus finally answers: "Well, it was during my PRESENT incarnation (as you now see Me), and it came from a psychiatrist who once told Me: 'Jesus, You can't save the world.'"

Okra parries: "THAT revelation must have been quite a SHOCKeroonie to the ol' ego there, buddy!"

"Too-SHAY, Okra," retorts Jesus, lighting a Camel Light 100 to soothe His jangled nerves, "too-SHAY."

"May-uh KOOL-pah, may-uh KOOL-pah," Okra chuckles, "It's ALWAYS fun to play devil's advocate with You, Jesus."

"Fine with Me, Okra," grins Our Savior, "as long as YOU don't mind an occasional DIP in the Lake Of Fire."

"Well, another BURNING question I have..." (audience guffaws before Okra continues) "...regards the HUMAN side of Jesus Christ: Besides tobacco, do you have any OTHER addictions?"

Jesus blushes, and lowers His head. "Yes. One other. Boys. In that way, I'm like My Daddy."

Suddenly, a voice booms out of nowhere:


Okra Winfree raises her eyes to the ceiling and, slightly disgruntled, challenges Our Holy Guest: "Can't you EVER get Your Father to show up in person?"

Jesus shrugs His shoulders. "God knows I've been trying, but He seems to take everything like one, big, fat joke. You know, I can't even get HIM to see ME whenever I want!"

"Wait a minute," Okra grows serious, "You mean to tell me You STILL can't be with Your Father?"

"Well, not quite," ponders The Son Of Man, "It's just that He sees ME whenever He wants, but I don't get to see HIM whenever I want. It's just not fair."

Okra drops a pensive arm from her chin and says, sadly, "No, Jesus, that isn't fair at all."


Our Man Of The Cross sighs and flips a rude finger to the sky: "FUCK you, Dad, just FUCK you."


Okra, in raging fury, jumps onto her chair and waves an angry fist at the ceiling: "God, don't You think You're going a little too far? Think of Your Wonderful Son!"


"Don't talk to Him, Okra," grumbles Jesus, "just don't talk to Him. It's the only way you'll get Him to leave us alone." Hands shaking, Our Lord attempts to light another cigarette, but drops the match book.


Out of nowhere appears an incredibly gorgeous dude, adorned in nothing more than a bulging gold lame' loin cloth and these opalescent, feathery white wings stretching across the entire breadth of the stage.

He alights by Jesus, who caresses the firm, smooth butt of the archangel, then grabs His Own Ample Crotch and says:

"Okra, I hate to break this off, but as you can see, it's meant to stay on and be fondled."

And with those words, the archangel's fat crown pops its head above the loin cloth. (Camera zooms in for a yummy closeup. Audience drools in raptured silence, as a milky substance dribbles from the crown and down the angel's spear. When the camera regretfully pulls back, this glorious angel tosses His luxurious mane of silver hair, and laughs):


Then He lifts Jesus up, cradles Him in His massive arms, and looks straight into the camera:


They vanish, leaving Okra Winfree behind, along with a half-empty pack of Camel Light 100s lying on the floor.

Beside the empty chair.

The Exalted Land Of AndOr
01.18.08 (12:01 am)   [edit]

July is the best time of year to visit the Lilliputian nation of AndOr, for they celebrate their Independence Day (July 1) all month long. The AndOrians, descendants of the Basque people, were separated due to a disagreement over whether or not to allow AIDS carriers into their territory. The Basques (located in the Pyrenees Mountains between France and Spain) aggravated this dilemma by attempting to push all suspected homosexuals and/or lesbians into the Bay of Biscay.

The entire AndOrian populace, totalling just and/or only 144,000 males and/or females, rose to the occasion in defense of brotherly and/or sisterly love, and beat off and/or creamed the attacking majority of breeders and/or homophobes. Radio Free AndOr claims that the potential and/or conceivable casualties and/or victims of both sides withdrew before any blood and/or other vital fluids could be lost;

thus and/or therefore (and/or hence) making their sudden secession and/or revolution the first peaceful one in Iberian and/or world history. Non-AndOrian and/or non-Basque tourists who served as unbiased and/or non-partisan witnesses, claim that the Andorians and/or "Gay Basque Houses" won because of a clever and/or Trojan-like strategy to stockpile surplus artillery and/or munitions in their bulging basquettes and/or chests.

The AndOrian cottage and/or village industry is renowned for its beautiful basquettes and/or chests (traditionally worked with one of the artisan's left and/or right hands in his and/or her lap and/or that of the apprentice). Some historians and/or ZekeKrahlinologists claim that this tradition and/or practice originated from the Lap-landers, who kept falling into AndOrian basquettes and/or chests on their migration and/or march north, where they could settle and/or eke a living...without being persecuted for their love of reindeer and/or packed snow and/or sperm oil. (Another reason and/or explanation why they were travelling north in the first Place and/or originally, was because, at one time and/or another, the European continent and/or land mass tilted and/or sloped from south to north and/or southeast to northwest and/or south-southeast to north-northwest, while the Lap-landers were mounting their sleighs and/or reindeer.)

Since the origin of the Basques remains shrouded and/or hidden in prehistory and/or before they knew how to write, likewise and/or also must the roots and/or seed of AndOr remain buried in a misty and/or questionable gap in the annals and/or bowels of antiquity. A curious note and/or point of fact in the AndOrian Royal and/or Court Archives, is that Andor never claimed to be ruled and/or governed by a Queen...though one would tend to raise an eyebrow and/or two when considering and/or viewing the Royal Wardrobe: a wide and/or copious variety of expensive furs and/or stoles (said rationale and/or excuse being: "For the cold, mountainous air of winter, and/or going to the opera.").

The territory and/or span of AndOr is a mere and/or meager sixty-nine square meters of virgin and/or undefiled parquet floors (hence the many signs and/or notices: "Slippery and/or slick when wet")...equal and/or equivalent to 2,716.53 square feet and/or roughly one-half of a square mile. All AndOr-ogenous zones and/or territorial boundaries are demarcated by straight lines and/or lines of straights (from which the national pastime and/or recreation, "Slap-and/or- Pinch-the-Butt-of-a-Borde r-Guard-and/or-Sentry," arose).

Fortunately and/or thank God AndOr's population and/or citizenry (alias and/or A.K.A. "Andor-oids") numbers and/or is about 144,000...and housing for each one and/or every AndOrian was easily accommodated and/or provided by the erection of one grand and/or luxurious condominium complex and/or hotel...with 53 restaurants and/or cafes, 192 bars and/or lounges, 18,422 vibrating Greek statues and/or sculptures and/or busts,

271 dog-grooming emporiums, 422 barber shops and/or hair-styling salons, 6,001 paraphernalia and/or sex-toy shops, 310 different flavors of Perrier, and 1 live white unicorn and/or little silver pony with a horn (free to roam the premises and/or grounds, often seen and/or merrily splashing and/or cavorting in the numerous marble fountains and/or spas overflowing with Aqua Vita and/or divine semen)...

to mention only a few and/or several of the many wonders and/or miracles that daily and/or every twenty-four hours bless this great and/or incredible city-state of AndOr. This leaves the rest of the land open and/or available for disco dancing and/or hopscotch (for which reason and/or purpose the floor tiles are laid with alternating and/or staggered shades of hot pink and/or fuchsia and Jet-set black and/or ebony).

AndOr's national flag was inspired and/or stolen from the flag of America and/or the U.S.A. and/or U.S. of A., in that it, too and/or also, has thirteen and/or 7-plus-6 alternating red and white stripes and/or bars, with a large, dark and/or navy blue patch in the upper right (and/or left, depending on which way you view it) corner. Only instead of 50 stars and/or pentagrams, AndOr's flag proudly and/or snobbishly displays 50 white and/or Pink Princess phones...the exact number and/or amount of telephones required for each AndOrian residence, per their Declaration and/or Manifesto of Independence and/or Liberty and/or Freedom and/or Fun.

But and/or however, on one side of the bottommost and/or lowest stripe, are these inspiring and/or rousing words:


On the other side are the equivalent and/or similar words for dykes:


We hope, on your way and/or trip from one great and/or famous European and/or world capitol to another, that you do find and/or discover the time and/or inclination to visit and/or reside in the first new nation and/or state to be born of the New and/or Aquarian Age: AndOr and/or NUGREECE. Visa and/or Mastercard are welcome; as are the currencies of Spain, France, and/or Monopoly. AndOr's own currency depicts and/or shows a circle of unicorns dancing around the motto and/or slogan: "E. Pluribus UnICORNum," and a portrait of the first horse to land on the moon: "Captain Randy Seabiscuit and/or Soupcracker."

Statuettes and/or miniature dolls of Captain Randy seabiscuit and/or Soupcracker are available in any of AndOr's 78 souvenir and/or gift shops...with and/or without accessories and/or appurtenances such as: golden bridle and/or harness, four-legged equestrian and/or horsy spacesuit, bail of hay and/or bag of oats, groats, and/or love notes, space capsule "Mr. Ed I", and his sidekick "Little Pony and/or Buddy" with and/or without plastic raincoat and/or moonglasses.

Engraved and/or etched with neon pink and/or lime green and/or metallic and/or bright silver, AndOrian and/or NuGreek currency is not only a delight and/or pleasure to spend, but makes great decorations and/or ornamentation for wedding cakes and/or honeymoon-suite wallpaper and/or bow ties.

-----the end and/or finis and/or th-th-that's all folks!


Under Attack
01.17.08 (12:02 am)   [edit]

Click on map to view accompanying news article.

As if AIDS weren't enough! I charge the government and a certain CULT (that has infiltrated said gov't) for using biological warfare on homosexuals, starting with HIV, and now this new, highly-contagious (skin-contact) strain of flesh-eating bacteria...or MRSA meaning "methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus".

One could talk a convincing spiel that I'm just a conspiracy nut of the queer stripe...that modern evolution of virulent disease is due to a broken health care system, and deterioration in public hygiene. These days, most everyone puts their shod feet on furniture and public transit seats, pedestrians spit and blow snot chunks as they walk down the street, and food workers/hospital employees no longer take care to wash their hands properly, and frequently. The ranks of the homeless continue to grow, and without health care of any quality they become ill more often, and spread bacteria/viruses throughout their adopted cities. These are certainly contributing factors of no small measure...but such conditions also FACILIATE the gov't/cult's USE of stigmatized segments of our populace for biological experimentation and covert genocide. Not to mention TERRORIZING the masses into submissive reverence!

This dispersal of MRSA is nothing less than ANTI-GAY BIOLOGICAL WARFARE, and the USE of homosexuals as a pool of human guinea pigs. New England gay activist Thomas Keske has MUCH to say in this matter, in his various Usenet missives these past ten years! Allow me to point you to one of Tom's informative articles as an example: "HIV-Laced Vaccines?". From which I now quote (and remark upon):

...the hepatitis vaccines are the clearest issue in the mysteries of AIDS origin, IMHO....The role of the hepatitis vaccines seems obvious enough that I think our government was being arrogant, and not even trying to hide it very much.

Arrogant indeed! Check out this "gay flesh eating" map! The 94114 zip code (the Castro) is BRIGHT RED...like a bull's eye. It's a blatant ATTACK, both psychological and biological to TERRORIZE and DECIMATE our gay ranks. And they're not too covert about it. What does this map REALLY suggest? Gays are CODE RED, same as Islamic terrorists!

Can you imagine Eureka Valley (and other queer-locale) restaurants, coffeehouses, shops and bars shutting down, 'cause tourists (and even SF denizens) fear exposure? And heteros SHUNNING any physical proximity towards gays (forget about shaking hands)...and gays AFRAID to even hug each other! See the homophobes strike back: our very own Kristallnacht. Shops all around the Castro boarded up, windows smashed, fires lit! Why stop with Gay Mecca's epicenter? EVERY QueerCentric urban community will suffer EXTREME hostility. Boston, Los Angeles, Chicago, D.C., Seattle, Atlanta, Miami, Philadelphia, et cetera. (Why stop with the United States? No reason. There goes Amsterdam, Sydney, Guadalajara, Toronto, London, Cape Town, Paris, Hong Kong, et al. Good thing we're not an inter-galactic civilization at this juncture!)

Just imagine what homo-hating radio shock jocks such as Michael Savage and Rush Limbaugh will have to say about this! And what about the churches this Sunday: what hateful poison will THEY spew from the pulpit, all across our sorry nation! (Let's not forget the Mosques, no friend they!) Believe you me, I'll be LISTENING to the radio, SCOURING the newspapers and online reports to bring the pieces together into one Ugly Big Picture! (Before I'm rounded up myself by Neocon Brown Shirts or, more optimistically, find hidden sanctuary.)

Outspoken queer activists such as myself and Tom will be very much a target of social scapegoating, and SILENCED in one way or another. (Possibly arrested and TRIED for treason, unless we can somehow access a sort of Gay Underground Railroad!) CENSORSHIP of all things gay! VERBOTEN to wear a pink triangle, and anything ELSE deemed homosexual. (There go the lavender handbags, gentlemen!) Males will FEAR walking the streets withOUT a female on their arm. (Poor ladies, how we guys use you, whether we be straight OR gay!)

I don't think I'm being alarmist at all, 'cause this article on the Chronicle's front page REEKS of an outright attack upon our community, via media/gov't/medical manipulation.

Gays THIRTEEN times more likely to catch this infection (quoting the Chronicle)? A suspicious number indeed...like they're laughing in our faces, believing there's nothing we can do about it. Why not TWELVE or EIGHT or FOUR or FIFTEEN times as likely? May as well claim we're 666 times as likely! As if they want to be BLATANT but not THAT blatant. No, not quite yet, but once society starts rounding up queers for isolation, THEN all bets will be off, BEYOND blatant...it will be OUTRIGHT persecution!

In addition, I refer my readers to Tom's page entitled "Biowar on a Budget." Some quotes:

  • Governments can do the same thing that a cult can do. They keep their eyes and ears open, for every exotic virus in every remote corner of the world. They can seize samples, culture it, spread it without needing to know much at all about it, helping along a potentially natural process, many-fold.

  • One of the first recorded examples of biological warfare is the ancient Romans using dead animals to foul the enemy's water supply ("Biological Warfare and the Implications of Biotechnology"). If the ancient Romans can manage to cook up such ideas, so can Allied, German, or Japanese scientists in 1918, and so can DOD, CIA, or Russian scientists in the 60's and 70's.

  • When you have a government that cozies with religious extremists who say that gays are abominations and enemies of God, that is comparable to a man who says that he loathes his wife. When the government talks about developing new viruses refractory to the immune system, it is comparable to a man buying a gun similar to that which was used to kill his wife, shortly afterward. We are dealing with governments with a proven track record of lying, as a matter of routine. Both the U.S. and Russia promised to stop biowar research in a 1972 treaty. Neither did.

  • Sarin gas: the chemical structure is (H3C)2CHOPF(O)me. It has just four ingredients: phosphorus trichloride, sodium fluoride, isopropyl alcohol, and acentonitrile. It can be made by mere cults, much less renegade governments.

  • In the late 1970's, experimental hepatitis B vaccines were given to gay men in New York and San Francisco. Months later, in each location, the first known cases of AIDS were reported. In New York, some 15 of the first 41 cases were believed to be participants of the vaccine experiment. In San Francisco, 11 of the first 24 vaccine AIDS cases were participants of the vaccine trials. What I am demonstrating is that the probability of this being explainable by random chance is so small, that it constitutes a statistical "smoking gun"- proof as far beyond reasonable doubt as any jury could ever hope to obtain.

Tom's home town of Boston is also hit hard by this new staph, as seem to be ALL the major gay urban pockets in the U.S.

Can you say "holocaust?" We gays will VERY SOON be regarded as dangerous vessels of highly contagious and fatal DISEASE, thus isolated in ghettos and camps. (Truth? Said disease was INTERJECTED into our bodies and body politic via gov't sponsored quackery and hate speech.) Actually, we HAVE been considered plague carriers for centuries, but this particular bacteria is major FUEL to the fire. Our worst nightmare come true...and it was all SET UP that way from the beginning, by Zodiac Cult machination and gov't trespass. San Francisco, Gay Mecca, the EPICENTER? Don't they really mean BULL'S EYE? What This Cult is doing, is playing into majority prejudice that homosexuals are intrinsically filthy, a VERMIN to the decent majority of humans, who are God-fearing BREEDERS...and it's time to put the kibosh on our brazen DARE to demand equal rights.

Just like when it seemed full steam ahead for our rights in the late 70's, a mysterious virus (and consequent resurgence of homophobic vitriol) ground our movement to a halting screech. Now, some 25 years later (of MUCH struggling and grief borne, I might add) we've WON some gay marriage/partnership rights in various states, and other political inroads and...whaddya know...ANOTHER even MORE virulent and contagious malady crashes the party!

ALSO just like my own life: whenever I was about to make a breakthrough, some horrid turn of fate caused it all to come tumbling down. This, I now realize, is due to intrusion of my personal life BY these Cultic Kooks. They are SADISTS to boot! The misery they conjure up is an energy force that nourishes their vampirical cravings. The MORE misery, the MORE sated and empowered THEY are...while the REST of us, poor souls, are left wallowing in the muck of their evil defecations.

AND Al-Qaeda has officially declared a jihad on all LGBT politicos, starting with the gay Mayor of Paris. Along with the Catholic Pope who recently DENOUNCED homosexuals as a destructive factor in society. TWO major religions that together cover most of two continents (South America and Africa), all of Central America and Mexico, MOST of the Middle East, all of Indonesia, and other big chunks of the planet! While these United States don't fall in either religious camp, we must include them in this overwhelming tidal wave of anti-queer hatred, due to Christian fundamentalist dogma that has POISONED our culture.

These are NOT coincidences, Queer Reader. This is global sabotage of gays by The Zodiac Cult Network...which has grown EXTENSIVELY to encompass the world, since its inception in 1967. What seems to have occurred is that, prior to their takeover of MANY levels and aspects of societies worldwide, global hatred was composed of myriad FACTIONS of hate groups that had little interest in joining forces. The Zodiac Cult managed to INFILTRATE them all, one by one, step by step, until now, their power runs through each, and RULES.

The Next Holocaust is on! I just number among the FIRST to see the big picture. I've always been ahead of the times, labeled "paranoid" by Zodiac Disciples and their cohorts in order to obfuscate my insightful conclusions, and those of other concerned gay activists (albeit a handful), including Thomas Keske.

Look again at that petri dish above. Colorful, is it not? Poison mushrooms are colorful, too! Now look at this one:

Seem familiar? It ought to, but I forgive you if it does not. That artful rendering of a toxic petri dish by yours truly, is the THEME for my online opus, "Steal This Blog". Displayed on the book's cover, when you hover the mouse cursor over that image, this caption will appear: "Revenge is a petri dish best served moldy!" For I am full aware that contemporary governments and cults employ biological weapons in their arsenal of terror. (Gee, isn't that how we FOUNDED our nation, with small-pox blankets gifted to the natives? The Great Amerikan Tradition lives on!) And when pushed against the wall (as homosexuals seem thus threatened), just HOW do you think some of us will react, out of DESPERATE crisis?

Why, we'll RETALIATE. Turning the SAME biological weapons used upon us (HIV and MRSA) by our enemies against our enemies. And just who IS the enemy? ANYONE who professes the terror and death of non-heteros...duh! Granted, many of our spineless queer brethren (and sistren) will obligingly march to their doom...either to biological research centers for experimentation, or (if already a bare husk of mortality thanks to medical sabotage) to death camps.

But what about the brave HANDFUL of spirited queers who refuse to go down without a fight? Do you really think SOME of us will not retaliate with biological force? Of course, there's always the ubiquitous GUN. But firearms will not invite SEDUCTION of our enemies, where we can get REALLY close to them and infect them with the very SAME microbes they gleefully injected into us!

In the wee hours while the enemy is sound asleep and murmuring contented snorts (after giving him the best FUCK in his life), we'll quietly slip out of bed, put on our latex gloves, and tenderly administer the invisible agent (in dessicated form, most likely) to his exposed, livid flesh. Then silently slip away, like The Proverbial Thief In The Night.

HEARKEN! I am neither professing such a horrid form of counterattack, nor intend to carry it out myself. For we'd then be no better than our enemies, correct? (I could be WRONG here, just playing Angel's Advocate. After all, it was a NOBLE thing for the Allied Resistance to blow up Nazi trains and their centers of power, don't you agree?) But I am being HONEST here, knowing the NATURE of, er, human nature. For it is ALWAYS the case (as history proves time and time again) that a handful of a severely threatened minority WILL respond with violent and terrorist strategies, to their perceived oppressor. For they have NOTHING to lose; death is a mere trifle at that point (no more nuisance than a pimple on one's butt).

My answer lies in the non-violent sabotage of modern technology. IOW, we will HACK our way to victory. Quoting myself now, from a newsgroup discussion "Heteros bashing Gays Rapidly Increasing":

We need to go UNDERGROUND in order to SABOTAGE their bases and instruments of power. JUST LIKE the allied resistance of WWI and WWII. But today, the MOST IMPORTANT skills that our best soldiers need, are HACKING skills. For via cyberspace is where the GREATEST powers prevail...or at least where the greatest powers can be readily accessed and manipulated.

This global anti-gay holocaust I see as Our Passage Of Fire Towards TRUE LIberation. This will be the absolute CATALYST in fomenting the gay troops into rabid determination to END homophobic bigotry for GOOD. Even with our backs to the wall, and against all apparent odds, we SHALL come out of this victorious, and forever free.

From Fox News: "According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), MRSA is responsible for about 19,000 deaths annually in America — most of which occur in the hospital." Vastly FEWER people die of AIDS every year, than that! But guess which minority is MOST devasted by both horrors? (And receives the LEAST care and compassion?)

So which should we fear most: gays or hetero-run hospitals?


Quoting from the (Jan. 17th issue of the) S.F. Bay Times article, "Staph Infections In The Castro Causing Community Uproar":

Some critics are cynical about the study - especially that it focused on the Castro and not other areas of the City, such as South of Market. Others are angry that the notion of gay sex is being hyped as the cause. According to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, the bacteria affect only about one percent of the population, which has prompted several doctors to propose that fears of the bacteria might be overblown.

The Human Rights Campaign has stated that this is a case of rightwing bigots returning to 1980 HIV/AIDS fear-mongering tactics. "We saw this kind of hysteria in the early 1980's around HIV/AIDS," said HRC President Joe Solmonese. "I'll be damned if we will sit idly by in 2008 and let them perpetrate that type of anti-gay hysteria again without calling them out on it." Based on a Jan. 15 story by the Reuters News Agency about a new strain of staph infection affecting gay men, the rightwing group, Concerned Women for America, well known for its bigotry, took the opportunity to promote its anti-gay hatred. HRC's Solmonese called CWA's statements "lies and distortions."

Moving on to ANOTHER gay rag out of Frisco, The Bay Area Reporter (B.A.R.), I now quote from article, "Data on staph links gays":

Binh An Diep, PhD, a researcher at UCSF and the lead author of the study, said part of the reason why he conducted the study was to help empower gay men to take better care of their own health. It was published online in the Annals of Internal Medicine on January 14.

However, Diep made several statements in a news release that fanned the flames of homophobia. Anti-gay groups seized on the study, with one calling gay men a "public health hazard."

Given the hysteria in much of the media coverage of the recent studies on MRSA, Diep said that he is concerned there will be a possible backlash against the gay community

What? A RESEARCHER aware that his words were poorly chosen, nonetheless goes on record as possibly FOMENTING severe backlash against sexual minorities! Which backlash threatens to spread WAY beyond "Gay Mecca," spilling over into ALL gay communities in major urban centers WORLDWIDE...as I have already iterated some paragraphs above. Now, allow me to provide several MORE quotes from that same article, to ALLEVIATE the needless (though apparently INTENTIONAL) angst created out of these irresponsible mouths of "concerned" and "gay friendly" researchers such as Binh Dipwad:

San Francisco physician William Owen told the Bay Area Reporter Tuesday that he sees little new in the latest study....

Diep found the annual incidence of USA300 infection per 100,000 persons was 275 cases, while the incidence of the MDR variant was 26 cases in all of San Francisco....

The Castro District (Zip code 94114) had the highest percentage (25.7 percent) of male same-sex couples in the United States, and a MDR USA300 incidence rate per 100,000 of 170 cases. However, the total number of cases in an individual Zip code is small and so the statistical confidence interval is large; one should we wary of drawing too many conclusions from the subset analysis.

Diep said they saw little difference among HIV-positive patients in terms of acquisition of MRSA, disease progression, or response to therapy. However, most of those patients had a CD4 count greater than 200. Significant risks of opportunistic infections often are not seen until the CD4 count drops below 100, and the number of patients in that category was too small for meaningful analysis.

Now, about the S.F. Chronicle, which newspaper here in our Unkind Metropolis, REPORTED this hysterical claptrap with a vivid red MAP of The Castro to INTIMIDATE and FRIGHTEN the populace...and STIR UP homophobia and violence against our long-suffering community:

This is not the FIRST time the Chronicle has sold out to the Religious Reich. On August 16, 1999, they accepted $35,000 to publish a full-page anti-gay ad, claiming that we sexual minorities can be cured! See my essay "Hetero Shame Week" for more details on THAT shameful matter. (Thank your lucky ass-teroids a scant good folks like me keep RECORDS and pay CLOSE ATTENTION to seemingly unrelated affairs! If I had to hold down a regular job to survive, instead of collecting a gov't disabilty stipend, I could NEVER have been so dedicated.)

The only thing GOOD coming out of this Dark Affair, is as a textbook example of how This Zodiac Cult operates...either "Dieply" hidden or, in this case, when out in the open, done so with a "Diep" crocodile smile, a.k.a. "friendly fire". In closing, please take a concise moment to embed in your juicy cerebrum, the face of Our Newest Enemy, traitor to our cause:


From newsgroup alt.religion.shamanism, subject "Under Attack":

Hey you friggin' pinheads (midwhiner, scarjism, root, et al), you buried your own hole, now jump in. Written by someone whom I've never met, nor heard of before this:

--begin article:

Mainstream media blow it -- again

Once again gay men are depicted as a problem. Sabin Russell's January 15 article in the San Francisco Chronicle "Lethal new bacteria -- S.F. an epicenter" admits to a general lack of scientific knowledge. Russell states that MRSA might be sexually transmitted. Well, duh, it's spread via skin-skin or skin-surface contact, and that would include sexual contact as well as contact with, oh say, infected doorknobs. And yet, Russell feels there's enough evidence to point an accusatory and sensationalistic finger (the middle one, I suspect) at SF's gay community. Gee, that's new. Unfortunately, Russell selectively manages to leave out the extremely high incidence of infections from elementary and high school gyms and locker rooms.

So SF's gay community is the "epicenter"? What colorful gay-phobic imagery, definitely more appropriate for the front page of the Enquirer. Russell provides some statistics re: the denizens of the 94114 Zip code, which just so happens to be in close proximity to SF General Hospital, therefore a natural place to turn for medical assistance and exposure. Yet the Zip code 94114 also includes the predominantly non-gay Noe Valley. And anyone notice all the straight folks (and baby strollers, etc.) in the Castro? It ain't just gay.

And note that these gay-phobic "facts" are based solely on epidemiology – the same methodology that "proved" poppers cause AIDS. But wait, it doesn't.

Does SF General Hospital have any responsibility for the development and spread of MRSA? SF General admits they've known it's a problem since 2001, and they've neither cleared out the problem nor stopped infecting their patients. Why doesn't Russell point that lurid finger in their direction? Or is it easier to blame the victims whose trust was violated when they were exposed to this staph bacteria while seeking medical care?

Also note, doctors claim that by simply cleaning up with soap and water, you can minimize catching MRSA. Too bad the health department closed the bathhouses, where people could easily shower after sex. And anyone notice how the closure did not stop the spread of AIDS?

Buried at the end of the article is the admission that the key factor might be over-use of antibiotics (a factor not limited to gays living in the 94114 Zip code), which is probably the fault of an over-prescribing medical community.

But, hey, when in doubt, blame the fags.

Tom W. Kelly
San Francisco

--end of article

Contrast THIS letter with your own crude words, and what does this make you look like? A HOMOPHOBE. Jerkwad breeders.

WAIT, I'm not finished. Don't leave this thread yet. Don't I DESERVE the sheer pleasure of rubbing your own breeder-polluted feces in your own butt-ugly hetero mugs? (Don't worry, my friends, I'm wearing osmosis-proof disposable gloves. I won't catch ANY breeder infection. I also have their MOUTHS gagged, so they can't SPIT any of their contagious hetero VENOM in my direction.)

There's also THIS news article:

UCSF apologizes for MRSA release

Too long to post in its entirety here, but I want to include these two excerpts:


Binh An Diep, 29, the post-doctoral researcher who was the lead author of the paper, expressed his "regret having made the statement regarding a potential spread of the new multi-drug-resistant strain of USA300 into the 'general population.' I deeply apologize for this offensive jargon as men who have sex with men are part of the general population," he wrote in an e-mail exchange with a reporter....

Because of its location and the fact that it was first out of the gate, the Chronicle story set the tone for much of the subsequent media coverage. The widely distributed Associated Press story was basically a rewrite of the Chronicle article.

The New York Times article led with a sensationalist focus on the "flesh-eating" potential for the MRSA strain and its spread "most easily through anal intercourse."

--end excerpts

I end by quoting Midwhiner's rude remark to me (one among many):

discounting your hypersensitivity

Right, my justified OUTRAGE is simply "hypersensitivity".

Oh, and this one too:

Pay attention: *I* have never heard anyone suggest
that the spread of MRSA is anything at all to do with sexuality.

No, breeder loser, YOU pay attention. The reason YOU claim to have not heard anyone suggest this, is because you INTENTIONALLY sabotage gay activists. I won't go so far as to accuse you of being a PLANT for the religious right...as there are so MANY homophobe-Nazis all too EAGER to bash and lambast us queers voluntarily, who needs to organize 'em!

Pay attention: STOP deriding and trivializing gay activists like myself. WE KNOW WHAT WE ARE DOING. You have shown your TRUE colors: as intentional SABOTEUR of gay rights, wherever and whenever you get the chance.

NO ONE who is NOT out of the closet homosexual, has ANY right to have the last word on the matter of GAY rights. Not the least of which is your SMARMY, DISEASE-RIDDEN self, Midwhiner.

There's ALSO this by columnist Chris Crain (I emphasize by rubbing your scat in your breeder mugs, Midwhiner, scarjism, coot, et al):

Deja AIDS All Over Again


That headline and variations of it appeared around the world this past week as the mainstream media went into panic overdrive in response to research showing gay men in San Francisco and several other urban areas were at a higher risk of infection from a drug-resistant form of staph infection.

--end quote

PAY ATTENTION, homophobes: "That headline and variations of it APPEARED AROUND THE WORLD". Ergo, all YOU'VE done, Midwhiner, is show to all the Usenet world, what a gay-hating IGNORMAUS breeder you are. Ha, ha. ROTFLMAO.

And since you're from England, Midwhiner, you MIGHT try to excuse your ignorance by claiming no such homophobic article appeared in any British journal that you know of. So I now quote from that same article:

"One London tabloid even dubbed MRSA 'the new HIV.'"

Crain is a gay columnist BTW, who was recently bashed to within an INCH of his life in formerly gay-friendly Holland, thanks to hetero ignoramuses like YOU dipwads, who don't give a FUCK about gay people, instead constantly DERIDE and TRIVIIALIZE our participation in public forums. (And wilfully IGNORE our plight, while FEIGNING gay-friendliness.) Read about his bashing here:

The science of anti-gay hate

My Belated Xmas Goose
01.16.08 (12:02 am)   [edit]

Albeit well cooked!


Here is a record of the incident, as excerpted from an e-mail to several friends:

I was attacked (knocked out cold) on the evening of December 23, 2007. When I came to, I discovered my wallet emptied of money, state ID, and WAMU debit card.

I don't remember a thing. A good Samaritan Dave, found me lying in my own blood by the agave plant on the northeast corner of Market & Castro.

NO ONE else helped, didn't even call 911. He offered to, but I said no, please don't.

BTW, I don't REMEMBER telling him anything, don't recollect a THING between the hours of 8 and 11pm. (Last thing I do recall, is walking into the bar few doors up from where Andy's Donuts once stood, now a Sushi bar. Part of my evening patrol: step into one or two bars, walk around, maybe sit a minute, then exit.) I was already in my room with Dave, when I came to. (I must have been conscious for a while as he helped me down the block, to my home, then lapsed again into coma.)

There were some paper towels wadded up on the file cabinet I use for a mini-kitchenette...sopped w/blood. I have a bad gash on the upper left part of my forehead.

I asked Dave if he saw who attacked me. He said no, just spotted my prostrate self among the succulents. I believe I was cold-cocked. Dave thinks I need stitches, but my wound should heal fine, w/o any scar. The left side of my cranium down to the tip of my ear, is numb. No swelling, though.

(continued on other side...)


I know who it is.

We were buddies for several years (nothing sexual). Name is Chris. Big, strong blonde dude. Did I say "strong"? I meant "COLOSALLY POWERFUL". Used to come over a lot, sleep overnight. Lately, he's been avoiding me, acting real nervous like. Chris wields a couple-a hefty U-locks: one for his bike and one to cold-cock an aggressor. In fact, I did APPRECIATE it when two times in our friendship, he brandished that lock to drive away some goon gearin' to beat me up.

So it hit me like a bolt of carbon-alloy forged steel on my head: Chris whizzed by on his racer and WHACKED me solid with a powerful backswing of the left arm. The damage to my forehead and the deep mark it made, gushing blood fits PERFECTLY my surmisal. The other, slight contusion of my left-sided face and right hand? The result of my fall. Obviously.

This ALSO explains why I have NO recollection of my attacker's identity. I didn't see it coming. Happened in a FLASH. Stealth attack, big time! There's a good chance that no one actually even noticed, due to the way that corner's set up, and the traffic volume. What witnesses there might have been scurried away like tarantulas.

Dave explained: "While I was helping you home, this blond guy approached me, claimed to be your friend, offered to help. Said he lives in your building, followed me all the way to the gate! I drove him away."

I thought nothing of it then, but did remark: "I don't have any blond friend who lives here."

Chris is NOT his real name, it's Peter (he showed me his ID two years ago.) Unfortunately, I do NOT remember his surname. I DO have his cell phone, though: 415-374-3198. Hopefully, this will confirm my suspicion, when one of WAMU's investigators matches his image from a McDonald's tape with his Metro PCS account.

I am a gay street activist whose recent confrontations with various unpleasant types has triggered threats upon my person. This incident I believe, is directly related. Chris IS a local drug dealer, bicycles mostly in Eureka Valley, The Mission and South of Market Areas. I don't know his current residence, nor his real last name.

Thank you for looking into this matter. If I can be of any more service don't hesitate to contact me.

Yours truly,

Ezekiel J. Krahlin

Disbelief: The Weakest Link
01.15.08 (12:53 am)   [edit]

Hello, Hank! Here are my observations regarding certain IRRITATING customers of your coffeehouse: it is best to REFUSE SERVICE to these kind, or they'll wind up walking all over you, drive GOOD patrons out, and wreck the business you work so hard to maintain and achieve SOME profit. Here are THREE customers you need to turn away post-haste:

1) Woody a.k.a. "David". He acts VERY wild, frighteningly so at times, right in front of your establishment. I'm sure you've witnessed his loony antics more than once! Bad for business, I might point out. RARELY purchases anything, yet frequently occupies a sidewalk chair. His hook into your cafe is to offer you items he either steals from households, or finds discarded on the streets. Your being kind by tolerating his visits and letting him use the restroom only serves to strengthen this hook, and pave the way for more blatant cult members to use your place for their hangout. And as an ANCHOR in this particular neighborhood.

2) That nasty lady with her loud-barking mongrel she tethers right by the doorway...giving ALL customers a serious headache. Remember when I confronted her, and she snapped: "Sir, a lot worse things are going on in the world, than a barking dog!" Yet I doubt she'd ever address YOU, the manager, that way, should you bother to confront her yourself. ("Sir, a lot worse things are going on in the world, than my driving out customers and ruining your business!") You need to tell her you refuse her patronage unless she leaves the dog elsewhere.

3) Last week. That big, filthy, smelly guy eating noodles from a cup with his hand, while ordering a large coffee. He pushed wads of ramen into his mouth, noodles spilling down his coat and onto the floor. He also SPOKE rudely. If you don't stop serving such customers, you'll wind up losing all DECENT patrons, and ultimately, your business. You need to look him directly in those hideous eyes and state: "Sir, I refuse to serve you. Now go before I call the police."

I know this is hard to believe, but there is an intelligent PLAN behind these clowns. And that is the CULT which I have discussed with you several times, and which is the main thesis for my work in progress, "Friendly Ghost Detective Agency". One effective strategy is to infiltrate neighborhoods based on most folks' DISBELIEF in their existance. (Disbelief is the weakest link in resisting telepathic chicanery.) If you observe over time these fools' behavior, you'll eventually discern a PATTERN, and see the connection from one seemingly-random street thug to another.

Example: Woody and Joker work TOGETHER (though they seem as strangers to each other) to scare good folks off Church Street during nighttime...that the cult may drug-run this area with little opposition. BEHIND these two jerkwads is Chris...that bicycling, large blond dude who made a failed attempt to kill me on the eve of December 23rd. You saw the damage to my forehead.

And behind Chris is GYPSY, the drug dealer operating out of three gay bars (Eagle Tavern, Hole in the Wall, Metro), and one straight or mixed (Lucky 13, few doors up from the Metro). FYI, Chris's main COHORT in the Church Street Corridor is another large white dude, ROMAN. (They now share the same apartment, a recent development NOT good for me!) Neither frequents your coffeehouse BTW, though both DO stop in now and then for some coffee-to-go.

As I said, This Cult (which I coin "Disciples of the Zodiac Killer" for good reason) plays on people's DISBELIEF as one strategy to sneak around and infiltrate whatever locale they choose. They manipulate disturbed and sub-intelligent humans, many homeless (ALL unemployed, some on disability) to sabotage establishments (such as yours), and spy on AND harass those The Cult fears are in the way (such as yours truly). They REWARD their puppets with food, money, drugs, all three or whatever (maybe temporary shelter). They'll employ some obnoxious dude (or dudette) to enter your cafe and behave as his or her usual, ill-mannered self.

If you refuse them service and drive 'em outta there, you WIN. But if you remain silent and serve them what they request, The CULT wins. For they realize now that you're most likely a pushover, thus YOUR place becomes THEIRS through obfuscation and surreptitious occupation by more and more of These Enemy Forces. Putting up with blatantly OBNOXIOUS patrons is an obvious weakness These Zodiac Disciples take FULL advantage of, like rats to an open garbage bin.

These living zombies will occupy your coffeehouse in greater and greater numbers, until you have NO CHOICE but do THEIR bidding, or lose your business. Believe me, if you DON'T set your foot down SOON, they'll be running YOUR show in record time. And don't think for a moment the POLICE will save your skin. Cult Members have ALSO infiltrated the SFPD. What few GOOD cops exist are usually NOT assigned to this beat. Though having a RELATIVE in The Force may prove most beneficial for your business. I'm sure he's one of the good guys.

Former owner Hisham put up with these goons, thus earning Muddy Waters on Church a reputation as Nutjob Haven. This is what you've unwittingly inherited. You are paying for Hisham's years of irresponsible management, through no fault of your own. As you probably know, Hisham owns the small chain of three Muddy Waters coffeehouses, now numbering two. If you visit the one on Valencia near 16th, you'll be darkly impressed with the foul characters who frequent that den of thieves. For whatever reason, there seems to be a small CABAL of Muddy Waters devotees...hopping from one to the other. They are neither friends nor relatives to Hisham, nor do Muddy Waters cafes have any distinctive allure above and beyond the numerous coffee shops that dot this unfair burg. Except one (I surmise): they TOLERATE dipwads, thugs and hoodlums. It just occurred to me: maybe Hisham is selling off ALL his coffeehouses precisely BECAUSE he's been overrun by Cult Disciples and their minions...and he wants OUT!

By standing up to these vile curs, the WORST that will happen is a window may get smashed, or there MIGHT be a 1-minute hissy fit display by whomever you evict, before they exit. (I trust you are insured for vandalism.) Unless you refuse service to these ill-kempt types, I'm afraid Church Street Cafe will become progressively MORE dangerous, not just for me (as I'm their target at present) but for ALL good customers. And as a consequence I will cease hanging out there, since they will deny me peace of mind until I depart...AND scare others away from me, who I attempt to befriend. No doubt hit-man Chris is actively broadcasting his enmity against me to Joker, Woody, Dane, et al. So that ANYWHERE I hang out in my own neighborhood will soon be dangerous, if not already. I DID foresee this possible outcome, and am willing to accept it for the sake of a Greater Good. A Goodness which shall eventually overwhelm and drown Mine Enemies like a tsunami of Bodhisattva warriors.

I hope you regard me NOT as a nuisance, but as a concerned and longterm inhabitant of Eureka Valley, doing his UTMOST to turn things around, back into the wonderful neighborhood I remember (from the late 70's), before all these violent heteros and drug-dealing queers took over. Ah, the legacy of Reaganomics...how it lingers on, like A Leech From The Devil's Own Hot Tub!

Another way The Cult uses disbelief to their advantage: they perform devious schemes as WEIRDLY as possible, so the victims seem like screwballs and charlatans, should they report the incident to authorities, friends, or just about anyone else. The listener will either regard said victim as an egregious poop-stirrer, or one who craves attention at any price. The LAST thought that would ever occur to them (if it occurs at all) is that this strange incident actually DID happen exactly as described!

There is SOME degree of telepathy involved--in truth, a CONSIDERABLE degree--which Zodiac Disciples ALSO play to their wicked benefit. They can broadcast hateful thoughts about GROUPS of people (such as homosexuals), as well as to specific individuals (such as myself). Chanting "Hate Zeke! Hate Zeke!" via their psychic transmissions, while imaging my face in their mind's eye, has the deleterious effect of people (even strangers) scowling at me en passant...and they don't even stop to question WHY. Here's how the trick works:

The vast majority of people are NOT properly educated about Discipline Of The Mind. This is intentional, a form of social engineering by our government to dumb down the masses, make them easier to manipulate. The Zodiac Cult piggy-backs on this crippled state of mind, planting malicious seeds in the typically naive and unsuspecting hearts of your average citizen. Since their minds are NOT disciplined to discern between good thoughts and bad thoughts, and ideas that arise from within versus those drifting about the ether...they are easily duped to believe ANY thought that occurs is ipso facto legitimate and should be acted upon. So if they have a strong "feeling" of bias AGAINST me, they don't stop to dwell on why this emotion. Instead, they instantly conclude I must be a bad guy, thus their HATRED is completely, unquestionably ACCURATE.

The most VULNERABLE to such telepathic suggestions are those who don't BELIEVE in telepathy/psychic phenomenon (such as atheists). Again, this factor of disbelief! Be aware that ALL Cult Members themselves will deny the existence of paranormal powers. When they say "I don't believe in telepathy," they actually DO, but just want to hold the power SECRET for their own dark motives...keeping as many naive souls as possible CLUELESS in the process. It's like that haggard old time-worn ploy, "Evil doesn't exist, everything's relative." Begging one's pardon here, but since when does The Theory Of Relativity, a phenomenon of the PHYSICAL world, apply to ethical values, a SPIRITUAL concept? Cultural differences do indeed confuse the issue of morality somewhat, but that's just on the surface. The BASIS of all morality is common to EVERY culture w/o a single exception whatsoever (even cannabilistic societies). And it is this: The conscious intent to harm another is evil. The conscious intent to help another is good.

Please don't misconstrue my comment about atheists as condemnation of their non-spiritual world view. I am only pointing out the inherent VULNERABILITY in their conscious will to disbelieve. There are MANY truly ethical, compassionate atheists in this world. You don't ever need to believe in Goddess or any other spiritual concept to be a decent human being. I do claim however, that atheists have an incomplete conception of the universe...no doubt muddied by religious hypocrites, charlatan psychics and power-mongering cultists.

Final remark: Did you notice how BELLIGERENT Robert behaved towards you when he discovered the waste basket REMOVED from the entrance? That's the mark of a bully! The same sort of character Hitler employed for his Brown Shirts. Vagrants and the downtrodden, of the ill-natured sort. Hitler gave them JOBS and housing, in exchange to carry out the Nazi Party's dark orders. Intriguing to observe he recently moved right across the street, in that same complex housing Gypsies. I laugh to think of their neon sign all lit up to say PSYCHO instead of PSYCHIC.

Now that You-Know-Who is in residence there!

Frothy The Rabid Snowman
01.14.08 (9:07 pm)   [edit]
Frothy The Rabid Snowman
In Frozen Blood

(The First "Snowman-Splatter" Story In Literary History)

Christmas in Pennsylvania is always bitter cold...and white as virgin linen spread across the dinner table of an Amish homestead. The excessive snow is a terrible nuisance to most adults, but to children it is a playland policed by smiling snowmen with button eyes and skinny arms. In the early part of the Holiday Season, thousands of kids in hundreds of Quaker State towns and suburbs, simultaneously roll the icy lint of God's Great Quilt into legless, roly-poly men of snow. These Rubens-ian parodies stand silent vigil before each picture window blessed by a child's smile...until the first thaw of a false spring, some time in late February or March--if a big brother doesn't knock them down much sooner (usually the case). However, this story is not about all children and snowmen, nor about some children and snowmen...but about a particular snowman who, one recent winter, terrorized the good citizens of northwest Pennsylvania with bloodshed and tragedy.

By the time Timmy put the finishing touches on his snowman-- with poker chips, checkered hunting cap, two lengths of an old vacuum hose, and a Groucho Marx false nose--his L.L. Bean mittens and outer garments of recycled wool were soaking wet. And it was dusk...at which time, all over the vast state of Pennsylvania, children just like Timmy stepped into a warm kitchen and left their boots and thinsulate jumpsuits piled in a puddle by the door. Timmy, like all these other kids, ate supper and played Nintendo or Etcha-Sketch, or read the latest Fabulous Four adventure comic book, or listened to David Seville and The Chipmunks on a transparent red 33-1/3 rpm, or did his homework (unlikely); then peered out the living room window at his new snowman, before slipping into bed beneath several layers of Pennsylvania-Dutch-style comforters from J.C. Penny's. Shortly after 2 a.m., while he slept the untroubled sleep of a six-year- old boy, a red light suddenly blinked on the computer console of the control center of a nuclear reactor too near the border of the suburb in which Timmy's family lived.

It was a leak! But the reactor shut down so fast, and the problem rectified itself so quickly without human intervention, that the alarms never sounded, and the leak did not flow beyond the yellow zone of the third outer wall of lead casing. It was a brief accident of the lowest priority, and cleanup was a simple, automated process. Not even so much as one-millionth of an increase in rads was detected by the geigers; so the foreman on duty was not required to report this leak to his superiors--only log it in the calendar, then put his feet back on the console and resume snoring. But several radical ions did manage to escape into the atmosphere, and, had they just floated into the upper strata instead of being blown by a random breeze onto Timmy's snowman several blocks away, there would be nothing more to tell, and all would still be right with the world and northwest Pennsylvania.

"The more advanced a technology, the more it resembles magic," goes the famous quote (or something like that: I can't remember it verbatim, nor can I recall who said it). And this is exactly what happened. Somewhere, in the dimension that crosses the border between physics and sorcery, those several radioactive ions (completely harmless in the usual order of things) touched Timmy's snowman and, like the wand of a Fairy Godmother, brought it to life. But a most unfortunate coincidence turned this miraculous curiosity into a hideous curse, for a rabid dog happened to be pissing on the snowman when it suddenly came alive. As the snowman took its first breath, the mad canine jumped in shock, bit off a chunk of living snow, then ran away. By the time Timmy's snowman learned how to slide around (since it had no legs to walk), it was Christmas Eve... and he was now delirious with psychotic fantasies and frothing at the mouth (not particularly noticeable, as the bubbling saliva camouflaged itself quite well around a snow-encrusted mouth and face).

The nearest habitat was, of course, that occupied by the presently-slumbering Timmy and family. The rabid snowman managed to break in, and find the master bedroom. Without a moment's hesitation, he bludgeoned the parents to death with a small Edwardian night table recently purchased at an auction in downtown Philadelphia. (This was not an easy thing to do, as the snowman had no hands to speak of, just two uneven lengths of vacuum hose for arms. But he was very strong, very clever, and very mad. He was a cold S.O.B.) Timmy's sister was next. The police discovered some parts of her stuffed in the trash compacter, and other parts stuck to her bedroom wall with Crazy Glue...though her complete remains may never be found.

Timmy was awakened by his sister's screams, and had just enough time to leave a message on his pillow, with the PlayDoh he was using to create miniature snowmen: "IT'S THE snowman"... before the snowman smashed down his door and dragged Timmy from the house. (There was also evidence that the snowman tore apart the Christmas tree and destroyed all the presents around the tree, before leaving the scene of the crime.) Timmy's body was never found until April, when the snow thawed, and a Mennonite farmer was plowing up his field for the first planting. Naturally, Timmy's message made no sense to the police, until reports started coming in about a man disguised as a snowman lurking the streets at night and breaking into houses...some witnesses (with binoculars) claimed to have seen saliva frothing from the suspect's mouth, as he suddenly turned and glared in their direction. (Needless to say, many folks believing in Bigfoot and/or UFO abductions, had a field day with the media, and were the center of attention at American Legion and John Birch Society events.)

After several more families were brutally killed, in three counties across northwest Pennsylvania, the police realized they had a serial killer on their hands--now dubbed "The Rabid snowman." He was never caught, and the homicides continued, until, by March, over twenty-five families and Christmas trees (with their attendant gifts) had been wiped out. Suddenly, it was spring; the snows thawed, and the murders stopped...forever. The case of The Rabid snowman remains unsolved, as the only evidence of the suspect is circumstantial. In a vacant lot in one of the formerly-terrorized suburbs, a little girl playing hopskotch found the following items in a clump of weeds: five poker chips, a red-and-black checkered hunting cap, two long pieces of an old Kirby vacuum hose, a false nose with eyeglasses and a moustache, and one L.L. Bean mitten with a piece of orange PlayDoh stuck in the fabric. All these items, except the last, match the neighbors' description of Timmy's snowman. And, thanks to a revealing speck of PlayDoh (in the shape of an "i" or, as some investigators suggest, part of an exclamation point), the mitten was identified, beyond question, as having once belonged to our tiny Timmy.

God rest his soul.

All Betza Off
01.13.08 (11:37 pm)   [edit]

Regarding Carl Michael Betza, our "neighbor" in 308. No doubt you've heard him in the wee hours, rummaging through the garbage bins downstairs, sorting through varied and sundry debris, and rearranging rubbish into orderly stacks. Besides Scumlord Arikat Realty benefitting by this FREE janitorial service (about which I'll have much to say in an upcoming blog post), there is also a SINISTER aspect to Carl's late-night scavenging.

Many years ago (don't forget, I've LIVED here since '85 GoddessHelpMe), Carl (who then went by his middle monicker "Michael"...changed his name just a few weeks after I changed MINE in 1996, the friggin' copycat) told me a story about his old friend Beauregard. Or as HE states: FORMER friend. You see, Beauregard had found a way to blackmail a poor immigrant family recently arrived to these Pacific shores. (I don't think they were Asian, though...more likely Russian, Ukranian, Kurdistani or Eastern European.) Beau's successful sabotage afforded him a generous retirement at the hands of this newly minted household, siphoning a considerable percentage of the profits garnered by their corner liquor store.

Carl hails from The Big Apple, a streetwise orphan who quickly learned the ropes of cat-burglary. (BTW, he made me promise never to bring up his Manhattan life of crime to anyone else, but I think it crucial at this point in time, to break a vow that was dubious all along.) He became quite adept at his un-chosen profession, and after many years success at The Trade, finally QUIT before he ever got arrested. Or so he claims. We are speaking of the late 50's through the early 70's during which time he came to hobnob with the underground artistic elite, such as Andy Warhol et al.

Did I mention he was also QUITE the dashing young man, whose services as up-and-cumming hustler were in great demand? I've seen photographs of his younger self; I was not impressed. When we first met in 1974 I found him a MOST handsome man in his middle age (much better looking than in his youth, AFAIC. He's now approx 75, you do the math). In fact, he took me to his room which then was at the Viking Hotel, a few blocks inbound from 2306. We stripped and ALMOST had hot sex (I was 24). But he made some rather rude and insulting remarks, which inspired me to zip my pants back up, replace my T-shirt, and exit stage left.

Funny thing this sex angle: Carl has ACCUSED me several times over the years, of having some sort of HANGUP about our briefly-naked tryst, when I know that is absolutely untrue. Any resentment I hold towards him arises from a totally different quarter, has NOTHING to do with fleshly intrigue.

Since his arrival in San Francisco (circa 1972), Carl has become MOST familiar with the queer underground...or should I say "underbelly". He'd make a SENSATIONAL tour guide for The Dark Side of Gay Mecca, were he not so corrupt himself! No question, he's an incredibly FASCINATING character with much wisdom to impart, albeit dark and unutterably WICKED. Like Svengali, Hitler or Vlad the Impaler. Wouldn't wanna be a close friend but dammit, they sure are CAPTIVATING in their own unseemly way! And just as detective Colombo is enchanted by the clever manipulations of his suspects, likewise am I regarding C.M. Betza.

Anyone residing at 2306 is in danger of identity theft, if they toss ANY personal data into the garbage bins. Carl Betza rummages through ALL our garbage, in hopes of performing his OWN "Beauregard Blackjack". Bank account or social security number, phone numbers of coworkers and close friends, highly personal letters and/or diary missives, billing statistics, airline (and other) tickets, school/employment records...you name it, Carl knows it!

I STRONGLY recommend that all residents of 2306 shred their personal papers (of any sort) before depositing them into our communal garbage bins...OR tear them up and drop them into their kitchen waste, where they'll be sealed in a twist-tie, and dumped down the back-porch chute. Even CARL doesn't go THAT far, as to prod through each individual plastic refuse bag! But I COULD be wrong, thus shredding all sensitive papers IS advised by yours truly!

There is also a health issue of Carl's pawing through filthy debris with bare hands. No disposable gloves, no tongs, not even a STICK to secure his safety from exposure to bacteria, as well as cuts from sharp metal lids and broken glass. Which explains very well (thank you) the debilitating CELLULITIS he suffered four years ago (which infection BTW can also be a precursor to "fasciitis necroticans" or flesh-eating virus). It had spread all over both legs, forced him to spend a week at Davies Medical Center where he was intubated like a funereal cadaver, and left serious scars that are STILL quite visible whenever he wears those hideous Bermuda shorts. NEVER shake hands with this man, he's a Locomoting Vessel Of Pox!

Numerous times, Carl Betza has informed me of specific DETAILS regarding certain RESIDENTS, which information could only have been garnered by searching through the basement refuse, prior to being hauled off by our local sanitation department. So what I'm saying to YOU, Pegala, is this: If you value the security and happiness of (not just yourself, but of) your two INCREDIBLE and LOVELY daughters, please SHRED all personal-type papers before discarding! If any readers of this post think I'm simply paranoid, I can only rebut:

Wear MY hat for a day, bastard!

Wired For Paranoia
01.11.08 (2:57 pm)   [edit]

Exposed phone wires in basement.

01.10.08 (11:43 pm)   [edit]

Airen Jay Kells

It was Fate that drew us together,
It was Fate that blew us apart.
It was Fate in all kinds of weather,
It was Fate right down to the heart.

It was Fate that made you a jerkwad,
It was Fate that made me a dupe.
It was Fate that tossed me a lasso,
To trap you inside of my loop.

It is Fate that keeps me imprisoned
Where I've lived since first we met.
It is Fate that grants me these visions
That keep my heart young. And yet:

It's not Fate that claims I'm a winner,
For loving good men like you.
It's not Fate that protects me from sinners,
And keeps my sad heart true blue.

It's not Fate that tells me you love me,
Forever and ever Good Friend.
(We will soon be brought back together,
And our joys shall be without end.)

May the peace you have sought with such peril
Alight on your hand like a dove,
And the storms you have weathered grow distant
As the light shines on you from above.

This poem remains as a rough draft,
In humble remembrance to honor
The One Who Does Make Come True

all the dreams and the wishes
and the hopes and the prayers
and all my belief in you.

Ode From A Skull To Its Master
01.09.08 (8:22 pm)   [edit]
Dean's Shirt
01.08.08 (3:50 pm)   [edit]

Many of you remember my letter about Dean, a strappingly GORGEOUS brute whom I befriended for several weeks until The Cult drove him away. Pictured above and throughout this article, is a shirt he wore and left behind, redolent with his manly sweat of a most APPEALING fragrance and just the right amount of salty TANG. One could bottle the stuff and make MILLIONS! I slept with that saucy shirt on my pillow for a dozen-and-one Arabian nights, inhaling the seductive scent that never failed to drug me into the most delicious, deep slumber. Dreaming of my languishing self locked between strong thighs and biceps, tousled bronze hair nuzzled beneath my bowed head (left arm slung about his broad shoulder frame).

But foolish me, shortly before Samhain, I tossed that shirt out my 2nd-floor window in anger one day, where it landed in the branches of a leafless shade tree (a variety of sycamore, I presume)...the closest thing I have to a house plant! I value large, living flora nearby, almost within arm's reach. It softens the concrete edges of an urban locale. (Though when the tree is flush with green foliage--which is MOST of the year--starlings gather for the night, and awaken me at 5am chirping their feathered arses off. Between their shrill peeps, and the rattle-clatter of houseless dregs' ubiquitous shopping carts defiling the nighttime peace: DEFINITELY unappreciated! Just one more reason to love our rainy season, it flushes both birds and turds away.)

Something to remember Dean, I suppose, though it's otherwise an eyesore that SHOULD be removed by yours truly, seeing as I am the one responsible! I COULD take it down, and I WILL...soon as I finish this piece, and post it to ZekeBlog. Now that I have snapshots to preserve his memory for posterity. And he will be back soon enough, anyway. (Once These Cult Members are exposed beneath the lense of public scrutiny, and put to death or locked away for good.)

But if he asks about the shirt? I'm boned!

How To Write Your Own Obituary
01.07.08 (1:52 am)   [edit]

Start with some good-grade vodka and favorite juice or soda. Add to the mix some righteous ganja (such as "Train Wreck" or "Purple Haze"). When properly soused and/or demented, begin the composition of your demise. Like so:

The Death of a Great Gay Activist

On 5 January 2008 at 4:15am, Ezekiel Joseph Krahlin passed away peacefully in his childhood home located in North Massapequa, Long Island. Complications of a head wound, which he originally thought was non-threatening, resulted in a fatal aneurism nine days later. (Enclosed is a recent photo, depicting his wound.) I am sorry to say that his latest mission as a gay activist and soldier was temporarily thwarted, as a result. Investigations are proceeding, and per Zeke's request, I want to record for posterity, the main suspect:

Bicycling drug dealer name of "Chris" who is approx 6-feet-2-inches tall, blond and very well stacked (though with an ample butt that recently has increased to adipose proportion)...around 38 years old, and frequents the Castro, Church Street corridor and Dolores Park, as well as South of Market. His REAL first name is "Peter," his last name I do not recall (though he showed me once, on his plastic ID). Christian hypocrite that he is, he attends the 10am weekly Sunday Mass at the Mission Dolores historical church, along with street thug "Joker" who regularly terrorizes the local neighborhood with his violent tirades up and down the Church Street corridor.

You may read Zeke's account of his attack at the following two web pages:

Cold-Cock / Hard Cock

Lord of the Drug Rings

Ezekiel's greatest claim (per his own declaration as he lay dying), is the revelation of a deadly cult that has devastated the San Francisco gay communtiy since 1985. He asks that all good gay readers of this obituary be alerted to his Terrible Conclusion by referring you to his unfinished opus "Steal This Blog".

Composed of TWO seperate books ("The Larkin Chronicles" and "Friendly Ghost Detective Agency"), it reveals a most demonic subterfuge of our beloved LGBT community, which has been a MAJOR detriment towards the fulfillment of Queer Liberation. And points the finger at HARVEY MILK HIMSELF, for paving the way for this violent and deranged cult, which Zeke labels "The Disciples of the Zodiac Killer."

This is an extraordinary accusation, which many readers will revolt against on a gut level. But due to Zeke's most heartfelt pleas on his deathbed, one MUST consider his words with respect, and hold judgment until AFTER reading his two most insightful novels.

Zeke Krahlin has been one of our most devoted gay activists for MANY years (since 1973 in fact, when he first arrived in SF homeless), with little or NO regard or recognition by the Gay Community Elite...which he ACCUSES of being in cahoots with the aforementioned cult! Among the numerous renowned gay activists, Zeke is SOLELY responsible for the MANY victories Our Community has enjoyed in the last decade or so. Without ANY acknowledgment by those in the Queer Power Clique. How can Zeke make such a bold claim? Simply because his innovative ideas for gay suffragism which he's posted to Usenet groups since 1997 have been lifted by other (celebrated) gay activists who claimed these ideas as their own!

Zeke simply wishes that you read "Steal This Blog" for yourself, that you may come to your own intelligent conclusion...as he considers that opus his GREATEST achievement to date. He died with a satisfied grin on his mug, and being the extremely WITTY man he is, expired this final word to those closest and most beloved to him (including his brother Sandy):



Ode To A Fireman's Hose
01.06.08 (2:27 pm)   [edit]

Oh whip it out, hard-helmeted brute,
Turn that nozzle and shoot, shoot, shoot:
Oh uniformed man in sacrifice red,
Free me from my burning bed,
Rescue me from passion's fire,
Quench my ardent heart's desire!

Fling your ladder against the wall
(Elope with me to City Hall):
Carry me away from sirens' alarm,
Safe from pyromaniac harm
In those strong, those kind, heroic arms!

Lay me on a wedding bed
Of curbside grass or sidewalk stone;
Sweetly kiss my lips un-red
To wake me from the land of dead...
And from my breath these words shall flow:
"Please take me home, I love you so."

(Let's nuzzle up like hand-in-glove,
In gay dalmatian puppy love.)

Larkin's Reprieve
01.05.08 (12:39 am)   [edit]

So happy to have seen Larkin yesterday...albeit in passing. Since the tacqueria where he works is closed for the holidays (reopens the 6th), I couldn't see him there to drop off my latest report on The Cult (including Chris's cold-cock U-lock murder attempt). But Larkin's HIGHLY telepathic, thus already knows what occurred. Plus, he knows that I get rather sad if too much time passes that I haven't gazed upon him.

I stayed home all day, writing, due to the cold rains. Decided around 7pm to step outside for 15 minutes or so, enjoy the chill, rain-swept air in my lungs. NEVER expecting to see Larkin, as he rarely walks along this particular block. But lo and behold, only scant moments after stepping out and standing around the bus stop (about 30 feet from my building's front gate), I suddenly hear his jubilant voice, turn in that direction to see him emerging from a car right in front of the gate!

He walks in my direction and beyond, never acknowledging my presence...nor do I his. 'Cause it's still RISKY to be seen together. But I know he showed up in order for me to enjoy his presence, albeit brief. So I just drank in the glorious view of that handsome mug, as he strode across Noe Street to vanish in the dark, halfway up the next block. (He's STILL donning that seedy old red-and-dark-blue puffy jacket he's worn ever since I first laid happy eyes on him! Somebody PLEASE get him a new jacket like the one below! He wears extra-large. Oh well, at least I can spot him more easily from a distance.)

He looked FABULOUS: none of that alcoholic hung-over ruddy facial cast, or muddy-yellow nicotine aura. He looks 10 years younger, RADIANT w/wholesome energy, BURSTING with joyful glee. (And I know that the show was all just for me!) Funny how earlier that day, several times I caught myself fantasizing him standing across the street looking up at my window, and my waving back.

And he KNEW I said "thanks" in my heart, and that his INCREDIBLE friendship has made me the happiest hominid on the planet, if not the entire universe (and all possible multiverses to boot)!

A genuine sweetheart.


I've been meaning to write this episode for some weeks now. Obviously, the time has come. Approx 2-1/4 new moons ago, I had described to a friend, my desire to spit in Larkin's face...only because, while I respect his difficult lessons immensely, he is nonetheless a most difficult task master whose challenges sometimes make me want to direct my disgust towards him...with love, mind you. (I sometimes feel the same way about Goddess, FYI...She puts us through such difficult tasks!) Next day after making this bold declaration, I walk by Larkin lallygagging on the Metro's sidewalk bench, enjoying his usual ciggie. 20 or so feet up the street, I turn around to admire my guardian angel, as I often do whenever the platinum opportunity arises. He looks back at me, theatrically gestures the sign of the cross as if I were a vampire. Cute. I continue to gaze upon him w/o any emotive response. Moments later (as I stand immobile) Larkin rises from the bench, stretches, then glares at me and spits a huge wad of phlegm before his feet.

At that very same moment, I do likewise...as his rumbling throat hocking up the requisite saliva gave fair warning. Still immobile w/o expression, I show Larkin I am NOT frightened in the least. Some 20 seconds or so later, he re-enters the Metro, and (since I could no longer enjoy gazing upon his visage), I likewise depart.

Did I take offense, were my feelings hurt? No, not in the least. For I understand that--being the telepathic genius he is--he OVERHEARD my previous day's remark, so decided to provide me with the opportunity to spit in his direction. Larkin combined brilliant wit with compassion. For he graciously provided the cathartic RELEASE I so badly needed, while at the same time testing my courage. Not for HIM to see how I handle potential fears, but to show ME my own bravado, of which I was not quite so conscious. Bless this wonderful man! He is truly Best Friend Of All Time! Understanding his benevolent mischief, I returned to my humble abode and kicked back, basking in the gracious warmth of his latest tender tough-love regard. I CHERISH a rough dude with a darling heart! Once again: the Damon Runyon allure!

P.S.: I will soon have a NEW name and NEW appearance, drastically different from my present form (as suggested in my recent poem "Rumors of my Death are Queerly Exaggerated"). Shapeshifting or plastic surgery, who knows? Though of course I hope it's the former, as that would involve far less trauma.

My angels say my new first name is "Airen," though they have yet to reveal the surname (and middle name, I presume; just wouldn't feel complete without one). I kinda like "Kelsey" as that's Larkin's, but somehow it doesn't quite fit. Maybe a more ANTIQUE version of that, like "Kelsinny," or "Kellsee" (reminiscent of the Book of Kells)? Or how about just "Kells"..."Airen Kells". Naw, I'll leave the rest up to Larkin, he'd like that.

Some interesting search results for Airen:

  • Male Hebrew name "Airen" meaning "exultant".
  • Irish renewable energy service "AirEn".
  • Drought resistant white grape used to make wine: "Airén".
  • Modernized Chinese word "Ai Ren," meaning "spouse," "lover" or "mistress".
  • Resistance fighter "Airen Cracken" in the Star Wars mythos.
  • Manga character "Haou Airen," translated as "Supreme King of Lovers" (unfortunately hetero, which makes the title an oxymoron).

Visions relating to the theory that the British Isles were settled by Israel's lost tribe of Levi. I was the beloved son (or lover) of a great leader, who gifted me with the entire Emerald Isle, which was then named after me: "Airen's Land". Here, I thought I was much more of a SCOT in spirit, than IRISH. A new and unexpected twist in the plot of my history. Whether fantasy or real, I cannot yet discern.

Do you have ANY knowledge of ancient Ireland folk, around say, 300-600 BC? This would fit into the same timeline as the Hebrew diaspora, and Celtic invasions into the British islands.

The printout of the blue and pink face on the back of above-mentioned poem, is supposed to be my new image...very similar to how I looked at 16 before it got cut up in a mugging. (Severe face infections many years thereafter, a true nightmare, and why I've shunned mirrors ever since.) Except he has serious eyebrows (mine have always been scant), and my countenance was thinner.

If these visions are true, that is the original face of Airen, for whom was named "Ireland". It is also the face of Adonai, the 16-year old angelic boy worshipped by Kabbalistic wizards as the Creator Himself. Some years back (say, eight) I found a discarded gay-themed calender on the back porch. Each month, another lovely young man. But the image that turned me on the most, and which I've scanned and stored on my hard drive, is the one just below (for in the ensuing months, I received glorious visions and messages, stating that this image was indeed the original manifestation of Adonai himself!):

Vanity, thy name is Zeke! May Goddess strike me down for having such thoughts...victim of my own visions!

MY interpretation: When one has achieved a great spiritual victory, your prize is the Golden Apple (so to speak). Which CAN include being presented with the Mantle Of Creation Itself, where you get to play God for a time. Sort of like a super-sized version of "Queen for a Day". Paraphrasing Kabbalistic scripture:

"The loftiest achievement coming out of long suffering and noble sacrifice results in the angels regarding such heroes as Adonai Himself, with all the concomitant benefits. Ego plays no part in this reward, thus no danger of forgetting your mortal self, and believing you really ARE the Creator."

Bring My Soldier Home To Me
01.03.08 (10:33 pm)   [edit]

My heart is over-tired, so I must sing this song:
Bring my soldier home to me, He's been gone too long!

Oh bring my soldier home to me, with a smile on his face, And a tear or two for me and you, as we march in place.
Oh bring my soldier home to me; his home is in my heart! Armageddon is The Wedding; know your part.
Oh bring my Daddy home to me; I am his only son! Uncleave my heart, unsheathe my tongue! Plowshares to swords, faggots to Huns! Butter to bullets, bread to guns! (Gay Revolution has begun!)
Oh bring my lover home to me; the Starving Vet of Eighty-Four! I nursed him back in Wash., D.C.; that's why he's still alive!
Oh bring my father home to me; the Light is drawing near! Yea, though I dally in Eureka Valley, I shall have no fear!
Oh bring my Randolph home to me; the coffee's on the stove! His tears that fell for all Nam Vets have made His Wish betrothed!

Acrostic To Airen
01.02.08 (8:50 pm)   [edit]

     C ool-weather Bird of Paradise, spread your
     O range wings of Kilkenny's Celtic dawn over my
     P allid fields of scorched flesh and charred bones.
     P hoenix rising to your lips, I am
     E ire's promise of the Emerald Eye
     R esurrected from the fires of Christian wars.

     A iren, Christ of Ireland and Dragon of the Stone,
     N ever turn your back on the Little People.
     G reen clover bends in the shadow of your steps while
     E agles pluck St. Patrick's bones and
     L eprechauns dance rings around your copper-penny hair.

O my gay brothers and sisters of Airen's Land,
You have suffered o'er much.
'Tis time for your shackles to drop to the ground,
And your wings to sprout!

Lead the way to revolution,
Druid Republic arise in Emerald Splendor!
Thou art LEADERS over breeders!
Fear not the lash, the tongue, the gun,

Give the curs-ed heteros HELL
If such be your pleasure.
For NO straight person can even come close
To your measure
Of sacrifice, pride, wisdom and treasure!

BLAST the Blarney Stone to Kingdom Cum,
No kisses shall evermore be wasted
On deceptive straight tongue
While Jesus yearns to love his BROTHER,
Because thou art so very well hung!

Guilt is not the ruler of innocent lamb,
Nor Catholic dogma
That would have us DAMNED
For everlasting TIME,
'Cause brotherly love they deem
The ULTIMATE crime!

Arise triumphant, O Celtic Nation, in all your Lavender Glory!
Gay leaders EMERGE from Belfast's cinders
Of Christian strife.
Gaelic midwife,
Be not concerned with gender.
Ye are not to judge who packs the fudge,
But only with dismember
Of stillborn legal bodies
And intentional DECEIT that dis-remembers
Eire's noble history
Of same-sex love whose breath keeps aglow
Those pagan embers.

Rumors Of My Death Are Queerly Exaggerated
01.01.08 (8:19 pm)   [edit]

egarding the likely scenario of my faked demise and re-emergence in secret guise, that I may further infiltrate this Zodiac Cult in manners wise:

nce my appearance and voice have been drastically re-made, announcement of my passing will appear on B.A.R.'s obit stage, accompanied by a most sensational article (front page) writ by yours truly, Queer Sage!

ingularity or legerdemain: whatever works to bring myself and Larkin together again, unbeknownst to mine enemies (evil reign)!

rased memory now re-awoke towards all the fools who've made me their joke, I'll slam each one into the poke: San Quentin, Folsom or Holy Oak (and where they'll go, no mistletoe)!

reathlessly I'll make arrests, my badge returned upon my breast (within a wallet hidden there, sure beats that other place, my derriere)!

nfortunate day for all my foes, all the while beneath their nose, embedded myself in deceptive clothes and face of beauty divine!

on't worry 'bout me, for as you can see, "Rosebud" buried in my obit, so friends wll know 'tis just a skit, that I'm alive and fine!

Devilishly handsome I'll appear
Sweet sixteen right to the year,
Though ID says I'm 1-plus-20,
Larkin shall gaze upon my phase
With heartbeats, tears and hugs aplenty!


follow EZ_Krahlin at http://twitter.com

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