The Friendly Ghost Detective Agency - Part 4
(c) 2007 by Ezekiel J. Krahlin
2007 November 24
SOMA: SOUTH OF MARKET ANUSES
BTW, I cannot possibly complete each of my remaining Friendly Ghost
chapters every 24 hours. It's turned out to be even MORE of an
excrutiating labor of love...but really, I gain MUCH pleasure from
this venture, regardless.
Regardless, too, of the high possibility these curs may attempt to
sabotage my life even further than they already have! In the event I
get whisked off to jail or some other high-security restriction...I
request that someone (or someONES) establish a fund to assist my legal
expenses.
Also: organize a media blitz on my behalf, and do your very best to
KEEP me in the public eye. I have NO ONE around me (except Peggy)
who'd do me that excellent favor. But it would NOT be fair to place
such a burden on ONE person...especially with the difficult challenges
SHE has in her own fantabulous-but-busy life (beating CANCER for one).
PLUS, this would likely put her life in danger.
In the event this unfortunate derailment should occur, please contact
Tom K. and start your own "Free Zeke" mailing list. His e-mail is
extensively publicized via Usenet as well as NUMEROUS web pages
scattered throughout The Dark Realm Of Cyberspace:
ALERT 2:37 AM NOVEMBER 24: I can no longer access my gay-bible.org
website, nor my ZekeBlog, nor my e-mailbox. Hilarious! I am SO all
over these fascist goons. Right in the middle of composing Part 4 of
the Friendly Ghost Detective Agency! I'm gonna have to find a way to
BURN this latest chapter to CD, and send it off to Tom K. As well as
telephone him tomorrowf. I'll give him the e-mails of four trusted
friends (see below). Good thing I've downloaded ALL my web log
articles for backup! I can snail-mail ALL of them to Tom K., in 2 or 3
diskettes! That is: if the police, FBI or CIA or whatever don't come
sma****ng down my door in the middle of the night....which IS a
possibility, drama queens they be!
This is a REAL WAR going on here, and I am FRONT MAN. I am ffhe FINEST
spiritual warrior the world has ever seen since...er...Gandhi perhaps
(though he was hetero***ual and a wife beater to boot...Goddess
forbid!) I DON'T EVEN HAVE TIME TO SET UP INFORMATIVE LINKS WITHIN
THIS CHAPTER; THIS IS A RACE FOR TIME! Do you want to take up arms and
defend me, or back away and leave me to my own wits? Personally, I am
110% CONFIDENT that I shall be victorious no matter what...like the
Little Red Hen who successfully baked a DELICIOUS loaf of bread
withOUT the camaraderie of her barnyard associates. I don't even care
if you're ATHEIST in your sup****t...I know better: that there IS an
elegantly compassionate and humorous God (or Goddess), who RESPECTS
any and all non-nihilistic belief systems (which of COURSE includes
humanistic atheist philosophy)...and ANGELS that watch over us wih the
GREATEST benevolence and brotherly/sisterly adoration. I AM BECOME
LIVING PROOF. Neither Prozac nor its derivatives have ANYTHING to do
with my UTTERLY REMARKABLE revelations. LIKEWISE for Jesus the
Christ...who is nothing more than a flimsy and watered-down spinoff of
Apollonian Mythos, thank you very much.
PLEASE NOTE: This passage has been inserted above my current writing,
due to the URGENCY of this sudden--though anticipated--sabotage.
Further down, I DISCUSS the likelihood of being cut off from Internet
access, brilliant QUEER PAGAN PROPHET that I am! (And ALSO realize
that my full consicousness of my Goddess-Chosen Role is only VERY
RECENT; not something I've known for years.) No sooner than ONE HOUR
after stating this possibility of Internet expulsion, I am effectively
SABOTAGED exactly as described! But just be aware that i take the
Buddhist spin: "We have no enemies, only teachers." And in so
thinking, I conclude that "MINE ENEMIES" are simply angels playing a
role in order to make me into a HERO. They are TELEPATHIC, and know
exactly the moments appropriate to push my buttons. DON'T HATE ANY OF
THEM! They are angelic actors and actresses participating in a DREAM
COME TRUE just for yours truly! By the same token, you must REGARD
them as adversaries, until they finally drop their Swords Of Enmity.
That's just how The Game Of Life MUST Be Played!
So let's just see if I can keep this rude distraction at bay, and
complete This Lovely Chapter Under Siege! I need to finish my re****t
on the SEVEN CURS OF SOMA, which you shall learn about in a short
while. Thanks for your patience, my belov-ed "e-friends"!
TKeske@[EMAIL PROTECTED]
I'm not imposing on his privacy in sharing this address with my
ADDITIONAL and TRUSTWORTHY e-friends, who number just four (e-mail
links embedded clearly denoted, since it seems I've just been CENSORED
IN CYBERSPACE). I am snail-mailing this to Tom, who can then contact
these decent people.)
- Peggy C. Over hill, over dale, (down the hallway)
- Eleanor C. as we hit the dusty trail, (Mendocino County, CA)
- James D. and those caissons go rolling along. (Cole Valley, S.F.)
- John H. In and out, hear them shout. (Philly, PA)
(Please note I've OBLITERATED certain data, such as e-mail addresses,
last names and my phone number...for this public, Internet version.
The EMERGENCY version remains intact, and will be mailed to Tom
shortly.)
The first REAL testing of these scary waters is about to occur: I
e-mailed my URL for The Larkin Chronicles AND Friendly Ghost to Joe
Cote and Dennis Wallo less than two nights ago.
I WANTED to POST to BARtender RON:
aLAS his E-mail is SADly a-"NON".
Though guaranTEED:
both GOSssips will GAIN undiVIDED atTENtion,
In HOPES of foMENting
Vam-PIE-rish ConVENtion!
(BTW: I have a strong hunch that the poem above contains SECRET CODE
composed of only those uppercase characters. If so, I channeled it
unconsciously, in my desire to assist ZekeBlog visitors in stressing
the correct syllables. Goddess only knows how to crack the code...but
maybe YOU can, Dearest Reader.)
Here's what I BELIEVE will happen: They'll contact Online Policy Group
which hosts my web site gratis. (OPG is a gay-founded cyber
organization that sup****ts low income activists with free web sites,
e-mailboxes, and mailing lists.) Undoubtedly they will ALSO complain
to tBlog.com, which houses my ZekeBlog. While these GOONS are likely
too scared to instigate a lawsuit, shutting down my Internet presence
is something they can EASILY get away with, no legal repercussion. Oh
right: , there's also my ISP, QwickConnect. Surely These Winged Dogs
Of Abaddon will cause a flurry there, too!
Unfortunately, my CD-burner no longer functions...I can only view and
play CD's. In the event my Internet access DOES get sabotaged, it
would be nice to burn Friendly Ghost AND Larkin Chronicles to CDs, and
distribute them strategically. Anyone up for the job?
Well, this is all absolutely CAPTIVATING, how my life has taken this
sudden turn to ADVENTURE, INTRIGUE and (hopefully very soon) ROMANCE
and LOTSA HOT JUJUBE. Who knows? Maybe my One True Love is sitting in
isolation up there at San Quentin THIS VERY MOMENT! And he's
bodaciously BUFF, sinfully HANDSOME, absolutely LOYAL to his dearest
friends, is a master CAT BURGLAR, LOCKSMITH and IMPERSONATER (so when
he's released he can use his gangster connections to break me outta
there and go in hiding where we'd live our sweet lives together, in
total anonymity from the world except for those kind souls we know are
TRUE friends)...and I am totally a 10+++ in Those Mercurial Eyes Of
His (by witch I am eternally spellbound to be HIS prisoner, gladly,
for LIFE. And (finally *gasp*)...let's not forget this Righteously
Courageous Dude's GINORMOUS and ESTHETICALLY cut wanger, okay? Can you
say "Popsicle Paradise"?
(Uhhh, I gotta leave the keyboard a few moments to tend this sudden
urge for relief. Thanks for your patience: back shortly.)
In a Glorious Nutshell: be careful what you wish for! My adoration for
Damon Runyon-esque characters since I first read his delightful tales
at age 11, about a kind-hearted gangster (you know, the type who rob a
bank and successfully flee in their get-away, but wind up going to
prison just the same, 'cause a little girl just got hit by another car
not related to the robbery, and the gangster HAD to stop in order to
save her precious life)...has apparantly come to haunt me in a REALLY
big way!
It was my mother BTW, who bought me that book as a holiday present: a
collection of Yuletide short stories by Amerikan writers from the 20's
and 30's, possibly The Algonquin Round Table.
I remember the hard cover: a pale lemon-white with a full-length
vertical bar of red. Two inches wide in front, it wrapped around the
binder, back cover same width. (Believe me, I really STRUGGLED with
that description...uurggh! Funny how sometimes the SIMPLEST design can
be so difficult to put into word...er, "words". (No, take that back:
"word" is good.) So sayeth my Guardian Angel Randolph. You can read
about him in my abridged collection of missives entitled "Luv Letters
From Jesus To His Daddy". I'm nothing if not DELECTABLY SACRILIGEOUS.
BTW, it wasn't until several years AFTER coming up with the title
"Final Testament" for my website, that I learned it's also every
Muslim's beloved nickname for the Quran! Badda-bing, badda-boom.
It had that nice, fresh-book smell, almost cedar. Stamped in red
intaglio on the upper right corner was a tiny but delightful outline
of Santa w/sleigh and reindeer. Don't recall the title, maybe:
"America's Most Beloved Yuletide Yarns"...perhaps "12 Days of
Christmas Tales". Here's a good deal: why not read Runyon's "Dancing
Dan's Christmas" right now on the Internet! Or watch the film. Or
listen to it from the old-time radio archives (just a 3.4mb
download...quick)! But whichever way you choose, make sure you're
curled up in a cozy spot, hot cocoa in hand.
Anywayz, I FELL IN LOVE for the first time in
My-Then-Mayfly-Brief-Life : in love with Runyon's Brooklynite Anti
(and colorful) Heroes. I yearned to be in the strong embrace of such
men that do not exist ANYWHERE in these Long Island suburbs. (Except
the Juicy Good Humor Ice Cream Man with his tawny-gold hair and
immaculate white pants cockily set off by a silvery change belt
dispenser that I yearned to GRAB...and hold right there, not take or
steal. Heavy, warm coins adminstered by God's Own Angel...quarters
from Heaven! But it wasn't the coins I sought, it was the WHOLE
PACKAGE. The idea of hefting that luscious weight between those brawny
thighs. O Sweet Masculinity! (Not that I was consciously AWARE of my
longings at such a tender age, mind you. Freud would have a field day
with me...an ORGY in fact.)
I SCREAM FOR ICE CREAM (IN MY JEANS)
(c) 1998 by Ezekiel J. Krahlin
Randolph, thou art my Sundae Special!
Drive up in a truck 'cause it
rhymes with ****; drop your change
belt and shove that pink, hard
treat where it tastes most sweet!
Then let me, Daddy, Daddy, let me
do you any way I please! Let me
tear off your ****rt, and rest my
head on your manly chest as I
reach through your fly to find
something big to suck on! And let
me slide those spotless white
pants over your muscular legs,
which you raise in the air to help
me out! Please, Daddy, please let
me do even more! Let me make your
big nest slippery with my saliva
(your buoyant eggs shall ride the
waves of ecstasy!), let me taste
the sweetness of your crown (and
the first dew that drops on my
lips!), let me pierce your tight
sphincter with the dart of my
slippery tongue, and let me raise
your legs so I can pierce even
deeper, my hot breath smothering
your fiery balls, your cock so
stiff it feels like it's going to
burst from your skin! What bursts
instead is a fountain of ice
cream...
for we are in Candyland!
My mother (of all people) gave me The Book That Corrupted Me. Thus
began my romantic fantasies for men...and ONLY men. No woman could
even come CLOSE to the peerless bravado and dash of Damon's Daemons.
So it's Mom's fault I'm gay. She's 89 now, in a Florida nursing home
for the demented elderly. My Dad's 90 and bravely by her side each and
every day. It'll do him in. I can't imagine his suffering; only pray.
I would so love for one of Zeus's Own Messengers to perform a humble
but most sincere request of mine:
Go hither to my earthly matriarch who doesn't remember Her Number 2
Son any more. She is expected to part this fleshly veil in a short
time...
Oh dear heaven! I think she just died, I suddenly feel her presence so
strong; I weep as I type. She says The Friendly Ghost Detective Agency
will shake the world to its core, and there are NO words on earth OR
in Heaven to express even remotely, how proud she is of me. And begs
forgivenes for the lonely and neglectfully ABUSIVE childhood I
suffered from her own hands, and those of my Dad, and of my only
(older) brother Sandy. And regrets terribly that my maternal
grandparents were purposely kept from enjoying the company of Their
Little Grandson, even though we all lived under the same North
Massapequa roof. They loved me SO MUCH and were SO SAD that I had to
be isolated from them.
---------------
!!! WE INTERRUPT YOU FOR THIS SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT!!!
Before I continue, it is of utmost im****t to include an apology to my
family for the negative accounts that follow. Described below in some
detail are descriptions of an unhappy and dysfunctional family. Before
anyone takes offense, allow me this redeeming (and LIKELY) hypothesis:
Such a unique destiny as mine demands an equally unique upbringing,
most im****tant: a TOUGHENING of one's mettle. The usual nurturing
family would surely NOT fulfill This Mandate From Up Above. I
therefore extend my utmost gratitude to both my parents (Anna
Elizabeth Catalano; Vincent Arthur Catalano, Sr.) and my only sibling
(Vincent Arthur Catalano, Jr. a.k.a. "Sandy") for having the GUTS to
play this out: a most difficult role, massively grievous albeit
sacred.
"We have no enemies, only teachers." (Buddha)
"Love thine enemies." (Jesus)
"Go suck an egg!" (Rhoda Morgenstern's mom)
WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULAR SHOW
---------------
My grandfather, George Gerrie (Scottish surname: "Gerrie" with a hard
"G") had a harsh childhood and was sent to America while still very
young...leaving his bereaved mother with a violent drunk of a husband,
and his beloved pet pig...abandoning them somewhere in the dingy
outskirts of Elgin.
My parents RARELY talked about their heritage (Mom, French-Scot; Dad,
Italian). It was only these past few years I managed to eke from my
mother, some background detail. Grandpa George was understandably
morose as an adult. His wife (my Grandma, whose first name I've long
forgotten...or maybe was never told), abided by him like a loving
angel.
Is it possible he was kept from me, because he suffered spells of
violence? Is it possible that my mother killed him? I only know that
on that day when I came home from school, my mother told me that
Grandpa died. She said he had turned away from the kitchen window
after commenting on the lovely day, then slipped and banged his bald
pate on a corner of the wall, cracking it open. She was not crying.
She was not grim. Mom was matter-of-fact about it, perhaps for the
sake of sparing my little child self from trauma. Though I'm not so
sure. BTW it never occured to me until just a few short years ago,
that my mother would ever kill anyone let alone her own father!
It is of course my utmost HOPE that such morbid consideration is but a
far flung fantasy emerged from A Dark Corner Of The Mind. Though I DO
fear that it is yet another of my psychic glimmerings which ALWAYS
turn out to be 100% accurate (though the revelation may take YEARS).
It has all the familiar earmarks. There is also THIS sad truth:
When I was just a tot, my mom would frequently wring her hands,
exclaiming her deepest hope that I wouldn't wind up like my cousin
Patty, who died of a drug overdose in a psychiatric ward! Now, how do
you think that would IMPACT an impressionable little boy? Can you say
"psychological baggage"? Plus: my father would sometimes remind me
what a weak, pathetic loser I was. UNlike my jock brother who joined
varsity and later, The Citadel, a military college in Charleston,
South Carolina. Cracker's answer to West Point! I felt unloved,
unwanted, a financial burden...or IOW: learned to despise my parents
at an early age, but kept it to myself. My brother never bonded with
me, either...we NEVER shared any fun moments whatsoever.
An Athlete, a Cadet, and an Eagle Scout. So where is his merit badge
for BROTHERLY LOVE? Sandy has neither spoken with me, nor written a
letter in the last 30-plus years!
Though I've phoned him twice
And written him thrice,
His lack of sibling concern is NOT
very nice.
(Can you say "Typical Amerikan Nuclear Family Dysfunctionality" three
times as fast as possible? Raised like a stranger by my own flesh and
blood!) He's four years my senior; as an older brother he's supposed
to reach out to me! But he never did, and he's now what...61 years
old, retired from the Nassau County Police Department. Never fulfilled
his dream to be a detective. Yet look at where I'm headed now, at the
ripe age of 57: a bona fide PSYCHIC detective with the world soon at
my fingertips! And growing younger daily.
Since I hated my parents, I thought nothing of rifling through their
bedroom dressers while no one else was home. One day (at the tender
age of 11), I found hidden beneath my father's neatly piled boxer
shorts, this Bantam paperback: "Female Psycho Ward". The head nurse
was depicted (on the front cover in glossy printer's ink) scowling
with heaving breast and hair a-tousle, ripping the blouse of a buxom
Candy Striper. Behind them, a bloody pitchfork lay slanted against the
pea-green wall, while several attending nurses peered aghast through a
lucite partition. I was likewise aghast upon reading a lone paragraph
contained therein.
"How could you marry that man? Well, you're no prize yourself! Did you
think I never suspected, never longed, wept, AGONIZED over what might
have been? What SHOULD have been? The devil's pitchfork is too GOOD
for you, vermin *****! ****! God damn putrid WHORE!" She turned
around, swept a livid hand beneath the sofa cu****ons to reclaim a
far-flung wedding ring. Instead, a displaced needle drove clean
through her index finger, bone and all. She howled in wrathful agony:
a toreador's picador! Should she grab the pliers now and yank it out?
Or ride out the storm, continue her dirty deed until Butchie (her
"man") returns?
A couple years later I decided to treat myself to a day at a carnival
staged one weekend at the John H. West Elementary School's baseball
field a few blocks from my home. So I returned to their bedroom and
stole nearly the entire contents of their "New Mexico or Bust" fire
hydrant coin bank. $45 worth of quarters! I'm sure Mom and Dad knew I
was the thief, but they never confronted me. Though a few days later I
heard them in the bedroom, remarking on the disappearance. Perhaps
they spoke in stage whisper through a closed door, hoping I'd confess.
Perhaps they felt regret for my difficult childhood and decided this
time to be lenient.
I only remember ONE gift presented me from my grandparents. Through
Grandma's hand: a miniature, plastic drum. My mother took it away.
I remember several weeks after Grandpa's passing, I was shunted from
the shared bedroom to that of my deceased grandparents. (Grandma died
in Syosset Hospital two years prior.) The room was now revamped for a
child: I ABHORED the clown-theme linoleum floor! The first night I
slept on Grandpa George's bed, I dreamt of him:
His tall, gaunt frame towered above, leaned over and tapped me awake.
"Look under the bed. A gift awaits you," were his only words. I awoke
drenched in the pale beams of a full moon. A chill November night,
acid stung my sinuses: the scent of crisp, dead leaves wafting through
a cracked window cold as steel. A Silurian moonlight exhumed Those
Gaudy Linoleum Clowns from a dark retreat.
What's under the bed?
Buried deep within the secure illusion of a comforter, I shuddered:
nuzzled further and further from Hade's Cliff while dirty red talons
scratched and clawed for purchase. It CRAVED my trembling soul. The
wall's massive, particle-board hand abruptly SLAPPED me on the back,
hard. I froze, held breath as a ghastly demon finally scaled Hell's
Breach and crouched, still. It stared from deep, hollow eyes less than
one arm's reach from my own. A dog howled from a neighbor's backyard
and the demon scattered.
I finally mustered up the bravado to crawl out from beneath my heavy
blankets, slip under the bed and secure my gift. There it was, like a
Tinkerbell spark in the dark: squarecut diamond ring of elegant
design. I showed it to my mother the next day, describing my dream
about Grandpa. She took it from me, like the toy drum. I never saw it
again.
The toy drum and Grandpa's ring weren't the only things in my
possession she tossed out. I was artistically precocious: mostly
drawing these incredible abstract designs, alien creatures, and mazes.
But also by eight or so, wrote fantasy tales w/pencil on looseleaf.
Years later on my first Xmas vacation from college (which campus was a
solid thousand-miles-PLUS away from my strange, cold family), I asked
Mom where she stored my childhood whimsies. "I threw them away," was
her curt reply. She doesn't even know what time I was born!. "All I
remember," she said, "it was hot and muggy, and dark outside. Either
early dawn or dusk." And I don't have my original birth certificate,
either...but now with so many hindsighted years, I wonder: Did she
throw THAT away, too?
I have a re-issued birth certificate dated TWENTY YEARS after I was
born. (My Mom claims the old hospital that stored my certificate
burned down in 1955.) But this re-issue doesn't reveal my TIME of
birth, just date, place and name! (Which name by the way is not my
present one. Click here to see legal proof of my name-change.) I felt
ashamed for my family's treatment of me, so desired for YEARS to have
a new, full name. Finally did it in 1996, never looked back.
Carl Jung once said that the gods and godesses (or "archetypes" as he
coined it) always find a way to manifest no matter how hard society
tries to suppress their ubiquitous spirit. In our modern day, they
emerge through electronic media: celebrities from movies, TV and
s****ts. Also: comic books. This theory adds a new layer of
appreciation to my lonely childhood. Were it not for those idiot-box
cartoons that delighted my soul as a tot, I would've gone hopelessy,
permanently stark-raving MAD! Warner Brothers' "Looney Tunes" were my
greatest enjoyment. So I'd like to unofficially declare Sylvester the
Cat our Patron Saint of Neglected Children. Or Daffy Duck. (They were
my two all-time favorites, but any Looney Tunes character will suffice
EQUALLY well.)
Back to my plea: If an angel could so kindly rekindle my mother's
memory of moi (Eugene Frank Catalano by birth), to tell her THANK YOU
for that wonderful Christmas book...and also for that LAVISHLY
illustrated Mother Goose Fairytales. Those exquisite, gold-gilt images
so joyfully colored, still ****ne brightly like Heaven's own vision in
THIS mind's eye! And in so knowing my gratitude, she may depart in
bliss, and come to my rescue. As a Guardian Angel to secure my
victory, and that of all my gay brethren. Nothing would make her
happier! And so my prayer has been answered the very moment I request
it here, in writing. Witness the miracle!
---------------
!!! WE INTERRUPT YOU FOR THIS SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT!!!
Before anyone takes offense, allow me this redeeming (and LIKELY)
hypothesis:
Such a unique destiny as mine demands an equally unique challenge,
most im****tant: a TOUGHENING of one's mettle. The usual nurturing
friend****ps would surely NOT fulfill This Mandate From Up Above. I
therefore extend my utmost gratitude to both my enemies and seemingly
clueless friends alike, for having the GUTS to play this out: a most
difficult role, massively grievous albeit sacred.
"We have no enemies, only teachers." (Buddha)
"Love thine enemies." (Jesus)
"Go suck an egg!" (Rhoda Morgenstern's mom)
WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULAR SHOW
---------------
Please view the following image of what I have titled "The SOMA
Seven": depicts 7 different oddballs out of two SOMA gay bars who have
been (and some day may AGAIN be) a danger to me.
http://www.gay-bible.org/truetales/Larkin/2007%252011%252024-K.jpg
The first three people depicted above AND the three below, are ALL
close friends of Gypsy's (*shudder*)! With friends like those, who
needs ENEMAS, right?
Top image from left to right: Ron Hennis, bartender at the Eagle
Tavern. Look at those eyes: what do they tell you? VAMPIRES EXIST! To
learn the dirt on Ron, read "30 Pieces Of Silver" and "The Mistake You
Made". Both are chapters from my "Larkin Chronicles" BTW, which gave
birth to this Friendly Ghost adventure I'm now writing.
Dennis Wallo (front), customer and former friend. We met at the Eagle
around 11 months ago. I was MOST impressed by his boundless knowledge
of ALL spiritual belief systems...truly genius! Unfortunately, he is
totally CAPTIVATED by the Black Arts, and was used by Gypsy in a
(fruitless) attempt to deflect my outrage, and muddy my ASTUTE
observations. Dennis "wallows" in some pretty dark muck!
Dennis lives in a classy RV, complete with fridge, TV, stereo, DVD
player, and Buddhist/Hindu/Catholic/S hamanic art decorating the
walls. Darn it, I should have photographed his vehicle when I had the
chance! I think I'll mosey on down to SOMA where he often parks on
Harrison Street somewhere between The Lonestar and The Eagle...and
take a pic of his RV'S rear bumper. I mean, posting his LICENSE NUMBER
on the web would be most helpful! Maybe I'll have the photo up in a
few days.
Behind him is Joe Cote, who turned on me since I accused Gary Clayton
of allowing speed freak (red-headed bicycle street punk) Chris to
violently threaten me. He utterly FAILED to chastise Chris with a
prompt boot out the door. Gary tends bar at Hole in the Wall Saloon on
8th Street & Folsom. In retrospect, I believe Gary PAID Chris to drive
me out. Since our falling out, Cote has been gossiping to EVERYONE
who'll listen, in an attempt to have me kicked out and perhaps even
injured. As confidant to my grievence against Gary, he decided to
violate that trust!
These two bars (Hole & Eagle) BTW are under the same owner****p: a
now-elderly interracial gay couple (Caucasian and dark African).
http://www.gay-bible.org/truetales/Larkin/2007%252011%252024-K2.jpg
As a consequence (or not) the bartenders of BOTH establishments are a
tight clique...or should I say "coven"?
Then there's Gypsy (a.k.a. "Pappy", "Arthur", and my all-time
favorite: "s***bag"). Yes, there's ALWAYS Gypsy. LIVING PROOF THAT
**** CAN WALK. (Even more astounding: it TALKS sometimes, too! Will
wonders never cease...woddan a MAZE ink woild!) Since they broke up my
friend****p w/sweetie Larkin, I can't frequent any gay bar w/o Gypsy or
cohorts snooping around my proximity. Looks like a syringe in his
clenched fist, but that's just the reflection off a beer bottle.
Synchronistic or what?
Bottom image from left to right: Jerry is Hole in the Wall's evening
weekday bartender. He was on duty when a nighttime regular, Mike,
invited me for a few rounds of pool. He wound up drugging and mugging
me. You can read about it in the enclosed Larkin Chronicles under
article "A Handsome Mug". I've concluded that Jerry and certain street
thugs have an AGREEMENT to split the costs of whatever valuables they
obtain from skulduggery. It was on one of Jerry's Tuesday night
****fts, the crime was committed.
Gary Clayton is the Hole in the Wall's weekday bartender
(Mon.-Thurs.), the one who did NOTHING when a speed freak LOUDLY AND
CLEARLY threatened me with extreme violence.
Lastly is Chris Altman, ALSO a bartender at The Hole. His jealousy
over my friend****p w/Larkin inspired him to allow a customer's unruly
dog to ATTACK me, and consequently drove me out for complaining. You
can read about that fiasco in the Larkin Chronicles under "Dark Mojo
at the Hole". To cut to the quick, do a search on "Weekend bartender
Chris A".
I dowloaded all pics from the web site of either Hole in the Wall or
The Eagle, but one ("Joe / Dennis" which photo I took myself). That
was the ONLY pic I could find of Gypsy, but he's so unique in his
seedy appearance the photo will do nicely, thank you. Besides, I've
come up with an absolutely PERFECT description of Gypsy (oh how I
despise needing to write and speak his horrid name so often):
"A cross between Yosemite Sam and Colonel Sanders".
I described him like that to an acquaintance, Eric (former cab driver
of Korean descent, occupies an SRO at the Twin Peaks Hotel, one block
west of the notorious Lucky 13 and Metro bars. (Heck, they're ALL
"notorious" as far as THIS little pup is concerned. Should go w/o
saying!) Several days later, we cross paths again, and he remarks in
gales of laughter: "Your description of Gypsy really nailed him to a
T! You said I'd know who he was right off the bat."
I had informed Eric that Gypsy barbacks at the Lucky 13 Sundays and
Mondays, at night. He often stands in the doorway, smoking a cig. (I'm
sure he'd positively love to smoke THIS fag, too!)
HERE'S THE KICKER
As I suggested earlier, Siddhartha's declaration, "We have no enemies,
only teachers," I take to heart. And in so doing, have conjured up my
OWN 21st-century makeover specifically for GAYS in my essay,
"NeoPositivity". If you haven't read it yet, I STRONGLY recommend you
do so NOW. Your very LIFE and TRUE HAPPINESS depends on it. It will
also--as a secodary benefit--clarify my approach to life as a gay
activist. And help you understand MUCH BETTER, my ideas expressed
herein. AAMOF, you'll be like a ****p without a rudder in ALL aspects
of your life until you DO read my brilliant essay. (No false humility
here, I assure you!)
The GREAT THING this gentle philosophy implies is that NO ONE is
actually out to "get me". They ALL play a Goddess-designated role for
my betterment. This mean my parents (and brother) were DIVINELY
INSTRUCTED to NOT go easy on me, that I may fulfill my destiny...as
much as it may GRIEVE them to honor This Sacred Command. For in being
raised in an unhappy family, I became highly motivated to seek
SPRITUAL FAMILY among my gay brothers here in San Francisco. As well
as REACH OUT to gay homeless people who've suffered even more family
dysfunction than I've EVER experienced. And--like a Bodhisattva
Warrior descending into Hell to liberate agonized souls--embrace them
and pull them back up with me, out of the muck and mire of human
detritus and misery.
Likewise my SOMA "enemies". I believe that life holds many precious
secrets that are ONLY revealed---one by one--when you sorely EARN the
right to know each particular (and sacred) truth. And my
incredible-long-suffering starting from earliest childhood has
RIGHTFULLY earned me this new-found knowledge, a Fountain Of Wisdom
for my gay brothers first, everyone else second.
As you most likely know by now, I've just about run out of ink for my
printer. And since it seems I'll be unable to connect to the Internet
for the forseeable future, I can't even order more ink cartridges!
(Not that I can afford to until the first of next month...and if rent
control for all of California is abolished, as will most likely happen
in a ballot some months from now...my monthly rent will JUMP from $310
to $750, leaving me with barely enough for food...forget about eating
out or even COFFEE, let alone printer and other computer expenses).
If you care to subsidize my efforts a bit, you can pursue the
cartridge situation by reading the enclosed article,"The Agony & The
Inkstasy" and do what needs be done to OBTAIN the necessary cartridges
and snail-mail them to me.:
Tom, PLEASE e-mail all *.zip files I mailed you, to my four other
e-mail friends listed above, including my phone number which is:
415-Counter march and right about.
Heck, if anyone can afford to send me an entirely UPDATED computer in
the form of a wi-fi friendly LAPTOP (preferrably w/Linux fully
installed instead of Windoze), I'd GREATLY appreciate it. I understand
that DELL has just such products. One can't fight this Information War
effectively, w/o a functioning laptop out in the field. A good soldier
merits good ammo. Hey, nice EQUIPMENT there, buddy! (Factoid: "There
are no heteros in foxholes".)
As usual, once I start to make a MAJOR breakthrough, I am SABOTAGED
and derailed. But being a true disciple of Buddha, I am far less
upset, than amused. It is all a delightful game if you so choose to
see it that way. And in so seeing, I save the souls of ALL my enemies,
even the most VIRULENT, and gain them as beloved amigos and amours.
They make me into a magnanimous hero by playing the role of My
Greatest Adversaries.
I am hoping AND praying that my two remaining ink cartridges (one
color and one black) will miraculosly continue to print PERFECTLY for
the next 8 days: sufficient to complete ALL my "Friendly Ghost"
chapters. In the spirit of Chanukah (when the empty oil lamps
CONTINUED TO BURN for eight more days), I wish YOU and those whom you
adore, a very JOYOUS holiday season withOUT KKKristian arrogance of
any stripe!
Sinqueerly,
Ezekiel J. Krahlin
Queer Visionary Extraordinaire
UPDATE 9:06 AM NOVEMBER 24: Please DISREGARD my bone-shaking alert at
top of do***ent. I can once more access the Internet, and all my vital
CyberArsenal. What a spooky little trick played on me, eh? Though it
DID serve a good purpose, renewing my APPRECIATION of this global
communications sysem that mimics telepathy so remarkably well. (AND it
made for some pretty intense writing, did it not?)
But let's not rest on our olivers...oops, I mean "laurels"; consider
this a DRILL for the possible (even probable) day when I really WILL
be under attack, arrested and/or isolated in some other devious
manner. Now, I gotta REMAP those links for my ZekeBlog, remove e-mail
addresses and my telephone number, and post This Incredible Fourth
Chapter Of The Friendly Ghost Detective Agency. Whew! (I was just
about to PHONE you, Tom, were I not able to go online this morning,
after cra****ng a few hours from an excessively overworked, all-night
streak of impassioned prose.)
PS: Yes, I like my brain chemistry, too, Eleanor. I am unabashedly
cock-a-hoop. BTW, my mother sang WWII war songs to me as a baby,
instead of the usual nursery rhymes. Her maiden name is Anna Elizabeth
Gerrie, born in Brooklyn, 1918.
CAISSONS GO ROLLING ALONG
by 1st Lieutenant Edmund L. Gruber
Over hill, over dale, as we hit the dusty trail,
And those Caissons go rolling along.
In and out, hear them shout, counter march and right about,
And those Caissons go rolling along.
Then it's hi, hi, hee, in the field artillery,
Shout out your numbers loud and strong,
Where'er you go, you will always know
That those Caissons go rolling along,
That those Caissons go rolling along.
In the storm, in the night, action left or action right,
See those Caissons go rolling along.
Limber front, limber rear, prepare to mount your cannoneer,
And those Caissons go rolling along.
Was it high, was it low, where the hell did that one go?
As those Caissons go rolling along,
Was it left, was it right, now we won't get home tonight,
And those Caissons go rolling along.
-----------
posted by: soulsought (reply)
post date: 11.24.07 (11:47 pm)
One thing those of you in this guestbook may not realize about Zeke.
The fruits of his labor have blessed others outside of the gay world,
such as my deceased Mother.
His Mother met me once 25 years ago, or so, in Santa Cruz. In the
years that followed, he taught me skills that got me a good job and
the ability to save enough money up to care for a little old lady with
Alzheimer's, namely, my Mother. Without that blessing it would have
been rough going. My Mother was and IS very spiritual, and I know she
thanks and blesses Ezekiel for this.
I have always wanted this fact relayed to Ezekiel's Mother, as an
affirmation of his spiritual projection, which she could relate to in
role parallel. Ironic that dementia has overcome her too, to a point
where she wouldn't comprehend this now.
posted by: soulsought (reply)
post date: 11.24.07 (11:51 pm)
I neglected to mention my Mother, two years younger than Zeke's,
passed on three years ago (11/16/04). Also, where I used the word
"guestbook" above, I should have used "blog", as this thread in which
we are posting is technically a blog.
posted by: ZekeBlog (reply)
post date: 11.25.07 (2:43 am)
That's okay John: a rose by any other name is still a rose. I'm glad
you DID post that same comment to my real guestbook, as it will make a
much nicer frame when I print it out.
The difference between a blog and a guestbook is that usually a blog
allows your comments to be lengthier. I LOVE the whole idea of writing
a story, uploading it for anyone in the world to read...and making
available to them, any COMMENTS they might add. Thus each responder
becomes PART of the story!
And what a USEFUL method to expose fraud and corruption to the public
eye! Thanks once more for your most gracious compliments. I won't say
they're not deserved: I've been going through HELL for many years to
earn people's appreciation. But hey, if things were too easy, we
wouldn't appreciate compliments anywhere near as much...and our mettle
would not be tested.
### Finis ###
Permission granted by author for anyone to distribute this
writing free of charge (including translation into any
language)...under condition that no profit is made therefrom,
and that it remain intact and complete, including title and
credit to the original author.
Ezekiel J. Krahlin
http://www.gay-bible.org
--
To view this article w/color images and revelatory links, see:
http://www.gay-bible.org/truetales/Larkin/FG_04.htm
This piece is an excerpt from my 2-volume opus:
Steal This Blog! (gay revolution)
http://www.gay-bible.org/steal
--
Zeke Krahlin
http://www.gay-bible.org
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