
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 smashing down my door in the middle of the night....which IS a possibility, drama queens they be!

This is a REAL WAR going on here, and I am
FRONT MAN. I am ffhe FINEST spiritual warrior the world has ever seen
since...er...Gandhi perhaps (though he was heterosexual and a wife beater
to boot...Goddess forbid!) I DON'T EVEN HAVE TIME TO SET UP INFORMATIVE
LINKS WITHIN THIS CHAPTER; THIS IS A RACE FOR TIME! Do you want to take
up arms and defend me, or back away and leave me to my own wits?
Personally, I am 110% CONFIDENT that I shall be victorious no
matter what...like the Little Red Hen who successfully baked a
DELICIOUS loaf of bread withOUT the camaraderie of her barnyard
associates. I don't even care if you're ATHEIST in your support...I
know better: that there IS an elegantly compassionate and humorous
God (or Goddess), who RESPECTS any and all non-nihilistic belief
systems (which of COURSE includes humanistic atheist philosophy)...and
ANGELS that watch over us wih the GREATEST benevolence and
brotherly/sisterly adoration. I AM BECOME LIVING PROOF. Neither Prozac nor its derivatives have ANYTHING to do with my UTTERLY REMARKABLE revelations.
LIKEWISE for Jesus the Christ...who is nothing more than a flimsy and
watered-down spinoff of Apollonian Mythos, thank you very much.
PLEASE NOTE: This passage has been inserted above
my current writing, due to the URGENCY of this sudden--though
anticipated--sabotage. Further down, I DISCUSS the likelihood of being
cut off from Internet accesss, brilliant QUEER PAGAN PROPHET that I am!
(And ALSO realize that my full consicousness of my Goddess-Chosen Role
is only VERY RECENT; not something I've known for years.) No sooner
than ONE HOUR after stating this possibility of Internet expulsion, I
am effectively SABOTAGED exactly as described! But just be aware that i
take the Buddhist spin: "We have no enemies, only teachers." And
in so thinking, I conclude that "MINE ENEMIES" are simply angels
playing a role in order to make me into a HERO. They are TELEPATHIC,
and know exactly the moments appropriate to push my buttons. DON'T HATE ANY OF THEM! They are angelic actors and actresses participating in a DREAM COME TRUE just for yours truly! By
the same token, you must REGARD them as adversaries, until they finally
drop their Swords Of Enmity. That's just how The Game Of Life MUST Be
Played!
So let's just see if I can keep this rude distraction at bay, and complete This Lovely Chapter Under Siege! I need to finish my report on the SEVEN CURS OF SOMA, which you shall learn about in a short while. Thanks for your patience, my belov-ed "e-friends"!
TKeske@Comcast.Net
So I'm not imposing on his privacy in sharing this address with my
ADDITIONAL and TRUSTWORTHY e-friends, who number just four (e-mail
links embedded clearly denoted, since it seems I've just been CENSORED IN CYBERSPACE). I am snail-mailing this to Tom, who can then contact these decent people.)
- 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 C.
and Dennis W. less than two nights ago.
I WANTED to POST to BARtender RON:
aLAS his E-mail is SADly a-"NON".
Though guaranTEED:
both GOSssips will GAIN undiVIDED atTENtion,
In HOPES of foMENting
Vam-PIE-rish ConVENtion!
(BTW: I have a strong hunch that the poem above contains SECRET
CODE composed of only those uppercase characters. If so, I channeled it
unconsciously, in my desire to assist ZekeBlog visitors in stressing
the correct syllables. Goddess only knows how to crack the code...but
maybe YOU can, Dearest Reader.)

Here's what I BELIEVE will happen: They'll contact Online Policy Group
which hosts my web site gratis. (OPG is a gay-founded cyber
organization that supports low income activists with free web sites,
e-mailboxes, and mailing lists.) Undoubtedly they will ALSO complain to
tBlog.com, which houses my ZekeBlog. While these GOONS are likely too
scared to instigate a lawsuit, shutting down my Internet presence is
something they can EASILY get away with, no legal repercussion. Oh
right: , there's also my ISP, QwickConnect. Surely These Winged Dogs Of
Abaddon will cause a flurry there, too!
Unfortunately, my CD-burner no longer functions...I can only view
and play CD's. In the event my Internet access DOES get sabotaged, it
would be nice to burn Friendly Ghost AND Larkin Chronicles to CDs, and
distribute them strategically. Anyone up for the job?
Well, this is all absolutely CAPTIVATING, how my life has taken this
sudden turn to ADVENTURE, INTRIGUE and (hopefully very soon) ROMANCE
and LOTSA HOT JUJUBE. Who knows? Maybe my One True Love is sitting in
isolation up there at San Quentin THIS VERY MOMENT! And he's
bodaciously BUFF, sinfully HANDSOME, absolutely LOYAL to his dearest
friends, is a master CAT BURGLAR, LOCKSMITH and IMPERSONATER (so when
he's released he can use his gangster connections to break me outta
there and go in hiding where we'd live our sweet lives together, in
total anonymity from the world except for those kind souls we know are
TRUE friends)...and I am totally a 10+++ in Those Mercurial Eyes Of His (by witch
I am eternally spellbound to be HIS prisoner, gladly, for LIFE. And
(finally *gasp*)...let's not forget this Righteously Courageous Dude's
GINORMOUS and ESTHETICALLY cut wanger, okay? Can you say "Popsicle
Paradise"?

(Uhhh, I gotta leave the keyboard a few moments to tend this sudden urge for relief. Thanks for your patience: back shortly.)
In a Glorious Nutshell: be careful what you wish for! My adoration for Damon Runyon-esque
characters since I first read his delightful tales at age 11, about a
kind-hearted gangster (you know, the type who rob a bank and
successfully flee in their get-away, but wind up going to prison just
the same, 'cause a little girl just got hit by another car not related
to the robbery, and the gangster HAD to stop in order to save her
precious life)...has apparantly come to haunt me in a REALLY big way!
It was my mother BTW, who bought me that book as a holiday present:
a collection of Yuletide short stories by Amerikan writers from the
20's and 30's, possibly The Algonquin Round Table.
I remember the hard cover: a pale lemon-white with a full-length
vertical bar of red. Two inches wide in front, it wrapped around the
binder, back cover same width. (Believe me, I really STRUGGLED with
that description...uurggh! Funny how sometimes the SIMPLEST design can
be so difficult to put into word...er, "words". (No, take that back: "word" is good.) So sayeth my Guardian Angel Randolph. You can read about him in my abridged collection of missives entitled "Luv Letters From Jesus To His Daddy". I'm nothing if not DELECTABLY SACRILIGEOUS.
BTW, it wasn't
until several years AFTER coming up with the title "Final Testament"
for my website, that I learned it's also every Muslim's beloved
nickname for the Quran! Badda-bing, badda-boom.

It had that nice, fresh-book smell, almost cedar.
Stamped in red intaglio on the upper right corner was a tiny but
delightful outline of Santa w/sleigh and reindeer. Don't recall the
title, maybe: "America's Most Beloved Yuletide Yarns"...perhaps "12
Days of Christmas Tales". Here's a good deal: why not read Runyon's "Dancing Dan's Christmas" right now on the Internet! Or watch the film. Or listen to it
from the old-time radio archives (just a 3.4mb download...quick)! But
whichever way you choose, make sure you're curled up in a cozy spot,
hot cocoa in hand.
Anywayz, I FELL IN LOVE for the first time in
My-Then-Mayfly-Brief-Life : in love with Runyon's Brooklynite Anti (and
colorful) Heroes. I yearned to be in the strong embrace of such men
that do not exist ANYWHERE in these Long Island suburbs. (Except the
Juicy Good Humor Ice Cream Man with his tawny-gold hair and immaculate
white pants cockily set off by a silvery change belt dispenser
that I yearned to GRAB...and hold right there, not take or steal.
Heavy, warm coins adminstered by God's Own Angel...quarters from
Heaven! But It wasn't the coins I sought, it was the WHOLE PACKAGE. The
idea of hefting that luscious weight between those brawny thighs. O Sweet Masculinity! (Not
that I was consciously AWARE of my longings at such a tender age, mind
you. Freud would have a field day with me...an ORGY in fact.)
I SCREAM FOR ICE CREAM (IN MY JEANS)
©1998 by Ezekiel J. Krahlin
Dad, thou art my Sundae Special!
Drive up in a truck 'cause it
rhymes with fuck; drop your change
belt and shove that pink, hard
treat where it tastes most sweet!
Then let me, Daddy, Daddy, let me
do you any way I please! Let me
tear off your shirt, and rest my
head on your manly chest as I
reach through your fly to find
something big to suck on! And let
me slide those spotless white
pants over your muscular legs,
which you raise in the air to help
me out! Please, Daddy, please let
me do even more! Let me make your
big nest slippery with my saliva
(your buoyant eggs shall ride the
waves of ecstasy!), let me taste
the sweetness of your crown (and
the first dew that drops on my
lips!), let me pierce your tight
sphincter with the dart of my
slippery tongue, and let me raise
your legs so I can pierce even
deeper, my hot breath smothering
your fiery balls, your cock so
stiff it feels like it's going to
burst from your skin! What bursts
instead is a fountain of ice
cream...
for we are in Candyland!
My mother (of all people) gave me The Book That Corrupted Me.
Thus began my romantic fantasies for men...and ONLY men. No woman could
even come CLOSE to the peerless bravado and dash of Damon's Daemons.
So it's Mom's fault I'm gay. She's 89 now, in a Florida nursing home
for the demented elderly. My Dad's 90 and bravely by her side each and
every day. It'll do him in. I can't imagine his suffering; only pray. I
would so love for one of Zeus's Own Messengers to perform a humble but
most sincere request of mine:
Go hither to my earthly matriarch who doesn't remember Her Number 2
Son any more. She is expected to part this fleshly veil in a short
time...
Oh dear heaven! I think she just died, I suddenly feel her presence
so strong; I weep as I type. She says The Friendly Ghost Detective
Agency will shake the world to its core, and there are NO words on
earth OR in Heaven to express even remotely, how proud she is of me.
And begs forgivenes for the lonely and neglectfully ABUSIVE childhood I
suffered from her own hands, and those of my Dad, and of my only
(older) brother Sandy. And regrets terribly that my maternal
grandparents were purposely kept from enjoying the company of Their
Little Grandson, even though we all lived under the same North
Massapequa roof. They loved me SO MUCH and were SO SAD that I had to be
isolated from them.
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 mutual
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.
I only remember ONE gift presented me from my
grandparents. Through Grandma's hand: a miniature, plastic drum. My
mother took it away.


I remember several weeks after Grandpa's
passing, I was shunted from the shared bedroom to that of my deceased
grandparents. (Grandma died in Syosset Hospital two years prior.) The
room was now revamped for a child: I ABHORED the clown-theme linoleum floor! The first night I slept on Grandpa George's bed, I dreamt of him:
His tall, gaunt frame towered above, leaned
over and tapped me awake. "Look under the bed. A gift awaits you," were
his only words. I awoke drenched in the pale beams of a full moon. A
chill November night, acid stung my sinuses: the scent of crisp, dead
leaves wafting through a cracked window cold as steel. A Silurian
moonlight exhumed Those Gaudy Linoleum Clowns from a dark retreat.
What's under the bed?
Buried deep within the secure illusion of a
comforter, I shuddered: nuzzled further and further away from Hade's
Cliff while dirty red talons scratched and clawed for purchase. It
CRAVED my trembling soul. The wall's massive, particle-board hand
abruptly SLAPPED me on the back, hard. I froze, held breath as a
ghastly demon finally scaled Hell's Breach and crouched, still. It
stared from deep, hollow eyes less than one arm's reach from my own. A
dog howled from a neighbor's backyard and the demon scattered.
I finally mustered up the bravado to crawl out
from beneath my heavy blankets, slip under the bed and secure my gift.
There it was, like a Tinkerbell spark in the dark: squarecut diamond
ring of elegant design. I showed it to my mother the next day,
describing my dream about Grandpa. She took it from me, like the toy
drum. I never saw it again.
The toy drum and
Grandpa's ring weren't the only things in my possession she tossed out.
I was artistically precocious: mostly drawing these incredible abstract
designs, alien creatures, and mazes. But also by eight or so, wrote
fantasy tales w/pencil on looseleaf. Years later on my first Xmas
vacation from college (which campus was a solid thousand-miles-PLUS
away from my strange, cold family), I asked Mom where she stored my
childhood whimsies. "I threw them away," was her curt reply. She doesn't even know what time I was born!.
"All I remember," she said, "it was hot and muggy, and dark outside.
Either early dawn or dusk." And I don't have my original birth
certificate, either...but now with so many hindsighted years, I wonder:
Did she throw THAT away, too?

I have a re-issued birth certificate dated TWENTY YEARS after I was born. (My Mom claims the old hospital that stored my certificate burned down in 1955.) But this re-issue doesn't reveal my TIME of birth, just date, place and name! (Which name by the way is not my present one. Click here
to see legal proof of my name-change.) I felt ashamed for my family's
treatment of me, so desired for YEARS to have a new, full name. Finally
did it in 1996, never looked back.
Carl Jung
once said that the gods and godesses (or "archetypes" as he coined it)
always find a way to manifest no matter how hard society tries to
suppress their ubiquitous spirit. In our modern day, they emerge
through electronic media: celebrities from movies, TV and sports. Also:
comic books. This theory adds a new layer of appreciation to my lonely
childhood. Were it not for those idiot-box cartoons that delighted my
soul as a tot, I would've gone hopelessy, permanently stark-raving MAD! Warner Brothers' "Looney Tunes" were my greatest enjoyment. So I'd like to unofficially declare Sylvester the Cat our Patron Saint of Neglected Children. Or Daffy Duck. (They were my two all-time favorites, but any Looney Tunes character will suffice EQUALLY well.)
Back to my plea: If an angel could so kindly rekindle my mother's memory of moi (Eugene Frank Catalano by birth), to tell her THANK YOU for that wonderful
Christmas book...and also for that LAVISHLY illustrated Mother Goose
Fairytales. Those exquisite, gold-gilt images so joyfully colored,
still shine brightly like Heaven's own vision in THIS mind's eye! And
in so knowing my gratitude, she may depart in bliss, and come to my
rescue. As a Guardian Angel to secure my victory, and that of all my
gay brethren. Nothing would make her happier! And so my prayer has been answered the very moment I request it here, in writing. Witness the miracle!
Please view the following image of what I have
titled "The SOMA Seven": depicts 7 different oddballs out of two SOMA
gay bars who have been (and some day may AGAIN be) a danger to me.
The four people depicted above AND the three
below, are ALL close friends of Gypsy's (*shudder*)! With friends like
those, who needs ENEMAS, right?
Top image from left to right: Ron H.,
bartender at the Eagle Tavern (Not sure of his last name. His
e-mail--which I foolishly deleted--just used his initial "H". But he's
part of the gay billiards scene, and I think I found his full name
here:
sfpapool.org/PlayHistory.aspx?Div=I&TeamID=161
Look closely at Ron's 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 W. (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. Behind him is Joe C., who turned on me since I
accused Gary C. 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.
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.
These two bars (Hole & Eagle) BTW are
under the same ownership: a now-elderly interracial gay couple
(Caucasian and dark African). As a consequence (or not) the bartenders
of BOTH establishments are a tight clique...or should I say "coven"?
Then there's Gypsy (a.k.a. "Pappy", "Arthur",
and my all-time favorite: "scumbag"). Yes, there's ALWAYS Gypsy. LIVING
PROOF THAT SHIT CAN WALK. (Even more astounding: it TALKS sometimes, too! Will wonders never cease...woddan a MAZE ink woild!) Since they broke up my friendship w/sweetie Larkin, I can't frequent any
gay bar w/o Gypsy or cohorts snooping around my proximity. Looks like a
syringe in his clenched fist, but that's just the reflection off a beer
bottle. Synchronistic or what?
Bottom image from left to right: Jerry is Hole
in the Wall's evening weekday bartender. He was on duty when a
nighttime regular, Mike, invited me for a few rounds of pool. He wound
up drugging and mugging me. You can read about it in the enclosed Larkin Chronicles under article "A Handsome Mug".
I've concluded that Jerry and certain street thugs have an AGREEMENT to
split the costs of whatever valuables they obtain from skulduggery. It
was on one of Jerry's Tuesday night shifts, the crime was committed.
Gary C. 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 A., ALSO a bartender at The
Hole. His jealousy over my friendship w/Larkin inspired him to allow a
customer's unruly dog to ATTACK me, and consequently drove me out for
complaining. You can read about that fiasco in the Larkin Chronicles under "Dark Mojo at the Hole". To cut to the quick, do a search on "Weekend bartender Chris A".
I dowloaded all pics from the web site of
either Hole in the Wall or The Eagle, but one ("Joe / Dennis" which
photo I took myself). That was the ONLY pic I could find of Gypsy, but
he's so unique in his seedy appearance the photo will do nicely, thank
you. Besides, I've come up with an absolutely PERFECT description of
Gypsy (oh how I despise needing to write and speak his horrid name so often):
"A cross between Yosemite Sam and Colonel Sanders".
I described him like that to an acquaintance,
Eric (former cab driver of Korean descent, occupies an SRO at the Twin
Peaks Hotel, one block west of the notorious Lucky 13 and Metro bars.
(Heck, they're ALL "notorious" as far as THIS little pup is concerned.
Should go w/o saying!) Several days later, we cross paths again, and he
remarks in gales of laughter: "Your description of Gypsy really nailed
him to a T! You said I'd know who he was right off the bat."
I had informed Eric that Gypsy barbacks at the Lucky 13 Sundays and
Mondays, at night. He often stands in the doorway, smoking a cig. (I'm
sure he'd positively love to smoke THIS fag, too!)

HERE'S THE KICKER
As I suggested earlier, Siddhartha's declaration, "We have no enemies, only teachers," I take to heart. And in so doing, have conjured up my OWN 21st-century makeover specifically for GAYS in my essay, "NeoPositivity".
If you haven't read it yet, I STRONGLY recommend you do so NOW. Your
very LIFE and TRUE HAPPINESS depends on it. It will also--as a secodary
benefit--clarify my approach to life as a gay activist. And help you
understand MUCH BETTER, my ideas expressed herein. AAMOF, you'll be
like a ship without a rudder in ALL aspects of your life until you DO
read my brilliant essay. (No false humility here, I assure you!)
The
GREAT THING this gentle philosophy implies is that NO ONE is actually
out to "get me". They ALL play a Goddess-designated role for my
betterment. This mean my parents (and brother) were DIVINELY INSTRUCTED
to NOT go easy on me, that I may fulfill my destiny...as much as it may
GRIEVE them to honor This Sacred Command. For in being raised in an
unhappy family, I became highly motivated to seek SPRITUAL
FAMILY among my gay brothers here in San Francisco. As well as REACH
OUT to gay homeless people who've suffered even more family dysfunction
than I've EVER experienced. And--like a Bodhisattva Warrior descending
into Hell to liberate agonized souls--embrace them and pull them back
up with me, out of the muck and mire of human detritus and misery.

Likewise my SOMA "enemies". I believe that life holds many precious secrets that are ONLY revealed---one by one--when you sorely EARN the right to know each particular (and sacred) truth. And my incredible-long-suffering starting from earliest childhood has RIGHTFULLY earned me this new-found knowledge, a Fountain Of Wisdom for my gay brothers first, everyone else second.
As you most likely know by now, I've just
about run out of ink for my printer. And since it seems I'll be unable
to connect to the Internet for the forseeable future, I can't even
order more ink cartridges! (Not that I can afford to until the
first of next month...and if rent control for all of California is
abolished, as will most likely happen in a ballot some months from now...my
monthly rent will JUMP from $310 to $750, leaving me with barely enough
for food...forget about eating out or even COFFEE, let alone printer
and other computer expenses).
If you care to subsidize my efforts a bit, you can pursue the cartridge situation by reading the enclosed article,"The Agony & The Inkstasy" and do what needs be done to OBTAIN the necessary cartridges and snail-mail them to me.:
Tom, PLEASE e-mail all *.zip files I mailed
you, to my four other e-mail friends listed above, including my phone
number which is:
415-Counter march and right about.
Heck, if anyone can afford to send me an
entirely UPDATED computer in the form of a wi-fi friendly LAPTOP
(preferrably w/Linux fully installed instead of Windoze), I'd GREATLY
appreciate it. I understand that DELL has just such products. One can't fight this Information War effectively, w/o a functioning laptop out in the field. A good soldier merits good ammo. Hey, nice EQUIPMENT there, buddy! (Factoid: "There are no heteros in foxholes".)
As usual, once I start to make a MAJOR
breakthrough, I am SABOTAGED and derailed. But being a true disciple of
Buddha, I am far less upset, than amused. It is all a delightful game
if you so choose to see it that way. And in so seeing, I save the souls
of ALL my enemies, even the most VIRULENT, and gain them as beloved
amigos and amours. They make me into a magnanimous hero by playing the role of My Greatest Adversaries.
I am hoping AND praying that my two remaining
ink cartridges (one color and one black) will miraculosly continue to
print PERFECTLY for the next 8 days: sufficient to complete ALL my
"Friendly Ghost" chapters. In the spirit of Chanukah (when the empty
oil lamps CONTINUED TO BURN for eight more days), I wish YOU and those
whom you adore, a very JOYOUS holiday season withOUT KKKristian
arrogance of any stripe!
Sinqueerly,
Ezekiel J. Krahlin
Queer Visionary Extraordinaire
UPDATE 9:06 AM NOVEMBER
24: Please DISREGARD my bone-shaking alert at top of document. I can
once more access the Internet, and all my vital CyberArsenal. What a
spooky little trick played on me, eh? Though it DID serve a good
purpose, renewing my APPRECIATION of this global communications sysem
that mimics telepathy so remarkably well. (AND it made for some pretty intense writing, did it not?)
But let's not rest on our olivers...oops, I mean "laurels";
consider this a DRILL for the possible (even probable) day when I
really WILL be under attack, arrested and/or isolated in some other
devious manner. Now, I gotta REMAP those links for my ZekeBlog, remove
e-mail addresses and my telephone number, and post This Incredible
Fourth Chapter Of The Friendly Ghost Detective Agency. Whew! (I was
just about to PHONE you, Tom, were I not able to go online this
morning, after crashing a few hours from an excessively overworked,
all-night streak of impassioned prose.
PS: Yes, I like my brain chemistry, too, Eleanor. I am unabashedly cock-a-hoop. BTW, my mother sang WWII war songs to me as a baby, instead of the usual nursery rhymes. Her maiden name is Anna Elizabeth Gerrie, born in Brooklyn, 1918.

Mom & Dad, 2004
CAISSONS GO ROLLING ALONG
by
1st Lieutenant Edmund L. Gruber
Over hill, over dale, as we hit the dusty trail,
And those Caissons go rolling along.
In and out, hear them shout, counter march and right about,
And those Caissons go rolling along.
Then it's hi, hi, hee, in the field artillery,
Shout out your numbers loud and strong,
Where'er you go, you will always know
That those Caissons go rolling along,
That those Caissons go rolling along.
In the storm, in the night, action left or action right,
See those Caissons go rolling along.
Limber front, limber rear, prepare to mount your cannoneer,
And those Caissons go rolling along.
Was it high, was it low, where the hell did that one go?
As those Caissons go rolling along,
Was it left, was it right, now we won't get home tonight,
And those Caissons go rolling along.

[ Table Of Contents ]
Tomorrow's installment: THE TRICKS AT 2306
Allies: New chapter! Time to download the updated Larkin.zip.
(Delete the previous one.) Thanks!
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