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 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 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 Cote and Dennis Wallo less than two nights ago.

(BTW: I have a strong hunch that the poem above contains SECRET CODE composed of only those uppercase characters. If so, I channeled it unconsciously, in my desire to assist ZekeBlog visitors in stressing the correct syllables. Goddess only knows how to crack the code...but maybe YOU can, Dearest Reader.)

Here's what I BELIEVE will happen: They'll contact Online Policy Group which hosts my web site gratis. (OPG is a gay-founded cyber organization that supports low income activists with free web sites, e-mailboxes, and mailing lists.) Undoubtedly they will ALSO complain to tBlog.com, which houses my ZekeBlog. While these GOONS are likely too scared to instigate a lawsuit, shutting down my Internet presence is something they can EASILY get away with, no legal repercussion. Oh right: , there's also my ISP, QwickConnect. Surely These Winged Dogs Of Abaddon will cause a flurry there, too!

Unfortunately, my CD-burner no longer functions...I can only view and play CD's. In the event my Internet access DOES get sabotaged, it would be nice to burn Friendly Ghost AND Larkin Chronicles to CDs, and distribute them strategically. Anyone up for the job?

Well, this is all absolutely CAPTIVATING, how my life has taken this sudden turn to ADVENTURE, INTRIGUE and (hopefully very soon) ROMANCE and LOTSA HOT JUJUBE. Who knows? Maybe my One True Love is sitting in isolation up there at San Quentin THIS VERY MOMENT! And he's bodaciously BUFF, sinfully HANDSOME, absolutely LOYAL to his dearest friends, is a master CAT BURGLAR, LOCKSMITH and IMPERSONATER (so when he's released he can use his gangster connections to break me outta there and go in hiding where we'd live our sweet lives together, in total anonymity from the world except for those kind souls we know are TRUE friends)...and I am totally a 10⁺⁺⁺ in Those Mercurial Eyes Of His (by witch I am eternally spellbound to be HIS prisoner, gladly, for LIFE. And (finally *gasp*)...let's not forget this Righteously Courageous Dude's GINORMOUS and ESTHETICALLY cut wanger, okay? Can you say "Popsicle Paradise"?

(Uhhh, I gotta leave the keyboard a few moments to tend this sudden urge for relief. Thanks for your patience: back shortly.)

In a Glorious Nutshell: be careful what you wish for! My adoration for Damon Runyon-esque characters since I first read his delightful tales at age 11, about a kind-hearted gangster (you know, the type who rob a bank and successfully flee in their get-away, but wind up going to prison just the same, 'cause a little girl just got hit by another car not related to the robbery, and the gangster HAD to stop in order to save her precious life)...has apparantly come to haunt me in a REALLY big way!

It was my mother BTW, who bought me that book as a holiday present: a collection of Yuletide short stories by Amerikan writers from the 20's and 30's, possibly The Algonquin Round Table.

I remember the hard cover: a pale lemon-white with a full-length vertical bar of red. Two inches wide in front, it wrapped around the binder, back cover same width. (Believe me, I really STRUGGLED with that description...uurggh! Funny how sometimes the SIMPLEST design can be so difficult to put into word...er, "words". (No, take that back: "word" is good.) So sayeth my Guardian Angel Randolph. You can read about him in my abridged collection of missives entitled "Luv Letters From Jesus To His Daddy". I'm nothing if not DELECTABLY SACRILIGEOUS.

BTW, it wasn't until several years AFTER coming up with the title "Final Testament" for my website, that I learned it's also every Muslim's beloved nickname for the Quran! Badda-bing, badda-boom.

It had that nice, fresh-book smell, almost cedar. Stamped in red intaglio on the upper right corner was a tiny but delightful outline of Santa w/sleigh and reindeer. Don't recall the title, maybe: "America's Most Beloved Yuletide Yarns"...perhaps "12 Days of Christmas Tales". Here's a good deal: why not read Runyon's "Dancing Dan's Christmas" right now on the Internet! Or watch the film. Or listen to it from the old-time radio archives (just a 3.4mb download...quick)! But whichever way you choose, make sure you're curled up in a cozy spot, hot cocoa in hand.

Anywayz, I FELL IN LOVE for the first time in My-Then-Mayfly-Brief-Life : in love with Runyon's Brooklynite Anti (and colorful) Heroes. I yearned to be in the strong embrace of such men that do not exist ANYWHERE in these Long Island suburbs. (Except the Juicy Good Humor Ice Cream Man with his tawny-gold hair and immaculate white pants cockily set off by a silvery change belt dispenser that I yearned to GRAB...and hold right there, not take or steal. Heavy, warm coins adminstered by God's Own Angel...quarters from Heaven! But it wasn't the coins I sought, it was the WHOLE PACKAGE. The idea of hefting that luscious weight between those brawny thighs. O Sweet Masculinity! (Not that I was consciously AWARE of my longings at such a tender age, mind you. Freud would have a field day with me...an ORGY in fact.)

I SCREAM FOR ICE CREAM (IN MY JEANS)

(c) 1998 by Ezekiel J. Krahlin

Randolph, thou art my Sundae Special!
Drive up in a truck 'cause it
rhymes with fuck; drop your change
belt and shove that pink, hard
treat where it tastes most sweet!
Then let me, Daddy, Daddy, let me
do you any way I please!  Let me
tear off your shirt, and rest my
head on your manly chest as I
reach through your fly to find
something big to suck on! And let
me slide those spotless white
pants over your muscular legs,
which you raise in the air to help
me out! Please, Daddy, please let
me do even more!  Let me make your
big nest slippery with my saliva
(your buoyant eggs shall ride the
waves of ecstasy!), let me taste
the sweetness of your crown (and
the first dew that drops on my
lips!), let me pierce your tight
sphincter with the dart of my
slippery tongue, and let me raise
your legs so I can pierce even
deeper, my hot breath smothering
your fiery balls, your cock so
stiff it feels like it's going to
burst from your skin!  What bursts
instead is a fountain of ice
cream...
for we are in Candyland!

My mother (of all people) gave me The Book That Corrupted Me. Thus began my romantic fantasies for men...and ONLY men. No woman could even come CLOSE to the peerless bravado and dash of Damon's Daemons.

So it's Mom's fault I'm gay. She's 89 now, in a Florida nursing home for the demented elderly. My Dad's 90 and bravely by her side each and every day. It'll do him in. I can't imagine his suffering; only pray. I would so love for one of Zeus's Own Messengers to perform a humble but most sincere request of mine:

Go hither to my earthly matriarch who doesn't remember Her Number 2 Son any more. She is expected to part this fleshly veil in a short time...

Oh dear heaven! I think she just died, I suddenly feel her presence so strong; I weep as I type. She says The Friendly Ghost Detective Agency will shake the world to its core, and there are NO words on earth OR in Heaven to express even remotely, how proud she is of me. And begs forgivenes for the lonely and neglectfully ABUSIVE childhood I suffered from her own hands, and those of my Dad, and of my only (older) brother Sandy. And regrets terribly that my maternal grandparents were purposely kept from enjoying the company of Their Little Grandson, even though we all lived under the same North Massapequa roof. They loved me SO MUCH and were SO SAD that I had to be isolated from them.

!!! WE INTERRUPT YOU FOR THIS SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT!!!

Before I continue, it is of utmost import to include an apology to my family for the negative accounts that follow. Described below in some detail are descriptions of an unhappy and dysfunctional family. Before anyone takes offense, allow me this redeeming (and LIKELY) hypothesis:

Such a unique destiny as mine demands an equally unique upbringing, most important: a TOUGHENING of one's mettle. The usual nurturing family would surely NOT fulfill This Mandate From Up Above. I therefore extend my utmost gratitude to both my parents (Anna Elizabeth Catalano; Vincent Arthur Catalano, Sr.) and my only sibling (Vincent Arthur Catalano, Jr. a.k.a. "Sandy") for having the GUTS to play this out: a most difficult role, massively grievous albeit sacred.

"We have no enemies, only teachers." (Buddha)

"Love thine enemies." (Jesus)

WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULAR SHOW

My grandfather, George Gerrie (Scottish surname: "Gerrie" with a hard "G") had a harsh childhood and was sent to America while still very young...leaving his bereaved mother with a violent drunk of a husband, and his beloved pet pig...abandoning them somewhere in the dingy outskirts of Elgin.

My parents RARELY talked about their heritage (Mom, French-Scot; Dad, Italian). It was only these past few years I managed to eke from my mother, some background detail. Grandpa George was understandably morose as an adult. His wife (my Grandma, whose first name I've long forgotten...or maybe was never told), abided by him like a loving angel.

Is it possible he was kept from me, because he suffered spells of violence? Is it possible that my mother killed him? I only know that on that day when I came home from school, my mother told me that Grandpa died. She said he had turned away from the kitchen window after commenting on the lovely day, then slipped and banged his bald pate on a corner of the wall, cracking it open. She was not crying. She was not grim. Mom was matter-of-fact about it, perhaps for the sake of sparing my little child self from trauma. Though I'm not so sure. BTW it never occured to me until just a few short years ago, that my mother would ever kill anyone let alone her own father!

It is of course my utmost HOPE that such morbid consideration is but a far flung fantasy emerged from A Dark Corner Of The Mind. Though I DO fear that it is yet another of my psychic glimmerings which ALWAYS turn out to be 100% accurate (though the revelation may take YEARS). It has all the familiar earmarks. There is also THIS sad truth:

When I was just a tot, my mom would frequently wring her hands, exclaiming her deepest hope that I wouldn't wind up like my cousin Patty, who died of a drug overdose in a psychiatric ward! Now, how do you think that would IMPACT an impressionable little boy? Can you say "psychological baggage"? Plus: my father would sometimes remind me what a weak, pathetic loser I was. UNlike my jock brother who joined varsity and later, The Citadel, a military college in Charleston, South Carolina. Cracker's answer to West Point! I felt unloved, unwanted, a financial burden...or IOW: learned to despise my parents at an early age, but kept it to myself. My brother never bonded with me, either...we NEVER shared any fun moments whatsoever.

An Athlete, a Cadet, and an Eagle Scout. So where is his merit badge for BROTHERLY LOVE? Sandy has neither spoken with me, nor written a letter in the last 30-plus years!

Though I've phoned him twice

And written him thrice, 

His lack of sibling concern is NOT 

   very nice.

(Can you say "Typical Amerikan Nuclear Family Dysfunctionality" three times as fast as possible? Raised like a stranger by my own flesh and blood!) He's four years my senior; as an older brother he's supposed to reach out to me! But he never did, and he's now what...61 years old, retired from the Nassau County Police Department. Never fulfilled his dream to be a detective. Yet look at where I'm headed now, at the ripe age of 57: a bona fide PSYCHIC detective with the world soon at my fingertips! And growing younger daily.

---

Since I hated my parents, I thought nothing of rifling through their bedroom dressers while no one else was home. One day (at the tender age of 11), I found hidden beneath my father's neatly piled boxer shorts, this Bantam paperback: "Female Psycho Ward". The head nurse was depicted (on the front cover in glossy printer's ink) scowling with heaving breast and hair a-tousle, ripping the blouse of a buxom Candy Striper. Behind them, a bloody pitchfork lay slanted against the pea-green wall, while several attending nurses peered aghast through a lucite partition. I was likewise aghast upon reading a lone paragraph contained therein.

     "How could you marry that man? Well, you're no prize 
yourself! Did you think I never suspected, never longed, 
wept, AGONIZED over what might have been? What 
SHOULD have been? The devil's pitchfork is too GOOD 
for you, vermin bitch! Slut! God damn putrid WHORE!"
She turned around, swept a livid hand beneath the sofa
cushions to reclaim a far-flung wedding ring. Instead, a
displaced needle drove clean through her index finger,
bone and all. She howled in wrathful agony: a toreador's
picador! Should she grab the pliers now and yank it out?
Or ride out the storm, continue her dirty deed until
Butchie (her "man") returns?

A couple years later I decided to treat myself to a day at a carnival staged one weekend at the John H. West Elementary School's baseball field a few blocks from my home. So I returned to their bedroom and stole nearly the entire contents of their "New Mexico or Bust" fire hydrant coin bank. $45 worth of quarters! I'm sure Mom and Dad knew I was the thief, but they never confronted me. Though a few days later I heard them in the bedroom, remarking on the disappearance. Perhaps they spoke in stage whisper through a closed door, hoping I'd confess. Perhaps they felt regret for my difficult childhood and decided this time to be lenient.

---

I only remember ONE gift presented me from my grandparents. Through Grandma's hand: a miniature, plastic drum. My mother took it away.

I remember several weeks after Grandpa's passing, I was shunted from the shared bedroom to that of my deceased grandparents. (Grandma died in Syosset Hospital two years prior.) The room was now revamped for a child: I ABHORED the clown-theme linoleum floor! The first night I slept on Grandpa George's bed, I dreamt of him:

His tall, gaunt frame towered above, leaned over and tapped me awake. "Look under the bed. A gift awaits you," were his only words. I awoke drenched in the pale beams of a full moon. A chill November night, acid stung my sinuses: the scent of crisp, dead leaves wafting through a cracked window cold as steel. A Silurian moonlight exhumed Those Gaudy Linoleum Clowns from a dark retreat.

What's under the bed?

Buried deep within the secure illusion of a comforter, I shuddered: nuzzled further and further from Hade's Cliff while dirty red talons scratched and clawed for purchase. It CRAVED my trembling soul. The wall's massive, particle-board hand abruptly SLAPPED me on the back, hard. I froze, held breath as a ghastly demon finally scaled Hell's Breach and crouched, still. It stared from deep, hollow eyes less than one arm's reach from my own. A dog howled from a neighbor's backyard and the demon scattered.

I finally mustered up the bravado to crawl out from beneath my heavy blankets, slip under the bed and secure my gift. There it was, like a Tinkerbell spark in the dark: squarecut diamond ring of elegant design. I showed it to my mother the next day, describing my dream about Grandpa. She took it from me, like the toy drum. I never saw it again.

---

The toy drum and Grandpa's ring weren't the only things in my possession she tossed out. I was artistically precocious: mostly drawing these incredible abstract designs, alien creatures, and mazes. But also by eight or so, wrote fantasy tales w/pencil on looseleaf. Years later on my first Xmas vacation from college (which campus was a solid thousand-miles-PLUS away from my strange, cold family), I asked Mom where she stored my childhood whimsies. "I threw them away," was her curt reply. She doesn't even know what time I was born!. "All I remember," she said, "it was hot and muggy, and dark outside. Either early dawn or dusk." And I don't have my original birth certificate, either...but now with so many hindsighted years, I wonder: Did she throw THAT away, too?

I have a re-issued birth certificate dated TWENTY YEARS after I was born. (My Mom claims the old hospital that stored my certificate burned down in 1955.) But this re-issue doesn't reveal my TIME of birth, just date, place and name! (Which name by the way is not my present one. Click here to see legal proof of my name-change.) I felt ashamed for my family's treatment of me, so desired for YEARS to have a new, full name. Finally did it in 1996, never looked back.

---

Carl Jung once said that the gods and godesses (or "archetypes" as he coined it) always find a way to manifest no matter how hard society tries to suppress their ubiquitous spirit. In our modern day, they emerge through electronic media: celebrities from movies, TV and sports. Also: comic books. This theory adds a new layer of appreciation to my lonely childhood. Were it not for those idiot-box cartoons that delighted my soul as a tot, I would've gone hopelessy, permanently stark-raving MAD! Warner Brothers' "Looney Tunes" were my greatest enjoyment. So I'd like to unofficially declare Sylvester the Cat our Patron Saint of Neglected Children. Or Daffy Duck. (They were my two all-time favorites, but any Looney Tunes character will suffice EQUALLY well.)

---

Back to my plea: If an angel could so kindly rekindle my mother's memory of moi (Eugene Frank Catalano by birth), to tell her THANK YOU for that wonderful Christmas book...and also for that LAVISHLY illustrated Mother Goose Fairytales. Those exquisite, gold-gilt images so joyfully colored, still shine brightly like Heaven's own vision in THIS mind's eye! And in so knowing my gratitude, she may depart in bliss, and come to my rescue. As a Guardian Angel to secure my victory, and that of all my gay brethren. Nothing would make her happier! And so my prayer has been answered the very moment I request it here, in writing. Witness the miracle!

---

!!! WE INTERRUPT YOU FOR THIS SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT!!!

Before anyone takes offense, allow me this redeeming (and LIKELY) hypothesis:

Such a unique destiny as mine demands an equally unique challenge, most important: a TOUGHENING of one's mettle. The usual nurturing friendships would surely NOT fulfill This Mandate From Up Above. I therefore extend my utmost gratitude to both my enemies and seemingly clueless friends alike, for having the GUTS to play this out: a most difficult role, massively grievous albeit sacred.

"We have no enemies, only teachers." (Buddha)

"Love thine enemies." (Jesus)

WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULAR SHOW

---

Please view the following image of what I have titled "The SOMA Seven": depicts 7 different oddballs out of two SOMA gay bars who have been (and some day may AGAIN be) a danger to me.

The 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 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"?<