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 Cote and Dennis Wallo less than two nights ago.

I WANTED to POST to BARtender RON:
aLAS his E-mail is SADly a-"NON".
Though guaranTEED:
both GOSssips will GAIN undiVIDED atTENtion,
In HOPES of foMENting
Vam-PIE-rish ConVENtion!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

---

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

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

I SCREAM FOR ICE CREAM (IN MY JEANS)

(c) 1998 by Ezekiel J. Krahlin

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

---

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

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

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

---

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

---

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

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

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

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

"Love thine enemies." (Jesus)

WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULAR SHOW

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

Though I've phoned him twice

And written him thrice, 

His lack of sibling concern is NOT 

   very nice.

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

---

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

What's under the bed?

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

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

---

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

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

---

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

"Love thine enemies." (Jesus)

WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULAR SHOW

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

The four people depicted above AND the three below, are ALL close friends of Gypsy's (*shudder*)! With friends like those, who needs ENEMAS, right?

Top image from left to right: Ron Hennis, bartender at the Eagle Tavern. Look at those eyes: what do they tell you? VAMPIRES EXIST! To learn the dirt on Ron, read "30 Pieces Of Silver" and "The Mistake You Made". Both are chapters from my "Larkin Chronicles" BTW, which gave birth to this Friendly Ghost adventure I'm now writing.

Dennis Wallo (front), customer and former friend. We met at the Eagle around 11 months ago. I was MOST impressed by his boundless knowledge of ALL spiritual belief systems...truly genius! Unfortunately, he is totally CAPTIVATED by the Black Arts, and was used by Gypsy in a (fruitless) attempt to deflect my outrage, and muddy my ASTUTE observations. Dennis "wallows" in some pretty dark muck!

Dennis lives in a classy RV, complete with fridge, TV, stereo, DVD player, and Buddhist/Hindu/Catholic/S hamanic art decorating the walls. Darn it, I should have photographed his vehicle when I had the chance! I think I'll mosey on down to SOMA where he often parks on Harrison Street somewhere between The Lonestar and The Eagle...and take a pic of his RV'S rear bumper. I mean, posting his LICENSE NUMBER on the web would be most helpful! Maybe I'll have the photo up in a few days.

Behind him is Joe Cote, who turned on me since I accused Gary Clayton of allowing speed freak (red-headed bicycle street punk) Chris to violently threaten me. He utterly FAILED to chastise Chris with a prompt boot out the door. Gary tends bar at Hole in the Wall Saloon on 8th Street & Folsom. In retrospect, I believe Gary PAID Chris to drive me out. Since our falling out, Cote has been gossiping to EVERYONE who'll listen, in an attempt to have me kicked out and perhaps even injured. As confidant to my grievence against Gary, he decided to violate that trust!

These two bars (Hole & Eagle) BTW are under the same ownership: a now-elderly interracial gay couple (Caucasian and dark African).

As a consequence (or not) the bartenders of BOTH establishments are a tight clique...or should I say "coven"?

Then there's Gypsy (a.k.a. "Pappy", "Arthur", and my all-time favorite: "scumbag"). Yes, there's ALWAYS Gypsy. LIVING PROOF THAT SHIT CAN WALK. (Even more astounding: it TALKS sometimes, too! Will wonders never cease...woddan a MAZE ink woild!) Since they broke up my friendship w/sweetie Larkin, I can't frequent any gay bar w/o Gypsy or cohorts snooping around my proximity. Looks like a syringe in his clenched fist, but that's just the reflection off a beer bottle. Synchronistic or what?

Bottom image from left to right: Jerry is Hole in the Wall's evening weekday bartender. He was on duty when a nighttime regular, Mike, invited me for a few rounds of pool. He wound up drugging and mugging me. You can read about it in the enclosed Larkin Chronicles under article "A Handsome Mug". I've concluded that Jerry and certain street thugs have an AGREEMENT to split the costs of whatever valuables they obtain from skulduggery. It was on one of Jerry's Tuesday night shifts, the crime was committed.

Gary Clayton is the Hole in the Wall's weekday bartender (Mon.-Thurs.), the one who did NOTHING when a speed freak LOUDLY AND CLEARLY threatened me with extreme violence.

Lastly is Chris Altman, ALSO a bartender at The Hole. His jealousy over my friendship w/Larkin inspired him to allow a customer's unruly dog to ATTACK me, and consequently drove me out for complaining. You can read about that fiasco in the Larkin Chronicles under "Dark Mojo at the Hole". To cut to the quick, do a search on "Weekend bartender Chris A".

---

I dowloaded all pics from the web site of either Hole in the Wall or The Eagle, but one ("Joe / Dennis" which photo I took myself). That was the ONLY pic I could find of Gypsy, but he's so unique in his seedy appearance the photo will do nicely, thank you. Besides, I've come up with an absolutely PERFECT description of Gypsy (oh how I despise needing to write and speak his horrid name so often):

"A cross between Yosemite Sam and Colonel Sanders".

I described him like that to an acquaintance, Eric (former cab driver of Korean descent, occupies an SRO at the Twin Peaks Hotel, one block west of the notorious Lucky 13 and Metro bars. (Heck, they're ALL "notorious" as far as THIS little pup is concerned. Should go w/o saying!) Several days later, we cross paths again, and he remarks in gales of laughter: "Your description of Gypsy really nailed him to a T! You said I'd know who he was right off the bat."

I had informed Eric that Gypsy barbacks at the Lucky 13 Sundays and Mondays, at night. He often stands in the doorway, smoking a cig. (I'm sure he'd positively love to smoke THIS fag, too!)

---

HERE'S THE KICKER

As I suggested earlier, Siddhartha's declaration, "We have no enemies, only teachers," I take to heart. And in so doing, have conjured up my OWN 21st-century makeover specifically for GAYS in my essay, "NeoPositivity". If you haven't read it yet, I STRONGLY recommend you do so NOW. Your very LIFE and TRUE HAPPINESS depends on it. It will also--as a secodary benefit--clarify my approach to life as a gay activist. And help you understand MUCH BETTER, my ideas expressed herein. AAMOF, you'll be like a ship without a rudder in ALL aspects of your life until you DO read my brilliant essay. (No false humility here, I assure you!)

---

The GREAT THING this gentle philosophy implies is that NO ONE is actually out to "get me". They ALL play a Goddess-designated role for my betterment. This mean my parents (and brother) were DIVINELY INSTRUCTED to NOT go easy on me, that I may fulfill my destiny...as much as it may GRIEVE them to honor This Sacred Command. For in being raised in an unhappy family, I became highly motivated to seek SPRITUAL FAMILY among my gay brothers here in San Francisco. As well as REACH OUT to gay homeless people who've suffered even more family dysfunction than I've EVER experienced. And--like a Bodhisattva Warrior descending into Hell to liberate agonized souls--embrace them and pull them back up with me, out of the muck and mire of human detritus and misery.

Likewise my SOMA "enemies". I believe that life holds many precious secrets that are ONLY revealed---one by one--when you sorely EARN the right to know each particular (and sacred) truth. And my incredible-long-suffering starting from earliest childhood has RIGHTFULLY earned me this new-found knowledge, a Fountain Of Wisdom for my gay brothers first, everyone else second.

---

As you most likely know by now, I've just about run out of ink for my printer. And since it seems I'll be unable to connect to the Internet for the forseeable future, I can't even order more ink cartridges! (Not that I can afford to until the first of next month...and if rent control for all of California is abolished, as will most likely happen in a ballot some months from now...my monthly rent will JUMP from $310 to $750, leaving me with barely enough for food...forget about eating out or even COFFEE, let alone printer and other computer expenses).

If you care to subsidize my efforts a bit, you can pursue the cartridge situation by reading the enclosed article,"The Agony & The Inkstasy" and do what needs be done to OBTAIN the necessary cartridges and snail-mail them to me.:

Tom, PLEASE e-mail all *.zip files I mailed you, to my four other e-mail friends listed above, including my phone number which is:

415-Counter march and right about.

Heck, if anyone can afford to send me an entirely UPDATED computer in the form of a wi-fi friendly LAPTOP (preferrably w/Linux fully installed instead of Windoze), I'd GREATLY appreciate it. I understand that DELL has just such products. One can't fight this Information War effectively, w/o a functioning laptop out in the field. A good soldier merits good ammo. Hey, nice EQUIPMENT there, buddy! (Factoid: "There are no heteros in foxholes".)

As usual, once I start to make a MAJOR breakthrough, I am SABOTAGED and derailed. But being a true disciple of Buddha, I am far less upset, than amused. It is all a delightful game if you so choose to see it that way. And in so seeing, I save the souls of ALL my enemies, even the most VIRULENT, and gain them as beloved amigos and amours. They make me into a magnanimous hero by playing the role of My Greatest Adversaries.

I am hoping AND praying that my two remaining ink cartridges (one color and one black) will miraculosly continue to print PERFECTLY for the next 8 days: sufficient to complete ALL my "Friendly Ghost" chapters. In the spirit of Chanukah (when the empty oil lamps CONTINUED TO BURN for eight more days), I wish YOU and those whom you adore, a very JOYOUS holiday season withOUT KKKristian arrogance of any stripe!

Sinqueerly,

Ezekiel J. Krahlin
Queer Visionary Extraordinaire

---

UPDATE 9:06 AM NOVEMBER 24: Please DISREGARD my bone-shaking alert at top of document. I can once more access the Internet, and all my vital CyberArsenal. What a spooky little trick played on me, eh? Though it DID serve a good purpose, renewing my APPRECIATION of this global communications sysem that mimics telepathy so remarkably well. (AND it made for some pretty intense writing, did it not?)

But let's not rest on our olivers...oops, I mean "laurels"; consider this a DRILL for the possible (even probable) day when I really WILL be under attack, arrested and/or isolated in some other devious manner. Now, I gotta REMAP those links for my ZekeBlog, remove e-mail addresses and my telephone number, and post This Incredible Fourth Chapter Of The Friendly Ghost Detective Agency. Whew! (I was just about to PHONE you, Tom, were I not able to go online this morning, after crashing a few hours from an excessively overworked, all-night streak of impassioned prose.

PS: Yes, I like my brain chemistry, too, Eleanor. I am unabashedly cock-a-hoop. BTW, my mother sang WWII war songs to me as a baby, instead of the usual nursery rhymes. Her maiden name is Anna Elizabeth Gerrie, born in Brooklyn, 1918.

Mom & Dad, 2004

CAISSONS GO ROLLING ALONG

by
1st Lieutenant Edmund L. Gruber


Over hill, over dale, as we hit the dusty trail,
And those Caissons go rolling along.
In and out, hear them shout, counter march and right about,
And those Caissons go rolling along.

Then it's hi, hi, hee, in the field artillery,
Shout out your numbers loud and strong,
Where'er you go, you will always know
That those Caissons go rolling along,
That those Caissons go rolling along.

In the storm, in the night, action left or action right,
See those Caissons go rolling along.
Limber front, limber rear, prepare to mount your cannoneer,
And those Caissons go rolling along.

Was it high, was it low, where the hell did that one go?
As those Caissons go rolling along,
Was it left, was it right, now we won't get home tonight,
And those Caissons go rolling along.

---

[ 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!

Thomas writes:

{{ Definitely so, and exactly the right day of the year for the contemplation of that perspective ;-) }}

Stepped out to do laundry, wondered why so few people were around, and the streets unusually quiet. Then it hit me: THANKSGIVING! A real "I coulda had a V-8" moment. :b

{{ I cannot complain about 35 years with the almost-perfect life-partner, }}

Well, you COULD but you're not a New Yorker like me.

{{ The purpose of counting blessings is for one's own mental health. }}

I don't just count my blessings, Tom, I JACK OFF to them too: Let's see (break out the lube) there's Jonny...(more lube) and Randolph...(still more) Larkin...(yet even MORE lube) Troy...(okay, we need a BUCKET here!) Dean. The list goes on, along with the boners.

{{ So many little things that we take for granted that are very big things... }}

One could get VERY Freudian over THAT comment!

{{ to be healthy, to be able to drive, to be able to see, to be able to walk, to have a meal on the table, to have a roof. }}

Don't forget our enemies. They make us better people, whether we care to admit this, or not. And doing the laundry: only 2nd on my shit list to a visit to purgatory.

{{ Hope you're having a great Thanksgiving. }}

I am VERY grateful for my talents as writer/philosopher/activi st/visionary and All Around Bullshit Provocateur.

So HAPPY about this tremendous breakthrough in my writing (Larkin Chronicles and Friendly Ghost Detective Agency). Fitting that my first best-seller is also the Ultimate Revenge Upon Mine Enemies.

My chronicles will also bust wide open this shadow conspiracy which you so correctly surmise EXISTS. You'll see! I will VERY SOON become one of the world's greatest heroes to ever emerge from the Muck of Humanity's Cesspit.

In giving thanks, we SHOULD include ourselves. For we have been LIFESAVERS towards each other in a very fucked-up "woild". I'd be like a "boid widda bwoken wing" w/o your many years' kind support and thoughtful musings.

Otherwise, I'm sitting here in my ramshackle SRO by my lone some, as usual.

THE NEIGHBOR "HOODS"

About this Woody character. He is one of those street goons who rants and gestures violently in public, making the Castro a miserable experience for tourists and residents alike.

Since he was driven out, another fruit-loop has taken that place, Dane...who is even crazier than Woody. And though gay himself, behaves very homophobically. He's quite tall, dirty blond curly hair, skinny and usually scruffy in appearance, straight out of a Dickens novel. (Hey check this out: a news article about Dane's harassing residents in the Castro: "Accused Castro stalker gets felony charges". Dated March 28, 2007. Well, he's back out on the streets again anyway...just saw him two nights ago.)

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

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

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

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

"Love thine enemies." (Jesus)

WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULAR SHOW

I tried being friends with Woody many times, but he always winds up harassing me while pretending he doesn't know what he's doing. Playing the "mentally disturbed" card to trick soft-spined liberals into believing he can't help himself. (I'm a HARD-spined liberal, FYI.) He also feigns homelessness, which he is not, in order to garner dollars from sympathetic (though clueless) passersby. I frequent a coffeehouse on Church near Market...and so does Woody (who bears a hilarious resemblance to Buzz Lightyear of Toy Story fame). He will interrupt and "act out" whenever I'm sitting outdoors, trying to meet guys. Jumping around like an ape and hollering weird phrases, so that my possible friend is scared away from both that coffeehouse and myself. Woody does this INTENTIONALLY. It is a homophobic reaction at my harmless attempts to cruise the cute ones.

In general, associating with Woody condemns me to social loneliness...which is "his plan" all along. I once designed a button just for him,

in hopes of winning him over towards respecting me. Didn't work. But that's not the worst of it:

Six years ago I was bashed by a gay crack-head named Matthew. Not seriously mind you, as I had a strong friend nearby who stopped it; but my attacker got away. Matthew did terrorize me however. While I was still in his grip (after he smashed my head against the wall several times, sudden-like), said: "Next time I see you, I'm gonna eat the skin off your face." (A Hannibal Lector wanna-be, no doubt.)

At that time, my apartment building was covered in thick, black gauze for stucco removal and replacement, with scaffold surrounding the entire structure, from the first floor to the fourth.

This meant ANYONE and his homeless cousin could easily clamber onto the makeshift boards and rap on a resident's window, begging for a cigarette (which DID happen at least once). Or break in and steal...or bash, or rape, or murder. Worse yet, the illegal Mexican laborers hired by our slumlord were typically homophobic, making all sorts of gay-hateful comments while standing on the scaffolds, beside our apartment windows and peering in. I know because I heard them, and "Yo entiendo espanol". (There was a lawsuit over this BTW, by 13 outraged residents including myself; a year later we won. I got $8,000...though it should've been $40,000. More on that later.)

So naturally I was frightened that Matthew could be lurking somewhere nearby, and at any moment climb the scaffolding and break into my room. (He did know where I lived; for in the past he was very mellow, and I enjoyed his visits.) I slept with heavy furniture blocking my two windows, that I may have a fighting chance to fend a surprise attack. It was a NIGHTMARE manifest in real life...very Freddy Kreuger.

During this time, someone would buzz my room every few days, via the front gate intercom, and speak in a gravelly tone: "I'm gonna get you, I'm the DEVIL." Of course, I feared it was Matthew. This would go on EVERY DAY for almost three months. It wasn't until several weeks after it stopped, I learned that WOODY was the culprit. He disguised his voice well.

So after all these years trying to temper Woody's scary behavior, I finally gave up and told him to NEVER speak or go near me again. Of course he didn't take me seriously...so now after almost five months ignoring him, he is bothered by my aloofness, and threatens to be, once again, an unpleasant and dangerous stalker in my social meanderings. But I have a STRONG will, and will deal with it accordingly. I understand he is out of jail on his own recognisance (don't know for what), and the slightest slip-up could land him back behind bars.

Unfortunately, street denizens like Dane and Woody are NOT the exception, but the RULE of what's come down in the Castro regarding the street scene, what with all the homophobic homeless who claim turf rights here in the Castro. They in fact DRIVE OUT, HARASS and BASH whatever gay homeless may attempt to find sanctuary in this, the supposedly-GAYEST neighborhood on the planet. The hetero homeless BICKER and FIGHT in broad daylight, as if even their hetero clashes were far more righteous than any gay couple holding hands. And the POLICE do nothing to thwart--let alone discourage--these hillbilly antics.

The streets of San Francisco have become frighteningly dangerous as a result of The City's own failure to be truly gay friendly (except in lip service). I suspect that our local government's "gay friendliness" draws the line between the affluent and the low income and poor. Dumping the homeless (who are MOSTLY hetero, ergo homophobic) in gay neighborhoods is an effective social engineering strategy to keep queers in their place, and discourage them from rebelling and taking civil disobedience to the streets. I've met numerous homeless gays who are terrorized, bashed, and driven out of the Castro by the majority homeless who are HETERO in proclamation.

Violent ex-convicts are released by California's prison system, into the big cities (Sacramento, Los Angeles and San Francisco) stranded on the streets where they must fend for themselves. This turns neighborhoods into dangerous breeding grounds for violent crimes (and break-ins) that often go unchecked by our local police force. Gay neighborhoods are especially vulnerable.

Intelligent ex-cons manipulate the dumber homeless to terrorize neighborhoods so they can have the streets to themselves at night, and more easily run drugs, burglarize, mug and in general cause whatever mayhem suits their mood. They even share maps in prison of the gay neighborhoods, bars, and amicable connections. (You can learn a LOT as a gay street activist, if you're not afraid to get your hands dirty...along with certain OTHER body parts!) So when they're on the outside again and need a place to hole up (or hide out), just where do you think they go? To a GAY BAR to hook up with some desperate middle-aged fag too stupid to know better. Remember the brutal murder of a longterm patron out of the (now-defunct) black gay bar, the Pendulum (due to reopen after being closed for three years, god help us)?

That was commited by a street tough, Jim McKinnon, who was couch hopping one gay residence after another.

He even stayed for a couple weeks at the apartment of weekday bartender "Joey" (that short Portugese guy w/Russel terrier "Jackie O"; I can't remember his real name), before moving in with patron Gary Lee. In fact, he impressed everyone there (including myself) with his good nature. Even paid me a back-handed compliment among the afternoon patrons: "You know," he said pointing directly at me from the far end of the bar, "if I didn't know Zeke so well, I'd be afraid of him." That gave me a warm glow, and I later thought: "Hmmm, Jim's not such a bad guy after all, and kinda good lookin'. Maybe I WILL have him over." Little did anyone know at that time, he had already committed the murder...the corpse of the gay man who housed him was still rotting in the bathtub, covered with a mountain of baking soda! Fortunately, that was the last time "good ol' palsy-walsy Jim" made his appearance at the Pendulum, and the last time I saw him. A week later the news broke; he was arrested, awaiting trial. Scary to say, but he's up for parole in another year. And just where do you think he'll seek company and comfort? Three guesses!

Reflecting on this gnarly case, I'd like to bring up something just as sinister, if not more so, regarding the Pendulum regulars. I first got wind of this crime when I heard them talking in a huddle. Asked them what's up, and they told me that a regular had just been murdered, by this guy Jim. I shuddered to think it was the same "Jim" I had befriended there, and was visiting me every four days or so, to smoke some pot and hang out. So I asked them to descirbe this Jim. They hemmed and hawed, would only divulge that he was white and "average" looking, with an "average" build, and "average" height. They refused to give me any further description, acting like they really couldn't: he was just that average.

So of course I stopped seeing my Jim for a while...'cause he's an average looking guy, too! Imagine how I felt, these regulars hoping to set me up to become McKinnon's next victim! I asked and asked around the Pendulum, and those who knew him, refused to say more, but that he was "average". They certainly didn't have my best interests at heart! This is a prime example of what a wicked streak runs through so MANY of my gay brothers...whether black or white, rich or poor, handsome or...er..."average". And such wickedness nurtures cults into existence, like feeding human flesh to that alien plant, Audrey Jr., in Little Shop of Horrors.

Jim will not be the first murderer of a gay victim to be released, and found once more socializing in The Castro. Years ago, my friend John H. (who then lived at 2306 Market as I still do) pointed out to me, a sleazeball standing on the sidewalk by Andy's Donut Shop. "He strangled [so-and-so], and served eight years in the poky. Can you believe he's back?"

The shit piles up! I wonder how many other murderers mingle DAILY in our gay bars and sex clubs? Does that give you a boner, or what? Another ex-convict, "Monty" terrorized our neighborhood for two years before being locked up again.

He'd stand on the corner of Castro and Market, big, black and paranoid...to intimidate anyone and everyone within his immediate locale. His favorite pastime was intimidating peaceful white homeless dudes, especially the gay ones. "What are YOU looking at?" was his particular phrase of choice. I saw danger written all over him: but he saw something in me that would make him run the other direction whenever I approached. (Wasn't body odor or bad breath, I guarantee! And it certainly wasn't my size; I'm only five-foot-seven.)

One evening while watching the news, Monty's face appeared on the TV screen. He was wanted for the brutal beating of his current girlfriend, gouging out her eyeball before he fled. (I'd say the lady made a poor choice in a partner, wouldn't you, girlfriend?) Now just where do you think he ran to when the heat was on? To The Castro of course, where he entered the Pendulum in hopes of finding urgent refuge. But a police officer had to die in a car chase turned bad (first gay cop to perish in the line of duty BTW),

and his partner suffer brain damage, before Monty was finally apprehended. A youth scholarhsip award was established in 2006, to honor Jon Cook's heroic life.

(See my article "Murders in the Rue Castro for additional comment on this, and other heinous crimes which haunt our community, as a direct consequence of society's willful homophobia, and The City's failure to respect its own gay citizens by any significant measure, right here in so-called "Gay Mecca".)

Bagdad Cafe on the corner of Market & 16th WELCOMES this filthy, smelly hobo to occupy a sidewalk table...every single friggin' day!

Why would anyone even want to EAT there, let alone sit BESIDE this bacteria-laden freakazoid? Are they INSANE? Am I missing something? Is THIS the best The Castro can offer its gay tourists? WHY would any business in Gay Mecca willfully CHOOSE to insult and undermine a queer community's hard-won reputation?

This is NOT compassion, this is community sabotage. Is that how heteros perceive gay neighborhoods: as a DUMP for their refuse, including human detritus that project HATRED and homophobia as their contribution to the cause of Gay Sanctity? BITING the hands that feed them, just because we're QUEER? Fee fi fo fum, I smell a CULT around this bum! Boycott the place, and tell 'em WHY. Bring 'em to their knees and make them cry!

---

As if this weren't bizarre enough, Bagdad Cafe seems to GENERATE homophobic filth of its own accord. Click here to read of an incident in October 2002, when some crazed bozo RAN INTO the Bagdad Cafe, grabbed two butcher knives from the cook's station, and THREATENED people with it (screaming "faggots" at the top of his lungs), until a cop shot him dead! Worse yet, the family threatened to SUE the SFPD, and blamed the gay community's own drug problems for this idiot's violent outburst. Read MY take on the matter (click here), where I CHASTISE the lunatic's family, and PRAISE the police. Still MORE bizarre is the fact that the cop who killed "Akbar" was the partner of the first gay policeman (Jon Cook, see above) to die in the line of duty while attempting to apprehend ANOTHER crazed street denizen! Only four months PREVIOUS to the Bagdad fiasco.

---

My conjecture is this was a SETUP, not simply an unhappy incident due to society's homophobia. And the employer and perhaps some employees are BEHIND this obvious design to devastate our gay community, and bring FURTHER violence upon us. The Zodiac cult has their filthy hand in the Bagdad Cafe, and goddess only knows how many OTHER businesses here in The Castro.

Not all the homeless are bad; indeed I AM a homeless advocate...and once had many, decent houseless friends until things turned wicked over 15 years ago. But I most certainly am NOT a bullshit advocate. The Castro has been FLOODED with homeless redneck types who terrorize neighborhoods, particularly gay people and women. They especially don't like yours truly, for my brazen gay presence and attempts to make the neighborhood safer by blowing the whistle on this rampant homophobia that has become the Law Of The Asphalt. Keep in mind that MOST of these thugs are bisexual themselves. But they're only "gay" for money, drugs, food or shelter (I call this "street capitalism"). The rest of the time, they swagger around doing their "macho thang"...which includes threatening and bashing homosexuals. Can't tell you how many times I hear late at night, these hillbilly goons hollering "faggot" from the top of their toxic lungs.

They make it a source of PRIDE to argue in public with their "wimmen"...as a display of hetero rightness to teach us queers a lesson about Mother Nature's Proper Decorum. They think nothing of aggressively panhandling you, even scaring you into "buying protection" when you're on the streets...and if you decline, call you "faggot" behind your back, in front of your back, and to the side of your back. Even many GAY houseless play the homophobe card, in order to reduce the danger of being fag-bashed themselves. My life is often put in harm's way due to my notoriety, whenever I walk the streets of Gay Mecca's Heart. For this reason I composed my wicked little farce, "Welcome to Hoboville" in 2003...a kick in the groin to This Enemy Occupation. I also carry pepper spray and wear steel-toe boots.

But most shocking of all, is how many gay people themselves gain sadistic pleasure in my troubles! Rather then offer a hand in friendship (or call 911), they ENCOURAGE these 'phobes to harass me. In fact, I've been left out in the cold by my own community. No matter which pro-queer group I join, I wind up being vilified, isolated, and driven out. (No matter how GOOD my intentions, and EFFECTIVE my strategies.) My conclusion is that there is a powerful cult embedded (and in bed with) our LGBT family, manipulating who can and cannot be part of their world. The internalized homophobia of my gay brothers plays to their advantage...along with substance abuse, misogyny, racism and class snobbery. They grabbed the reigns of power during the Harvey Milk Era, and have grown overwhelmingly strong and far-reaching SINCE then...running ALL the gay bars and clubs here in San Francisco, AND our organizations. And, worst of all, they have festered into a nationwide carbuncle of toxic pus.

Speaking of San Francisco's dangerous streets: I was surprised and delighted to read Caille Millner's take on the shifty bums that have turned this Walker's Paradise into a dark and scary pedestrian nightmare: "Back to the Streets of San Francisco" (S.F. Chronicle, 11/2/07). A bluntly honest and condemning piece of journalism; she's a brilliant (and lovely) young woman! Do promise you'll take a gander...please, please, please. (SUPER pretty please with agave nectar on top!)

Caille and others ARE waking up to how dangerous our streets have become, and how this ties in directly with homophobia. But she, like others, only perceives the tip of the iceberg...and would regard my strident claims as nothing more than a nut job's conspiracy theory. And that is precisely how this cult operates: surreptitious and diabolical. Using wicked gossip to make Truth-Speakers like me come off as blatheringly insane. Which in turn, makes potential friends my enemies...and true friends nonexistant. At best, I've managed to have friendly acquaintances over these difficult years. Some who read this now, consider themselves a good friend. But don't friends hang out with each other on a regular basis...go out for coffee and shmooze? Not meaning to guilt-trip anyone here, but I DO want to point out: That is not happening! (And you can't blame a hectic lifestyle on this, as you DO find the time to spend with others you regard as amigos.) Please realize you are unwittingly being manipulated by cult members using subtle persuasion and crowding your social time to keep me at bay. But I'm not knocking what I DO have:

I need all the friendly acquaintances I can get!

---

[ Table Of Contents ]

---

Tomorrow's installment: SOMA: SOUTH OF MARKET ANUSES

Allies: New chapter! Time to download the updated Larkin.zip.
(Delete the previous one.) Thanks!

Preface: I salute those GOOD police officers that certainly do exist here in our Unfair City...and commend their especially difficult work in the line of duty, amid so much corruption in their own department. So please don't take my criticism as speaking out against the entire San Francisco Police Department. Just MOST of it. Thank you.

When I first told Hank that I've formed a tight network of trusted contacts, to bring justice to certain criminal activities occurring here in Eureka Valley (a.k.a. "The Castro") and sometimes other places popular with queers, he politely answered: "The police might want you to leave it to them". So to mimic his what-I-thought-was-a-clue less-suggestion, I left it at that (for the nonce). However, the next two days I pondered Hank's suggestion, because every person with even the least amount of smarts knows that corruption goes on everywhere, in every part of The City. Money laundering downtown, and drug dealing/gang wars in the 'hoods. Including Eureka Valley, right here where I've lived in a simple SRO since (hold on to your colostomy bag) 1983.

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

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

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

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

"Love thine enemies." (Jesus)

WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULAR SHOW

So when I next return to the coffeehouse, I make a point to explain to Hank that the police department is also corrupt, else they'd have already cleaned up the neighborhoods, and these problems wouldn't exist in the first place. Like when I told some cops about the goings on South of Market: after listening a few minutes, one Blue Meany drops a pasty pastry paw onto my shoulder, says: "Why don't you just shut up about it?"

There is one cop who wears a badge numbered "666". I mean a REAL police badge, not the one depicted below for comic relief!

Don't know his name (and don't care to), but he's certainly not to be trusted (I'll just call him "Officer 666"). He's wiry, short (about 5'5"), and is often seen in Eureka Valley riding a bicycle, especially the Church Street corridor. He is hostile to me, indicating very clearly he's on the wrong side of the law, the good, the sane, and Anything Else Compassionate And Loyal. I once asked him why he wears a "666", that he might be an impersonator and not a real cop. His reply: "I requested that number by the Police Chief, because I want to leave an impression on those I meet." I didn't tell him to his face, but my opinion is thus:

Yes, a very bad impression. Any cop who wears a 666 badge is egomaniacal, therefore not to be trusted by any good citizen. Has nothing to do with Christian mumbo-jumbo, and everything to do with vainglory and bullyism. IOW: an abuse of your authority. (Albeit a highly creative abuse; I'll give you that much. It might win you a prize in a standup comedy competition, but you fall flat on your bony face when it comes to representing an officer of the law. You're a Public Relations Nightmare!) Were I your superior, I'd strip you of your badge and place you on two-years' probation, and keep you off the streets for the entire period. You'll be a fulltime pencil pusher. (Impersonating an Officer of the Underworld is a highly egregious offense!)

But I'm not his superior, so this satirical bon mot must suffice:

Officer 666

If you have a problem that can't be fixed,
Just call on Officer 666.

He'll mend your heart lickety-split,
And leave you some money and give you no lip.
Hey, that's my kinda cop: 666.

If you're stuck outside (keys locked in the car)
Just call for him, he's never too far:
"666? Oh, there you are!"

He'll carry you home, safe in his arms,
And tuck you in, and rock you to sleep,
And steal your heart while you count sheep.

He's not very pretty when it comes to the face,
Or just about any other body-place.
But he'll please you "on-your-knees-you",
Just by his commanding voice

     and 12.75 yards of lace.

Then there's "Special Police" personnel,

assigned to Eureka Valley and paid for by the local businesses. You heard me: local businesses. That means NOT you, the pedestrian, the tourist, the average citizen and resident. During the numerous times I've witnessed a hate crime, there's never a cop around, whether "special" or no. We need two or three beat cops DAILY, in order to turn around the increased harassment and violence that's been plaguing the neighborhood for nigh unto 15 years! But that's not the half of it.

There was a "Special" beat cop in Eureka Valley for quite a few years name of Jane W. (lesbian BTW). Friendly enough, but she didn't do her job of protecting gay pedestrians, when she could have done so. Two incidents come to mind personally:

1. Oh, about seven years ago, it was evening and dark; I was walking from 2306 to Cala supermarket. There was Jane on the corner of 18th & Collingwood where The Edge is located, chatting with another officer parked in his car. He blocked the entire crosswalk, so that everyone had to walk almost to the CENTER of the busy intersection, to get by. (It was a chill November eve; sun had set long ago.) Yet immediately behind him was an available parking spot. I approached the cop (interrupting chatty Jane who leaned against the passenger door), and spoke:

   "Pardon me, officer, but you're blocking the walkway and I'd like to cross the street with minimal risk." He looked up at me, obviously bemused by my interruption. I gestured to my left: "There's a free parking space right behind you."

   The policmean grinned: "I don't want to take up a spot I don't need."

   "But you are illegally blocking safe accees for pedestrians," I briskly replied. "No skin off your teeth to pull back a few feet."

   By this time, Jane's face became somewhat grim, her thin lips pressed even thinner. "Go on now, it's safe to walk around me and cross," he blithely remarked while rush-hour cars hurled themselves recklessly from four different directions. High beams blinded me if I didn't look down.

   Disgusted, I asked Jane to assist me in making a citizen's arrest. She ignored me and looked up at the sky. The seated cop tapped his calloused thumb against the open window's cold, chrome frame.

   "Alright, this isn't gonna happen," I realized, so turned away from The Two Dipwads in Uniform, and huffily marched home. NO WAY was I going to oblige Their Highnesses and walk AROUND asshat's car.

2. Approximately one year to date I approached Ms. Jane regarding possible violence by one homeless man named Woody.

   I greeted her, she smiled back. Then I requested her ear for a brief minute or two:

   "Jane, I know you're no longer assigned to The Castro, but maybe you could pass this information on."

   She cocked her sparrow's head: "Oh? What information?"

   

   "You know Woody, right?" I ventured.

   She nodded: "Yes, he has been banned from Castro Street three years ago because he ran into shops, smashing and throwing things around. And terrorizing everyone in general before then; for years."

   "Yes, I know all about Woody's antics. Known him since '87, and he's been a monkey on my back ever since," I prefaced. "I just want to tell you that his behavior is getting out of hand again, he's been acting aggressive towards me, and others who hang out a few blocks up, around Church and Market. I figure you could inform..."

   She raised her hand to cut me off. "Woody's dangerous. He's strong and can lose control. I suggest you stay away from him," she barked. "Go to the Mission Station and draw up a report."

   Jane was now glaring at me. (What did I do?) My intent was simply to alert whichever officer now covers the neighborhood around Church and Market Streets. But since I didn't know who that was ('cause I hadn't seen a cop in that area for months, except dinky "666" whizzing by now and then on a Schwinn), I figured to tell Jane, who could pass it on to the correct officer.

   Furthermore, I know Woody at least five years more than Jane. He is not so dangerous I need to avoid him...besides, this IS my neighborhood, and has been since 1973. No one pushes me around my own turf and gets away with it! I also realize that filling out a form with the PD is an ineffectual way to nip potential danger in the bud. From my own experience, the best solution is always a neighborly alert to the beat cop.

   "No, filling out paperwork is not my style," I looked at Jane in friendly exasperation. "I figure you'd know the beat cop, and could..."

   Again she summarily raised a hand to halt me (impudent child that I am). "Well, how do you expect me to help if you refuse to act lawfully?" She glowered.

   "Wow!" I thought, "I didn't know it was illegal to NOT fill out papers. What's up with this bitch?" I was about to inform her that it is ALSO legal to inform a cop of possible trouble...which usually suffices to squelch it. But the moment I opened my mouth to address her abusive demeanor, she raised her hand once more, as if warding off the plague:

   "Look, Zeke, you're wasting my time. Just stay away from Woody. There's my advice."

   "I'm not asking for advice You Blue Shrew. I was only trying to be a responsible member of our community," I wordlessly pondered, ready to tear the gun from her holster and teach her The Lesson of a Lifetime.

   

   "Oh, whatever. Sorry I even bothered you, OFFICER Jane." And we parted company, not on the best of terms.

Missy Jane also writes a "Crime & Punishment" column for the gay rag "Bay Area Reporter". She often makes light of serious crimes by creating "cutesy" subject headers. But I don't think depicting violence, theft and mugging of gays as a Comedy Of Errors, good PR. (Even the column's title is somewhat facetious, and derogative!)

FACTOID: Jane W. is also President of the Patrol Special Police Association! I found this following quote by her, in a pdf document downloaded from the web (the hyperlink is my embellishment):

I received a degree in criminal justice from Shamanan University in 1986. I was hired by the Honolulu Police Department where I worked undercover in Waikiki and was reassigned to the patrol division. After a meritorious career in Honolulu, I moved to California and received my POST Basic Certificate from Sacramento Safety Center. I was hired as a Police Officer for the town of San Anselmo and I attended night school at the University of San Francisco. In 1993, I joined the San Francisco Patrol Special Police where I was assigned walking a foot beat in The Castro and Upper Market neighborhood.

Sorry to say , but for the most part it is my conclusion that the San Francisco Police Department (and the Super-Duper SPECIAL Police) remain seriously homophobic as well as pathetically LAX in suppressing street crime and harassment...when it could be handily dealt with. Though I was impressed by this year's first anti-Halloween event, with the excellent show of force by the SFPD. Now, if only we had such stalwart regard and presence by the police department all the remaining 364 days each year. Homophobes don't take a vacation, you know. Some even reside in Eureka Valley! And (sadly) some are cops themselves.

Jane, it's good that you possess a "meritorious" background, but that's not evidenced in your patrol of Eureka Valley. A good cop has no cause whatsoever to treat me rudely, and disregard the dangers on our streets.

Hawaii 5-O credentials notwithstanding. Or a campus crawling w/shamans.

---

[ Table Of Contents ]

---

Tomorrow's installment: THE NEIGHBOR "HOODS"

Allies: New chapter! Time to download the updated Larkin.zip.
(Delete the previous one.) Thanks!

FYI: The Larkin Chronicles are also my accounting of criminal goings-on that I have been called (by my angels) to report. If anything awful should happen to me, I've informed my friends to contact the SF police, and a couple independent detective agencies (since SOME of the local cops may ALSO be involved in these crimes, thus cannot do their job). Give them this link: "gay-bible.org/truetales/index.htm#larkin". Therein dwell my notorious chronicles (originally named "True Tales from South of Market"), shining brazen in the light of day for all the world to witness.

Or simply show them this page.

I have also provided a convenient link for my allies to download these Larkin Chronicles, "gay-bible.org/share/Larkin.zip", in the event my web site and/or blog should be sabotaged or shut down. Always a possibility, as some criminals are also damn good hackers...or an eventual court decree may demand their removal from public scrutiny. Anyone reading this who cares to advocate on my behalf, is also welcome to download "Larkin.zip". These chronicles will INCLUDE all my "Friendly Ghost" installments, one more each day until completed.

NOTE: I will release a new installment each day...no less than 5 parts total, no more than 7. Interested parties must RE-download each time a new installment is posted. And overwrite or delete the previous Larkin download. Thank you for your support!

These chronicles are a convenient gathering of my observations in this matter, to make it easy for law enforcement or PI's to do their work. I trust I will not get into serious trouble...in fact, this will probably be my debut into public renown as a freelance psychic detective. The fact I've DOCUMENTED these crimes--and posted them to the world via my web site, ZekeBlog, and Usenet--is also good protection...since "they" know if I'm messed with, their geese will be cooked for sure!

In fact, even if my sudden demise is NOT their fault, they'll be in hot water anyway (think about it)...so they'd better start hoppin' REAL SOON to round up the BEST and most GORGEOUS bodyguards they can afford, to protect and honor me. Since they now have a VESTED INTEREST in not just my survival, but also my well-being and even more: my HAPPINESS. I mean, next time I get in a bad mood, a wild hair up my ass just might trigger mayhem!