Okay, so here's my New Year's present to a most incredible, outrageously handsome, super-witty, courageous, INTELLIGENT and all-around GREAT guy, Larkin Kelsey! All wrapped up in a Scooby-Doo gift bag. If you haven't been following my recent tales, you won't grasp the relevance of Scooby-Doo in our friendship. But you don't NEED to remain clueless: just click here to become enlightened.

Walgreen's (on 18th & Castro) limited selection of colorful folders left me NO choice, but the puppy-love theme, as all OTHER options simply did not meet my standards (BLATANT male-female displays, or ultra-feminine/pre-pubesc ent pastel pap.) Which standards being the very BEST for my buddy Larkin, within my threadbare budget. Caveat: I am NOT at all displeased with the sole option offered. As if my angels' guiding hand left no room for confusion or hesitation. They sure as heck know what they're doing! Especially when it comes to liberating my devastated soul after so many TERRIBLE years of vilification, social isolation and violence! I can't IMAGINE anyone but Larkin (except for My Randolph) being SUCH a tremendous balm for my aching soul...his very visage makes my heart leap for joy like a newborn lamb in the dewy grass of spring!

I couldn't find a New Year's Day card ANYWHERE in the city, even if my life depended on it! What's happened to some holidays I guess, is they just aren't profitable enough, in these days of HyperKapitalism. Walgreens seems to be the worst offender. No sooner was Halloween over, than they over-stuffed the shelves with Xmas goodies! Where the frig did Thanksgiving go? I did manage to discover a FEW turkey cards amidst all the Yuletide debauchery. But New Year's? Fuggedaboudit! It took Walgreens less than 9 hours after Xmas day officially ended, for them to spew Valentine's Day cards and paraphernalia all over the place! Not ONE single freakin' New Year's Day card in sight! I visited several OTHER card shops to discover NONE of them had ANYthing for New Year's, not even stickers! Well, that's not TOTALLY true, they did sell a small assortment of party favors, hats, noisemakers and butterfly tongues (is that what they call those paper-and-wire thingies that curl/uncurl when you blow into them? It's been HELLA long since I've spent New Year's Eve with anyone but me, myself, and ay-yi-yi. AAMOF, ya gotta go all the way back to my childhood!)

So this afternoon I perused what cards were available, that I could adapt via cunning handcraft. Well, the moment I laid pupils on THIS lovely card with a cellophane window framing a campout scene, I just HAD to have it!

(Discovered of all places, in that DOLLAR store on 16th & Mission, abutting the ever-ubiquitous Walgreens.) The front originally said: "To a special grandchild on Father's Day." I used my printer, then cut out and pasted my rectangular adaptations. Neat trick, eh? Unfortunately, I didn't notice that the New Year's rectangle was a tad long, until too late! So with a ballpoint pen, I scratched in the vertical bar to that capital D.

I trust your eyes aren't so bad you can't read what it NOW says, but just in case: "To a special boyfriend on New Year's Day". (Though if your eyes are THAT bad, then I doubt you can even read what I just typed for your edification!)

Open the card, to read:

Larkin, may your day be filled with beautiful skies and tonight,
May you sleep under a sparkly blanket of stars.
Happy New Year's Day!

Replace "Larkin" w/"Grandson" and "New Year's" w/"Father's" to get the original drift.

Scooby-Doo does NOT belong in the card; I added that sticker myself. (Plus my beaming-heart logo by the canoe.)

Let me make one thing perfectly clear: My wish for Larkin to sleep "under a sparkly blanket of stars" is NOT my wish that he become homeless (Goddess forbid)...but that my fantasy to camp out with a beloved buddy finally come true! I mean: I really need a break from this urban insanity, and camping under a pup tent with Larkin would be just what the doctor ordered!

The background, BTW, is part of my angel comforter that I bought in November from Thrift Town for $29:

To my great satisfaction, I can now tell people "I sleep with the angels," and it won't be a lie! And ALSO thanks to that comforter, I DO sleep under the stars each and every night!

Now, the BACK of the card includes an image I printed out and PASTED, to add my personal Zeke-touch. Has to do with my wish to turn the Hole in the Wall Saloon into Larkin's own venue, where he is both bouncer and host. Why? Well, I don't care to repeat myself. Just click here, and you'll understand. (In case you can't read the signboard on the saloon clipart, it says "Larkin's Lagoon". And that's a cowboy holding a cue stick. Tried to find a human figure that resembles Larkin, but no go, other than he's tall and skinny. Click on the image below, for a clearer pic.)

It's also copasetically sweet that the card's own franchise is entitled "Windows of Paradise," because that is EXACTLY how Larkin affects me: he's my heaven's door...and I sure am knockin'!

I just want him to be assured (for I KNOW he'll be reading this soon enough), that I would be MOST delighted to have him as a good friend in my life, without EVER expecting sex to enter the picture. I am very much the ROMANTIC type, who seeks camaraderie and jovial conversation over sexual intimacy any time of the day. I'd find it an absolute THRILL to camp out with you, Larkin, under the stars, sharing the same sleeping blanket, with our clothes on, embraced in brotherly affection! The concept of your devoted friendship is THAT fulfilling in my mind's eye! You NEVER need worry about sexual urges getting in the way of a most WONDERFUL friendship. And I think that, in these last two years, I've PROVEN that to the utmost, considering all the horrid intrigue that has forced its way into my humble life. Of course, if sex WERE to enter the picture at some later date, I'd consider that frosting on the, er, COCK...oops, I mean "cake," naughty me!

I want to remark that it is MOST appropriate I compose this piece on the birthday of my Great Beloved, Randolph Louis Taylor. Whose spirit I strongly believe brought Larkin into my life, in order to give my lonely heart Great Solace. Below is the final snapshot for this article, displaying the folder's cover. I've secured it with a camouflage leash hooked to a tiger-stripe collar...both purchased at that dollar store same day I discovered the card.

Latest blog entry. Something about living on razor's edge, not knowing if you're gonna live to see the next day, that stimulates my literary epiphany.

I have absolutely NO pain whatsoever, am healing nicely. 1/3 of my skull remains numb, no swelling or infection. That must be the endorphins kicked in, to spare me any ADDITIONAL misery.

Several people are granting me GREAT respect, as witness to my fearless courage. There are DOZENS of bicycle thugs, so the streets may be too DANGEROUS for me to step out. If such be the case, there are those who will bring me food and basic sundry items.

Until said time Larkin or another beloved ally arrives to cart me off to Safe Haven. I have PAID the price to become THE most powerful drug lord in ALL of Athenia. I will soon have my finger on the pulse of ALL drug traffic flowing both IN and OUT of my region. ALL dealers must assume PERSONAL responsibility for the well-being and SAFETY of their clients. NO tainted, toxic or otherwise BAD drugs permitted. Any dealer who breaks that RIGID rule shall be put to death STAT. No delay, no trial, no hearing. Nothing, nada, zilch, GOOSE EGG.

Today's drug network will be tomorrow's pharmacy!

Why? Because most EVERYONE in Amerika is rapidly losing their medical insurance...or what care they can still afford (barely) is inferior compared to 20 or so years ago. Drug dealers will soon profit ENORMOUSLY from this overwhelming tide of need for healing medicines. In addition to the standard street drugs, dealers will soon provide all other medications required by the needy and suffering...as a result of our own present system's voracious greed and intentional CRIPPLING of the populace. HERBAL formulas will also become readily available, as the FDA clamps down on citizens' growing desire for alternative health treatments. IOW:

I will turn our drug dealers into drug HEALERS!

By which they will profit like never before. Even though their fees will be drastically REDUCED in order to accommodate the POOR and lower classes. The poorest among us shall be provided healthful medicines at NO COST. The majority of dealers will eventually morph into PREVENTATIVE (as well as alternative) Medicine Men. So there you have a return to the ancient ways of shamanism...which have arisen from our Collective Unconscious to save mankind from its own foolish self.

A big chunk of profits will go towards housing the homeless. Universal health is of equal import, as is MEANINGFUL labor at a LIVING wage. This will also herald my dream to open loving, fun and wholesome HOMES for severely disabled GAY war veterans.

To honor My Randolph, whose love, long suffering, courage and WISDOM have made this MIRACLE possible!

R ivers of kindness course through your heart,
A rtery of God's messengers.
N ewborn child in the valley of
D reams-Come-True, listen to
O rpheus sing your name as
L ilies of the field bow their heads and
P urple heather underneath your shoe travels
H omeward where I sit, by a candle.

A significant number of dedicated scientists will align with my ideals, to develop HARMLESS versions of heroine, smack, coke, meth, etc. They will contain healthful additives to heal the immune system, and reduce dependency by at least 5% each time you inject, smoke, or swallow your "poison" of choice. Increased dispersion of QUALITY marijuana will play a major role in PAINLESSLY easing substance-abuse victims from addiction to formerly illegal drugs...which shall be DECRIMINALIZED by my orders. Gay bars will be morphed into marijuana-&-herbal-tea infusion/concoction and smoking outlets. A cut of the profits shall benefit no-to-low income patrons.

Is everyone with me here, on the same page? If not, that's kewl. You can even think I'm kinda NUTS...'cause in just a little more time I SHALL be VINDICATED, and ALL those who once thought me deluded will be utterly AMAZED and convinced of my veracity. INCREDIBLE! I hereby declare yours truly to be The Luckiest & Most Blessed Humanoid On The Planet.

From: Zeke
To: My_E-friends
Date: 26 Dec 2007
Subject: Lord of the Drug Rings

Latest blog entry. Don't be deceived...while lifted from one of my recent letters to you (my beloved e-friends), besides the added images and links, there is also a POEM.

Now, I need to take my shower, dress, and track down all those who WISH my death or ATTEMPT to kill me. I'll have them runnin'. THEN I march on down to the offices of the S.F. Bay Times, show them my ugly WOUND, and demand they take my photo, and INTERVIEW me. That I may EXPOSE the scumbags, and invite all concerned to LEARN about this cult via Steal This Blog!

What a day this is turning out to be!

Larkin.zip has now grown to a little over 6 megabytes, BTW.

--
Remember to download Larkin.zip!

Warren Q. writes:

{{ Ezekiel, please use caution - these types are no doubt very dangerous. Hope you can recover with no problems. }}

I ALWAYS am cautious, Warren. But when called to blow the whistle, sometimes one must choose COURAGE over caution. I couldn't live w/myself, if I remained silent. That would then make me a partner in their crime.

As you should already realize, I am TOTALLY vulnerable, living as I do in a poorly secured apartment bldg. INHABITED by several cult members as well. And I have NO other place to stay...praying for Larkin or other ally to provide me w/safe harbor.

Should I go to the police? Nope. They are NOT to be trusted. The Zodiac Cult has DEFINITELY infiltrated them.

Further: if I am to become a vital leader of our family, my bravery needs witnesses. It is CLEAR to more than several, that I am willing to sacrifice my life for Our Cause...if it comes to that.

I now have them, after all these years of courageous stunts withOUT any recognition. These photos go on my ZekeBlog in a moment.

MORE bad news: I phone-contacted the SF Bay Times, spoke with Kim Corsaro, their chief editor. She said, "We don't cover that sort of story. Perhaps you should go to the police."

Obviously, the cult has them, too. I know for sure that the Bay Area Reporter has been infested by cult members for many years. But I HAD hoped the Bay Times would give me credence.

My recovery is swift. Thank you.

John H., you tell me if my forehead wound is in the identical location as L. Thompson's. Is it also the same shape? You seem to have a much better memory than myself, regarding 2306 intrigue and characters.

Hopefully, Larkin will be at the Metro this eve. Assuming no permission to speak, I'll stand some yards away and remove my hat, that he can get a clear view of my injury. I'm sure he already knows what happened (he's telepathic), but I need to be CERTAIN...as I'm NOT yet as psychic as he.

ADDENDUM: The suspect who pilfered my wallet, also enjoyed purchasing junk food via my debit card.

Part 1: spenser.jpg

Above photo: I just discovered my latest handsome dude on the 'net, to add to my "Cute Guys" SubSubSubFolder: His name is Spencer, a student at Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut. Found his image on a photo blog: "The Blonde Excuse". Holding him, kissing him (sometimes w/passion, sometimes affection) all through the cold, wintry night beneath my angel comforters (storm howling outside): My kinda XXX-mas Eve! In my All-Boys-&-Nothing-BUTT Candy Store, he'd be sumptuous, extra-large Milky Way or Snickers candy bar! Melt-on-my-tongue goodness, every time I taste and lick whatever body part turns me on at the moment!

Amazingly, his countenance is SO similar to my street buddy David (NOT homeless, just part of the Castro street scene), though approx 25 years younger. David is an abundantly handsome and sweet natured man, one of the rare hirsute individuals that rings my chimes. But because of his addiction to speed, OxyContin, crack, and goddess knows what else chemical, I keep a PSYCHOLOGICAL distance from him. Besides, he is somewhat CONTROLLED by this Chinese-Amerikan homo owner who I never had the displeasure to meet (except once, recently, and let me tell you it was NO treat).

David DOES have serious lower-back pain, which OxyContin, speed etc. helps relieve...I forgive him all that.

But because he is such a BIG (albeit DARLING) man, and I only get to see him SPORADICALLY, I hesitate re. getting TOO close to him. One day several years ago, while fixing us both some tea, and me standing within inches of his face (as he sat on my bed while I tended the microwave), he muttered several words almost indistinguishable. Arms resting on spread-out legs so close I was almost standing between them (though facing the other way)...(his) head lowered and cocked slightly to one side: in his darlingly DEEP, baritone-frosty voice that TINGLES my ear drums:

"C'mon, whip it out buddy."

I pretended to NOT comprehend his sweet invite, and continued fussing with food prep. Four years or so later, I regret my unresponsive maneuver, but I'm NOT a day person, and I AM on the shy side (or at least, WAS until quite recent). For just eight months ago when he showed up at my gate, I was QUITE the vixen, and attempted to seduce him every which-way possible. He was a NoThanksBuddy in every way but one: I got him to slide a middle finger up my anus, while I kicked back, whacking off with my legs sprawled across his own denim-cloaked thighs. DEFINITELY a steamy intermezzo. Though it seems that, since then, his Chinese-Amerikan overlord keeps a tight reign over David's associations. Which obvously excludes me from the picture.

I don't mean to deceive you, Dear Reader. (Though I DO hope to embarass! And if you're a 'phobe, ANTAGONISE.) It's not that David isn't attracted to me and doesn't give some of the NICEST kisses and bear hugs I've ever received. Plus, this is the ONE and ONLY time we've ever come close to "boner fide" (heh) sex. He smiled endearingly throughout my entire ploy to seduce, didn't even push me away gently (just interacted differently than I had hoped). Sadly, he seemed more interested in his speed or crack, than in making out. He even swore up and down, left and right, that we'd have really HOT sex together, if I smoked some crack with him! I refused, and thus the (rather happy) compromise.

Let me tell you: I'm totally DOWN on fist fucking. (By that I mean AGAINST, seeing as current lingo has reversed numerous negative-intent words. Like "bad" is really good, and "get down" means "dig it".) But GOOSING (finger fucking)? I like that, if your fingernails are clipped real close to the quick, and you have those MASCULINE hands. A workman's hands: rough with THICK (not stubby) fingers. Well, lemme tell you: David's hands are PERFECTLY suited to my desire! Not only did feeling his middle finger (slick w/aloe vera gel) slide up and down my tight rectum turn me on BIG TIME: I absolutely ADORE his touch, those strong, rough hands, ANYWHERE on my person! It feels god-damn RIGHTEOUS.

It was HOT, but not the intense reciprocation I had expected. Since then, I've only seen David once, accompanied by his monied Asian-Amerikan slave owner, whose name I do not know, nor care to know. David is MINE in the long run, he numbers among my most DEARLY BELOVED, who shalll NEVER be relegated to bulliness and submission to ANYONE! My crotch was within MILLIMETERS of his face (though zipped up) when he spake thus...but VICTORIAN little ole me freaked out a bit, and pretended he spoke something else a tad LESS provocative.

He gives the most AMAZINGLY passionate hugs in the world! First he'll hunker down a bit ('cause he's tall and I'm not), knees bent and BRACE himself against the wall (due to a pained lower back). Arms outstretched and curved, ready to contain me in all his friendly wishes. He'll lift me up a bit as we kiss (he loves my neck bites BTW), and through his loose-fitting Levi's, I feel that chubby, cut wanger (5 inches when deflated, wow...I guess 8 or 9 when NOT...but when's the last time THAT ever happened?)...that plump rubber BISCUIT press against my left thigh. His sturdy frame wrapped around mine, heartbeat against my ear. Pectorals to die for! (I cop a few licks just before His Release.) Tiger cub in The Lion's embrace!

Now THAT'S a sexy hug! Did I mention yet, how HANDSOME is David? A thick mop of the most wonderful, curly golden-brown hair I've ever seen. And baby-fine! For a time, he wore his locks sorta long, down to his chin. Such lovingly curled, bunched strands of hair halo-ing the face of a seraph! Did people stop dead in their tracks to GawkAdmire? Yes they did! He was THAT stunning. Thick, elegant eyebrows that nobly grace a broad forehead and countenance. And the most SCINTILLANT deep, crystal-blue eyes. As I suggested earlier, amply-haired men usually are NOT my cup o' tea. There are only several exceptions in my life, thus far...all but David being One Knight Stands. (Strange term that, as how much STANDING really goes on?) He's about 50 now, graying, and a little obese albeit STILL knock-down gorgeous! We've been friends for how long now? Oh, I'd say eleven years.

I first met David at that tiny Wash Day Blues laundromat on Hattie & Market. Presently boarded up.

It was evening, around 9pm. I was restless, needed a break from my online activism, so took a stroll down 18th Street going west, then up Hattie. First time I gazed upon David: through a plate glass window frosted by a damp fog. What a magnificent specimen of GayManhood, I thought. Remarkably HANDSOME face, and burnished-brass ringlets of hair so alluring I almost smashed through the window in my sudden urge to touch them! He was with another male, a diminuitively unappealing fem in whom I had absolutely NO interest. They were smoking methamphetamine through a glass pipe.

SMACKED in the face by a double-negative-whammy before I even say boo! Still, his beauty was such that NOTHING would stand in my way.

Entered and found a plastic seat, dropped my backpack to the floor. "Hey guys. Hope I'm not interrupting anything. I just need to rest my feet a moment."

The twink sneered and looked away, towards David...who PUSHED him aside to acknowledge my presence. Great Jehovah's Jism, that smile! Those sparkly sapphire eyes! Those eyebrows! Those excellent brave hands. Shoulders of divine proportion! Yellow shirt half unbuttoned to partly reveal the Most Lickable Pecs in the Cosmos! He looked directly at me, the face of a young Thor. Beamed a smile like the sun's first ray burst through a dark cloud.

"Hey buddy. No problemo," he chuckled. (Oh, that voice: MAGNIFICO! I shiver enrapt. LoveAtFirstSight is my favorite delight.) David whose name I didn't yet know extended an arm, which hand held the glass pipe. "Here, take a hit!" (The "male" lookalike to Phyllis Diller didn't seem too pleased.)

"Oh, no no. I only smoke pot. And once in a blue moon, imbibe."

Cupcake interrupted: "C'mon Dave let's go outside. It's getting stuffy in here."

David ignored him once more, and beckoned me: "Join us!"

I hanged out with David and No One Special a half hour or so, on someone's steps a half block up Hattie, under a spreading walnut tree. Found out he likes to hang at the Pendulum, so now I have a hook. Though at that time I was in NO mood to commence my next bar cycle (which occurs about once every 4-5 years, lasts about 6-9 months).

Three weeks passed before I found David at the Pendulum, even though I'd been strolling past it DAILY, several times each afternoon. He was standing out front, smoking a cig and leaning against the open front door. His eyes lit up (oh there I go again, keep me tethered to the ground, please), this time ran forward and before I could take my next breath, found myself in a glorious embrace! Felt his hefty joystick pressing down on me, right through those khaki-camouflage pants. For the first time, we kissed.

And I touched his hair, at last! What gentle radiance through my fingers! I turned my face to nuzzle the crook between neck and shoulder. Licked his collarbone and the recessed skin just above, then luv-bit his neck. O My Goddess Does David taste fine! His baby-soft locks covered the left side of my head, I inhaled the lingering fragrance of carnation and tobacco arising from those burnished curls. A softpack of Camels slightly crushed between our pectorals.

Heaven, when it happens, is always FAR better than even I, a highly CREATIVE and INTELLIGENT author, could ever POSSIBLY imagine. David gave me his soul, his heart, his embrace, his kiss, his laughter, his cocky rubs, his gracious attention...that I could KNOW this.

But then, weeks and weeks passed, with no David. Did he move away or what? I finally started frequenting the Pendulum as CUSTOMER, since I was determined to see my David again no matter HOW long it took! On my disability income, that's quite a sacrifice. I really can't AFFORD drinks. Well, did you know I attended the Pendulum for SIX WHOLE MONTHS before David finally returned? What a test! I was SO happy to see him again. Our friendship then took off, though problems aplenty continued. I eventually let him know of my long vigil at the Pendulum, hoping and praying I'd see him again. He really was charmed by that.

I HOPE he's alive and well, and my thinking of him so POWERFULLY this Xmas day is NOT because he passed on, his spirit come to love me. But two years ago, he spoke of heart ailment diagnosis and having to see doctors more often. All those illegal drugs he took/takes! And tobacco! Guess I should be glad that ALCOHOL is not part of the mix.

I never had many chances to tell David how much I love him. Because drugs got in the way. And my relative poverty. How could I expect him to leave the material comfort of his Asian master, to be with me? I couldn't provide for him, he'd wind up homeless. There was also the time, about six years ago, when he muttered something about "bashing faggots". I couldn't believe my ears, yet I think he spoke those two words AGAIN a few moments later. While we were strolling through Harvey Milk Plaza on our way to a round of pool at the Pendulum. My heart broke, and I avoided him for three years, during which time he moved on and stopped buzzing me at the front gate.

Had no idea for a time, how to approach him on this. Homophobia is a WICKED curse, with little one can do to change a person. Best answer is to walk away from him and NEVER look back. David's different from you or me. He cannot survive in this world independently, through no fault of his own. IOW, he NEEDS a sugar daddy to provide. Like so many OTHER men I love (most of whom are homeless or WERE when we first met), lack of material resources has proven an unboundable wall.

When I finally spoke to David about why I avoided him so long, he was shocked and grieved that I could EVER think he'd speak like that. I tried to explain that perhaps his mind was somewhat controlled by outside forces, but he seemed NOT to grasp the concept. So I dropped it and renewed our friendship, however sporadic it's been ever since. Next time I see him, IF there is a next time (and I sure hope so), I know EXACTLY the words to touch his heart forever. EVEN if he does not reciprocate, I want him to know what is in MY heart, regarding our friendship. He has always called me a righteous man, in the presence of others. Stating that I'm the BEST buddy on the planet. (Which unfortunate side effect INSPIRED some to plot my demise, and separation from David. Jealousy is my constant nemesis.) I'm afraid that even I did not quite grasp David's message, thus did not handle it as well as I ought. Life's all a big learning lesson, ain't it?

So it isn't JUST the drugs that are problematic, though that one alone suffices to repulse me forever, in MOST cases. Being a street minister FOR my gay brothers, though, requires of me a more forgiving and open-minded attitude. For I HAVE met (and still do meet) absolutely WONDERFUL men who by sad coincidence happen to be addicts. Yet I have also NOT found such depth of soul, sweetness and sheer BEAUTY among my brothers who do not indulge in illegal substances, or do not possess a tragic element of some OTHER kind. I understand PERFECTLY my nature...has nothing to do with codependency or low self-esteem. Though that's what others might claim, especially Zodiac Disciples who'll say ANYTHING to wreck a good man's life, friendships, and lovers. (And career, and freedom, and health, and etc.)

Goddess CREATED me to be a natural lover of the downtrodden in our queer community. I'm doing nothing wrong, and everything right! For there shall soon come a reckoning of my good works. Bless-ed result will be the RETURN of all those lovely angels in my difficult (but worthwhile) life. And they shall all be HEALED of whatever curses burdened them for so terribly long. And KNOW it is ME more than anyone else, has courageously guided them through their own personal hells to a MUCH better existance. When they suffer, I suffer. Not because I'm a "love addict," but because each man I grow endeared to means the world to me FOREVER! Whether or not even I mySELF don't like it.

Besides the barricades of addiction and poverty, there is ANOTHER significant contributor to the demise of my relationships thus far: The Disciples Of The Zodiac Killer. Once they get their hooks in you, they NEVER let go, unless somehow you can finally figure a way to get that twisted monkey off your back. For almost 23 years, they've dogged my every step, wrecked my every boyfriend and MOST if not all of my friendships and even friendly acquaintances! They'll do whatever it takes to destroy my sorely desired buddies. Drive 'em insane, usually with toxic substances. Kill them with drug overdose or hit and run, send them off to prison on false witness, where they'll get raped and beat to death (or at best come down w/AIDS). Turn them against me with wicked gossip...some of my loves have even threatened or STRUCK at me as a result!

With beloved David, they made sure he'd stay HOOKED on drugs. And his Asian owner is no doubt a cult member himself, assigned to keep David AWAY from me, for good. (They're certainly NOT beyond killing him, just to see me squirm. I trust Goddess that will not happen.) I have also concluded that his seemingly homophobic mutterings were a telepathic IMPLANT by my enemies. You see, under the influence of mind-enfeebling hard drugs, you become HIGHLY vulnerable to their cleverly wicked astral communique. Being so out of it, you don't even REALIZE what you just said. You are USED by the cult, like ventriloquist to dummy!

I didn't know as much back then as I do now, how they operate. Thus they forced my hand, and the only answer for me was to NEVER see David any more! Whilst they made David believe I'm a BAD person, 'cause I rejected him for no good reason.

Is there a God? Yes. Is God compassionate? Yes. Then why this hell I've been put through? Why this HELL for so many others? Evil exists to test our mettle, to give each of us many chances to resist temptation...and in so doing, become heroic. Evil also teaches us compassion. The End Game has already begun. This time around, I make SWEEPING VICTORY AFTER SWEEPING VICTORY. My prayers for David have been heard...of course! Since NO worthy wish or prayer goes unanswered in the long run. David's memories of all the kind things I've said to him, and my loving embraces etc. will soon click in as all the jigsaw pieces come together to reveal The Big Picture. Which BTW has a title:

David is Beloved to Zeke and Vice Versa

It is also David's broadly gregarious behavior that has forced me to keep my distance. For one, whenever we play Frisbee he insists on tossing the disc on busy intersections and other areas that would inevitably draw the police department's attention! For example; the last time we played Frisbee, was fifteen months ago at the South Park Marina. David peeled his T-shirt to reveal a most GLORIOUS torso and solid, WELL defined pecs. His arms, plumply muscled. But he kept INSISTING I toss the frisbee in such a manner, he'd have to retrieve it from the bay, dive into the pollluted Marina with all its ships, barks and yachts docked quayside. That was when I discovered how much he loves to swim, and how ATHLETIC his nature.

FYI: The background in that frisbee image is a SHIRT left behind by (another) David, the good Samaritan who rescued me from where I lay in a pool of blood December 23, after being cold-cocked. To read that episode, click here.

IOW: every athletic action on the part of My Belovd David would likely attract the police....which I could NOT afford. (He's like a big ol' friendly golden retriever: needs the grand outdoors and LOTS of acreage to run around. Dense urban areas are BAD: rules, regulations, restrictions, DANGEROUS automobiles everywhere. My pup DESERVES better, so I pray.) Yet at one point, as we strolled along the stadium promenade, a professional batter (whose name I do not recall, I'm not a fan of big sports) struck a baseball over the topmost bleachers and into the chilly, SF bay water! David, now stripped of his Metallica T-shirt, rid his shoes and dived in!

And, well, this is interesting. Just a few days ago, I found an Xmas-themed Metallica CD on the back porch. BEFORE I had even planned to write about my lovely David. Now that I am, I'm SO glad it's being writ on Xmas Day. To honor him, who is sorely missed by THIS lone sum. There MUST be a telepathic aspect to this, wouldn't be surprised if he showed up at my gate today. Well it's 3:56pm. Where's Larkin? Randolph's BIRTHDAY is in five days. There's a HIT MAN on the prowl for my flesh. And he's got LOTSa buddies, on racing bicycles! Too dangerous for me to step out w/o bodyguards..but I remain alone and isolated. Yea, though I walk through the (Eureka) valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: For thou (Goddess) art with me! How INTENSE this all is!

The police soon arrived, while David emerged, soaking wet and chilled, to deliver the baseball to a proud father whose son would cherish it forever. I PROFUSELY apologized for my buddy's behavior, stating I never EXPECTED him to spontaneously dive into the dock water, where swimming is verboten. They kindly released both myself and David, whence we visited a Donut Shop one block away; him in his naked, wet torso, me delightfully at his knee! SURROUNDED (I might add) by heterocentric, post ballgame celebrants. They wouldn't DARE give us hell, not even a sneer. For MY David is MIGHTY like a benevolent Goliath!

I must comment that, while observing David leapt into the bay, I stood Mesmerized Witness to unbeLIEVable muscle and arm strength/coordination as he stroked SWIFTLY across the dark icy waters, to retrieve that baseball bobbing in the waves beneath the boardwalk. What spanned and noble freckly shoulders (fit for angel wings), blades gliding smooth beneath a sheet of muscle, like an adolescent PANTHER. Those long, fully developed arms, even the forearms were handsomely thick, fully STRETCHED breaststroke. PULLED the ocean behind him on each stroke! Baggy wide-belted Levis loosely clung 'round David's TIGHT waist. Denim blue jeans began to inch south, HALTED by a neatly packed rump. Boxer short wrinkled elastic band tantalizingly exposed: delicious contrast to a rhinestone-studded black belt.

I don't remember a thing. The good Samaritan Dave, found me lying in my own blood by the agave plant on the northeast corner of Market & Castro (same block as 2306). NO ONE else helped, didn't even call 911. He offered to, but I said no, please don't. (FYI, I didn't knock the plant cockeye, was already like that.)

BTW, I don't REMEMBER telling him anything, don't recollect a THING between the hours of 8 and 11pm. (Last thing I do recall, is walking into the bar few doors up from where Andy's Donuts once stood. Those were the days, eh, John? Part of my evening patrol: step into one or two bars, walk around, maybe sit a minute, then exit.) I was already in 205 with Dave. There were some paper towels wadded up on the file cabinet I use for a mini-kitchenette...sopped w/blood. I have a bad gash on the upper left part of my forehead. I call it The Curse Of Larry Thompson.

Mr. Thompson was a WICKED, petty-minded, nasty old queen. Incurable gossip. AND my neighbor across the hallway for many years until he happily perished from throat cancer. (Happy for ME that is.) Three months PRIOR to his evacuation through Life's Anus, KISMET stole his voice: larynx and vocal chords sliced out by a surgeon's deft hands. (Justice came late but swift!) Hideous fool's-gold hair (wiry thick), large pointy honker, Liberace apartment furnishings (including a hideous oil painting of Queen Elizabeth The2nd by his own lizardy hand) , and a foreboding DENT in his forehead, the exact same place where my latest Warrior Wound resides! But it's not ALL bad, for I DID fall onto a rather sizeable plant, acclaimed for its healing sap.

I didn't know WHICH upcoming chapter I'd make note of how dangerous our gay bars have recently become. Guess this is as good a page as any. This Cult of Zodiac Killer Disciples now runs ALL our queer bars and clubs, just like the Mafia once did. While there's always been SOME drug dealing by one or two bartenders at most every bar, The Cult is now FORCING all employees to deal. Or they die. Or someone they love dies. Walking out is NOT an option. It is POSSIBLE my presence at that one bar alerted a cult-head, who followed me outside, in secret, then STRUCK like a kamikaze once I crossed Castro.

I asked Dave if he saw who attacked me. He said no, just spotted my prostrate self among the succulents. I believe I was cold-cocked. My wallet is missing, and two $20 ATM withdrawals show up on my Washington Mutual account page. BOTH listed as "BART 16th Mission Street". Seeing as I don't have my PIN written down anywhere on my person, I don't see how the goon pulled it off. (Oh wait, he's PSYCHIC. Duh!) It COULD have been used like a credit card...you know so many clerks do NOT check for ID.

Dave thinks I need stitches, but my wound should heal fine, w/o any scar. The left side of my cranium down to the tip of my ear, is numb. No swelling, though. Ironic (though elegant): I'm using a SIMILAR treatment for my wound as the sap in that agave plant...aloe vera gel! (Mixed in are also witch hazel and two, three drops of tea tree oil.)

I'm SURE this is the work of a cult member. Or likely, GOSSIP by cult members to get people to fear, hate and ATTACK me. Foghorn Leghorn has been getting folks to hate me for YEARS...including deranged vagabonds. So I suspect gossip was the trigger.

I've been wearing bandanas tied around my head for several years now. So no one can SEE the wound. I DON'T want to give my enemies that satisfaction. It is my hope that ASAP, my undercover buddy Larkin will bring me to a safe house. He knows EVERYTHING about me, he's highly telepathic. So if he doesn't provide safe haven, he has a good reason not to. He KNOWS when I need to go through a difficult phase, and when it is best to intervene, or let it be.

I KNOW Dave, from years back when the Pendulum bar was still open for business. He's always been friendly, he's well groomed and intelligent. And damn good looking, too! It's rare I'm attracted to non-whites, but sometimes there IS that charming exception.

Hopefully, he'll show up this eve as he promised, with some weed. I want him to take me back to those bushes, and describe all that he remembers. BTW, he cussed out all the passersby that just stood gawking, some even chortled! No surprise here. We BOTH know how Frisco has become flooded with the wicked and the witchy!

And I ASSURE you, Larkin will hunt 'em down! I will soon have MANY decent guys befriending and protecting yours truly. For if truth IS to be known, this is all part of my destiny: a GREAT adventure unfolding, which I've already begun documenting via Friendly Ghost.

Imagine that! Dumped In the middle of a real-life Damon Runyon fairytale, unfolding as I type each new chapter.

Dave tended my wounds as I lay in bed, passed out. Regained consciousness approx 11pm. I didn't realize what a good looker he is, until last night. Next thing I know, I'm all over Dave, and we had a LOVELY roll in the figurative hay. I feel like I stepped into a noir detective film:

This Zodiac cult.
My SUPER handsome detective pal Larkin.
The gorgeously radiant full moon.
The good Samaritan.
The even BETTER sex.
The cold-cock.
The hard cock!

This letter is DEFINITELY a blog-worthy post.

Xmas is ALWAYS my worst time of year, in a way. If I'm ever gonna be violently attacked or threatened, almost ALWAYS an Xmas gift! And no matter how far and well I plan my finances, I'm usually BROKE the last week of December...and I don't even celebrate Xmas! Here I have $104 still in the bank (AFTER being ATM-robbed of $40), but I CAN'T GET AT IT until my next ATM card arrives.)

Because I seem to have LOST my ID card again. It wasn't in my wallet, as I keep it in a desk drawer since I lost my previous ID in February. One day, about two months back, I opened that draw to retrieve my ID, and it was NO LONGER in the envelope under my coin tray!

I don't think someone accesses my room when gone. Psychic phenomena ARE real. And this rotten excuse of a residence IS haunted. I am at war with this cult...a silent, DEADLY war via the astral dimension. HAVE been since 1985. My GREAT CHALLENGE is to make their vile antics visible by EXPOSING them through my craft. Friendly Ghost Detective Agency will HIT 'em like a gas bomb, smoke out those vermin from their scummy nest. It already HAS that power, though still a work in progress. ENOUGH has already been revealed, especially in my most recent chapters (such as "There's A Succubus Born Every Minute" and "First Letter"). The bomb WILL go off, and soon. Last night's cold-cock may even have been a telekinetic bruising. I surmise that their intent was to outright KILL me, but jeez I DO have the best protection a gal could ever want!

The WORST that has ever happened to me, and ever WILL happen, is the occasional close call. And look...good Samaritan Dave pulled me out of the mud when I had fallen. Goddess sent me an angel!

So I CAN'T access my money at Wash. Mutual in person withOUT any ID. *sigh* Broke again, it's anOTHER rotten Xmas! Dad's sending me $40 in a secure envelope (bills hidden within two printed sheets of paper). I don't even have COINS any more, 'cause I insisted Dave take 'em.

From what I know of ShamanHood (and I know LOTS), just before one ascends to Wizard Healer Extra Extra Extra Extraordinaire (WHEEE!), he goes through a scary INITIATION. As if:

You are going to become SUCH a lucky, bless-ed little fellow very soon...must be humble to receive This Goddessly Gift. Remember (before it was outlawed) when a Boy Scout graduated to the highest honor: Eagle? Before presented with your hard-earned badge, the scoutmaster would salute you with a vertical chop of the hand: SWIFT and STRONG. Sometimes the collarbone would break...you didn't DARE cry or show ANY emotion whatso lotso notso ever!

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

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

"Well I did NOT like him one bit," he declared. "I think I know where to find him."

"Yeah well, if you do, be careful. I COULD be wrong, maybe he said he ONCE lived here?"

He frowned, looked over my shoulder at an imaginary foe. "Yeah. I think I know what he's about. I'll track 'im down."

That's when I groped at his impressive basket through those loose-fit dark gray, cotton twill pants. Couldn't help myself! The angel made me do it! And peeled off his shirt to discover a GLORIOUS torso.

It seemed less than the wink of a harlot's eye, we found ourselves in 69 heavens! Next morning I tried to extract a better descripition of the blond man, but Dave remained vague. Shoulder-shrug vague. PROMISED he'd be back that eve with some pipe-lickin' good weed and his horny ol' self. I think he's around 40 years young.

But he never returned! Guardian Angels are like that: schedule-lax. But when you REALLY need their saving graces, they show up in a flash! So Goddess bless Dave. I HOPE no harm has come his way, and we hook up again SOON. I did ask Dave: Was he a BIG guy.

Strange though, I DID ask him that (sort of): "Was he tall, short, what?" He held his palm-down hand level with his nose. Which tip is but two inches above my bruised cranium. And I'M just five-foot-seven! Was he hiding the truth from me, the less I know the better off I am? Did he settle a score, the price to pay fleeing the city?

Peggy C.: Also, don't let that little guy Christopher in. He is NOT a friend. Simply tried to fish information out of me, by treating me to dinner. He likes to show up at Pasta Pornodoro to observe my comings and goings, and who I'm with. He likes to start arguments. That is a signal that tags a cult member. For they are DEVOTED to creating mayhem and misery.

The trap I set by requesting to NOT leave food or other item by my door is this: Anyone else who DOES is suspect. The food may be poisoned. I'll collect any items left at my door, and turn them over to Larkin. He'll pay a lab to test for toxins, but first DUST FOR FINGERPRINTS. Assuming I'll still be living here a while longer. Ugh. That's Plan B. Of course.

Whoever said "One picture's worth a thousand words" ginormously underestimated! I figure my Angelic Readers would enjoy an exemplary perspective of my digital canvas. You can also DOWNLOAD this image for your computer's wallpaper or just keep around like a friendly, compliant pet that needs NO food, NO water, NO grooming, NO bathing, and NO evacuation.

tools-of-my-trade(640x480 ).zip - 160 kb

tools-of-my-trade(800x600 ).zip - 258 kb

tools-of-my-trade(1024x76 8).zip - 140 kb

tools-of-my-trade(1280x96 0).zip - 916 kb

tools-of-my-trade(1600x12 00).zip - 1400 kb

See that laundry cart over there (the one just left of center)? That's the one! He (or she, who knows WHAT gender they are, sure can't tell by lookin' at their skinny frame) attacked me several months ago, with no one else HUMANOID around. It was a knock-down, hard-floor, cold-core wrassle-and-punch fest. Nobody human to witness or pull a 911 on 'em. And me with my hands full (and feet, and arms, and legs, and torso and butt and COCK)!

So the OTHER laundry carts gang up on me, soon as I hit the ground! I finally get the upper hand, manage to EXTRICATE myself from this tangled drubbing, to beat a hasty exit.

That one (the right-of-center one...no, not the one in front but the one just BEHIND him...maybe you can't see him in the pic, I had to take a photo at night through the plate-glass window really QUICK, so's they wouldn't catch on) had the NERVE to follow me outside, for two friggin' LONG city blocks! TAUNTING me all the way, called me "Faggot!" at least a dozen times. DEMANDED I hand over all my boxer briefs, T-shirts and socks.

"Alright, I've had just about ENOUGH of this crap" I says to no one in particular, whip out my canister of pepper spray. And declare to the wiry punk: "You call me FAGGOT, then demand my UNDERwear? What are you, some kinda PERVERT?"

Well, I musta said the right thing 'cause the heavy-metal BITCH turns on her wheels and rattles swiftly in the other direction, vanishes in a FLASH.

Now, I don't cotton to laundry carts that can talk and walk. MY take is this: that laundromat's HAUNTED, and these carts are possessed by what I coin "Wash 'n' Dry Poltergeist". The previous owner, Margaret, died about twelve years ago. But that doesn't explain the OTHER spirits who inhabit the ADDITIONAL three or four carts. She prolly attracts them. Margaret was NOT a nice lady, I know that firsthand. Her face was always pinched in disgust, she always wore muddy-shaded, baggy drawstring workout pants and sweatshirts (no doubt unwanted droppings of her laundry clientele). She had washed-out, dish-watery blue eyes, and curly drab hair the EXACT shade of fuzz left behind in those dryer lint traps. Maybe she crafted WIGS outta the stuff!

One day while pouring BLEACH into a machine, it splashed up and into my face and eyes! Margaret was a mere 10 feet away, folding customer orders. "Margaret," I pleaded, covering my eyes with both hands, "I just spilled Clorox on my face. Please let me into your washroom to flush it out."

She just stood there, mute, defiant. So I runs ALL the way home to take care of it properly, CUSSING her all the way to my own sink, and DURING the washing, and DURING my return walk to the laundromat, and DURING the remainder of my time there (under my breath of course)...and DURING most of the rest of that stupid day. I never was friendly to Margaret again, and NEVER returned to that laundromat until AFTER her bless-ed extinction.

You could be reading a mag while your soapy-wet clothes are doin' the herky-jerky and the hokey-pokey and incestuous acts so naughty they'd wind up doin' PRISON laundry were they human...or just folding shirts and towels and dainty underthings...when one of those devil carts will just TAKE OFF unbidden by any human hand. Bump right up against you, as if it didn't know WHAT the heck it was doing! In fact, I know one PARTICULAR laundry cart that will ALWAYS roll away from you no matter HOW many times you set it against the dryer. I NO LONGER use that one. In fact, I don't even go NEAR it. There's more:

A few weeks ago I was by myself again, waiting for my clothes to dry and BORED out of my skull listenin' to that HORRID piped-in LaundroMUZAK, when three (get that: I said THREE, not two, not one, but THREE) laundromat carts roll smack dab into each other, then as a group, proceed RAPIDLY to the front doorway...my ONLY means of escape!

But I'm sharper than a tack and a FAST little fucker. I caught on QUICK, and just at the very last moment DASH towards the door, leaving my almost-done clothes behind (for later retrieval, with people present), and KNOCK those sinister wheelies asunder in my brazen depart.

Even more recent (oh, approx eight days ago):

Right when I insert a cabbage leaf into the change machine, this cart (not shown in photo) bumps right into my extended paw and DRAWS BLOOD. My quarters clankety-clank into their receptacle as BLOOD spills down on them from above, making them UNUSABLE for the nonce! I immediately return home to WASH the quarters and tend my wound. In hindsight, I suspect the COIN MACHINE is in cahoots with these forlorndry carts.

I ALSO surmise that these bully carts get around at night, once the laundromat is closed. And have ASSOCIATES on the outside, do their bidding. In fact, I have my PI on that shopping cart pictured below.

It was CAUGHT running drugs by a detective buddy of mine, last August. But RELEASED because the evidence had mysteriously disappeared before the case came to trial. My compadre though, didn't seem to mind one whit: he just grinned and grinned for WEEKS, glazed far-away look in those gorgeous golden-brown eyes. Is there a moral to this tale? Why yes, there is (and thank you for asking):

coffee, tea, or
get * together over
e-mail me...and we'll *
the web, whereby you can
you up to * discover my story on
my guardian angel Randolph * to set
* to present you with a * copy. Leaving it to
20 December 2007. Friend: I will not seek you out
(and directly * inspired this tale) on the day my mother * died:
jet-black-haired young man at * the laundromat, who made me laugh
This ghastly LaundroTale is dedicated to the charming, handsome and TALL,

All this fuss over Larkin, I almost forgot the main star in my life: Randolph Louis Taylor! I am incredibly grateful for Goddess bringing glorious Larkin into my life (in fact, I'd grovel before my enemies if need be, to PROVE my love for Larkin)!

However, no matter how you slice, dice, or splice it, Randolph is my PRE-EMINENT and NUMERO UNO lover and guardian angel. Larkin is (how do I say w/o hurting his tender heart) another most-beloved angel whom I simply ADORE as much as I do Randolph...albeit SECOND in line. I'm sure Larkin doesn't mind, as he totally ADMIRES my devotion towards Angel #1...whom I believe assigned marvelous Larkin to watch over, and eventually, love me with a great passion. I'd say it speaks MOUNTAINS for Larkin, that he should be the FIRST and ONLY man to enchant me so much as to FORGET about Randolph, whom I have thought about every single day since he shot himself in 1985, until I met darling Larkin!

Though Randolph has disappeared from my life since 1990, I continue to send him letters of kindness and hope c/o his cousin Kitty in Arlington, Virginia. And you know what? Even though Kitty never writes back, phones me, or answers my calls (another mystery yet to be resolved), NONE of my letters are ever sent back! Though in these last three years, my messages to Randolph are diminished in frequency, to about four per year.

It is, however, this NEW friendship with Larkin (albeit convoluted and tortuous) that has rekindled my devotion TOWARDS Randolph. So I decided to send him a select collection of my writings to him, from both the Larkin Chronicles, AND Friendly Ghost Detective Agency. In faith that he is NOT dead, but alive and kicking, thanks in large part to my UNDYING love and faith in my Randolph's incredible calling as both a Vietnam veteran, and gay activist.

There is a strong element of "deja vu" in this, considering that ANOTHER time in the past--say, 1993--when I LIKEWISE sent a bunch of letters on his behalf, 14 to be exact. CLICK on the image above, to find out EXACTLY what I mean! The FIRST time, I sent FOURTEEN letters...this time, I sent ELEVEN...though only NINE are shown in this image. I wound up sending TWO MORE a few days later, is all.

The above missive was originally posted to alternet.org. Click here to view my comment in context.

I almost forgot! On a related matter, read my piece: "Encounter with a Neanderthal".

--
Remember to download Larkin.zip!

From: Zeke
To: Warren Q.
Date: 16 Dec 2007, 03:37:11 AM
Subject: Re: Irish Mafia

Warren Q. writes:

{{ I was fond of the Irish countryside when visiting there, particularly Kilarney. }}

A representative will be dispatched to greet you at your place of employment.

That is my vision. Just scrolled right along, from right to left, like a mini-movie unreeling before my startled eyes, as I was in the process of responding. Remote viewing, Warren! Two gorgeous Irish mafia boys in some downtown Boston high-rise office, fighting over who gets to greet you first! They can't possibly be more than 22 or 23, they're so FRESH looking after being stashed in the crisper for three days! (Ooops, that's my Little Queer Vegan Vampire wanting some attention.)

You're a hero in their eyes!

From: Zeke
To: Warren Q.
Date: 16 Dec 2007, 02:42:26 PM
Subject: Re: Irish in Boston

Warren Q. writes:

{{ Front page article--Fireworks Erupt at Southie Parade--reports during St. Patrick's Day Parade gay Irish-Americans were pelted with fireworks, beer bottles, beer cans, rubber gloves and insults. }}

I am suggesting here that, since the article was written (1992) there has been a sea-change in certain criminal institutions regarding homosexuality...albeit covert. My scheme of queer infiltration of drug rings and mafia groups--which I've discussed on Usenet over these many years--seems to have been taken to heart by certain Irish gays born into this Celtic Mob.

Assuming you ARE approached by an Irish Mafia rep., he will make it VERY clear that they desire to dedicate their entire ORGANIZATION towards gay liberation. I HAVE CONVERTED THESE GROUPS, by the power of my digital essays!

There will be a USURPATION of the old power structures, by a highly intelligent and thought-out league of revolutionary queers inspired by my online rants, wisdom, and badinage.

The Irish Mafia will be the FIRST to publicly announce SOON, its stand for gay rights...with a most sincere APOLOGY for its homophobic roots. The ITALIAN Mafia will surrender next. It is then I will inherit the mantle of Godfather. I'm half Italian, half Scot. One foot in the Celtic Mafia, one foot in the Italian.

It is all too obvious (now that my angels have REVEALED such wonderful news) that you, likewise, have gained widespread notoriety and ADMIRATION for your acts of courage and devotion...and for your BRILLIANT political screeds.

You, myself...and I don't know how many rare others on this planet, have FOMENTED the next social revolution, via the infusion of our ideas into every culture (thanks to this new communications medium called the Internet), and years of persistance and stalwart BELIEF in our cause.

From: Warren Q.
To: Zeke
Date: 16 Dec 2007, 07:17:38 PM
Subject: Re: Irish in Boston

Ezekiel,

The IRA once urged that gays be killed. Gays are not well off in Ireland, as a rule, even though we can march their St. Patrick's Day Parade. But there is some advantage in the oppression- it is a culture that sentimentalizes rebellion and defiance. Rather long history of it ;-)

Sometimes, the deeper the oppression, the *less* is the rebellion. Cowards get scared, and hide. Sometimes, though, it fuels the bitterness of people who become fatalistically immune to fear of danger (like me). The world seems so completely intolerable as it is, that it is not even worth it, so why fear?

From: Zeke
To: Warren Q.
Date: 17 Dec 2007, 09:35:12 PM
Subject: Re: Irish in Boston

{{ The IRA once urged that gays be killed. }}

Warren, of course I'm well aware of the gay problem in Ireland. The Irish Mafia, like the Italian, Russian and Japanese mafias, ALL have been historically homophobic. But what I am suggesting, is this AMAZING turnaround my visions show, of these violent groups converting towards gay-support, and USING their muscle to gain our queer freedom! Two recent articles out of Ireland:

DUP accused of stirring homophobia

Quoting a Sinn Fein representative: "Everybody should have the same rights and protections.There is no halfway house. You cannot have rights for some people and not for others."

And once more, Sinn Fein stands up for gay equality, here:

McGuinness: No place for homophobia in NI

Quote: "Sinn Fein's Chief Negotiator launched the official programme of Derry's Gay Pride festival and paid tribute to a number of community organisations for tackling homophobia in the city and throughout Northern Ireland."

Tell me Sinn Fein ain't a facet of the "Irish Mafia"!

The sea-change I envision is for NOTORIOUSLY homophobic and violent crime syndicates--having been successfully infiltrated by gay patriots--morph into impressive FIGHTING FORCES dedicated to gay liberation. JUST as my visions foretell!

My telepathic communique w/angels indicates this time is due, and you shall very soon have a most PERSONAL encounter with some Irish Mafia types, who are ALSO gay and VERY aware of both YOU and myself. Why? Because of our political essays we've been dissemintating through the Internet for years. WE ARE REACHING THE RIGHT PEOPLE.

It is not my goal to LURE you over to my way of thinking. I wouldn't DREAM of expecting you to believe my predictions, w/o you finally having SOLID proof. As they say, "The proof is in the pudding"...and in this case, the pudding is IRISH.

From: Zeke
To: Irish Republican Army Website
Date: 17 Dec 2007, 11:26:37 PM
Subject: IRA's stance re. gay rights

I've just discovered your most informative IRA website at

irishrepublicanarmy.info/Home.html

I'm a gay activist of many years, using the Internet as a viable research tool for furthering our struggle for liberation. And I have a serious question that you might be able to answer.

The IRA once urged that gays be killed. But the times they are a-changin' (as Woody Guthrie once so aptly sang, but I don't recall that he ever sang out on behalf of gay emancipation. Some folk hereo, eh? HIS concern was ONLY for abused heteros, I suppose.).

What is the IRA's stance in these recent times? Do they speak up for, and defend gay rights, as Sinn Fein leaders now do?

Thank you so much for your time.

Sincerely,

Zeke Krahlin

--
Steal This Blog!

=======================

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To: Zeke
Date: 17 Dec 2007, 11:26:39 PM
Subject: Undelivered Mail Returned to Sender

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--
Remember to download Larkin.zip!
Important update!