THE ROYAL RESIDENCE 2
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THE ROYAL RESIDENCE
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This is episode two. After we completed my ablutions this
morning, Mr Cheez and I went to the sidewalk cafe for coffee. We
met another resident of the RR. Annie is a statuesque lady who
resembles Beatrice Arthur. Annie welcomed me to the building and
said it will get better. I questioned what she meant about
better. Well, she meant they were trying to get rid of the
undesirables.
It seems that at first of the month when many pension checks come
through, a considerable number of residents go out and get
likkered. When they come back they tend to be noisy or to raise
a ruckus. Truth to tell, Mr Cheez and I saw an interesting
character on our way down from my floor this morning. He
resembled Moses a la Charlton Heston with his prematurely grey
beard. Moses was collecting the doorknob are-you-in-there-dead
cards.
Annie continued by telling us there were those who wear the same
clothes day in and day out until they only have to step in and
out of them to dress. She said riding the elevator and not
holding your nose can sometimes be a funky experience. Annie
took her coffee back to the lobby where she sits to watch the
passing parade. Mr Cheez and I remained to finish ours at the
little cafe table where we could letch the German tourists with
their golden-fuzzed stout little legs descending from classic
khaki shorts.
Later Miss Kooky came by to push my throne up hill to Caffe
Maison on the line between the Upper Tenderloin and Lower Snob
Hill. We had a quite decent hamburger with excellent fries for
our supper. I was surprised that places such as Booger Queen
cost almost as much and have neither the food quality nor
ambience. The place is every bit as retro as the rock cafe chain
but without the price goudging. It even has the requisite noise
for those who cannot abide silence. In place of thumping tunes
this one has an artificial rain effect which we cannot see as
relevant to the vinyl 50s decor. The staff were friendly and
didn't stare at me, the tard.
On our way back by a more circuitous route, we observed that the
whole block on which the Royal Residence sits is going Japanese.
Nearly all the restaurants and businesses are so oriented.
The one anomaly is a smoke shop nearby which hawks cigars, zippo
[sic], and phone card [sic]. But since there is a cigar bar
across the street, the proprietor likely does good ancillary
business. Tourists would probably go for the phone cards, but
who uses zippo (!) any longer? Maybe this is the generic term
for lighter in other places.
As I sit here looking out and down toward the smoke shop, I see
the disembodied heads of passers-by. Their trunks and legs are
hidden from me by the rooves below. Unless I choose to go out
and take the elevator to the lobby and go onto the street, the
street doesn't intrude upon me except by ocassional loud noise
and sometimes the smoke from a nearby restaurant's grill. In
this confusing interim of setting up systems for living, I have
Mr Cheez to assist me personally, and Miss Kooky and The Demon to
bring mealtime tribute. I see how it is possible to sit alone in
your room and be lonely in the midst of busy-ness.
I look forward to the fabrication of hardware suited to my
mobility (or lack of it), home health care for personal
assistance, and the power wheels which will take me from my
aloneness in a room out to the cabaret of life in this place.
I've made so many phone calls to voicemails in so many agencies I
could just scream. I am requesting applications and forms and
filling them out and sending them back. These, when heeded, will
obtain for me the goods and services I need to get around and
participate as a subspecies of consumer. But for now everything
is up in the air.
Auntie Lenore and her lover Bobbi Hatch blew into town this
weekend to visit the so-called Cow Palace. The CP is a property
of the City and County of San Francisco, originally built as an
ag showgrounds. Now it is the site for all sorts of desperate
volume selling operations -- boats, cars, inventory liquidations,
and in this case a gun show. How fitting the Cow Palace is over
the line in Daly City.
Even the combined city/county jails are in the next county. So
is Taste guarded in the City That Knows How. They offered to
pick me up a BB gun to pick off seagulls with. I chose instead
to have Sunday brunch. But today we went across to Coffee Ron's,
a landmark coffee shop and cocktail lounge which is an exposition
in Taste Misunderstood.
The decor is somewhere between English pub and San Francisco
whorehouse. I expected to see the ghost of Sally Stanford grope
Coffee Ron and he to remind her the pool table is for the use of
customers only. CR appears to be afraid the riffraff will make
use of his establishment. The cheapest thing on the menu is a
cheese sandwich at six dollars. These are uptown prices on a
Tenderloin budget. This alone should keep them out, let alone
his constipated disposition.
I had begun to think there was not going to be true hilarious
tastelessness in my new hood, but I have been most gratified.
This evening on our way back to the RR from the Virgin Cafe in
the media store two blocks away, we were set upon by a crazed
member of street society who kept genuflecting to the Holy Stump
of Redemption and attempting to kiss it. He lept kneeling on the
pavement, interefering with my use of the curb cuts to make the
crosswalk. This fellow's ministrations and worship even
attracted the attention of a city cop. Miss Kooky gave him the
high sign and the street crazy then understood prayer meeting was
over. I am amazed at the number of spare change artists who
think I am rich and can give them money. Wait til I get my cup
and _join_ them!
I am still waiting on the delivery of my real throne, the heavy-
duty commode chair. As you may recall, Demon brought me a most
thoughtful housewarming gift, a Rubbermaid bedpan. This morning
I employed it. This is the first shit I've had since I left St
Timmy's. Obiviously, I haven't been eating much roughage -- much
of anything, actually. Things have been rumbling about in there
as though they might want out. But there has been no great
pressure or urgency. Still, enough is enough, and victuals can
wear out their welcome. When Mr Cheez called this morning, I
told him it's time, bring the buttbomb.
But before the buttbomb we had to play with the bedpan. Turn it
upside down and put it on your head and it makes you look like a
miner 49er. Mr Cheez came excellently prepared, with a great
rubber sheet and extra towels. When the bed was protected, I
graced him with the royal smile and he uncorked the buttbomb. He
made a solemn ceremony of reading the instructions on the box and
performing each task with great panache. I really didn't think
this little dab of stuff would do the trick, at least not before
tomorrow afternoon. But pretty soon I grunted and heaved and
gave most generously. Mr Cheez wouldn't show me my product but
said I nearly filled the three-quart capacity "hat". He even
admitted that my gift didn't smell too bad and that the whole
experience wasn't nearly as horrible as he thought it would be.
I got through the day feeling most pleasantly light when, in the
evening, I began to feel rumbles again. Mr Cheez took a little
trip out of town, Miss Kooky was off at work, and I didn't want
to scare Demon to death so I went to bed without calling for the
49er hat and assistance with it. This was a big mistake. I
thought, I'll sneak a mouse fart and see what happens. I got
instead a torrent of soup. Then I got great bubbling farts all
in a row.
There was nobody I could call that I would wish this mess on, so
I slept in it! The diaper under me soaked up most of the crud
leaving my buttcakes frosted with a hard shell coating, sort of
like a giant pair of M&Ms. I called Miss Kooky at work in the
night and said please to come over as soon as you get off work
and don't have breakfast first. The mess really wasn't as bad a
some I'd made at ERR and Timmy's. Miss Kooky took the bed sheet
home to wash. Miss Kooky will help me wear the 49er hat on my
nether face this evening. I have learned my lesson: Never trust
a rumbling starfish.
I had my official welfare services interview this afternoon. A
senior worker and an RN came to look me and the place over. I
qualify for in-home health service which I can get through an
agency or I can use a friend or relative. Why go back to having
strangers looking at my pussy when I can frighten Mr Cheez every
day of the week?
My share of cost for this service is about US$123 per month. The
going rate for this service through an agency with their cut
figured in is US$16 per hour. With my certifying the need of an
hour and a half per day of service, on average, Mr Cheez should
be quite nicely compensated for yanking my pants on over my butt
and vacuuming the carpet. I'll give him $123 credit each month
on an outstanding loan and he'll still get some money from
official sources. All hail nepotism.
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