ROYAL RESIDENCE 6
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THE ROYAL RESIDENCE
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This is episode six. This morning Mr Cheez got here early enough
to finish me up in time to put in an appearance at the coffee
service they have in the dining hall Tuesdays and Thursdays.
After pointing at the donut we wanted and picking our seats, we
found we were sitting next to the stand-in for Judy Garland's
dancing scenes. "Judy" is in her seventies but is still pretty
well put together. She has Sandra Dee Bangs instead of a Church-
of-God Flip. Dripping wet I'd expect her to weigh what she says
is 117 pounds on her five feet one inch frame.
According to Judy, all the people living here are not necessarily
nice. Two of the men tried to poison her long-haired terrier.
They gave the dog a bone which had been dipped in rat poison.
But Judy saved the day because she washed the bone before letting
the dog have it. This mitigated the poisonous aspect; it only
made the dog sick instead of killing it. She's suing the
residence's management over the incident. It's the management's
fault other tenants hate her dog. Go finger.
Judy wants to teach tap and other forms of dancing to old people
at a nearby senior center. Mr Cheez volunteered the information
that he has no rhythm. I ashed Judy if she could teach him how
to dance. We did not get a firm reply. After over twenty years
as a line dancer in Hollywood, Judy worked retail in three
venerable San Francisco dry goods emporia, all of which are now
defunct. It wasn't so many years ago that ladies wore hat and
gloves in this city. Nowadays, just anyone runs into a good
store in any sort of schmata to buy something made by the evil
Nike empire.
Activities Director Susan spotted us at coffee and twisted my arm
again to come play the piano. I said I would do it soonest if
Miss Kooky gets to my storage and brings me my goddam sheet
music. Susan wants me to accompany an old lady who will sing
Irish ditties for St Paddy's Day. Then Mr Cheez spoke up and
said he likes to sing Irish stuff, too. I'm forever discovering
something new about this man. It's all a deal provided i get to
play Londonderry Air as a solo. It is to be hoped I will have my
synths there so I can make everybody cry. No, you bitches, it'll
be that _good_. Mr Cheez asked Susan if "Judy" is for real.
Susan diplomatically told him he'd have to determine that for
himself. Ha.
Sure enough, Mr Cheez went to Byron Hoyt Company and got a book
of Irish ditties. He also found Evergreen, the song Streisand
oversung. I had been told that the chordal progressions in it
are key to a particular style of crunchy/lush improvisation on
pipe organ celeste stops. Turning on all the celestes and
pretty-pretties and coupling them all to one keyboard is a
combination which has a satiric name, Virgil Fox Trash. Virgil
Fox used to do this at Riverside Church in Manhattan to thrill
the old ladies. It worked. I worked it at St Disgustin's. I
will work it again St Paddy's Day on my synths.
As Mr Cheez took me out for croissant and coffee this morning, we
met Alexander, the grand old queen who lives next door. I
happened to ask Alexander if he ever went to the coffee social on
Tuesday and Thursdays. Oh no, dear, he said, I never go there,
nor do I sit in the lobby with these old crows. I have lived in
this zoo for eight and a half years. The gossip -- the extremely
evil gossip -- around this place is just terrible. I studied the
occult quite thoroughly and I want to tell you that there are
terrible vibrations going around in this place.
There is some old black man here who, when he encounters Mr Cheez
and me in the elevator, acts like Mr Cheez doesn't exist and as
though I were the queen. Well ... why not! But this makes Mr
Cheez cranky. To his credit, Mr Cheez gets along quite well with
the rather humorless Chinese man who is the regular doorman.
There is a jolly sort of retired woman on the door weekend days.
I don't recall exactly how it got started, but the other day Mr
Cheez was talking rather saucily with her and he said the word
dildo. She didn't say Duh.
The Demon wanted to go shopping for a backpack, so we took off
down the hill toward Urban Outfitters, I think it calls itself.
Then he decided to wait on the backpack. Maybe it had something
to do with me asking him what he was going to keep in it. I
don't think he thought much about this aspect of having it. Duh.
So we took off for Headlines, a trendy boutique-y sort of place
billing itself as "Retail Entertainment". It is usually full of
rock-stars-in-waiting for staff, much as is Tower Records. Even
the piercing ratio is as high as I remember it in Tower. The Gen
Xers who work in Headlines seem to have buckets less attitude
than the ones who work Tower.
I felt positively welcome when this well-ventilated boy greeted
us in the basement clothing department. He had holes all over
his body and was wearing the fashionable drab khaki short pants
so many of the youngsters affect. What a delight these are to us
gimpy old queens who go through life at bun level to the
universe. The Demon tried on a couple of shirts and a pair of
leather shorts. He wouldn't come out and model the shorts
because he said they gave him Fallout. Well, I mean, really, if
you can't give that big thang a little air, what is it good for?
We went back to the main floor and poked through the toys. I was
reading through "200 Ways to Please a Man" and nodding in
agreeable boredom when a goateed twenty-something said Excuse me,
Are you Paul? I told him I was and he introduced himself as
Brandon. Brandon is a legend on the internet. I know more
queens and "bi"s who would like a piece of him... He had Sonja
along with him. They knew I had to be the Queen of Tastelessness
because how many one-legged gimps in wheelchairs could there be
in Headlines a block from the Royal Residence? Sonja is busy
working for a well-known HMO as a surgeon. Her talents are being
trivialized and largely wasted. They only let her cut the toes
off of naughty diabetics.
There being nothing more to see in Headlines, The Demon and I
took off for Virgin Megastore where he became so enraptured with
all the cuties, staff and customer alike, I think he forgot what
album he went in there to look for. I looked disdainfully
through their largely overpriced software department. They had
things for sale there in fancy boxes you can download off the
internet for free if you know what you're doing. The video
section is quite complete. The international section bears a
careful perusal because I think the chance of finding really
tasteless flicks will be quite high.
Demon went to cruise the magazine section and pointed out a well
put-together fellow. I asked Demon why he hadn't got busy. Oh,
Demon said, He's a hettie. I asked how do you know that. Demon
said it was because of what the guy was reading. Hell, this is
the kind of gathering place where even the nominally het might be
open to suggestiveness. I have not seen any drooling pisswads
from the sticks shopping here though the high tourist season is
yet to come. Instead I busied myself in a small but excellent
children's section complete with The Fart Book.
Demon wanted coffee and so we went into the cafe part to see what
varieties they have. They have one, their own house blend which
is slightly French. To appreciate it requires that it be swilled
between bites of raspberry chocolate decadence cake. This is one
place where you can always get quiche and perfectly wonderful
chicken vegetable soup. I noticed that the second of the half
dozen listening stations in the cafe featured the CD sampler from
Mr Cheez's nightclub. Some days I just love being a quiche-
chompin' cake-eatin' friend-a Dorothy's!
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