ROYAL RESIDENCE 13
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THE ROYAL RESIDENCE
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This is episode thirteen. Depending upon whom you consult,
thirteen is either unlucky or lucky. For the purpose of what I
am about to do, it doesn't matter which you take it to be. There
is going to be a result and it may be good for me and bad for you
or vice versa. Let's let it fly and see which, shall we?
THE MASTHEAD AND BULLSHIT PARAGRAPH - As insurance against
capricious NG admins and the havoc wreaked by assholes posting
binaries and knocking literate posts off A.T., you can join the
private list by submitting to Bradley, the Royal Male Man,
. Send all sycophantry to da kaween herself,
, who will teach you to keep a civil tongue
in her ass.
THE BIG ALT.TASTELESS SALVATION RANT - I have fifteen 1.44 disks
of text I saved from Alt.Tasteless in the two years or so I
lurked and finally began posting there. Since about February of
this year, there has been almost nothing worth capturing and
saving to giggle over later. Alas, when I want to introdouche
new friends and acquaintances to the world's finest literary
cesspool, I am forced to show them old stuff because so many
practised contributors have quit. They have quit because nobody
has the desire or determination to fight off the spammers who
don't understand we aren't interested in whores and websites
featuring them, and because newbie assholes never clean out the
groups in their post-to window.
I'd dearly love to see a committment made to cleaning up this
place. If a dozen dedicated people shared the work of harrassing
the spammers and calling down the newbies, wouldn't it be
possible to give them the firm idea we aren't interested in their
idiocy? I think any post which is an offer of any kind ought to
be met with firm warnings and then kilobytes of mailbox stuffing
until they get the idea to stay out of here. Careless
crossposters ought to be warned to include us out of their
pointless broadcasts or suffer the same fate as the advertisers
and whiners wanting us to try their website.
No matter how tidy we make the place, it will still be
Alt.Contentless, as one visionary put it, until we get back to
eating strange things which give us jarring elimination
experiences, drinking too much of too many concoctions so to have
truly colorful yawns, and picking at our orifices and sores to
see what sorts of goo will ooze forth. We're having an absolute
famine when it comes to growing vaginal plums and dingle berries.
We haven't had any unusual grogan or choad descriptions in weeks.
Does no one have the pustules of adult-recurrent acne? What?! --
no boils in these parts (or tender parts)?
I ate myself into being a fat pig, got diabetes, lost a leg to
bacteria which usually waste the tissues of or kill heroin
addicts, spent two years in rest homes and now have a hobby of
getting under foot in the best parts of a major city -- bitching
all the way and having the colossal nerve to write it all down
for your amusement. What more can I do for you? It is your turn
to do something for me. I will get my tiara out of hock and once
again be your queen if you will clean the swine and their garbage
out of the palace.
In summary, it is my feeling that when a post is made largely to
announce the availability of anything or is to be found in more
than three groups, it is not welcome in Alt.Tasteless and should
be cause for alarm -- and swift action. Here endeth the rant.
* * * * *
A long-time fan forwarded this transcript to me--
To: pauless@sirius.com
Subject: You must be famous or something...
From:
Date: Fri, 2 May 1997 19:06:08 -0400 (EDT)
I just found this in the Fat City News "Fat Chat" area, where
transcripts of IRC chat sessions are archived. You've been
nominated as one of the "25 Most Important People on the Net."
. . . . .
And for the record, FCN, which bills itself as the world's lone
repository of outlaw journalism, got its name from Hunter S.
Thompson (author of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," among other
works, for the uninitiated). Thompson wanted to rename Aspen "Fat
City" as part of his platform when he ran for sheriff of Pitkin
County, Colorado back in 1972 or '73, in an attempt to discourage
real estate developers and other greedheads from exploiting the
town.
Congrats on the nomination (for what it's worth).
http://www.fatcitynews.com
poon: Rev want us to come up with 25 "most impotant [sic]
Darkness: What the fuck Brock - You gotta leave your
apartment while you take a smoke!
poon: people on the 'net"
poon: to put on FCN
Darkness: That's a great idea
CTRobinson: Well, I haven't had any "strange" in so long...I
forgot what the Brown Beaver looks like
Darkness: And what kind of qualifications would there be for
who would be the "most important"
poon: so farwe have a handful.
BrockDammit impotent?
BrockDammit CT, I'm THAT close to some strange!
poon: I like it 'cause "favorite sites" is so cliche.
BrockDammit it's scary
BrockDammit _I'M_ scary
poon: This is people, so it's a bit more original i think.
poon: Rev gets the credit
CTRobinson: I once fucked a chick with inverted nipples in
sub-freezing water!!
Darkness: I ate one of my old high school classmates pussy for
about an hour a month ago, by total chance
BrockDammit I have NO morals, brothers! PRAY for my soul!
Darkness: Just happened
poon: Spark - I tried to narrow the scope, but Rev refused.
CTRobinson: Damn Brock...doesn't your better half live a stones
throw away?! Be careful man!
Darkness: But what was the scope
poon: 25 Most Important people on the internet. period.
CTRobinson: A good buddy of mine likes to go hawgin' on
AOL, and he has tales'o plenty about harpooning and such
Darkness: But there has to be some way to determine why.
poon: we could also have a list of nominees, if we compe [sic] up
with more than 25.
poon: My example was Paul Ess of alt.tasteless
CTRobinson: hello?!?!
CTRobinson: Mutha fuckuh!!
Darkness: Why Paul Ess
poon: He's a bloated, gay, diabetic, amputee in a wheelchair in
San Fran.
BrockDammit back
Darkness: GREAT! WE'VE GOT ONE ALREADY
poon: He has endlessly documented his plight on the newsgroup
and on his webpage with amusing (and tatseless) [sic] stores
BrockDammit CT: Yeah, and this is DOWNSTAIRS!!!
poon: stories.
*** Signoff: CTRobinson (Leaving)
poon: But other than him, I some up dry.
BrockDammit Yikes!
poon: He really is great - some realll funny shit
/end quotation/
It should be understood that I have never had my own web page. I
have been fortunate to have the use of web space belonging to
others who supported my ranting and bitching. Partly for doing
so they have been harrassed and have had to run for their
reputation's sake. For fear of adding to their difficulties I
will not name them here. I fear I have not often enough said how
grateful I am to them for their support. In the near future I
hope to have a website with all my writings on it along with
pertinent tasteless and informative views.
* * * * *
The latest on Doreen is that he and I had lunch today after a
stroll through the tastier part of Market Street. We ended up in
Wendy's at about Ninth Street. Doreen ate salad for breakfast.
Eek. I asked about his dinner date last Thursday with Max from
Marin -- would he give it an A, B, C, D, or E? He flamed me, I
wouldn't tell _you_ because it'll end up in the Royal Residence!
Oops. The cat is out of the bag. Naughty me. As if! Only four
people I know of who read this stuff know exactly who Doreen is
in real life. We love him even if he is dizzy. And paranoid. I
bet he still thinks (as I used to think was the case with me)
that everybody at work thinks he's straight. Wake up, queen. Be
who you are. They haven't roasted any of us faggots in so long
they must have lost the recipe. You moved out of Kansas, honey.
I know he couldn't wait to get home to disinfect his rubber-soled
shoes. I must say, the brick sidewalk from Fifth to Eighth has a
marvelous coating of crud on it made up of pigeon down, dried
loogies, cigarette ash and miscellaneous vegetable matter bound
together with fast food grease. Yum. When you have traffic and
low misdemeanor fines to work off in this town, and you aren't
good for anything else, they give you a day-glo red plastic vest,
a plastic bag and a broom and you get to smooth out the crud
along with removing the big pieces.
Mr Cheez wants you all to know about the thirty or so women who
caused a scene at the Bohemian Place Mortuary the other day.
Quentin, the general manager and chief tape measure custodian,
told Mr Cheez this funeral procession would start at eleven
sharp. Sure enough, Quentin went at 10:55 exactly to the women
who were clawing at the coffin and wailing unconsolably. He
barked at them, Stop shrieking and get in the cars! The guest of
honor that day was one Clifford Thick-Hung Chang. No wonder they
were wailing.
When I recently passed the foot of Taylor Street, I noticed you
can see flophouse squalor right on up the landscape to the 900-
foot elevation of Nob Hill with its richies and wannabes. You
have everything from the watches out of pawn at Market Street to
the jewelry boutiques in the fancy hotel lobbies next to
California Street. Think old Bulovas in new boxes right on up to
diamonds and rubies resting over Joan Collins's cleavage.
You can eat at Original Joe's in the first squalid block or at
the Big Four in the tenth and well-heeled block. North/south
Taylor Street meets Market Street along with east/west Turk
Street. Taylor & Turk 94102, is a concept caught somewhere
between old Dragnet episodes and Beverly Hills 90210.
Just off the 200 block is Boedecker Park, named for a Franciscan
priest who with his St Anthony Foundation has fed thousands of
poor Tenderloin residents for several decades. The contrast is
the manicured Huntington Park on Nob Hill where Chinese children
play, their squeals of delight making a complex counterpoint with
the tones of the Grace Cathedral carillon bells.
Near the 600 block is Cosmo Place, a mere alley and former site
of Trader Vic's restaurant. It was all fake Pacific islands-
style food and drinks with little umbrellas on everything, but it
was also the socialite's ritualized lunch place. Be there or be
nobody. Be ushered to the Captain's Cabin area or be nobody in
particular.
In the 600 block is the West Coast lion of men's hideouts, the
Bohemian Club. This is the city club. The country club portion
is at the Russian River north of San Francisco. Yes, this is the
club where you could have caught President-to-be Bush and Henry
Kissinger, among other males rich and powerful even on a national
scale, cavorting in loud shirts and short pants at the Summer
Encampment. But in the 1000 block is the even more lordly
Pacific Union Club, a city-only club which is such a tight and
small clique no one is admitted to membership until one of the
old members has died. Coins returned to members have been washed
and polished. Women are never admitted. The telephone number is
unlisted.
Faith lives on both ends. At the 300 block is the notorious
Glide Memorial which used to be an ordinary Methodist church
until Cecil Williams took over. Now it is famous for its jazz
services and its free meals program. Most days the better
streetwalkers stroll the area. At the 1000 block is Grace
Cathedral, seat of the Episcopal bishop of California. In one
precinct you may hear the tortured guitar of a Hendrix or the
wail of a Coltrane sax. In the other end you will have the
thunder and snarl of a world-class pipe organ and the piping
voices of a boy choir. The one tingles my spine; the other
tingles Mr Cheez's balls. What a wonderful town with such
contrasts of low and high, aesthetic and visceral. To enjoy what
I have I would gladly take a dull hatchet and chop off a leg.
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