ROYAL RESIDENCE 14
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THE ROYAL RESIDENCE
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This is episode fourteen. Some of you know I collect decently
priced fountain pens. I like writing with them. I bought a Mont
Blanc 144 in maroon in which I use maroon/brown ink as a personal
mark. I got the Mont Blanc in 1992, long before fountain pens --
especially MBs -- became a status symbol among the more barracuda
of post-yuppie climbers.
One of the most unusual yet inexpensive ones I have is a Harley
Davidson commemorative in tool steel and dark plum enamel. I
called all over the Bay Area at the time I heard of it to locate
it. None of the snotty art stores or pen specialty shops carried
it. Some, in fact, thought I was either joking or slightly off
my nut.
On a hunch I called the Dudley Perkins Company in San Francisco,
reputed to be the oldest continuously operating Harley Davidson
show room in the US. They had it. I dragged Mr Cheez to the
beginning of "upper" Market Street and to the side street with
the dull yellow clapboard building looking much as it did in the
1910's. There is surely no hall anywhere in the world, except
perhaps for the San Leandro Home Depot warehouse, where the scent
of ready testosterone reigns supreme. My knees were knocking as
I entered the portal -- I had both of them then -- and I saw this
delicious writing instrument in the front display case.
The cap resembles a four-stroke piston. The pen proper, the nib,
is thick stainless steel and surprisingly smooth. It is just the
thing for a troubador of the highways to sign a traffic ticket.
(Hint: A fountain pen will not mark carbons if you are careful.
If the flatfoot gives you the original copy of the ticket, you
might make a case for never having seen the ticket as is NOT
witnessed by your signature! -- or load the pen with fugitive ink
just in case.)
There really was a Dudley Perkins. He took his final ride to the
skies last Saturday. His eternal road trip began at St Ignatius
Church, the collegiate church of the Jesuit University of San
Francisco. You can expect to see lots of college types hanging
out around the campus, even some real live Jesuits in their black
dresses, but 91 bikers?! The Panhead Pack made their way slowly
up Fulton Street. In honor of ole Dud they wore their best black
leather.
When dignitaries croak in San Francisco, they usually rate a
police department official escort. Perkins had that, but the HD
bikers following the funeral car had wrinkles in their noses.
The SFPD rides Kawasaki cop models. They're lighter and quicker
than the police-model Harleys. They also cost a lot less. By
saving money on hogs, the hogs at the political trough can throw
the money into more rewarding (for them) paths such as making the
Bay Bridge pretty with new lights on the cables.
I am not going to get into a habit of reviewing stuff or plugging
things, but I am so taken with a local blues singer that I have
to tell you about her. Mr Cheez knows her by virtue of being
doorman at one of the clubs in which she appears. He and I went
to a local supper club on ground level where I could see her
perform. We both had a wonderful time.
She is wonderfully warm and sings like an angel, yet her songs
will put a stir in your loins. She has a CD out which you should
try to obtain if you like smooth, sassy blues. Meet (Miss) Lavay
Smith and Her Red Hot Skillet Lickers. The title song is one
made famous by Ida Cox in the 30s, One Hour Mama. Ida and Lavay
have definite ideas about stamina...
Chris Siebert writes the arrangements. He's simply the cutest
barrelhouse piano man you would ever want to meat. Babies, he
can play me like a keyboard any ole time. So there's Lavay on
the cover, lying out on the bed in her very black, very lacy bra,
smiling back at you. The scene well interprets her lead song, Oo
Papa Do. Call your favorite record chain's 800 number, send a
friend to Tower or Virgin, or write to Fat Note Records for
information at 30 Glover Street, SF CA 94109 USA.
Mr Cheez insists I have an answering machine. I've decided I
really don't like them. I usually forget to collect the
messages. I do have the simplest possible outgoing message on
mine. It says, This is an answering machine; you know what to
do. I know other people have to play the opening chords
of Thus Spake Zarathustra or have some pounding house "music"
running to obscure their personal way of saying the obvious, but
I don't. Fuck it. Get it over with and get over it.
The machine slipped a cog the other day and went into some old
old messages which came in to my Oakland number over two years
ago when I was in Big City Hospital being carved up an inch at a
time. It was Dr Jones's office, at Associated Oaktown
Urologists. They wanted to speak to me about my bill. Aside
from the ambulance ride and the ER bill, this was probably the
first of the long procession of quacks tormenting me.
This one cut a slot in my opera-length lace curtains so he could
shove a hose in my peepee. It has never been made clear to me
why anyone needed to to that because I have always been able to
pee on cue and sometimes by accident. They may have thought I
was comatose -- there is a notation to that effect in the early
reconds -- but whatever I was, I can tell you the sudden touch of
his scalpel brought me around with a scream. He is one of Them I
am glad I completely, ah, stiffed.
Perhaps I now have the conclusion to another fight. Some
dingdong in the Navy civilian personnel office entered a
completely wrong end-of-employment date in the records used to
calculate my pension. In order to protect his ass, he stood by
his error while I, with little trouble, conclusively showed
through independent records that I ran out of sick and vacation
leave on the earlier date I claimed.
The Office of Personnel Management, the national human resources
overseer of all federal civil service programs, cut my pension by
twenty percent to recoup their claimed overpayment. I appealed
to the Merit Systems Protection Board. OPM and MSPB went round
and round like a good hairpull bitchfight in a hillbilly bar.
Neither of them would talk to me. Scribble-y, Holler-y, Stuffit-
y. I wrote; I called; I got ignored.
I finally synopsized the mess to the Congressperson in whose
district I lived by virtue of living in the second of the two
tardfarms. Because I used Mr Cheez's SF address to keep the
tardfarm out of my business, they sent my wail to the
Congressperson in San Francisco from whom I also heard not a
thing.
Then all of a sudden MSPB started trying to find me. Hahahahaha!
Somebody's tit finally got in a wringer. Bang! -- I had a refund
of all the garnishment and the garnishment stopped like a sloppy
fuck mired in epoxy. Never underestimate the power of an
internal review or a routine inspector general review. These are
the only visits bureaucrats fear.
Internal review people were probably mistreated as children and
now hate the world and want to spread misery and gloom wherever
possible. External review people generally come from out of town
to find as much fault with your agency as they can because if
they do a good enough hatchet job on your hive, it makes their
own look that much better. Now MSPB is calling Mr Cheez and
calling me and I am ignoring them. Time alone cured the problem
and rectified the injustice. I have nothing to say to any of the
parties. Fuck 'em. The government is like a sandbox where all
the naughty children are busy digging up cat turds to throw at
each other.
Miss Crunt came over to see me. Miss Crunt is awfully nervous
and jerky lately. I wonder if he is pregnant. Miss Crunt kept
looking about my meager room as though expecting to see someone
or something beside the two of us and the furniture. He noticed
the Bombay Company reproduction lap desk box on the foot of my
bed. I call it my Betty Box because someone told me Betty
Windsor gets diplomatic communiques delivered in such a box.
Miss Crunt said, as she opened the box and began rooting through
the contents, Oh you mean Sweaty Betty.
I tone down the nastiness of owning TV Guide by keeping it in
this box along with paper dinner knapkins for blowing my nose, a
pad and pens to write down notes for RR rants (five o'clock in
the morning is the most fertile time to plan rants) (there is
nothing like a good night's sleep and waking up fresh to have it
settle on you just how fucking great your life is), and my blood
glucose meter and supplies so I can check my morning oil once or
twice a week while the engine is still cold. I told the bitch to
get out of my stuff before I stuck him someplace sensitive with
my finger poker.
Then the hussy had nerve to start looking through my
refrigerator. Please, Mary, I just got the thing two weeks ago.
There hasn't been time for the mold to grow. I guess he was
looking for my rectal suppositories. (Why not the fridge? Why
can't medicine be fun?) Then he starts in on rifling my CD
collection. I had to warn the bitch not to mess up the rows
because I am trying to categorize them as they come in bunches
from storage. I do not appreciate having to do double work and I
might just see if one of the jewel boxes will fit in the Crunt
snatch if he riles me.
The good part was the info on Bondage-a-Go-Go which meets at a
well-known South of Market dance club. I'd heard tales about how
Miss Crunt likes to whail on a pair of cute buns with a leather
whip. As he described the debauchery, the light in his eyes was
magickal. I knew the terrible tales I had heard about Crunt were
true. The really disgusting part of this is that Miss Crunt lets
real women beat on his ass. I have been trying to get Crunt and
Cheez out on a date. I have heard Miss Crunt beats boy ass with
a dedication usually limited to sadistic nuns. Mr Cheez hasn't
been properly beaten in ages and I think he not only needs it but
misses it. Alas, I could not keep a straight face but Miss Crunt
can. You go, girl.
Doreen, formerly known as The Demon, still won't tell me about
his date with Max of Marin. I'll keep workin' it. Sooner or
later everybody wants to be written up in a gossip column. Miss
Ralph, formerly social worker at St Timmy's, has a new gig at
another tardfarm with less beds but more work. Go finger. Miss
Ralph finally took the plunge and went to the Gauntlet on Castro
and got his tits pierced. I wish I had been there to hear the
screams. I know I would have fired a shot wet enough to run down
my stump. The heifer has some kinda titties on. His make mine
look small and I can fill D cups. Wait til I pull his rings...
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