ROYAL RESIDENCE 15
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THE ROYAL RESIDENCE
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[ You can write to me at and not at the
address at head of this post or letter. If you are receiving
this article as email, please report technical problems to
Bradley Chapman, Royal Male Man at . ]
This is episode fifteen. Tomorrow I make my monthly visit to St
Timmy's tardfarm to see Queen Bee. I will also see my former
roommate George and Joe who is now his roommate. They are saving
each other from having to share space with one or another
senililty case or shell-shocked crank. I will go on BART, the
intercity train system because using tardvan to other cities
costs too much. My only worry is the local bus stops near St
Timmy's. I hope I don't get stuck in mud or grass and spin my
wheels, literally.
Here it is the week before Mother's Day in the US. I wonder if
Queen Bee will have a visit from her son and his social climbing
wife. I found out too late how much I really did love my mother
and father even though I still take exception to some of their
opinions and ways of raising me. It is true that as we get
older, our parents appear to be decidedly more intelligent than
we first thought.
Queen Bee's kids are not in the habit of seeing her on great
holidays, yet they live only ten miles away. He travels all of
half the state while his wife stays in town, nose firmly planted
betwixt the social asscheeks of the arrivistes in a neighboring
town. That place is well known to be chock full of the decadence
and high quality consumption only really fresh money can buy or
would care for. I know she has talked him out of spending time
with his mother several times. I wonder if he will wake up now
or live with regret later.
I first planned to go today and go without Mr Cheez. But George
likes Mr Cheez so much and was so disappointed when he didn't
accompany me last month that I can't go alone twice. George's
wife says he was a lousy husband and so it is okay for her to
take most of his comfortable pension and throw a Lincoln pin-up
[ US$5 bill ] at him once in a while. George is lost. He has no
real friends except roommate Joe and Spastic Lady Who Isn't Too
Bad That Way. He and Joe go out and get smashed on tequila
whenever they can sneak away. George gets an ocassional visit
from one of his kids, but that's about all the excitement he has
unless some clinical wanderer pulls a fire alarm.
On my last visit I brought George and Joe an application packet
for the Royal Residence. Whether either of them ultimately comes
to live here or in a similar property, I had felt their thinking
about being somehwere else might get them to assess their state
and perhaps plan for something better. Joe was at one time
living independently but somehow he let circumstance get the best
of him. He couldn't maintain his independence and so ended up in
a string of tardfarms.
I think Joe can get out of his captivity if he tries. I think
George can live in a board and care home, a type of place not
quite so free. Neither of them absolutely requires nursing care.
But there is so much high-level custodial care available and
little opportunity for acquiring a more independent form of
living. It must be that tardfarms are more profitable to run
than board and care homes. Yet every time I go visit St Timmy's
and talk to the administrator, she whines about the money they're
not making.
When I discussed Joe with Mr Cheez this morning, I observed that
Joe could probably get along at least as well as I if he had an
in-home health service worker, which Mr Cheez acts as for me. Mr
Cheez got a randy glint in his eye and said he'd be glad to take
care of Joe. I thought to myself, You whore! -- You have a
concubine at home; you have a royal butt to wash; and you want to
mess with Joe. I don't think Joe swings both ways. Mr Cheez
would like to find out. Whore!
I think Mr Cheez is curious about the sexual response of someone
who's had a spinal injury. The loss of sensation from feet to
waist or tit level appears to be common. From what I've read and
what I have discussed with a couple people who are so injured,
the fact that you can't feel much, if anything, in your goodie
patch doesn't mean you can't get off. It takes more work and a
respectable amount of ingenuity. Spastic Lady reassured me long
ago that she and George can't mess around because she has a
catheter. Balls. I think they simply haven't figured out how to
work around it. (I am convinced she provides killer head
instead.)
A young woman of my acquaintance gets hers quite well so long as
her male partner pounds the meat to her with vigor. Another
whose autobiography I have read claims there are two nerve
centers which control erection. If one is damaged, you "find"
the other set and exploit it. He would have us believe he fucked
his women til they bled. I wonder if Mr Cheez truly realizes
that paras often require enemas or digital extraction of rectal
contents. I want to see the look on his face when he is
confronted with this situation .
We celebrated Cinco de Mayo with a Mexican-style feed yesterday
afternoon. Poor Susan the Activities Director(!) certainly has
her work cut out for her. Having a social director type is the
one thing that makes the Royal Residence semi-tardly. I do not
understand why people who live in a residence hotel or an
apartment house need to be thrust together as though they might
pine away from loneliness. For many of these people, aloneness
is their way of life. About a third of the people who attended
the dinner gathered up the plate and sides and took the meal back
to their room.
With Alexander whining about how EEEEEvil the place is, and Judy
Garland complaining about old men who want to poison her dog --
not to mention her latest rant on how awful that fat pig on the
desk is -- it's best some of these people stay in their own
cages. The alleged fat pig is Eunice who works evenings and some
grave shifts. She likes Mr Cheez and me and Kooky and she has
our number. Glub knows what she thinks goes on up here, but
since we don't groan too much, she doesn't care.
Speaking of groaning, lately I do quite a bit of that when Mr
Cheez is washing, drying or putting lotion on my back or in the
crevice between my butt cheek and my stump. And I really don't
mind if he washes my balls quite thoroughly. It is at these
times he frowns that Snuffy Smith scowl of his and hisses, Shut
the fuck up; the door's open! I may just hire somebody for old
time's sake to suck my tits for a half an hour. But everybody
can just leave my dicklet and datehole alone. The feeling's not
the same anymore.
* * * * *
I had panettone, an Italian fruit bread, and milk for supper.
This was a mistake. I had Pink Upchuck for dessert. Why I got
it back pink I don't know unless it made my stomach bleed. I
haven't been able to look at food or much at people for two days.
All systems, including my thought processes are shut down. All I
crave is Diet Coke in careful doses. I didn't pee; I sweated. I
had the chills of death such that had anyone pulled the quilt off
me, I think I would have screamed in pain.
I mostly slept for two days, unable to hold a coherent
conversation. Of course this had to happen the week of my
barfday when my local fans were planning to shower me with
tribute and feed me rare delights I'm probably not supposed to
eat. I also promised to see Queen Bee at St Timmy's and I
planned it to be before Mother's Day. I really hate having
disappointed her. I'm afraid she will be alone that day and it's
so unfair. I wish her son and daughter-in-law could see
themselves.
Should I call 911? How would they get my nauseous nauseating
coprulence into this furry-walled tin can of an elevator? Would
I survive them pulling the covers off me and my having the 78-
degree air hit me like a spray of chilled nitrogen? With my two
days of fitful sleeps, I have had time to repeatedly focus
foggily on the abusurdity of my existence. I try to take an
external perspective on my challenges (as they say in the do-
gooder biz) in order to avoid the predictable whiney barfoid
touchy-feely enotional diarrhea thang. I fear I fail.
It was Tuesday I picked up the milk at the local chain drugstore,
a place which tries to be all things to this neigh. It was one
percent homo milk. How nice' they market to Us. Or do they go
drain the pecs on Victor Mature wannabes at the Upper Market
Stretch'n'Sweat? This was the quart mommy's little hellspawn
pulled off the bottom shelf in a moment of inqusitiveness, became
bored with, and left in the Hello Dawgie toy section. It got
warm, was found, and was returned to the doorless cooled display
to become chilled once again -- but not soon enough to prevent
some beasties growing in it without affecting the taste. I
really don't know any of this for fact except that I bought and
later drank the milk. But it makes a good story and is almost as
convincing as, say, religious parables.
Sometimes it makes we wonder what I did to deserve all the cosmic
static in my life. I think if I had poison I would take it. I
wonder what I could get at the drug store off the shelf which
would be sure, possibly creative, and wouldn't make me scream and
give myself away ... milk, maybe? This week has been shit for
those I love, too.
Mr Cheez got waylaid escorting a funeral by a piece of matte
knife in the road. They had to use two plugs to close the gash.
He will have to buy a new tire soon, something he cannot afford
at this time. We're all just trying to make ends meet. One
month he helps me and the next I help him. If it's not love and
marriage, it certainly is loyalty which, in my royal opinion,
takes four balls. Did you ever meet someone, get to know them,
and then feel cheated because you didn't chance to know them
years before? Hi, Cheezy.
Miss Kooky adds one more ball to the pile. Even Doreen is trying
to get one of his to descend, finally. Soon we'll have enough
for an emotional clusterfuck. Speaking of Doreen, we have got to
get that boy laid. A two C-cell bullet vibrator and a couple of
searching fingers do not constitue passionate lovemaking. Here
he has, not Mr Right -- because there is no such thing -- but Mr
Possibility with the kewl ($$$) job, the kewl interests (computer
graphics), and the really hairy chest (duh, okay). Doreen,
honey, you need to take this man stir him up in a pot with
vision, loyalty, consideration, cooperation, trust, and some
datehole, dammit -- cuz it won't gel into the aspic of shared
life (slightly tart and with crunchy naughty bits) -- without the
magic ingredient. Go forth and dilate, bitch.
I've fallen behind revising ERR and Timmy's. I can't decide
whether they should be one book or condensed slightly into two.
Will the RR series make a sequel? There is so much to see and do
here, nevermind Fishy Wharf and Gap stores. I want to get my
bent on San Francisco's underbelly. I want to see where the hair
grows. I may as well do so; I will never have entre to polite
society in this town no matter waht a ruckus I might raise in the
end. I am from among the maimed and unpretty. They want no
gimpled darlings.
We have a real fancypants for Mayor this time around. He's been
in state politics for as long as he could wheel and deal, and he
did it excellently until he was forcefully unseated by term
limits. Now as Mayor of his home town, he is out to clean up the
bus service. I can't really recall anything else he promised or
that he has done, actually, except travelling and wearing $3000
suits to show what a tastefull place we are.
But some of us gimps plan to give him an audience next Monday at
City Hall in the matter of curb cuts. I met a little dude at
Headlines last week who is mad as hops about cracking his axle
and bending a wheel twice on these pieces of shit. Other people
he knows have gotten tipped sideways and one even got flipped
over backward. In this town it's a new game now. It's gonna be
Da Kaween and Da Mayor and De Kuts. Carlos has been charting and
grading curb cuts for several weeks. I can't wait to see his
map!
I hate my hair. I fear I am not going to look pretty for Da
Mayor (and that's his chosen nickname). Mr Cheez talked me into
a session at the local barber college. You get what you pay for
(unless you get a #4 buzz at the Castro shoppe and pay US$16).
Mr Cheez finally came clean (sort of non-sticky) about the pony
tail I used to have before I was elevated in the Unpleasantness
from mere Big Mamahood to true Kaweenliness by my near martydom
at the tentacles of a vicious staphyllococcus. Well, thank you,
honey for letting me replace my so-called grease-slick for a
haystack. My hair grows every which way but to the sides of a
reasonable part. I look like I had an electrical experience.
Quick! -- where can I buy a cheap wig? -- oh, nevermind; I can
tell _you_!
Poor Cheez. This week all he makes escorting funerals he's had
to put back into his rolling stock. There was a handlebar
assembly here, a magneto/alternator thing there, a tire someplace
else, and now a warning to change his brake pads before he creams
US$500 in brake plates. Isn't there enough shit in the world for
everybody to have a hearty helping? Is there something wrong
with the logistics and distribution system for crap in this
world? Does anyone feel slighted at the doodoo banquet? Here:
Have some of ours. Yummy! By Royal Decree the week of 5-9 May
is declared Brown Week MCMXCVII. All grunt! Hot! Steaming!
Delicious!
Miss Kooky's hettie friend Mikey the Putterer is to deliver his
manufacture of the Royal Shit Box this weekend. It is to be
hoped its use will be successful and enable Hat's retirement to a
new status as fashion accessory. And now the medical supply in
Coketown want to deliver the unsurance-supplied super-duper
dumper next week. Then Queen Bee called me today to say a church
group she is acquainted with because they come to St Timmy's has
donated a large-size commode chair for me and that Miss Ralph
will deliver it next week. It only took five months of royal
residence to finally be able to get on the pot. Oh, by the way,
Queen Bee's son and daughter-in-law took off for Reno for the
Mother's Day weekend. I hope it's for a quickie divorce.
We are less amused than usual. In fact, we are Royally Bummed
three ways.
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