ROYAL RESIDENCE 17
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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 seventeen. I am better. The bad milk trip
knocked me for a loop and I have discovered embarrassingly that
my recouperative powers simply aren't what they used to be. The
salt from a breakfast burrito did a number on me yesterday. I am
going to have to be good or lose all strength and not be able to
be bad, I guess. I am going to try to settle down now and be the
same whiny old lady whose ravings you have so long enjoyed.
Gimmee my afgan, dammit.
Nr Cheez and I made the trek to St Timmy's. The nice, restful,
part of the trip was waiting for the local bus at the South
Hayward train station. The hills are lush and green. Staring at
them was a nice change from the patchwork of colors and craziness
around here. I know now I will never use that BART station again
until they rebuilt the platforms. Even with my well-torqued
power chariot, when I left the train car backwards exactly
according to procedure, the goddam gap yanked one of my front
wheels and spun my chair 90 degrees with no warning. I could
have crashed into the side of the car. And the car/platform gap
out there really _is_ noticeably wider than it is at any other
station I have used. Other than that, travelling the sidewalks
from the bus stop to St Timmy's was the usual expected trouble.
There are no curb cuts so we use driveways. But the average
driveway lip approaches three inches and no one -- including some
construction workers nearby -- had any idea why.
Queen Bee was holding court on the patio. She saw me as I ripped
across the new cement driveway and parking area they've about
completed. She was proud to say she'd graduated this week, from
the oral rehabilitation program they had her on when her swallow
reflex began to fail. Soon she will have the stomach tube
removed. She is already back on regular food. She told me the
thing she most craved was a good piece of fish, so I was pleased
to drag along three fish and chips plates for the bunch of us to
pick over. I brought her a bunch of little things which, when I
saw them, made me think of her. I brought a souvenir teaspoon
from the San Francisco Junque Collection in Woolworth's, a pair
of bumblee earrings I saw in the Claire's shop, and a bottle of
yellow glitter fingernail polish to go with them. All this stuff
was So Summer and So Queen Bee and she was so pleased.
Going out there is a big expense for me either in time or money
depending on the mode of transportation. But I said I wouldn't
forget the people who were there to help pick up my spirits when
I landed in that place. In a away, even above taking care of
myself, making these treks is the hardest thing I do. It's hard
on Mr Cheez, too. I know he doesn't like that place and wishes
it would go away. I am his broken toy and he can't fix me, and I
suppose taking him back to the junkyard to look for pieces is not
exactly kind. I don't like seeing the end of life and its
crumbling any more than he does or you do. I'm just more used to
it. I keep wondering what will fall off off me next and will it
be as kewl as what they cut off so-and-so last week.
We arrived late, after the stated luncheon, and so George was
only to be found in his blacked-out room having his nap. I
thought twice about waking him, but I thought also he would be
less happy not to spend the time with us. Michael -- Mr Cheez --
was here this time and he wanted to see him as well. George woke
and seemed awfully foggy. I wonder if he is doing as well now.
In fact, everybody in the place is so smooth now, I suspect a
major inflow of Happy Juice. His roommate Joe was still in
hospital recovering from a fecal impaction, a common hazard in
paras and quadras.
With the warmth I got from the staff this time, I had the feeling
they are somewhat glad that once in a while somebody does get out
of there and get a life. Maybe it means that what they're doing
is successful after all. Queen Bee said my new commode chair
donated to me by this church group as a courtesy to her, is there
waiting for me but I didn't see it and no one on staff said
anything. What does this tell you about Queen Bee...?
* * * * *
We're having really warm weather. I went down to the cable car
turnaround to watch people today. The Mormon missionaries must
have gotten another pep talk. They were out there by the half
dozen swooping down on pedestrians just like pluming male pigeons
do the hens. I would not have been surprised to see a supplicant
mounted and ravaged on the spot -- all for the Glory of the
Father, of course. They were so desperate for theological
tussling they were even discussing issues with the NO UNLAWFUL
SEX man.
This old coot's been out there for years saying if you ever Did
It even once and weren't married, you Can't Do It Any More
because you are a Whoremonger and you made the woman a Whore.
You know, this proclaiming is certainly doing a lot to comfort
the friendless and feed the hungry... If I recall correctly,
most great religious teachers wanted their disciples to take care
of the mundane things first and _then_ talk religion. Here you
have one bunch picking off the top of the litter and the bottom
feeders horking out stuff that's so irrelevant it is astounding.
Even in the middle of such clownishness there comes swift
justice. Yesterday morning I was crossing the MUNI tracks on
Market Street with all due care and deliberation when a black
boutique-y pickup truck stopped at the light. As I expected, the
driver pulled partly into the crosswalk, inconveniencing me
slightly. I was prepared to curve around, though I do not like
to turn my wheels near track slots.
As I was swerving, little Miss Vidal Sassoon Bleach Blonde Hair
pulled her truck right in front of me. So I asked her, Do you
mind if I get across this street before I get creamed? It might
have been my tone of voice (exasperation?) but Mr Cheez said I
overreacted. At this point the light was changing and I didn't
care. My next challenge was not to be mashed by the next car in
the MUNI-only bus lane. She finally backed up and it was clear
she had no idea where she was going or what she was doing. Why
don't these people come out at night and leave us alone?
The next morning was the one Mr Cheez brought me the Burrito of
Death. He parked his bike on Cyril Magnin in proper fashion to
pop in for the fast food order. When he came out, a boutique-y
black pickup truck was jammed in behind him at 45 degrees (all
the better for a careening tour bus or Turban Taxi to ram and
send flying) so he can't get out. He made some comment about how
people park. She went off waving her Vidal Sassoon Out of a
Bottle Straight Blonde Hair with the Fuck You Oh Just Fuck You
Routine. He reminded her how adult she was being. About this
time she got her fashion victim heel wet in some bumbarf and
started doing that little dance they do when you know they are
going to fall on their ass and _they_ know they are going to fall
on their ass. And she did. She was a mess and had completely
run out of Fuck Yous, got in her trendy wagon and squealed down
the street as fast as she could. I hope her croissant was dry
and her coffee as bitter.
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