ROYAL RESIDENCE 22
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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 22. One of my loyal boosters writes--
Paul,
Please, please, please don't stop writing. I'm trapped
in the life of a suburban breeder patriarch and your posts
are the only thing to remind me that humanity is not one
huge expanse of techno-geeks and their rug-rats chasing the
brass ring of the golden IPO.
I've gone to the gay-day parade several times in
different capacities and I'm really looking forward to your
notes on the goings-on. I know you'll have a perspective
all your own that will be full of insight and wit.
The first time I went it was as the companion of my
room-mate the lesbian nurse. We got to carry first-aid kits
and wear tee-shirts and my, but didn't I feel special. And
you can be sure grandpa was shocked when grandma did my
laundry and found the shirt. The conversation that ensued
deserves a letter all its own.
A few years later I went as the crew member of a friend
who wanted to video tape all the lesbians dancing in the
street with their shirts off. I think the high point of
that day was when some guy put a dollar bill in my back
pocket as we made our way through Civic Center plaza laiden
with video equipment. I never did get a chance to go back
and find out what he thought he was paying for. Maybe the
sight of two cute boys waiting on a bear with a video
camera did something for him...
But enough about me, will you promise me that you'll
keep writing? I really was serious when I said you should
be the one to take Herb Caen's place. It doesn't matter
that you're not the one to do these things you write about,
it's your take on them that I enjoy. Please don't stop or
I'll have to grovel some more.
Well, first off, I won't completely quit writing but I may have a
famine now and then. To paraphrase some smartalec newscaster, if
you don't like what I write (or there isn't enough of it), plan
to do something outrageous and then tell me where to be.
About that dollar bill tucked into your pocket at Civic Center:
Chances are the guy wanted to hire you -- but probably not to
videotape anything, if you get what I mean.
You guys check out this stuff from Misc.Handicap--
My problem is I really don't want to become an
activist, pacific or miliant. But it is really aggravating
to try to get around in this world. The cities and
businesses think they are handicap accessible because they
have ramps. But that doesn't mean everything else they have
is accessible.
I know its not good, but I am getting to the point that
I would prefer staying home than to go to the trouble to
load my wheel chair then put up with the difficulty of
moving around.
My wife and I have always loved shopping but now it is
too much trouble. I have only been this way for about a
year or so, so I am still trying to figure all this out.
I don't mean to sound like a whiner, but I would like
some insight from those who have learned to cope with
getting out and enjoying themselves.
A European comments--
I've been in a wheelchair for 17 years, since I was 17
and had a car accident. Believe me it will get better, I
mean, you will get used to getting around. I've been twice
to your country (US) and was able to have a wonderful time
even in places like Magic Kingdom, New York, etc. Give
yourself some time and go for it. You can, believe me!
I shook my finger at him thus--
What really, really gets to me is the attitude of the
true bipeds in public. They will not get out of the way!
They don't realize that a powered wheelchair is a vehicle in
much the same sense as a small car and that if they do
something stupid around it (like step over my footrest while
I am negotating a curb ramp!) they can get hurt or hurt me
or cause property damage. The hassle I had to get insurance
to spring for this chair so I could be independent convinces
me I had better take care of it. All I need is for some
bunny to help me wreck it.
I have no qualms at all about finding an employee in
Walgreens, etc, and asking for assistance when I want
something too far away for me to reach. One day I got so
damned mad at a display which trapped me in an aisle that I
used my footrest in the manner of a crude forklift to shove
the blasted thing out of my way -- and I let the manager
know I was displeased. Ask uncooperative managers (don't
bother with clerks) what they think the fire marshall would
say about this or that obstruction. Watch the manager's
face. You'll see wheels turn that haven't moved in weeks!
You must be militant. Firmly (and as politely as you
can make yourself be) tell people who are in the way to give
you the space you need. Most people have no clue to what
life on wheels is all about. Some of them think my running
around faster than they can walk is neat and somehow
recreational. It's a match of wits with inattentive
pedestrians every step or revolution of the way. I
especially look out for young women in black "Flash Dance"
leg warmers. They are mainly about as dumb as a box of
rocks and about as cooperative.
Learn to maneuver your chair expertly. But above all,
politely and firmly speak up for yourself. Find out where
the driveways and properly designed curb ramps are you feel
comfortable using and develop a route. Don't let people
push you around. You're not entitled to put them in danger
or to commit assault, but you have as many rights as they
do. This being a tourist trap town, I remind at least two
broods of tourons every week that the curb ramps were
lobbied for by us gimps and they are not there primarily for
strollers and wheeled luggage. But we should be nice and
let them use the ramps when we don't need them
So, anyway, this milquetoast didn't reply and is probably upset
because I told him to stand up for himself. Jesus, if you can't
raise whining and being a pussy to an art form as I have, shut up
and leave the room!
Mr Cheez was somewhat upset this morning. As he splashed soapy
water on my back and performed other ablutions, he ranted about
Fairy Butch Bitch, the emcee for the dykearama last night at the
club. Seems FBB plopped down several hundred dollars with the
doormen as a bank for making change. She/it intended to take the
whole door proceeds (at seven dollars a pop) less US$50 (for her
bar tab...?) as her fee for whatever the hell it is she does
besides holler, be disgustingly fat, sickeningly ugly, and
belligerent. Mr Cheez reminded her than the band book said she
would get a straight (!) percentage of the door and that the band
book was bible. FBB could've broken Mr Cheez into matchsticks,
but probably not before he had performed at least a partial
hysterectomy. She must have sensed this and so backed down.
The dykeathon was just the thing to disgust all straight men.
Taxi drivers often deliver out-of-towners to various nightclubs
when the clients ask to be taken to a good place. Du Nord gets
its share of this trade. Last night Mr Cheez was amused to see a
cab discharge three hettie men from Oklahoma. Mr Cheez cautioned
them on the bizarre goings-on down those thirteen steps. They
thought it would be a hoot to see a bunch of muffdivers on
holiday, so they paid their seven bucks each and went in. While
there, one of them saw a womyn he knew from back home. She left
Oklahoma with the reputation of being a normal. She's going back
after this celebretory weekend as a card-carrying lesbian. The
guy who knows her thinks this is just what the wagging tongues in
their town need for new fodder.
Here you have a room full of lesbians, some small and boyish;
then you have their counterparts who are huge and elephantine.
The more masculine-identified among them smoke cigars as they
hoot and cheer the female strippers. You'da thunk it was an
Elk's Club smoker if it weren't for the faint aroma of a fish
market. Here we have another concept taken so far to one extreme
that it becomes the opposite extreme. We have womyn sexually
objectifying other womyn just like those nasty, disgusting
dickhead men do!
The young ladies who go by van from club to club to sell cigars
and cigarettes to the patrons arrived. They probably did all
right because Fairy Butch Bitch had a burning dog turd in her maw
bigger than anyone else's. I should imagine the young lady who
offered--
Cigars ... cigarettes ... dildos ...
--cleaned up down
there. I should imagine she got pinched, felt up, and tongued
(at least in the ear) quite a bit. Those womyn can be such
sexist pigs when they're horny and having a good time.
I took Mr Cheez's exposed film to Walgreens for finishing. I had
the one-hour hour to wait and so parked myself among the news
racks at the foot of Powell Street, all the better to observe
tourons and morons. Aunt Esther was back. She took up her
podium by the escalators to/from the underground rail station and
began alternately haranguing nobody and some Filipino guy next to
her. I wanted to hear more clearly what she was carrying on
about so I moved across the plaza and parked about six feet from
her. She didn't care for this at all. She turned her attention
to me and spake unto me thusly--
Who da fuck you thank you is, you honky muthuhfuckuh? Get
yore one-legged stank ass outta here an' doan be fuckin'
wid me! Look atchou! De debbil done had his way witchou
and you all used up an' ain't good fer nuffin'. Who you
tink you is comin' ovah heah an' messin' wid me? I seen you
ovah deah an' now you be comin' ovah heah to mess wid me.
I avoided her crazed gaze and continued to look at cute boys and
outlandishly ugly black people. I assumed the pose Mr Cheez
finds irresistably queenly and which causes him to leap to his
feet to open doors and move chairs which are in my path. Aunt
Esther was just getting her main wind--
My JEEEEEzuz done tole me you is fum de debbil an' you ain't
got NO powr ovah me but Ah gots powr ovah you. Ah goan come
rip thuh othuh FAT laig offah you an' have thuh cops take
you away fo' fuckin' wid me. You jess ax any-a dese PO-
leeses -- dey knows me an' dey's mah frens an' deys goan git
chou.
About this time a pair of SF's finest ambled by and said, Hello,
Mary. Mary Blaine is her real name, but I prefer to refer to her
as Aunt Esther from Sanford & Son because she looks the part and
sounds it. The only thing she hasn't called me is a fish-eyed
fool.
Look atchou wif yore fat stank ass sittin' dere fuckin' wid
me, ole one-legged no-good honky-ass crackuh! God tole me
Ah got de powr throo JEEEEEzuz an' you cain't do nuffin'
'bout it. JEEEEEzuz done gived me da vic-toe-ree an' if you
was of God day would'n'a ripped off yore laig an' made yo'
ass good fuh nuffin'. You done lost de war. De war been
ovah fuh a huntert yeaz and you done lost it, honky
muthuhfuckuh one-legged good-fer-nuffin fool!
Vy this time I just have a terrible shit-eating I-don't-believe-
this-crap grin on. Aunt Esther must've gotten tired of ranting
at me because she retired to the other side of the plaza by the
news racks. She had nothing more to say. I, Da Kaween, had
prevailed and taken her space. I looked at the stick-on clock on
my wheelchair and saw it was time to get the pictures. As I
rolled by, I told Auntie Esther thanks for the entertainment.
Doantchou fuck wid me you fat one-laig no-good debbil. You
done lost de war an' Ah gots da powr-a JEEEEEzuz an' you
doan't and you jess git outtah here a-fore Ah calls mah
frenz da PO-leeses an' dey come an' takes you...
I left her still jabbering away.
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