ROYAL RESIDENCE 6 ================================================================= THE ROYAL RESIDENCE ================================================================= This is episode six. This morning Mr Cheez got here early enough to finish me up in time to put in an appearance at the coffee service they have in the dining hall Tuesdays and Thursdays. After pointing at the donut we wanted and picking our seats, we found we were sitting next to the stand-in for Judy Garland's dancing scenes. "Judy" is in her seventies but is still pretty well put together. She has Sandra Dee Bangs instead of a Church- of-God Flip. Dripping wet I'd expect her to weigh what she says is 117 pounds on her five feet one inch frame. According to Judy, all the people living here are not necessarily nice. Two of the men tried to poison her long-haired terrier. They gave the dog a bone which had been dipped in rat poison. But Judy saved the day because she washed the bone before letting the dog have it. This mitigated the poisonous aspect; it only made the dog sick instead of killing it. She's suing the residence's management over the incident. It's the management's fault other tenants hate her dog. Go finger. Judy wants to teach tap and other forms of dancing to old people at a nearby senior center. Mr Cheez volunteered the information that he has no rhythm. I ashed Judy if she could teach him how to dance. We did not get a firm reply. After over twenty years as a line dancer in Hollywood, Judy worked retail in three venerable San Francisco dry goods emporia, all of which are now defunct. It wasn't so many years ago that ladies wore hat and gloves in this city. Nowadays, just anyone runs into a good store in any sort of schmata to buy something made by the evil Nike empire. Activities Director Susan spotted us at coffee and twisted my arm again to come play the piano. I said I would do it soonest if Miss Kooky gets to my storage and brings me my goddam sheet music. Susan wants me to accompany an old lady who will sing Irish ditties for St Paddy's Day. Then Mr Cheez spoke up and said he likes to sing Irish stuff, too. I'm forever discovering something new about this man. It's all a deal provided i get to play Londonderry Air as a solo. It is to be hoped I will have my synths there so I can make everybody cry. No, you bitches, it'll be that _good_. Mr Cheez asked Susan if "Judy" is for real. Susan diplomatically told him he'd have to determine that for himself. Ha. Sure enough, Mr Cheez went to Byron Hoyt Company and got a book of Irish ditties. He also found Evergreen, the song Streisand oversung. I had been told that the chordal progressions in it are key to a particular style of crunchy/lush improvisation on pipe organ celeste stops. Turning on all the celestes and pretty-pretties and coupling them all to one keyboard is a combination which has a satiric name, Virgil Fox Trash. Virgil Fox used to do this at Riverside Church in Manhattan to thrill the old ladies. It worked. I worked it at St Disgustin's. I will work it again St Paddy's Day on my synths. As Mr Cheez took me out for croissant and coffee this morning, we met Alexander, the grand old queen who lives next door. I happened to ask Alexander if he ever went to the coffee social on Tuesday and Thursdays. Oh no, dear, he said, I never go there, nor do I sit in the lobby with these old crows. I have lived in this zoo for eight and a half years. The gossip -- the extremely evil gossip -- around this place is just terrible. I studied the occult quite thoroughly and I want to tell you that there are terrible vibrations going around in this place. There is some old black man here who, when he encounters Mr Cheez and me in the elevator, acts like Mr Cheez doesn't exist and as though I were the queen. Well ... why not! But this makes Mr Cheez cranky. To his credit, Mr Cheez gets along quite well with the rather humorless Chinese man who is the regular doorman. There is a jolly sort of retired woman on the door weekend days. I don't recall exactly how it got started, but the other day Mr Cheez was talking rather saucily with her and he said the word dildo. She didn't say Duh. The Demon wanted to go shopping for a backpack, so we took off down the hill toward Urban Outfitters, I think it calls itself. Then he decided to wait on the backpack. Maybe it had something to do with me asking him what he was going to keep in it. I don't think he thought much about this aspect of having it. Duh. So we took off for Headlines, a trendy boutique-y sort of place billing itself as "Retail Entertainment". It is usually full of rock-stars-in-waiting for staff, much as is Tower Records. Even the piercing ratio is as high as I remember it in Tower. The Gen Xers who work in Headlines seem to have buckets less attitude than the ones who work Tower. I felt positively welcome when this well-ventilated boy greeted us in the basement clothing department. He had holes all over his body and was wearing the fashionable drab khaki short pants so many of the youngsters affect. What a delight these are to us gimpy old queens who go through life at bun level to the universe. The Demon tried on a couple of shirts and a pair of leather shorts. He wouldn't come out and model the shorts because he said they gave him Fallout. Well, I mean, really, if you can't give that big thang a little air, what is it good for? We went back to the main floor and poked through the toys. I was reading through "200 Ways to Please a Man" and nodding in agreeable boredom when a goateed twenty-something said Excuse me, Are you Paul? I told him I was and he introduced himself as Brandon. Brandon is a legend on the internet. I know more queens and "bi"s who would like a piece of him... He had Sonja along with him. They knew I had to be the Queen of Tastelessness because how many one-legged gimps in wheelchairs could there be in Headlines a block from the Royal Residence? Sonja is busy working for a well-known HMO as a surgeon. Her talents are being trivialized and largely wasted. They only let her cut the toes off of naughty diabetics. There being nothing more to see in Headlines, The Demon and I took off for Virgin Megastore where he became so enraptured with all the cuties, staff and customer alike, I think he forgot what album he went in there to look for. I looked disdainfully through their largely overpriced software department. They had things for sale there in fancy boxes you can download off the internet for free if you know what you're doing. The video section is quite complete. The international section bears a careful perusal because I think the chance of finding really tasteless flicks will be quite high. Demon went to cruise the magazine section and pointed out a well put-together fellow. I asked Demon why he hadn't got busy. Oh, Demon said, He's a hettie. I asked how do you know that. Demon said it was because of what the guy was reading. Hell, this is the kind of gathering place where even the nominally het might be open to suggestiveness. I have not seen any drooling pisswads from the sticks shopping here though the high tourist season is yet to come. Instead I busied myself in a small but excellent children's section complete with The Fart Book. Demon wanted coffee and so we went into the cafe part to see what varieties they have. They have one, their own house blend which is slightly French. To appreciate it requires that it be swilled between bites of raspberry chocolate decadence cake. This is one place where you can always get quiche and perfectly wonderful chicken vegetable soup. I noticed that the second of the half dozen listening stations in the cafe featured the CD sampler from Mr Cheez's nightclub. Some days I just love being a quiche- chompin' cake-eatin' friend-a Dorothy's! ===================================================================