ROYAL RESIDENCE 7 

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                         THE ROYAL RESIDENCE
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This is episode seven.  I am reminded almost nightly of the
phenomenal amount of utility glass used in a city of party
people.  Every night around eleven, then again at about two and
four in the morning, there is a great clatter of glass bottles
from the street below.  There is a cigar bar next building over
from the Royal Residence.  There is a major hotel on this block
and another across the street.  There is a boutique hotel catty
cornered from here and at least two restaurants across one or the
other of the nearby streets.  During the course of the evening
they put out what sounds to be hundreds of glass containers each
drinking night.

The concept of the cigar bar is probably unknown in places other
than California.  In most California cities, one may smoke only
in bars, in one's home, in a hotel room where it is understood at
rental there will be smoking, and out of doors -- though even
this last is restricted in some places.  In the places where
cigarettes may be smoked, cigars usually are unwelcome.  Having
been a pipe smoker at one time, I doubt pipe smokers would want
to be near cigar smokers.  Cigars reek like the Stygian Depths. 
The notorious Latakia pipe tobacco has a similar stench but with
more overtones of burning tire carcass.  The most refined pipe
tobacco is no match for any other form of the friendly
nightshade, even the cigarette; this is Cavendish tobacco.  Most
dedicate pipe smokers prefer a good Burley and Virginia blend
without great amounts of flavoring.  They are, after all, smoking
to enjoy the aroma of tobacco and not that of cherry sap or
vanilla bean goo.

I was prompted into this nicotine and tar reverie by the presence
of several Asian people on the roof of the building next door. 
They were smoking.  Apparently the tenants of the office spaces
there, above the sidewalk cafe which exists By Appointment to Our
Royal Majesty, are free in their use of recreational substances. 
Mr Cheez looked out the window one morning and discovered a
hypodermic syringe lying on the roof.  We doubt a careless
diabetic from this building dropped it out a window.  We think a
programmer from the nerd hive office in that building decided to
stimulate his code-gobbling powers with a bit of the crystal.

Mr Cheez had an interesting evening at Cafe du Nerd.  Two third-
worlders wandered by. He refers to them as Moeesha and Panchita. 
The exchange went like this:

     Moeesha:  What dis place be?
     Cheez:    This is a jazz club.
     Moeesha:  Who be playin'?
     Cheez:    [gave name of band]
     Moeesha:  Oh, they be good.  Can we's come in?
     Cheez:    Sure.  There's a five-dollar cover charge.
     Moeesha:  Dat be fine.  [Gives Cheez the usual twenty and
               gets change in fives as usual]
     Cheez:    [Asks for and checks both womyn's ID]

They go in.  Mr Cheez continues checking IDs and letching cute
twenty-something males.  Mr Cheez sees yet another idiot driver
pull up behind a taxicab stopped in the du Nerd drop-off zone and
begin honking his horn impatiently.  Mr Cheez yells to the idiot
driver, Oh yeah! -- Honk your horn! -- That'll really tell him
off and he won't do THAT again!

Mr Cheez had a run-in with a snooty Valley Girl type who
disdainfully gave him a California Driver's License when he asked
for ID.  Mr Cheez was suspicious and so asked for other backup
identification.  The young woman had none but was full up in the
condescension tank.  Mr Cheez asked her, Do you know why we have
picture IDs in this state? -- It's because you are supposed to
look like who you are -- You don't look like this person -- This
is not your ID -- I look more like this person than you do and I
have a great big bushy moustache -- I'm confiscating this ID
because you are unlawfully using it.  The moral of this story? --
Don't fuck with Mr Cheez.

After about two hours here come Moeesha and Panchita up the
stairs from the basement club.

     Moeesha:  Kin we gets ahr money back?
     Cheez:    Why?
     Moeesha:  We didn't like the music.
     Cheez:    It took you two hours to find out you didn't like
               the music?!
     Moeesha:  Yeah, well it not ahr thang.
     Cheez:    No.  You find out after five or ten minutes you
               don't like the music and get a refund; you don't
               decide after two hours.
     Moeesha:  Motherfucker!

Mr Cheez had a somewhat different funeral to escort earlier in
the week.  It was Zen Buddhist.  Zen Buddhists are the
Episcopalians of the Buddhist world.  Tibetian Buddhists are the
Baptists.  Zen Buddhists are very orthodox and methodical. 
Tibetian Buddhists are laid back.  Zen Buddhists must lead the
Asian communities in guilt level because they tend to throw more
li see, the lucky play money, around than most.

Many Chinese funeral processions are accompanied through downtown
with a brass band in somewhat the New Orleans style.  This
procession had a different band made up of Buddhist heavies
beating non-tuned percussions and tooting a few flutes and things
in no concert or tune whatever.  All we could think is the
cacophony was designed to terrify evil spirits into flight or to
wake up Heaven to let them know honorable uncle Wank Ah Lot is on
his way through Bamboo Gate.

Many Chinese funerals, regardless of faith-base (even Christian
or Catholic) will use the brass band and pass by the decedent's
place of work or business and also pass by his home before going
out of town to the cemetery.  At each stop the family and
mourners get out of the cars and "bow and scrape" (as Mr Cheez
puts it), and set off fire crackers to drive away evil spirits. 
Mr Cheez and usually at least one other motorcycle escort work
together to stop traffic ahead of the procession of cars which
may include a vintage white Cadillac convertible with the top
down.  In this car will be two devoted grandchildren holding a
good-sized framed and flower-bedecked photograph of Uncle Wank.

Some things are universal.  The motorcycle escorts are usually
tipped by a mourning relative in addition to receiving a fee
through the funeral director.  The tip is presented in a
customary red envelope with traditional symbols for good luck
pressed into it in gold foil.  This tip therefore is also called
lucky money or li see.  The universal part is that the more
elaborate the procession, the more likely the tip is to be small. 
Some of the less ostentatious funerals net Mr Cheez as much as
twenty dollars in li see.  On good days we go eat at the Virgin
Cafe.  Otherwise we eat at Burger King.

Since the mortuary he works with has an elevator to all levels,
perhaps I will become the organist.  I used to play funerals on
my days off when I worked at the library in Phoenix, lo, these
many years ago.  Hire the handicapped.  Mr Cheez and I provided
some music at the Royal Residence for the St Patrick's Day
dinner.  Mr Cheez sang old Irish chestnuts I heated up with a
Casio synthesizer.  The LOL who told me earlier she wanted to
sing couldn't make up her mind what to sing, so we told her what
to sing and she didn't do very well.  But that was okay because
the people were so busy mowing down the corned beef and cabbage
they paid little notice to the music.

When we were setting up, some extremely obvious gay boy
introduced himself and asked if he could sing some Edie Gorme'
songs.  I told him I had no idea how those songs would fit into a
St Patrick's Day observance.  Actually, I had no idea what sort
of music Edie Gorme' sang.  Oh, that didn't matter, according to
him; he has a following here and everybody loves to hear him
sing.  I could tell that whatever his singing might be in
quality, it would be lispy and loud.

Christopher (why are people named Christopher usually screamingly
nelly?) said he goes to piano bars all over the City.  I flashed
on such philharmonic venues as The White Swallow and Aunt
Charlie's and nearly didn't get my eyes to roll back in straight. 
I thought to myself, Why don't you take off for one now?  I tried
to compromise by saying if you will work with me we can get some
things ready for another time.  Oh, Christopher said, I'll be
leaving for Los Angeles this afternoon and I'm not coming back. 
What a shame, Chrissy; I'm fucking heartbroken.

I let Mr Cheez sleep in this morning and so didn't get up until
about eleven.  Lolling in bed all morning doesn't agree with me. 
First of all, television -- escpecially daytime -- sucks dirty
donkey dick.  And I forgot to put a pile of books and/or other
crap on the foot of my bed to mess with to while away the time. 
When Mr Cheez got here, he'd forgotten to get more coffee.

I asked him without being nasty the way I usually am in the
morning, Can't you remember one goddam fucking thing?!  His face
went to instant Storm Cloud Mode and he raised his arm to me.  He
said, I'll hit you so hard ... I'LL HIT YOU SO HARD -- Charley
down at the desk will feel it!  I busted up laughing and
squeaked, Elder abuse! -- Elder abuse!  It is a not well known
fact that I am a few months older than Mr Cheez.  See? -- even
his parents were late...

He still hasn't gotten over St Patrick's Day.  I had no idea the
Irish holiday was so important to him.  It's kind of cute.  St
Paddy's Day is more cuddly than, say, Oktoberfest.  Mr Cheez
started singing "The Hat Your Father Wore".  I handed him the
bedpan.  It's green.

Mr Cheez has things worked out efficiently down at du Nerd.  Mr
Cheez tells the confused, I check IDs and he takes the money --
that's because I can't count and he can't read.  The customers
usually say Duh.  Um, did you know that the average employee at
Mickey Dee's is now so stoopid that part of the training is
learning what the little pictures on the cash register mean...?

I tried to buy an interurban train ticket today, gimp class. 
They are only sold in certain stations, and then only at certain
hours.  We didn't want to hang around until rush hour considering
we'd just had lunch.  So we looked in a brochure to find how few
businesses and offices downtown have these tickets for sale.  If
I want the gimp rate I have to buy a gimp ticket which cannot be
purchased from the machines in the stations.

The brochure said the concierge in Nordstrom at San Francisco
Centre has them.  Nordstrom is the Bloomingdales-level store of
the West.  We went there.  They are out of tickets until
Thursday.  I thought the cute boy behind the counter just didn't
want to sell one to an ugly old queen with one leg but Miss Kooky
(who is not handicapped except that she is dizzy) buys her normal
class tickets there.  You can bet I will be back to Nordies come
Thursday just to be sure Cute Thang ain't lying to me.  Imagine: 
All I can go to Nordies for is a new loop of Bohemian glass beads
and a gimp card.

The Demon called me out of a clear blue -- the weather has been
F*A*B*O*O lately -- and asked how I was.  I was not having a good
day and said so.  The Demon said, You are not!  I said, How would
you know and how dare you argue about what I declare to be so. 
And then I hung up.  He came over later in the day and was quite
a bit more respectful.  He wanted to show me the toys he bought
to enhance the games to be played when he has his second date in
modern times in a few more days.  He went to the toy shop in The
Castro and bought his and his matching vibrators.

I asked The Demon if he planned on having safe sex.  He was most
emphatic about playing safely.  I recommended that he be sure to
roll a condom on the bullet-shaped (we won't say PENIS) vibrator. 
The Demon couldn't understand why he should do this.  Simple, I
told him.  It will feel better with a slightly crepe-y surface,
and you won't get buttjuice in the works and corrode the thing
before its time.  I always use condoms on my toys.  It simplifies
cleanup and protects them from my caustic datehole.  I also
happen to like the snap of rubber, so just hush.

I have sort of a private list-thang going.  It just evolutioned
intself into being, sort of like a Cayman lizard.  It involves a
professor of rhetoric in a corn state, an economics prof in a
cracker state, and a grad student instructor at a noted hippie
college.  It is a mystery to me that these erudite souls wish to
have mental congress with the original queen of the desert who
only graduated high school (though it was a tough one) summa cum
loudly.  But we enjoy each other's company electronically when
not actually.  Having sharp, funny and sometimes brazen people to
correspond with keeps me sharp and improves the drivel you read
here.

Econ prof was ranting about how the chicks in his classes tend to
the deprived much more than the depraved.  He imagines that if
they ever were to have their rug munched, it would be the errant
and curious fambly dawg who got there ahead of Clem.  I focused
on the liklihood of HSL, high sootikin level.  The perfesser
declared that in his part of the weeds there would be a maid to
take care of prying those loose.  It became incumbent upon me to
camp:  Oh, Mizz Scarlett!  Ah doan know nuffin bout cleanin no
snatches!  Ah doan evun cleans mah own snatch.  It keep de flys
offa mah waddymellun.

And this has nothing to do with the Royal Residence, so goodbye
for now.

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