ROYAL RESIDENCE 13 ================================================================= THE ROYAL RESIDENCE ================================================================= This is episode thirteen. Depending upon whom you consult, thirteen is either unlucky or lucky. For the purpose of what I am about to do, it doesn't matter which you take it to be. There is going to be a result and it may be good for me and bad for you or vice versa. Let's let it fly and see which, shall we? THE MASTHEAD AND BULLSHIT PARAGRAPH - As insurance against capricious NG admins and the havoc wreaked by assholes posting binaries and knocking literate posts off A.T., you can join the private list by submitting to Bradley, the Royal Male Man, . Send all sycophantry to da kaween herself, , who will teach you to keep a civil tongue in her ass. THE BIG ALT.TASTELESS SALVATION RANT - I have fifteen 1.44 disks of text I saved from Alt.Tasteless in the two years or so I lurked and finally began posting there. Since about February of this year, there has been almost nothing worth capturing and saving to giggle over later. Alas, when I want to introdouche new friends and acquaintances to the world's finest literary cesspool, I am forced to show them old stuff because so many practised contributors have quit. They have quit because nobody has the desire or determination to fight off the spammers who don't understand we aren't interested in whores and websites featuring them, and because newbie assholes never clean out the groups in their post-to window. I'd dearly love to see a committment made to cleaning up this place. If a dozen dedicated people shared the work of harrassing the spammers and calling down the newbies, wouldn't it be possible to give them the firm idea we aren't interested in their idiocy? I think any post which is an offer of any kind ought to be met with firm warnings and then kilobytes of mailbox stuffing until they get the idea to stay out of here. Careless crossposters ought to be warned to include us out of their pointless broadcasts or suffer the same fate as the advertisers and whiners wanting us to try their website. No matter how tidy we make the place, it will still be Alt.Contentless, as one visionary put it, until we get back to eating strange things which give us jarring elimination experiences, drinking too much of too many concoctions so to have truly colorful yawns, and picking at our orifices and sores to see what sorts of goo will ooze forth. We're having an absolute famine when it comes to growing vaginal plums and dingle berries. We haven't had any unusual grogan or choad descriptions in weeks. Does no one have the pustules of adult-recurrent acne? What?! -- no boils in these parts (or tender parts)? I ate myself into being a fat pig, got diabetes, lost a leg to bacteria which usually waste the tissues of or kill heroin addicts, spent two years in rest homes and now have a hobby of getting under foot in the best parts of a major city -- bitching all the way and having the colossal nerve to write it all down for your amusement. What more can I do for you? It is your turn to do something for me. I will get my tiara out of hock and once again be your queen if you will clean the swine and their garbage out of the palace. In summary, it is my feeling that when a post is made largely to announce the availability of anything or is to be found in more than three groups, it is not welcome in Alt.Tasteless and should be cause for alarm -- and swift action. Here endeth the rant. * * * * * A long-time fan forwarded this transcript to me-- To: pauless@sirius.com Subject: You must be famous or something... From: Date: Fri, 2 May 1997 19:06:08 -0400 (EDT) I just found this in the Fat City News "Fat Chat" area, where transcripts of IRC chat sessions are archived. You've been nominated as one of the "25 Most Important People on the Net." . . . . . And for the record, FCN, which bills itself as the world's lone repository of outlaw journalism, got its name from Hunter S. Thompson (author of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," among other works, for the uninitiated). Thompson wanted to rename Aspen "Fat City" as part of his platform when he ran for sheriff of Pitkin County, Colorado back in 1972 or '73, in an attempt to discourage real estate developers and other greedheads from exploiting the town. Congrats on the nomination (for what it's worth). http://www.fatcitynews.com poon: Rev want us to come up with 25 "most impotant [sic] Darkness: What the fuck Brock - You gotta leave your apartment while you take a smoke! poon: people on the 'net" poon: to put on FCN Darkness: That's a great idea CTRobinson: Well, I haven't had any "strange" in so long...I forgot what the Brown Beaver looks like Darkness: And what kind of qualifications would there be for who would be the "most important" poon: so farwe have a handful. BrockDammit impotent? BrockDammit CT, I'm THAT close to some strange! poon: I like it 'cause "favorite sites" is so cliche. BrockDammit it's scary BrockDammit _I'M_ scary poon: This is people, so it's a bit more original i think. poon: Rev gets the credit CTRobinson: I once fucked a chick with inverted nipples in sub-freezing water!! Darkness: I ate one of my old high school classmates pussy for about an hour a month ago, by total chance BrockDammit I have NO morals, brothers! PRAY for my soul! Darkness: Just happened poon: Spark - I tried to narrow the scope, but Rev refused. CTRobinson: Damn Brock...doesn't your better half live a stones throw away?! Be careful man! Darkness: But what was the scope poon: 25 Most Important people on the internet. period. CTRobinson: A good buddy of mine likes to go hawgin' on AOL, and he has tales'o plenty about harpooning and such Darkness: But there has to be some way to determine why. poon: we could also have a list of nominees, if we compe [sic] up with more than 25. poon: My example was Paul Ess of alt.tasteless CTRobinson: hello?!?! CTRobinson: Mutha fuckuh!! Darkness: Why Paul Ess poon: He's a bloated, gay, diabetic, amputee in a wheelchair in San Fran. BrockDammit back Darkness: GREAT! WE'VE GOT ONE ALREADY poon: He has endlessly documented his plight on the newsgroup and on his webpage with amusing (and tatseless) [sic] stores BrockDammit CT: Yeah, and this is DOWNSTAIRS!!! poon: stories. *** Signoff: CTRobinson (Leaving) poon: But other than him, I some up dry. BrockDammit Yikes! poon: He really is great - some realll funny shit /end quotation/ It should be understood that I have never had my own web page. I have been fortunate to have the use of web space belonging to others who supported my ranting and bitching. Partly for doing so they have been harrassed and have had to run for their reputation's sake. For fear of adding to their difficulties I will not name them here. I fear I have not often enough said how grateful I am to them for their support. In the near future I hope to have a website with all my writings on it along with pertinent tasteless and informative views. * * * * * The latest on Doreen is that he and I had lunch today after a stroll through the tastier part of Market Street. We ended up in Wendy's at about Ninth Street. Doreen ate salad for breakfast. Eek. I asked about his dinner date last Thursday with Max from Marin -- would he give it an A, B, C, D, or E? He flamed me, I wouldn't tell _you_ because it'll end up in the Royal Residence! Oops. The cat is out of the bag. Naughty me. As if! Only four people I know of who read this stuff know exactly who Doreen is in real life. We love him even if he is dizzy. And paranoid. I bet he still thinks (as I used to think was the case with me) that everybody at work thinks he's straight. Wake up, queen. Be who you are. They haven't roasted any of us faggots in so long they must have lost the recipe. You moved out of Kansas, honey. I know he couldn't wait to get home to disinfect his rubber-soled shoes. I must say, the brick sidewalk from Fifth to Eighth has a marvelous coating of crud on it made up of pigeon down, dried loogies, cigarette ash and miscellaneous vegetable matter bound together with fast food grease. Yum. When you have traffic and low misdemeanor fines to work off in this town, and you aren't good for anything else, they give you a day-glo red plastic vest, a plastic bag and a broom and you get to smooth out the crud along with removing the big pieces. Mr Cheez wants you all to know about the thirty or so women who caused a scene at the Bohemian Place Mortuary the other day. Quentin, the general manager and chief tape measure custodian, told Mr Cheez this funeral procession would start at eleven sharp. Sure enough, Quentin went at 10:55 exactly to the women who were clawing at the coffin and wailing unconsolably. He barked at them, Stop shrieking and get in the cars! The guest of honor that day was one Clifford Thick-Hung Chang. No wonder they were wailing. When I recently passed the foot of Taylor Street, I noticed you can see flophouse squalor right on up the landscape to the 900- foot elevation of Nob Hill with its richies and wannabes. You have everything from the watches out of pawn at Market Street to the jewelry boutiques in the fancy hotel lobbies next to California Street. Think old Bulovas in new boxes right on up to diamonds and rubies resting over Joan Collins's cleavage. You can eat at Original Joe's in the first squalid block or at the Big Four in the tenth and well-heeled block. North/south Taylor Street meets Market Street along with east/west Turk Street. Taylor & Turk 94102, is a concept caught somewhere between old Dragnet episodes and Beverly Hills 90210. Just off the 200 block is Boedecker Park, named for a Franciscan priest who with his St Anthony Foundation has fed thousands of poor Tenderloin residents for several decades. The contrast is the manicured Huntington Park on Nob Hill where Chinese children play, their squeals of delight making a complex counterpoint with the tones of the Grace Cathedral carillon bells. Near the 600 block is Cosmo Place, a mere alley and former site of Trader Vic's restaurant. It was all fake Pacific islands- style food and drinks with little umbrellas on everything, but it was also the socialite's ritualized lunch place. Be there or be nobody. Be ushered to the Captain's Cabin area or be nobody in particular. In the 600 block is the West Coast lion of men's hideouts, the Bohemian Club. This is the city club. The country club portion is at the Russian River north of San Francisco. Yes, this is the club where you could have caught President-to-be Bush and Henry Kissinger, among other males rich and powerful even on a national scale, cavorting in loud shirts and short pants at the Summer Encampment. But in the 1000 block is the even more lordly Pacific Union Club, a city-only club which is such a tight and small clique no one is admitted to membership until one of the old members has died. Coins returned to members have been washed and polished. Women are never admitted. The telephone number is unlisted. Faith lives on both ends. At the 300 block is the notorious Glide Memorial which used to be an ordinary Methodist church until Cecil Williams took over. Now it is famous for its jazz services and its free meals program. Most days the better streetwalkers stroll the area. At the 1000 block is Grace Cathedral, seat of the Episcopal bishop of California. In one precinct you may hear the tortured guitar of a Hendrix or the wail of a Coltrane sax. In the other end you will have the thunder and snarl of a world-class pipe organ and the piping voices of a boy choir. The one tingles my spine; the other tingles Mr Cheez's balls. What a wonderful town with such contrasts of low and high, aesthetic and visceral. To enjoy what I have I would gladly take a dull hatchet and chop off a leg. =================================================================