ROYAL RESIDENCE 15 ================================================================= THE ROYAL RESIDENCE ================================================================= [ 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 fifteen. Tomorrow I make my monthly visit to St Timmy's tardfarm to see Queen Bee. I will also see my former roommate George and Joe who is now his roommate. They are saving each other from having to share space with one or another senililty case or shell-shocked crank. I will go on BART, the intercity train system because using tardvan to other cities costs too much. My only worry is the local bus stops near St Timmy's. I hope I don't get stuck in mud or grass and spin my wheels, literally. Here it is the week before Mother's Day in the US. I wonder if Queen Bee will have a visit from her son and his social climbing wife. I found out too late how much I really did love my mother and father even though I still take exception to some of their opinions and ways of raising me. It is true that as we get older, our parents appear to be decidedly more intelligent than we first thought. Queen Bee's kids are not in the habit of seeing her on great holidays, yet they live only ten miles away. He travels all of half the state while his wife stays in town, nose firmly planted betwixt the social asscheeks of the arrivistes in a neighboring town. That place is well known to be chock full of the decadence and high quality consumption only really fresh money can buy or would care for. I know she has talked him out of spending time with his mother several times. I wonder if he will wake up now or live with regret later. I first planned to go today and go without Mr Cheez. But George likes Mr Cheez so much and was so disappointed when he didn't accompany me last month that I can't go alone twice. George's wife says he was a lousy husband and so it is okay for her to take most of his comfortable pension and throw a Lincoln pin-up [ US$5 bill ] at him once in a while. George is lost. He has no real friends except roommate Joe and Spastic Lady Who Isn't Too Bad That Way. He and Joe go out and get smashed on tequila whenever they can sneak away. George gets an ocassional visit from one of his kids, but that's about all the excitement he has unless some clinical wanderer pulls a fire alarm. On my last visit I brought George and Joe an application packet for the Royal Residence. Whether either of them ultimately comes to live here or in a similar property, I had felt their thinking about being somehwere else might get them to assess their state and perhaps plan for something better. Joe was at one time living independently but somehow he let circumstance get the best of him. He couldn't maintain his independence and so ended up in a string of tardfarms. I think Joe can get out of his captivity if he tries. I think George can live in a board and care home, a type of place not quite so free. Neither of them absolutely requires nursing care. But there is so much high-level custodial care available and little opportunity for acquiring a more independent form of living. It must be that tardfarms are more profitable to run than board and care homes. Yet every time I go visit St Timmy's and talk to the administrator, she whines about the money they're not making. When I discussed Joe with Mr Cheez this morning, I observed that Joe could probably get along at least as well as I if he had an in-home health service worker, which Mr Cheez acts as for me. Mr Cheez got a randy glint in his eye and said he'd be glad to take care of Joe. I thought to myself, You whore! -- You have a concubine at home; you have a royal butt to wash; and you want to mess with Joe. I don't think Joe swings both ways. Mr Cheez would like to find out. Whore! I think Mr Cheez is curious about the sexual response of someone who's had a spinal injury. The loss of sensation from feet to waist or tit level appears to be common. From what I've read and what I have discussed with a couple people who are so injured, the fact that you can't feel much, if anything, in your goodie patch doesn't mean you can't get off. It takes more work and a respectable amount of ingenuity. Spastic Lady reassured me long ago that she and George can't mess around because she has a catheter. Balls. I think they simply haven't figured out how to work around it. (I am convinced she provides killer head instead.) A young woman of my acquaintance gets hers quite well so long as her male partner pounds the meat to her with vigor. Another whose autobiography I have read claims there are two nerve centers which control erection. If one is damaged, you "find" the other set and exploit it. He would have us believe he fucked his women til they bled. I wonder if Mr Cheez truly realizes that paras often require enemas or digital extraction of rectal contents. I want to see the look on his face when he is confronted with this situation . We celebrated Cinco de Mayo with a Mexican-style feed yesterday afternoon. Poor Susan the Activities Director(!) certainly has her work cut out for her. Having a social director type is the one thing that makes the Royal Residence semi-tardly. I do not understand why people who live in a residence hotel or an apartment house need to be thrust together as though they might pine away from loneliness. For many of these people, aloneness is their way of life. About a third of the people who attended the dinner gathered up the plate and sides and took the meal back to their room. With Alexander whining about how EEEEEvil the place is, and Judy Garland complaining about old men who want to poison her dog -- not to mention her latest rant on how awful that fat pig on the desk is -- it's best some of these people stay in their own cages. The alleged fat pig is Eunice who works evenings and some grave shifts. She likes Mr Cheez and me and Kooky and she has our number. Glub knows what she thinks goes on up here, but since we don't groan too much, she doesn't care. Speaking of groaning, lately I do quite a bit of that when Mr Cheez is washing, drying or putting lotion on my back or in the crevice between my butt cheek and my stump. And I really don't mind if he washes my balls quite thoroughly. It is at these times he frowns that Snuffy Smith scowl of his and hisses, Shut the fuck up; the door's open! I may just hire somebody for old time's sake to suck my tits for a half an hour. But everybody can just leave my dicklet and datehole alone. The feeling's not the same anymore. * * * * * I had panettone, an Italian fruit bread, and milk for supper. This was a mistake. I had Pink Upchuck for dessert. Why I got it back pink I don't know unless it made my stomach bleed. I haven't been able to look at food or much at people for two days. All systems, including my thought processes are shut down. All I crave is Diet Coke in careful doses. I didn't pee; I sweated. I had the chills of death such that had anyone pulled the quilt off me, I think I would have screamed in pain. I mostly slept for two days, unable to hold a coherent conversation. Of course this had to happen the week of my barfday when my local fans were planning to shower me with tribute and feed me rare delights I'm probably not supposed to eat. I also promised to see Queen Bee at St Timmy's and I planned it to be before Mother's Day. I really hate having disappointed her. I'm afraid she will be alone that day and it's so unfair. I wish her son and daughter-in-law could see themselves. Should I call 911? How would they get my nauseous nauseating coprulence into this furry-walled tin can of an elevator? Would I survive them pulling the covers off me and my having the 78- degree air hit me like a spray of chilled nitrogen? With my two days of fitful sleeps, I have had time to repeatedly focus foggily on the abusurdity of my existence. I try to take an external perspective on my challenges (as they say in the do- gooder biz) in order to avoid the predictable whiney barfoid touchy-feely enotional diarrhea thang. I fear I fail. It was Tuesday I picked up the milk at the local chain drugstore, a place which tries to be all things to this neigh. It was one percent homo milk. How nice' they market to Us. Or do they go drain the pecs on Victor Mature wannabes at the Upper Market Stretch'n'Sweat? This was the quart mommy's little hellspawn pulled off the bottom shelf in a moment of inqusitiveness, became bored with, and left in the Hello Dawgie toy section. It got warm, was found, and was returned to the doorless cooled display to become chilled once again -- but not soon enough to prevent some beasties growing in it without affecting the taste. I really don't know any of this for fact except that I bought and later drank the milk. But it makes a good story and is almost as convincing as, say, religious parables. Sometimes it makes we wonder what I did to deserve all the cosmic static in my life. I think if I had poison I would take it. I wonder what I could get at the drug store off the shelf which would be sure, possibly creative, and wouldn't make me scream and give myself away ... milk, maybe? This week has been shit for those I love, too. Mr Cheez got waylaid escorting a funeral by a piece of matte knife in the road. They had to use two plugs to close the gash. He will have to buy a new tire soon, something he cannot afford at this time. We're all just trying to make ends meet. One month he helps me and the next I help him. If it's not love and marriage, it certainly is loyalty which, in my royal opinion, takes four balls. Did you ever meet someone, get to know them, and then feel cheated because you didn't chance to know them years before? Hi, Cheezy. Miss Kooky adds one more ball to the pile. Even Doreen is trying to get one of his to descend, finally. Soon we'll have enough for an emotional clusterfuck. Speaking of Doreen, we have got to get that boy laid. A two C-cell bullet vibrator and a couple of searching fingers do not constitue passionate lovemaking. Here he has, not Mr Right -- because there is no such thing -- but Mr Possibility with the kewl ($$$) job, the kewl interests (computer graphics), and the really hairy chest (duh, okay). Doreen, honey, you need to take this man stir him up in a pot with vision, loyalty, consideration, cooperation, trust, and some datehole, dammit -- cuz it won't gel into the aspic of shared life (slightly tart and with crunchy naughty bits) -- without the magic ingredient. Go forth and dilate, bitch. I've fallen behind revising ERR and Timmy's. I can't decide whether they should be one book or condensed slightly into two. Will the RR series make a sequel? There is so much to see and do here, nevermind Fishy Wharf and Gap stores. I want to get my bent on San Francisco's underbelly. I want to see where the hair grows. I may as well do so; I will never have entre to polite society in this town no matter waht a ruckus I might raise in the end. I am from among the maimed and unpretty. They want no gimpled darlings. We have a real fancypants for Mayor this time around. He's been in state politics for as long as he could wheel and deal, and he did it excellently until he was forcefully unseated by term limits. Now as Mayor of his home town, he is out to clean up the bus service. I can't really recall anything else he promised or that he has done, actually, except travelling and wearing $3000 suits to show what a tastefull place we are. But some of us gimps plan to give him an audience next Monday at City Hall in the matter of curb cuts. I met a little dude at Headlines last week who is mad as hops about cracking his axle and bending a wheel twice on these pieces of shit. Other people he knows have gotten tipped sideways and one even got flipped over backward. In this town it's a new game now. It's gonna be Da Kaween and Da Mayor and De Kuts. Carlos has been charting and grading curb cuts for several weeks. I can't wait to see his map! I hate my hair. I fear I am not going to look pretty for Da Mayor (and that's his chosen nickname). Mr Cheez talked me into a session at the local barber college. You get what you pay for (unless you get a #4 buzz at the Castro shoppe and pay US$16). Mr Cheez finally came clean (sort of non-sticky) about the pony tail I used to have before I was elevated in the Unpleasantness from mere Big Mamahood to true Kaweenliness by my near martydom at the tentacles of a vicious staphyllococcus. Well, thank you, honey for letting me replace my so-called grease-slick for a haystack. My hair grows every which way but to the sides of a reasonable part. I look like I had an electrical experience. Quick! -- where can I buy a cheap wig? -- oh, nevermind; I can tell _you_! Poor Cheez. This week all he makes escorting funerals he's had to put back into his rolling stock. There was a handlebar assembly here, a magneto/alternator thing there, a tire someplace else, and now a warning to change his brake pads before he creams US$500 in brake plates. Isn't there enough shit in the world for everybody to have a hearty helping? Is there something wrong with the logistics and distribution system for crap in this world? Does anyone feel slighted at the doodoo banquet? Here: Have some of ours. Yummy! By Royal Decree the week of 5-9 May is declared Brown Week MCMXCVII. All grunt! Hot! Steaming! Delicious! Miss Kooky's hettie friend Mikey the Putterer is to deliver his manufacture of the Royal Shit Box this weekend. It is to be hoped its use will be successful and enable Hat's retirement to a new status as fashion accessory. And now the medical supply in Coketown want to deliver the unsurance-supplied super-duper dumper next week. Then Queen Bee called me today to say a church group she is acquainted with because they come to St Timmy's has donated a large-size commode chair for me and that Miss Ralph will deliver it next week. It only took five months of royal residence to finally be able to get on the pot. Oh, by the way, Queen Bee's son and daughter-in-law took off for Reno for the Mother's Day weekend. I hope it's for a quickie divorce. We are less amused than usual. In fact, we are Royally Bummed three ways. =================================================================