ROYAL RESIDENCE 17 ================================================================= 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 seventeen. I am better. The bad milk trip knocked me for a loop and I have discovered embarrassingly that my recouperative powers simply aren't what they used to be. The salt from a breakfast burrito did a number on me yesterday. I am going to have to be good or lose all strength and not be able to be bad, I guess. I am going to try to settle down now and be the same whiny old lady whose ravings you have so long enjoyed. Gimmee my afgan, dammit. Nr Cheez and I made the trek to St Timmy's. The nice, restful, part of the trip was waiting for the local bus at the South Hayward train station. The hills are lush and green. Staring at them was a nice change from the patchwork of colors and craziness around here. I know now I will never use that BART station again until they rebuilt the platforms. Even with my well-torqued power chariot, when I left the train car backwards exactly according to procedure, the goddam gap yanked one of my front wheels and spun my chair 90 degrees with no warning. I could have crashed into the side of the car. And the car/platform gap out there really _is_ noticeably wider than it is at any other station I have used. Other than that, travelling the sidewalks from the bus stop to St Timmy's was the usual expected trouble. There are no curb cuts so we use driveways. But the average driveway lip approaches three inches and no one -- including some construction workers nearby -- had any idea why. Queen Bee was holding court on the patio. She saw me as I ripped across the new cement driveway and parking area they've about completed. She was proud to say she'd graduated this week, from the oral rehabilitation program they had her on when her swallow reflex began to fail. Soon she will have the stomach tube removed. She is already back on regular food. She told me the thing she most craved was a good piece of fish, so I was pleased to drag along three fish and chips plates for the bunch of us to pick over. I brought her a bunch of little things which, when I saw them, made me think of her. I brought a souvenir teaspoon from the San Francisco Junque Collection in Woolworth's, a pair of bumblee earrings I saw in the Claire's shop, and a bottle of yellow glitter fingernail polish to go with them. All this stuff was So Summer and So Queen Bee and she was so pleased. Going out there is a big expense for me either in time or money depending on the mode of transportation. But I said I wouldn't forget the people who were there to help pick up my spirits when I landed in that place. In a away, even above taking care of myself, making these treks is the hardest thing I do. It's hard on Mr Cheez, too. I know he doesn't like that place and wishes it would go away. I am his broken toy and he can't fix me, and I suppose taking him back to the junkyard to look for pieces is not exactly kind. I don't like seeing the end of life and its crumbling any more than he does or you do. I'm just more used to it. I keep wondering what will fall off off me next and will it be as kewl as what they cut off so-and-so last week. We arrived late, after the stated luncheon, and so George was only to be found in his blacked-out room having his nap. I thought twice about waking him, but I thought also he would be less happy not to spend the time with us. Michael -- Mr Cheez -- was here this time and he wanted to see him as well. George woke and seemed awfully foggy. I wonder if he is doing as well now. In fact, everybody in the place is so smooth now, I suspect a major inflow of Happy Juice. His roommate Joe was still in hospital recovering from a fecal impaction, a common hazard in paras and quadras. With the warmth I got from the staff this time, I had the feeling they are somewhat glad that once in a while somebody does get out of there and get a life. Maybe it means that what they're doing is successful after all. Queen Bee said my new commode chair donated to me by this church group as a courtesy to her, is there waiting for me but I didn't see it and no one on staff said anything. What does this tell you about Queen Bee...? * * * * * We're having really warm weather. I went down to the cable car turnaround to watch people today. The Mormon missionaries must have gotten another pep talk. They were out there by the half dozen swooping down on pedestrians just like pluming male pigeons do the hens. I would not have been surprised to see a supplicant mounted and ravaged on the spot -- all for the Glory of the Father, of course. They were so desperate for theological tussling they were even discussing issues with the NO UNLAWFUL SEX man. This old coot's been out there for years saying if you ever Did It even once and weren't married, you Can't Do It Any More because you are a Whoremonger and you made the woman a Whore. You know, this proclaiming is certainly doing a lot to comfort the friendless and feed the hungry... If I recall correctly, most great religious teachers wanted their disciples to take care of the mundane things first and _then_ talk religion. Here you have one bunch picking off the top of the litter and the bottom feeders horking out stuff that's so irrelevant it is astounding. Even in the middle of such clownishness there comes swift justice. Yesterday morning I was crossing the MUNI tracks on Market Street with all due care and deliberation when a black boutique-y pickup truck stopped at the light. As I expected, the driver pulled partly into the crosswalk, inconveniencing me slightly. I was prepared to curve around, though I do not like to turn my wheels near track slots. As I was swerving, little Miss Vidal Sassoon Bleach Blonde Hair pulled her truck right in front of me. So I asked her, Do you mind if I get across this street before I get creamed? It might have been my tone of voice (exasperation?) but Mr Cheez said I overreacted. At this point the light was changing and I didn't care. My next challenge was not to be mashed by the next car in the MUNI-only bus lane. She finally backed up and it was clear she had no idea where she was going or what she was doing. Why don't these people come out at night and leave us alone? The next morning was the one Mr Cheez brought me the Burrito of Death. He parked his bike on Cyril Magnin in proper fashion to pop in for the fast food order. When he came out, a boutique-y black pickup truck was jammed in behind him at 45 degrees (all the better for a careening tour bus or Turban Taxi to ram and send flying) so he can't get out. He made some comment about how people park. She went off waving her Vidal Sassoon Out of a Bottle Straight Blonde Hair with the Fuck You Oh Just Fuck You Routine. He reminded her how adult she was being. About this time she got her fashion victim heel wet in some bumbarf and started doing that little dance they do when you know they are going to fall on their ass and _they_ know they are going to fall on their ass. And she did. She was a mess and had completely run out of Fuck Yous, got in her trendy wagon and squealed down the street as fast as she could. I hope her croissant was dry and her coffee as bitter. =================================================================