ROYAL RESIDENCE 22 ================================================================= 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 22. One of my loyal boosters writes-- Paul, Please, please, please don't stop writing. I'm trapped in the life of a suburban breeder patriarch and your posts are the only thing to remind me that humanity is not one huge expanse of techno-geeks and their rug-rats chasing the brass ring of the golden IPO. I've gone to the gay-day parade several times in different capacities and I'm really looking forward to your notes on the goings-on. I know you'll have a perspective all your own that will be full of insight and wit. The first time I went it was as the companion of my room-mate the lesbian nurse. We got to carry first-aid kits and wear tee-shirts and my, but didn't I feel special. And you can be sure grandpa was shocked when grandma did my laundry and found the shirt. The conversation that ensued deserves a letter all its own. A few years later I went as the crew member of a friend who wanted to video tape all the lesbians dancing in the street with their shirts off. I think the high point of that day was when some guy put a dollar bill in my back pocket as we made our way through Civic Center plaza laiden with video equipment. I never did get a chance to go back and find out what he thought he was paying for. Maybe the sight of two cute boys waiting on a bear with a video camera did something for him... But enough about me, will you promise me that you'll keep writing? I really was serious when I said you should be the one to take Herb Caen's place. It doesn't matter that you're not the one to do these things you write about, it's your take on them that I enjoy. Please don't stop or I'll have to grovel some more. Well, first off, I won't completely quit writing but I may have a famine now and then. To paraphrase some smartalec newscaster, if you don't like what I write (or there isn't enough of it), plan to do something outrageous and then tell me where to be. About that dollar bill tucked into your pocket at Civic Center: Chances are the guy wanted to hire you -- but probably not to videotape anything, if you get what I mean. You guys check out this stuff from Misc.Handicap-- My problem is I really don't want to become an activist, pacific or miliant. But it is really aggravating to try to get around in this world. The cities and businesses think they are handicap accessible because they have ramps. But that doesn't mean everything else they have is accessible. I know its not good, but I am getting to the point that I would prefer staying home than to go to the trouble to load my wheel chair then put up with the difficulty of moving around. My wife and I have always loved shopping but now it is too much trouble. I have only been this way for about a year or so, so I am still trying to figure all this out. I don't mean to sound like a whiner, but I would like some insight from those who have learned to cope with getting out and enjoying themselves. A European comments-- I've been in a wheelchair for 17 years, since I was 17 and had a car accident. Believe me it will get better, I mean, you will get used to getting around. I've been twice to your country (US) and was able to have a wonderful time even in places like Magic Kingdom, New York, etc. Give yourself some time and go for it. You can, believe me! I shook my finger at him thus-- What really, really gets to me is the attitude of the true bipeds in public. They will not get out of the way! They don't realize that a powered wheelchair is a vehicle in much the same sense as a small car and that if they do something stupid around it (like step over my footrest while I am negotating a curb ramp!) they can get hurt or hurt me or cause property damage. The hassle I had to get insurance to spring for this chair so I could be independent convinces me I had better take care of it. All I need is for some bunny to help me wreck it. I have no qualms at all about finding an employee in Walgreens, etc, and asking for assistance when I want something too far away for me to reach. One day I got so damned mad at a display which trapped me in an aisle that I used my footrest in the manner of a crude forklift to shove the blasted thing out of my way -- and I let the manager know I was displeased. Ask uncooperative managers (don't bother with clerks) what they think the fire marshall would say about this or that obstruction. Watch the manager's face. You'll see wheels turn that haven't moved in weeks! You must be militant. Firmly (and as politely as you can make yourself be) tell people who are in the way to give you the space you need. Most people have no clue to what life on wheels is all about. Some of them think my running around faster than they can walk is neat and somehow recreational. It's a match of wits with inattentive pedestrians every step or revolution of the way. I especially look out for young women in black "Flash Dance" leg warmers. They are mainly about as dumb as a box of rocks and about as cooperative. Learn to maneuver your chair expertly. But above all, politely and firmly speak up for yourself. Find out where the driveways and properly designed curb ramps are you feel comfortable using and develop a route. Don't let people push you around. You're not entitled to put them in danger or to commit assault, but you have as many rights as they do. This being a tourist trap town, I remind at least two broods of tourons every week that the curb ramps were lobbied for by us gimps and they are not there primarily for strollers and wheeled luggage. But we should be nice and let them use the ramps when we don't need them So, anyway, this milquetoast didn't reply and is probably upset because I told him to stand up for himself. Jesus, if you can't raise whining and being a pussy to an art form as I have, shut up and leave the room! Mr Cheez was somewhat upset this morning. As he splashed soapy water on my back and performed other ablutions, he ranted about Fairy Butch Bitch, the emcee for the dykearama last night at the club. Seems FBB plopped down several hundred dollars with the doormen as a bank for making change. She/it intended to take the whole door proceeds (at seven dollars a pop) less US$50 (for her bar tab...?) as her fee for whatever the hell it is she does besides holler, be disgustingly fat, sickeningly ugly, and belligerent. Mr Cheez reminded her than the band book said she would get a straight (!) percentage of the door and that the band book was bible. FBB could've broken Mr Cheez into matchsticks, but probably not before he had performed at least a partial hysterectomy. She must have sensed this and so backed down. The dykeathon was just the thing to disgust all straight men. Taxi drivers often deliver out-of-towners to various nightclubs when the clients ask to be taken to a good place. Du Nord gets its share of this trade. Last night Mr Cheez was amused to see a cab discharge three hettie men from Oklahoma. Mr Cheez cautioned them on the bizarre goings-on down those thirteen steps. They thought it would be a hoot to see a bunch of muffdivers on holiday, so they paid their seven bucks each and went in. While there, one of them saw a womyn he knew from back home. She left Oklahoma with the reputation of being a normal. She's going back after this celebretory weekend as a card-carrying lesbian. The guy who knows her thinks this is just what the wagging tongues in their town need for new fodder. Here you have a room full of lesbians, some small and boyish; then you have their counterparts who are huge and elephantine. The more masculine-identified among them smoke cigars as they hoot and cheer the female strippers. You'da thunk it was an Elk's Club smoker if it weren't for the faint aroma of a fish market. Here we have another concept taken so far to one extreme that it becomes the opposite extreme. We have womyn sexually objectifying other womyn just like those nasty, disgusting dickhead men do! The young ladies who go by van from club to club to sell cigars and cigarettes to the patrons arrived. They probably did all right because Fairy Butch Bitch had a burning dog turd in her maw bigger than anyone else's. I should imagine the young lady who offered-- Cigars ... cigarettes ... dildos ... --cleaned up down there. I should imagine she got pinched, felt up, and tongued (at least in the ear) quite a bit. Those womyn can be such sexist pigs when they're horny and having a good time. I took Mr Cheez's exposed film to Walgreens for finishing. I had the one-hour hour to wait and so parked myself among the news racks at the foot of Powell Street, all the better to observe tourons and morons. Aunt Esther was back. She took up her podium by the escalators to/from the underground rail station and began alternately haranguing nobody and some Filipino guy next to her. I wanted to hear more clearly what she was carrying on about so I moved across the plaza and parked about six feet from her. She didn't care for this at all. She turned her attention to me and spake unto me thusly-- Who da fuck you thank you is, you honky muthuhfuckuh? Get yore one-legged stank ass outta here an' doan be fuckin' wid me! Look atchou! De debbil done had his way witchou and you all used up an' ain't good fer nuffin'. Who you tink you is comin' ovah heah an' messin' wid me? I seen you ovah deah an' now you be comin' ovah heah to mess wid me. I avoided her crazed gaze and continued to look at cute boys and outlandishly ugly black people. I assumed the pose Mr Cheez finds irresistably queenly and which causes him to leap to his feet to open doors and move chairs which are in my path. Aunt Esther was just getting her main wind-- My JEEEEEzuz done tole me you is fum de debbil an' you ain't got NO powr ovah me but Ah gots powr ovah you. Ah goan come rip thuh othuh FAT laig offah you an' have thuh cops take you away fo' fuckin' wid me. You jess ax any-a dese PO- leeses -- dey knows me an' dey's mah frens an' deys goan git chou. About this time a pair of SF's finest ambled by and said, Hello, Mary. Mary Blaine is her real name, but I prefer to refer to her as Aunt Esther from Sanford & Son because she looks the part and sounds it. The only thing she hasn't called me is a fish-eyed fool. Look atchou wif yore fat stank ass sittin' dere fuckin' wid me, ole one-legged no-good honky-ass crackuh! God tole me Ah got de powr throo JEEEEEzuz an' you cain't do nuffin' 'bout it. JEEEEEzuz done gived me da vic-toe-ree an' if you was of God day would'n'a ripped off yore laig an' made yo' ass good fuh nuffin'. You done lost de war. De war been ovah fuh a huntert yeaz and you done lost it, honky muthuhfuckuh one-legged good-fer-nuffin fool! Vy this time I just have a terrible shit-eating I-don't-believe- this-crap grin on. Aunt Esther must've gotten tired of ranting at me because she retired to the other side of the plaza by the news racks. She had nothing more to say. I, Da Kaween, had prevailed and taken her space. I looked at the stick-on clock on my wheelchair and saw it was time to get the pictures. As I rolled by, I told Auntie Esther thanks for the entertainment. Doantchou fuck wid me you fat one-laig no-good debbil. You done lost de war an' Ah gots da powr-a JEEEEEzuz an' you doan't and you jess git outtah here a-fore Ah calls mah frenz da PO-leeses an' dey come an' takes you... I left her still jabbering away. =================================================================