ROYAL RESIDENCE 23 = Including SF Fag Parade Coverage

[Paul Ess]

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THE ROYAL RESIDENCE
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[ You can write to me at <pau...@sirius.com> 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 <chap...@tcd.net>. ]

This is episode 23. WARNING: If you print this rant to share
with the computer-impaired, use an old dot matrix printer you
don't mind seeing melt -- and use asbestos sheet in place of
paper.

Sunday was the day of the San Francisco Gay, Lesbian &
Transgender Pride Parade aka the June Freak Show. Aha! you say -
- Da Kaween is full of self-hatred for being a faggot! Ergo, Da
Kaween is probably also full of self-hatred for being a one-
legged messed-up gimp. No, no and NO. First, I enjoy being a
dicksmoker. I think being queer is often accompanied by a
sensitivity for the ironic and a longing for fellowship not known
in the majority of straight people. Second, I don't mind being
one-legged, or having what is the minor inconvenience of managing
diabetes. What gets to me is the bullshit which comes with it of
having to contend with people who, when confronted with a
wheelchair, act as though they left their brain in their other
pants. I do get pissed at the peripheral nerve pain I sometimes
have and the cataracts forming which are making it increasingly
difficult for me to use Windoze-based programs. (I use an MS/DOS
word processor to type this crap.)

One of my loyal subjects takes issue with my forward stance as a
gimp in public--

Hi Paul,

I just read RR-22 and I have to tell you I'm uncomfortable with
the first part. You are setting yourself up to be The Voice of
the Disabled Community for a lot of tasteless people, and the
thing is, you're not representing *my* viewpoint very well at
all. It's easy to advise someone to be assertive,
confrontational, blah blah blah. But the thing you may not be
thinking of is, you appear to have a lot of energy. You're not
trying to move an entire body with 1/8th of its total muscle
groups. You can take a deep breath. You can cough unassisted.
See, me and many other disabled people can't do those things and
we simply don't have the energy to get into several battles every
time we leave our doors. I for one have to pick my fights
carefully becuase one big hassle will exhaust me, and if I have
two I may have to struggle that evening to feed myself
independently, or would be unable to do something relaxing or fun
that evening. Do you see my point? Some of us want to reserve
our severely limited energies for positive, enjoyable activities
and we can't afford to spend it on curbcut hassles, etc.
Also, some disabled people have spouses / partners / caregivers
who don't want to witness (or be identified with by proximity) a
nasty scene or three every time they go out to have a Good Time.
Many of us are on relationship precipices and can't afford
publicly embarrassing behaviors that make our companions shrink
away even further.

I would much prefer to see you advocating for the people reading
the RR series to take a careful look at their surroundings when
THEY go out and ask themselves: Could Pauless get in here? Are
people wrongly using facilities designated for people with
disabilities? And if the answers are unacceptable, then the
TABs (temporarily able bodied) should go forth and make some
complaints. That way it's not always ppl in wheelchairs whining
about no access, it's an ambulatory patron saying his friend
can't come here and spend $$$ and he may take his biznezz
elsewhere.

end of rant.......

My loyal reader puts up with conditions I don't have to deal
with. She is dead on that the TABs -- bipeds, I call them --
need to squawk, too. Whatever you guys do to promote easy access
for us will make things easier for you as well. Why does there
need to be one or two "decorative" steps in front of this or that
portal when a ramp porch would have worked as well and would have
served everyone? The proprietor, likely as not, will have to
have watch-your-step signs and an insurance rider on his doorstep
thang in case someone missteps and falls down because he or she
expected the threshold to be level as they usually are.

At San Francisco Shopping Centre, the doors on Market Street are
without steps and are wide enough to admit even wide wheelchairs.
The problem with them is that they are massive solid brass and
glass and are difficult to handle from a sitting position. The
doors on Fifth Street are the same but there is usually a
security thrall there to open the door. On this side there are
steps inside and a US$10,000 lift for wheelchairs. This is quite
good and proper accessibility provided everything goes according
to plan. It would have been cheaper and more direct to equip a
pair of Market Street (level) doors with a blue handicapped
button to trigger motors to open the doors.

A couple blocks away the FAO Schwarz Toy Store's main floor is
lower than the surrounding sidewalk. Bipeds walk down three
steps inside. Gimps use a cleverly designed L-shaped ramp to the
side. In the crook of the L is a pleasant merchandising area.
The installation of this ramp took almost no sales space because
it was done well. On the lower level of SF Centre, there is
another expensive lift at the side of steps to the transit
station. There is plenty of room for a folded ramp instead of
this lift which my experience has shown to be unreliable. You
budding architects need a gimp on your staff to opine on your
accessibility schemes. Just because it says thus and so in the
ADA doesn't mean it works.

I called the June Freak Show office to find out whether they had
a section set aside for gimps so that we could see the craziness
unfettered. They did and said to go to Market and Sansome
Streets by ten o'clock (an hour before start time) because the
reservation list was full and they would fill in the no-show
spots from a stand-by list.

When we arrived at the gimp section, we found no one in charge
much less calling names or confirming reservations. What we did
find was that the potty line passed directly behind the gimp row.
It was nice to have an audience of sorts. I got some compliments
on my hat designed by Mr Cheez. He took a plain black baseball
hat and sprayed it with glue and covered it with glitter. It was
F A B U L O U S.

What Imelda Marcos is to shoes, Jan Wahl, film critic for KRON-TV
is to hats. She was in the parade in an open car and saw my hat
glittering away in the sun. We waved at each other. To set off
my hat I had attached a pair of miniature handcuffs and the one-
inch jade penis which my detractors say was modeled from life.
Around my neck I had a purple segmented chain and a chromium-
plated bead chain with my silver pacifier dangling. I realize
this paraphenalia gives a plethora of mixed signals. I'm
versatile, so fuck me.

I also noticed that the handicapped-accessible porta-potty was
level with the ground. Here is a perfect example of an item
built two ways depending upon whether you can crawl into a
cramped little outhouse a foot off the ground or have to roll in.
Why did these plastic shit houses ever have to be built up off
the ground to begin with? -- it is conclusively proven they don't
have to be. You bipeds may now begin to whine and bitch and
march for universally-accessible turd temples. Go on! Get to
it!

The Eighth Wonder of the World is not the Luxor gambling parlor
in Lost Wages but the ability of the SFPD to barricade both sides
of two miles of Market Street continuously. We wonder where do
these fences sit when they aren't in use. It must be a big
warehouse. The gimp section didn't have barricades. I guess we
were on our honor not to fire up our hand controls and charge a
homely drag queen or try to catch a well-hung hunk. Electric
wheelchairs are handy for your friends. A canvas sack on the
back of my chair serves as a trunk [ boot ] for everybody else's
stuffez. I carted two small folding stools for Mr Cheez and
Mikey the Hettie to sit on. I also had a tin box of 150 cookies
hung on back there. Party hearty!

As we waited the hour before the official start of the parade, we
noted several wags had climbed on top a bus shelter across the
street to have a perfect view of the craziness. Another nearby
group must not have gotten it out of their system completely at
Club Universe because they had a boombox throbbing out disco.
Disco is back. No fashionable fag can live without it -- again!
We old queens got over it twenty years ago but the young bunnies
have brought it back. Damn. Where are my earplugs...? There
were at least a half dozen merchandise carts on the loose vending
queer junques such as Cat-in-the-Hat style stovepipe hats in
rainbow colors, two-foot plastic trumpets (they make an awful
noise but they sure do work), and rainbow flags. One of the
madly discoing dykes across the street had a multi-colored
harlequin hat I could have killed her for.

This parade always begins with the Dykes on Bikes. There were at
least a hundred big-titted mamas on Harleys and such, often with
their girlfriend riding along behind. Mikey the Hetties was
there specifically to see the Dykes because some of them ride
bare-chested and Mikey is a titty freak to end all titty freaks.
He got his eyes full but should have stayed around for the women
against breast cancer troupe. They came along the barricades
shaking their cans for donations. The one who hustled us had the
best pair of pink watermelons I have seen in years. Mr Cheez
shut hus eyes for fear of being blinded by the sight. I was
thinderstruck. Hell, I thought I had areolae and tittyballs. My
charms are those of a four year-old compared to this mama with
her five-gallon jugs, saucer areolae and fig-sized titties.
Eeeeek.

I saw my first female cop lieutenant. She was just a-bossin' all
the fellas around. The cop assigned to our sector was Chinese
and quite a cutie. Also hanging around nearby were a whiteboy
and an exotic who appeared to be Mongol or Russian. Both Mr
Cheez and I were considering what we might do to get a deep
cavity search. I thought they weren't going to fence in us gimps
but the Chinese cop finally came by with a roll of yellow tape
and tied us up (I wish). One of the first bunches to show up
after the Dykes on Bikes were the Mikes on Bikes. (I heard there
was a group later on of lesbian golfers who called themselves
Dykes on Spikes.) After these two groups we waited ten minutes
for anything else. Some impatient souls across the street began
chanting--

Two four six eight,
We hate the fucking wait!

Then here came three people with a banner saying they were the
co-chairpersons of the parade committee. I wondered if they were
three ruffians from the Tenderloin. They couldn't hold the
banner straight (pardon the expression) and they were quite
scruffy -- not the sort of image you'd think leaders of anything
would want to set forth. I was wondering where was the grand
marshall. Don't parades have a grand marshall? Where was Da
Mayor? Did ole Fancy-pants take off for Hong Kong again? I
mean, some of us might want to recall his powdered and plucked
ass but this is not excuse for him to stiff the fag constituency.
The A-Gays must like him at least even if he does nothing for us
poor queens, not even send a form postcard when we write him a
serious and respectful letter.

Mikey had to remind me that Willie, Da Mayor, did something for
all us poor people. He fixed the MUNI, the buses. It used to be
that you could get a printed schedule book showing, for example,
that the 27-Bryant came by Point Z at 10:27, 10:37, 10:47 and
10:57, etc. Da Mayor fixed that because they weren't doing it.
He decreed the MUNI schedule will show, for example, the 27-
Bryant runs every ten minutes. Gee, Willie, why is it Miss Kooky
stands in the evening winds for 45 minutes chilling her girdle
waiting on one?

Meanwhile, back at the parade... By this time all sorts of
bipeds and their spawn of Satan have infiltrated the gimp
section, causing Mr Cheez and me to move further up against the
tape. We had three fat obnoxious lesbians next to us who went
into brainless jerk mode whenever a float came by with disco
pounding. An hour into the parade proper the dykes were about
three rainbow sheets to the wind from the Zema they were guzzling
out of naked cans. Where is the fucking Chinese cop? Why isn't
he hauling them away for public drunkenness and imbibing from an
open container? Oh, I get it: The cops are there to stand
around in clumps and be letched by the uniform queens.

The day was saved (barely) by the scampering drag queens and
mostly-naked hot men on the flatbed trucks and tired "cable cars"
(take 'tired' any way you want). Everybody says the parade is
too commercial. Shit, if it weren't for the troupes and the
thrown-together "floats" sponsored by gay-owned/patronized
businesses, the whole thing would degenerate into a political
sideshow, chiefly for lesbian causes. The males still know how
to have fun at this clambake but the lesbians are making it into
a Mommy Dearest harangue with all their causes and their
nastiness.

Meanwhile, the Three Disgraces next to us are boogie-ing and
hollering to the point where I am about deaf and Mr Cheez is
about to be knocked off his seat. What is it with fat black
womyn? Do they all get a Mexican jumping bean planted in their
taco at birth so they can't ever sit or stand still? How do we
get out of here? The space for the potty line doesn't exist.
It's all been taken up by eight or ten-deep hordes of normals
gawking. I have had to tell one rugrat three times to quit
climbing on the back of my wheelchair. At least three dykes --
decent ones -- have insinuated themselves into sitting on the
pavement in front of me so they can be First.

I gave the dykes two seconds to get their munchable parts up off
the floor cuz Da Kaween is blowing this popstand. I lifted the
yellow ribbon and moved out. Mr Cheez yelled at me to wait for
him. He put his seat and his leather jacket (on which he sat
lest it grow legs and boogie off into the sunset) in the trunk
and off we went looking for a break in the barricades. We had to
go two blocks to find one.

We never did connect with The Concubine who slaved her tits over
a hot stove all week making chocolate chip and oatmeal cookies to
sell at the parade. Theoretically, at least, Concubine sold the
first half and made maybe US$150. We still have the other half
of the warehouse on my chair. Mr Cheez bankrolled the Cookie
Caper and was looking like a nervous banker who'd just let a
mortgage for a trailer park.

All the while there had been these scraggly-ass parade people
running around looking officious in their wadded-looking yellow
and purple teeshirts proclaiming themselves SAFETY CO-CHAIR or
MEDICAL CO-CHAIR respectively. I implored Mr Cheez that if I had
a heart attack, don't call the queens in purple. Oh, I get it:
Everybody as co-boss. No wonder this parade sucked so bad; it
was truly the product of a committee of committees! None of the
officious queens, yellow or purple, could help us. They said go
see the cops. The cops kept telling us to go farther. This is a
dangerous thing to tell anyone at the annual freak show...
Finally we found a break at Third Street and practically had to
beg the coonlets to get out of the fucking way.

Well, we were there an hour early for nothing, and we endured two
hours of parade proper for not very much reward. It went on for
two hours more. They said the spectator count this year was a
cool half million. I wouldn't be surprised. Even if it totaled
only half that, why did we have to be surrounded by the rudest
people there? The Concubine never did come get the second half
of the cookie inventory. As for Mr Cheez and me, we will hole up
in the Royal Residence next year in front of the teevee and let
Miss Gabbert, the queen who owns Channel 20, gush all about it as
her cameras point and stare. We will drink exotic nectars and
consume rare sweetmeats in royal comfort. No longer will we in
some outmoded spirit of oneness and fellowship mix with the
masses to cheer on the daring. We can truly say now we've been
there and done that.

Mr Cheez is donating the second half of the cookies to the
activities lady here at the RR for distribution to the residents.
It seems Concubine sold the first half and couldn't account for
the proceeds. They should have grossed about $300 from this
venture and Cheez should have recouped his grubstake for the
ingredients at least. I think Concubine got with her street
urchin girfrens and had a meth party. Concubine made up some
lame story, got found out, and has been kicked out of the palace.
Tony's Famous Cookies are history as is Tonnetta Concubine
herself. It's a shame, really. Concubine and Mr Cheez had a
great symbiosis going even if Concubine sometimes worked magick
by making things disappear... Mr Cheez put up with this to a
point but US$150 in one swoop was too much. Mr Cheez threw her
and her shit out. The locks have been changed.

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Paul Ess
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Reply to: pau...@sirius.com
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