Monday, February 29, 2016

Mykel Through the Looking Glass or Mykel Board's Post MRR Column no. 30





Mykel's
Post MRR Column no 30
Mykel Through The Looking Glass

by Mykel Board

There is no sky in New York. In normal places, if you want to know the weather, you look out the window.... see clouds... blowing trees boughs... a blue... grey... or rumbling black sky. There is frost on the window... or raindrops... or a glare of bright sun. Your hand through an open window will tell you the temperature. New York doesn't work like that.

There is no sky in New York. Our view from the window is another window... a set of windows... if we're lucky, a sidewalk and street. Maybe I can match what other people are wearing. Heavy coats? Shorts? Windbreakers? Are they carrying umbrellas? How did they know what to wear? Did they look out the window and see what others were wearing? And before them... those who they saw... did THEY look out the window and match what they saw? And back and back. Who was the first? Will I be dressing for last week's weather? Last month's?

Maybe they checked the Internet. That's what I'm gonna do.... weather dot com. I need a screen, a sheet of e-glass between me and the information. Then, I'll know.

While I'm on the computer anyway, I.M.A.W.C.F.B. (I Might As Well Check Facebook). What the fuck? NAÏVE is gonna be playing in Brooklyn. Yes, that NAÏVE! The best thing to come out of Russia since Vodka. SWITCH BLADE KNAIF on Maximum Rock'n'Roll Records... the answer to How Much Punk Rock Do You Hear in Russia?

Naïve is one of those bands I've never seen, and never imagined I could see. I first heard about them when Max, the bass player at the time, stayed on my couch with Olga. They were pimping Moscow Rock Laboratories, a Russian organization promoting Russian Rock... mostly punkrock. Max is no longer in the band, but I think he's organizing their US tour.

P.M.O.T.G.L.P.O. (Put Me On The Guest List Plus One) I text to him. Wow, 25 years later, I'm gonna see NAÏVE! Yowsah! After that, I check my various pages, see what Sid Yiddish is up to, then...

While I'm on the computer anyway, I.M.A.W.J.O. (I Might As Well Jerk Off) so it's off to xhamster.com to try the always futile Asian Bisexual search. As usual, there are only a couple girl-girl-boy videos... nothing else. I don't get it. Isn't Asia all about the middle path? Being centered? How come they're so prissy that they only do all het or all homo... nothing in the middle? These are the folks who invented bukkake, for G-d's sake! And they can't stuff a twat while sucking a stiffy?

I settle for The Germans... they'll do anything. I watch through the screen as two young guys diddle a girl with equine teeth and a feline body. They also diddle each other... After I wipe up and zip up, I leave for work... teaching Orientals how to speak English. I wish there were something else I could teach 'em... I'd get fired.

As I walk the short distance from my apartment building to the subway, I consider what just passed in my life. I checked the weather. Found out and (I hope) reserved a place at a punk show, had a bisexual orgasm, all the while not getting up from my chair in front of my computer. Isn't that convenient... and sick? I didn't interact with another human being. I heard no voice, touched no skin, saw no familiar faces... J.A.F.W.O.I.B.G. (Just A Fake World Of Initials Behind Glass). There's something wrong there.

On the subway, I look around me and see the commuters. Suited businessmen... bearded hipsters... colored people, mostly dressed to clean up someone else's mess. A couple of them-- in ties-- probably work at banks... as tellers. They tell their friends “I'm a banker.” A few Orientals... Chinese.. carry big plastic shopping bags. The whole multi-colored crew of them are looking at their smart phones, tapping on the glass screens.

A girl in the corner, by the door... thumbs flailing... sneers as she presses ever harder on the iPhone glass. A colored guy, huge headphones connected to his iSomething, taps his feet to the hip hop blasting so loud into his ears that I can hear it at the other end of the car. Sitting next to me, a hipster in headphones... who I expect is also Spotifying... tries to line up three matching candybars. W.T.F?

FLASH AHEAD TWO WEEKS: I take the subway to Brooklyn... Bedford Street... first stop in the world's hipsterist borough. Climbing out of the subway... 6th Street exit...,I see this white guy... with no beard... no facial hair at all. This is Brooklyn! And there's a white guy with no facial hair. (No, he's not 12 years old.)

We walk in the same direction, I keep slightly behind the guy to see if we're going to the same place. We are. It's the Music Hall of Williamsburg... there are a ton of people outside... very few beards... even on the men. There are big people... big blond people... tons of them. Mostly in their 30s and 40s. They're fashionably dressed. Girls with tight things that show off the good parts. Guys with long smooth coats... cashmere or something else expensive... as clean as a post-bidet asshole. This is a punk show?

I wait on the guestlist line... the only person not speaking a language with backward R's... and H's that mean N's. The guestlist window is also the regular ticket window, where people are paying $80 a pop! $80???? I've never paid that much to see any concert... ever!

I'm on the guestlist,” I tell the attractive blond guy at the ticket window. “Lucky too, 'cause admission would be three day's rent.”

He laughs like he knows what I'm talking about. Then checks the guest list. I'm not on it.
Wait just a minute,” he says, “I'll call Natasha and check.”

He pushes some numbers on his iPhone. Outside the club, a thin blond girl, wearing a fake leopard skin coat, answers her cellphone.

Hold on,” she says, “I'll call Igor and check.”

Are you talking to that girl?” I ask the guy behind the glass.

He nods.

I walk over to her... tap her on the shoulder.

Hi,” I say. “My name's Mykel. Max, he's the tour manager... I think... used to play bass for Naïve... put me on the guest list.”

She looks at me... taps her cellphone some more. The guy behind the window about three feet away answers his cellphone.

He's okay,” she says. I thank her, walk back to the window, pick up my ticket... and explain that my friend Topher will be coming later for the Plus One. He taps Topher's name into his cellphone and waves me on.

Upstairs inside the club is the V.I.P. (Vacuous Insipid People) lounge. Everyone is sitting at tables texting to someone else... probably someone sitting next to them. I go downstairs where there are no tables.


Still, there are too many faces bathed in that unearthly iPhone light. But wait a second... I know that one.

Yes, it's her! Katja! I met her at CBGB in the 80s. She said she was studying to be an actress. I don't go to movies so I don't know if she ever made it.

I do know we went home together... She's got a twat like a bear trap... able to do muscle tricks I never saw or felt before. And me? I was Mr. Stud, that night... Gave her an orgasm... a meteor shower of an orgasm... a screaming-wake-the-neighbors orgasm... the kind you write home about (to Bro , not Mom or Dad). Hooey!

Well, here she is again, the faint glow of her iPhone showing blue on her somewhat fallen face... 35 years can do that.

The band is on stage and she's on facebook or some shit. Thumbs thwacking the screen. Not even using the phone to video the band... but ignoring the band, probably to tell her friends she's out in Brooklyn seeing the band.

Katja!” I shout to her over the music.

She looks up. Gives me a squint... then a hint of recognition.

Mykel?” she says, “it's been awhile. Great show isn't it?”

I can't resist asking: “How could you know? You're looking at your Apple or your Android or your Microsoft. There's a show... there!” I point to the stage.

I know,” she says. “I'm talking with my boyfriend about it right now... facebook chat.”

Don't you remember our time together?” I ask her. “That was real! Not through a screen, but face to face... skin to skin... You had the orga... experience to top all others!”

Best acting job of my life,” she says.

It feels like a punch.

And speaking of Microsoft,” she continues, “how's your penis?”

I feel a tap on my back... an arm around my chest... Uh oh, someone who doesn't like me, found me... Nope, it's TOPHER, and his real live Russian pal ANDREI. Andrei?

Did you pay EIGHTY DOLLARS to see this show?” I ask him.

He nods.

I grew up with Naïve,” he says. “I couldn't miss this chance.”

Andrei disappears and returns with beer for himself, Topher and me... three bottles. I don't catch the brand name, but the glass is brown and beer slightly IPA tasting... not Bud Lite.

It is the greatest show I've seen all year. The crowd singing along... Andrei knows every word to every song. They're all pogoing to the music... a direct experience... no glass... only Katja, still at the side... still texting... still missing the fun. It's a long set. After every three or so songs, Andrei disappears for a few seconds... only to return with another trio of beers.

Everything's in Russian. Everyone except Topher and me is Russian! The singer wears a black and white suit halfway between jail and circus. The drummer looks like Johnny Thunders. The band can carry on... and it does.

When the next band comes on.. it's a letdown. Some brooding electronic crap that just lacks real punk power. Topher, Andrei and I head downstairs. We're all plastered.

Topher slumps, head resting on his arms... outstretched on the bar... near dead... or so it looks. Andrei raises a hand to catch the bartendress’s eye.

Kai hap tree maw beeeerz?” he asks.

Sorry,” says the bartendress, a busty brunette with more cleavage than the ten commandment tablets , “I don't speak Russian.”

With great effort, I lift my head to meet her eyes. “I shink 'e wantsh tree maw boddles za beer.” I translate.

She brings the beer, setting one bottle in front of each of us. Topher's head, resting on his arm... with a thin trail of drool leading from his mouth to the bartop... looks large and distorted-- lightbulb shaped-- through the brown glass of my beer bottle.

W.C.G.A.F.L.T.G! (We Can't Get Away From Looking Through Glass),” I shout! It's the last thing I remember.


ENDNOTES: [You can contact me by email at god@mykelboard.com. Through the post office: send those... er... private DVDs..or music or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to: Mykel Board, POB 137, New York, NY 10012-0003. If you like my writing, you can be notified when anything new is available by subscribing to the MYKEL'S READERS Yahoo group readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

-->Proving the Point Dept: Last month I wrote about the Free The Nipple movement, seeking to bring equality to public displays of naked chests. The group complains about local requirements that men can go bare-chested and women have to cover their round hard parts.
As if to prove the point, a student newspaper in Missoula Missouri was censored by school officials for reporting on the group... using pictures of topless men and women. In censoring the paper, the school district said, “school-sponsored publications and productions are part of the curriculum and are not a public forum for general student use. ... Such materials may not be libelous, obscene, or profane nor may they cause a substantial disruption of the school, invade the privacy of others ... or advocate the violation of a law."
Translation: No girl tits.

Oy vey dept: A group of Orthodox Jews rejected the promotion of homosexuality inherent in Gay Pride Day. They wanted to officially object to the event, but were afraid to send young Jews to protest, because they may be infected by the gay message. So what did they do?
They hired Mexican day laborers to dress in talit and payos. The proxy protesters were giving signs like: Today Man Marries Man, Tomorrow Unholy Union With His Mother. No word if the Mexicans were contaminated by the homotude around them.

-->Further on the homo-front dept: In another great display of Southern intelligence, a TV viewer in Little Rock Arkansas complained to the local NBC affiliate there. The reason? The NBC peacock... and its multi-colored feathers... clearly a rainbow sign supporting gay culture and the gay agenda. Said the viewer, “I'm switching to ABC.” Yeah! That'll show 'em!

Keeping the Pressure on Dept: I want to thank reader George Metesky for suggesting a continuing Bring Back Mykel effort directed at Maximum Rock'n'Roll for censoring me.
As their revolving editrixes move on to commercial ventures, each blames her predecessors for my demise... as if they had no control over the business... and couldn't simply invite me back.
Send your comments to mrr@maximumrocknroll.com (or post on their facebook page) with the subject line: BRING BACK MYKEL! Let me know how they answer.

-end-