Tuesday, September 27, 2016

System Upgrade or or Mykel Board's Post MRR Column no. 38



Mykel's
Post MRR Column no 38

SYSTEM UPGRADE

"Science and technology would be used as though, like the Sabbath, they had been made for man, not (as at present and still more so in the Brave New World) as though man were to be adapted and enslaved to them.” --Brave New World, introduction

The more difficult a place is to pronounce, the more likely it'll be an adventure. --Mykel Board

I start this blog on a ferry boat about 50 miles north of the Arctic Circle... temporarily in port in Sisimut, the second largest city in Greenland. It's September 17 and I'm happier than a whore at a frathouse... on my way to Aassiaat, and then to Qeqertarsuaq.

Greenland is so far away from the horror of American politics that I could kiss it. No internet here. (Though if I wanted to pay $8 for a half hour, I could get the spotty connection on the boat.)

Right now, I'm on board. The boat is half tourists... mostly Danes. The rest are Eskimos or in PC talk Inuit.

[Crazy, as usual. The derivation of Eskimo is “raw meat eater.” The derivation of Inuit is... people. Of course Inuits are people... so is everyone. And they do eat raw meat... Many other people do not. And, I'm happy to hear, like American Indians with the word Indian, Eskimos are perfectly happy calling themselves Eskimos. It's only the guilty whiteman who insists on Inuit. Though I hear it's different in Canada.]

The only things annoying are technology that I brought from home. My little computer keeps beeping at me to update the virus database and send crash reports to Microsoft. My cellphone tells me to plug it in for a recharge, when I'm off in the middle of the Arctic Ocean looking at an iceberg. What am I supposed to do... shove the power cord up my ass? That might be pleasant for me, but I doubt the phone will get a charge out of it.

It's maddening. These time-saving devices take more time to do what the boring old devices did instantaneously. I wonder how many weeks a year I lose waiting for loading webpages or buffering porno videos.

In the old days, I put a tape in the VCR. It started. I flipped a light switch. The light turned on. I opened a book and BANG! There it was-- all printed out for me.

If I were in the U.S. where the political seascape is so rough and wavy... where a TV reality star is running for president against a shill for the banking industry... where the president chooses to drop bombs on the guys fighting terrorism... where... I donno, the list never ends... If I were there, I'd long for a place like this-- as away from it all as you can get. If I didn't have Greenland, where would I go?

I know exactly where I'd go. It's a place that's both familiar and exotic. It's been awhile since I've visited there, but I've written about it before.

Let's try it. Through the power of writing POW! I'm back in New York. BANG! I'm in front of Chung's Pub just on the border of Chinatown and Soho. I go in the front door, greet the bartender.

Yo, Chung!” I say. “Long time no see.”

Hey Mykel,” he says. “You want a Brooklyn?”

Sure,” I say.

He pours the beer and sets it in front of me.

You want the out of order?” he asks in italics.

I nod, drink the beer and head for the men's room. The out of order stall is right where I expect it. The now-ragged sign taped to the door. I enter the stall and close the door. Then, I drop to my knees, go behind the toilet, and push against the wall. It opens to another mensroom on the other side. Waaaaay on the other side.

I'm in a mirror image toilet stall... The passage through has ironically loosened my bowels. What better place to have loose bowels than in a toilet stall? I drop trou, and pull up the toilet top. At least I TRY to pull up the toilet seat... it's stuck.

A robotic voice comes from somewhere... a speaker in the ceiling maybe.

Please wait to shit. Our plumbing system is updating. You'll soon receive the newest in safe water.

I squeeze my sphincter shut... then squeeze the gluteus maximus around the sphincter... hoping that provides a double layer of protection. Meanwhile, my bowels feel like they've been coffee enema-ed. I wait for a signal. In less time than it takes to run the NYC marathon, the voice is back.

Your plumbing has been up-dated, it says. Thank you for your patience.

I open the toilet top. Sit down. Explode with pleasure... a huge stink of a shit... right on the borderline of liquid and solid. A bold beer-shit of a shit. I flush... or I try to flush... nothing happens. The beer turds just float... the now-brown water in the bowl not in the least reacting to the pushing of the lever.

I jiggle the handle. I'm beginning to figure out this world I've entered. I close the top of the toilet again. Count to twenty; then open it and flush. KRRRRRR-SHLUUUUUIIII! Works like a dream.

I leave the mensroom, waving to Chung on the way out. It's only a dozen blocks uptown to my apartment... but it's cold out and I'm anxious to get home and see what my life is like in the new New York.

I head for the subway: the F-train. When I get to the station, there is a pink tape across the entrance. A notice hangs on the green lamp that is supposed to signal a working subway.

DUE TO A SOFTWARE CONFLICT BETWEEN THE SUBWAY AND BUS SYSTEM, THE SUBWAY IS NOT RUNNING AT THE MOMENT. THE MTA IS AWARE OF THIS PROBLEM AND IS WORKING WITH THE BUS MANUFACTURERS TO CORRECT IT. IN THE MEANTIME, AS A WORK-AROUND, WE SUGGEST YOU DISABLE YOUR SUBWAY EXPECTATIONS AND TAKE THE BUS. WE WILL NOTIFY YOU WHEN THE PROBLEM IS SOLVED. SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.

I walk.

It takes me about a half hour to get home. Opening my front door, I feel inside for the lightswitch. I flip it up. Nothing happens. I flip it down again... up again. Nothing.

I flip up the switch... wait... the lights glow faintly, then get brighter... in five-- maybe ten-- minutes they glow full force.

I take off my fedora... my trenchcoat... my Philippine army boots. Ah home! Then a stirring comes from behind me... a scratching... like a mouse in a cupboard. Some critter has gotten inside my shoes. My apartment often gets mice in the winter. It's warmer inside than on the streets of New York. A mouse in my boots is perfectly possible.

I walk over to them, ready to shake the critter out onto the floor. What falls to the floor, though is not a mouse... but a piece of paper. On the paper is written:SYSTEM CLOSEDOWN FAILURE. REBOOT NECESSARY.

I put the boots back on... check my watch... one minute. Then I take them off again.

No problem, this time.

Everything looks familiar in the apartment. Books and records where they should be. Porn cabinet closed and locked... Years of photo New Years cards barely stapled to the wall. Just like I left it.

The wooden ladder that leads to my sleeping loft looks a bit odd. I wonder if something has changed during the transition to this new world.

I walk over to it for a better look. The nails in the side seem loose. One or two of them are missing... very odd... and potentially dangerous.

Okay, off to the closet for hammer and nails. I'm enough of a DIY-guy that I can repair a ladder. I return to the ladder, lay it on its side. Next, I scatter nails of various sizes around and choose one slightly larger than the empty hole.

I insert the nail in the hole. When I pick up the hammer, I feel a tingling in my palm... at first just a light vibration... then warmth... then the handle grows hot. Then the same mechanical voice I heard earlier:

DON'T FORGET YOUR FREE UPGRADE: HAMMER TEN... NOW WITH THUMB-PROTECTION, INCLUDED FREE AS PART OF YOUR UPGRADE. TO UPGRADE NOW, JUST HIT ANY NAIL AND THE PROCESS WILL BEGIN.

I strike the nail I just inserted in the empty hole and bang it in with the hammer. The hammer grows hot again in my hand. I drop it to the floor. I see the wooden handle glow slightly red. I'm afraid it will burn, but the glow fades and the voice returns.

CONGRATULATIONS. YOUR HAMMER IS READY TO USE. AND... YOU ARE PROTECTED. AND NOW, YOU'LL HAVE A PERMANENT RECORD OF EVERY STRIKE... EVERY NAIL... THE TIME, LOCATION, LENGTH OF NAIL AND THE NUMBER OF TIMES YOU STRUCK IT. ALL IN ONE CONVENIENT PLACE... PROTECTED IN CYBERSPACE FOR YOUR PERMANENT RECORDS... AND OURS. PLEASE CHECK YOUR PRIVACY SETTINGS IF YOU DON'T WANT SEARS TO KEEP THIS INFORMATION. BE SURE TO AGREE TO OUR 25 MILLION WORD PRIVACY AGREEMENT. YOU CAN READ THE AGREEMENT SIMPLY BY SUBMERGING THE HAMMER IN SALTWATER FOR 25 HOURS. THEN DRYING IT IN AN OVEN HEATED TO 278OF. WE CARE ABOUT YOUR PRIVACY.

I pick up the hammer and prepare to finish the job. Then I notice that all the nails are gone. I had them placed around... in size order... ready to be chosen for the job... now they've disappeared.

I've had enough. It's back to Chung's Pub. I go in, wave hello to Chung. Head for the out of order stall, Duck under the toilet and push through the secret passageway. This time I do not come out in another mensroom in New York. I'm in the ferry cabin toilet... off the coast of Greenland... in a very rocky boat headed from Aasiaat to Quqertarsuaq on Disko Island. There is no wifi on the Island.

Oh yeah!


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]

-->It takes Greenland to know dept: Among the things I've learned here is that those polar-bear-stranded-on-floating-ice pictures are fakes. No, they're not photoshopped, but they're used in a lie.
Those bears are NOT stranded. They can and do swim well. It's just a common trick for the bears to catch a ride on the floating ice. Saves energy. They've been doing it for as long as there have been polar bears. They are not floating away... global warmed to a death by starvation. They're ice-surfing.

-->Pressure Cooker Dept: After two and a half lovely internet-free days on the ferry from Nuuk to Aasiaat... Inuaraq, my couch-surfing host meets me at the port.
“Hey Mykel,” he says. “I need to take you to my home.”
(I wish more people said that to me.)
“Sure,” I tell him. “My place is too far.”
He doesn't get it.
“And isn't it awful about what happened in New York? That explosion?”
“What????”
“Happily,” he tells me, “no one was killed.”
I'm glad I'm not in the the US right now, though I don't look forward to going through security on the way back.
This is just after Obama bombs Syrian troops-- killing 5 dozen-- after his Secretary of State engineered a “cease-fire.”
Maybe I'll just stay in Greenland. At least until after the election.

-->Stay on the lookout dept: In Denmark, I recorded a new song with The Cleanboys. Recording under the name THE BEND OVER BOYS the song is called IT'S PUNKROCK. Done from scratch in one evening... it really is punkrock. I'm not sure what will be done with it. It may see life as a 7”. I'll keep you posted.
If you're interested in my travel writing, you can follow it at: mykelsdiary.blogspot.com.

-->Ain't capitalism great dept: In the journal BIOETHICS a writer proposes that if assisted suicide is a right, we should permit business that "painlessly" kill people.
Switzerland already allows "non-profit suicide clinics" whose owners-- without making a profit-- kill people for about $9,000 each.
If you can't afford the fee, I guess they WON'T kill you... or maybe they won't kill you PAINLESSLY.

--> 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.

See you in hell.

-end-

NOTE: If you're interested in my travel blog, you can read it at mykelsdiary.blogspot.com.

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