The Only Good Thing or Mykel's Post-MRR Blog #28

Mykel's

Post MRR Column #28

The Only Good Thing

by Mykel Board

Imagine a country whose foundation is subjugation... a country where slaves are written into the constitution... officially “3/5 human.”

Imagine a country whose national anthem talks about bombs and rockets... where citizens trust God and not each other.

Imagine a country that holds more of the world's prison population than any other... most of the prisoners descended from slaves... Where jail terms never end... where the right to vote is permanently taken away... your debt to society can never be paid... You are always a slave.

Imagine a country whose people are so stupid that they can't find their neighboring countries on a map... where more people know the names of movie stars than scientists or philosophers... where people have more guns than passports.

Imagine a country where students aren't challenged to think. Where they're warned about “upsetting ideas” and can opt-out of learning. Where “education” has nothing to do with learning, but is only a means to a job where you work to make other people rich.

Imagine a country where the top 1% owns more than the bottom 90%... where huge, greedy corporations pay NO taxes. Where the answer to any violation of corporate interests is to kill people.

Imagine a country that defines “success” as being rich. That exports its love of money around the world, making fetishes of brand names, charging in foreign branches of its stores, a days wages for a cup of coffee... and through advertising and bribery... makes people want to pay it.

Imagine a country where the solution to EVERYTHING is WAR. Instead of looking at problems with a medical metaphor... like a wound that has to be healed... it looks at problems as THE ENEMY that has to be killed. WARS on drugs... Muslims... terrorism... hunger... even a (long ago discarded) WAR ON POVERTY.

Imagine a country that has, in this millennium, killed more people than all other countries on earth... combined. Image a country that continues to kill people, correcting past mistakes in killing people by killing other people.

What benefit could there be to such a pisshole of a country? What right would such a country have to exist? Why should the rest of the world tolerate such a gaping wound in its earthly body? Is there anything that fetid offal has to offer? Can we find one thing that hell-bent-on-world-destruction nation has done to justify its existence?

FLASH TO NOW: I'm in a 777 airplane flying from Manila to New York... via Taiwan. I've been in the plane for seven hours... with another eight to go. I can't sleep, having stupidly taken the aisle seat so there's no window to put my head against. When either of the two passengers next to me needs to take a piss... I gotta get up and move.

This is the end of my six weeks in Asia. The first four were in Japan: tightly planned... familiar... sleeping on friends' floors... couches... tours of sake breweries... a ton of drinking... a ton of innocent nakedness at public hot springs... a bit of not so innocent nakedness. Friends... familiar... comfortable... like slippers and a bathrobe.

Then there was The Philippines. I quote from my travel blog (mykelsdiary.blogspot.com)

Manila is a maze of narrow streets choked with barely moving traffic, blaring horns... people walking... hanging out... sleeping on plastic bags filled with trash.

Food stands sell Chinese pork buns or wooden sticks with your choice of pig's ear, pig's blood or pig guts. The narrow streets hold the auto exhaust of the immoveable traffic. Walking a block is like smoking a pack of cigarettes.

Every few meters, one young woman or another will smile at you... showing her braces and ask, “Hey Joe, you like me?” If you shake your head, she'll offer you her younger sister... or her daughter. My upper arm still has a bruise where a street hooker pinched me to keep me from walking away. Every few steps bring you to another encounter.

Backpacks become frontpacks here... watch your step...means a fuck of a lot more than be careful crossing the street. The heat is oppressive... a wet-heat. Your sweat mixes with the filth from the car exhausts. Simply scratching your neck leaves your fingernails black.

I love the place.

I've been sleeping on a thin mattress on the floor in Taytay, a Manila suburb. Johnny Deadbrain lives here... with his mother who barely makes a living selling ice to the neighbors out of her refrigerator.

I get the mattress. Johnny sleeps on the other side of the living room... on a cardboard box. 

The toilet, as most in this country, doesn't have a seat. You flush it by filling a plastic bucket from a cold water wall spigot and pouring the water into the toilet bowl. A plastic dipper floats in the water. It's not clear whether the dipper is used to scoop water to flush the toilet... or to scoop water to wash your ass in lieu of toilet paper. There is never any toilet paper. Whenever I buy anything in the country, I demand a receipt. That paper comes in handy.

[NOTE: A few places-- mostly high class-- have toilet paper HOLDERS built into the wall. They are for decorative purposes only. There is never any actual toilet paper in them.]

At Johnny's place, the wall spigot is also the shower and bathroom sink.

The Philippines are punk rock.

It's like New York in the 70's... when/where punkrock was born. Dangerous, mysterious, sexy, anarchistic, musical. Everybody and his father... grandfather... is a musician. Even the poorest homes have a turntable... and a collection of records that would make the Rev Norb envious.

Johnny shows me an original of the first Ramones album. From a small speaker attached to his android, comes The Ramones, GG Allin, and his own band DEADBRAINS.

Rock'n'roll came to the Philippines with American servicemen during and after World War II. Navymen wanted more than local nookie from the natives. They wanted their music.

They brought records... 78s... 45s... 33s... to these islands. Local musicians quickly learned the music to play for the sailors. It was as profitable as-- and less painful than-- an American maritime turgid sausage in their anuses.

From the songs learned from those sailors' records, the Philippines developed its own brand of rock... its own bands... its own style. Punk rock came here before anywhere else in Asia except possibly Japan.

BINGO!

That's it! The American contribution... America's ONLY contribution... its only value in the world. ROCK'N'ROLL... That great merging of cultures: black Jazz/Blues that came up the Mississippi River from New Orleans smashing smack dab into white Country music from the heartland. When Hank Williams buggers Muddy Waters... Chuck Berry and Elvis Presley are born.

That freeing, open, rockin music. That rock... that glitter... that punk... that hardcore... That rebellious, liberating, loving, aggressive force. That may be the only real gift America gave to the world... but it's a damn good one.

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 ain't music, it's a concept dept: Chuck Shephard reports that the group Matmos released their new album, "Ultimate Care II." The LP consists entirely of "music" made by an Ultimate Care II washing machine. The machine's 38-minute wash cycle was "sampled and processed." Matmos previously played canisters of helium on stage at Radio City Music Hall and a cow's uterus at the San Francisco Art Institute.

→ Tax dollars at work dept: One of the many evils of the Obama administration was the bank bailouts and lack of anybody going to the clink for the tragedy. The government claims a victory because it took in billions of dollars in fines from those banks. Same for corporate polluters like BP in the Gulf of Mexico.

Not so fast.

The New York Times reports that the money those banks and corporations paid is considered “tax deductible.” So those same corporations just listed the fines on their tax returns as a “business expense.” They paid no taxes on that money.

→ Bathe in this dept: Brandon Terry and Casey Fowler of Spartanburg South Carolina were arrested after calling 911 five times to report possums jumping out of their refrigerator and microwave, worms emerging from their floor, and midgets in camouflage. They denied any drug use, but police said it was likely "bath salts."

→ Sex & The Serviceman Dept: It probably didn't make the U.S. newspapers, but a Philippine jury convicted a U.S. sailor of murder. He strangled a prostitute and drowned her in the toilet, when he discovered she had... er... extra equipment. The Navy removed the sailor from the country before he could be sentenced. At last report, the prostitute was still dead.

→ Further Evidence Dept: The Daily Mail reports that they've seen video footage that shows Israeli commandos rescuing wounded ISIS fighters from the Syrian warzone, Many of the rescued are enemies of Israel and some may even be fighters for groups affiliated with Al Qaeda. Almost every night, Israeli troops run secret missions to save the lives of Syrian fighters, all of whom are their sworn enemies.

Clearly, toppling Assad is more important to the Israelis than fighting ISIS. No wonder that Israel-obedient Obama calls for REGIME CHANGE in Syria, while the Russians just fight ISIS.

→ Endorsements Dept: Also on the Russian front. The Washington Post reports that Vlad Putin has damn near endorsed Donald Trump for the U.S. presidency. He called The Apprentice star, “the absolute leader in the presidential race.”

In October, Trump said that he would “get along very well” with Putin and applauded the Russian president for his intervention against the Islamic State in Syria.

→Vote Jew Dept: Next year it looks pretty sure I'll be voting for a Jew in November. If, by some (from my mouth to G-d's ears) miracle, Bernie Sanders gets the Democratic nomination... I'm there. If not, I'll have a difficult choice between JILL STEIN on the Green Party, or my pal SID YIDDISH on the Lincoln-Republican party. In any case, I'll be voting Jew in November!

-->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, they blame their 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-

What's in a Girl's Mind or Mykel's Post MRR Blog #24

YOU'RE STILL WRONG

MYKEL BOARD'S POST MRR COLUMNS

POST MRR COUMN 24

Mykel Confesses He Doesn't Understand How Girls Think

by Mykel Board

"Women have an instinct for labyrinths... for ins and outs. It's order that stymies them!” --Louis-Ferdinand Celine

I'm more at home than a rabbit in a briar patch. My chin rests about half an inch north of her immaculate anus... my nose presses her pubic bone. The sublime smell of yeastless twat stiffens my ferocious five inches pressed into the bed. I lick forward... sucking in... my clit-clenching lips push back the hood... the part that Muslims circumcise. My tongue tastes the tip... she squirms... tightens her legs around my head.

“Het guys cannot possible be any good at eating the hairy clam,” I think. “This is like giving a miniature blowjob... How would they know?”

As I suck, I thrust myself against the bed... merging the two of us in ecstatic union... feeling the same rising rapture... the same tightening... My breath rustles from my nose through her pubes... like wind in high grass. My groin pushes harder against the bed.

“Mmmm mmmm mmmm,” her voice... her little whimpers... sounds made completely through her nose... as if she were afraid that opening her mouth would let loose a scream loud enough to wake the neighbors... the tourists... the dead. Her legs grip my head like a pair of fleshy pliers.

I hear my own sounds... breathing... panting... moaning into the woolly valley cleft between her legs. It's howling into a cave. I half expect an echo to return to me from the womb. The sheets beneath my groin are suddenly wet. And YES! I feel that final tighten... taste that sweet juice... hear that choked moan to know she's matched me in rapture.

“Wow!” she says. “You don't NEED a big dick. You do the satisfaction!”

I'm guessing that's a compliment.

I kiss her from her pubes up to the navel... an innie... up further... between her double amplitude... her chin... her mouth. Then I lie down next to her and allow the sleep Gods to carry me off.

“Hey Mykel,” she says, “talk to me. Say something.”

“Mmmm,” I say, desperate for sleep.

“Say something,” she says again. “Tell me what you're thinking.”

“I'm thinking I want to go to sleep,” I tell her.

She elbows me in the ribs.

“What the fuck?” I don't say. “We had twin orgasms. Wet the sheets. Genital juice. You want to talk about Donald Trump?”

“What should I say?” I do say.

“Tell me what you're feeling,” she says. “I want to know what's in your mind.”

Huh? We both just had an orgasm... cum... ecstasy... mind explosion... what is there to talk about? Why talk? This is a girl thing that I just don't get. A sunset over the Pacific: it's beautiful without saying

Gee, a sunset over the Pacific. Isn't it beautiful?

What is it with girls? Why do you have to SAY everything? Aren't the stains in the sheets enough? I don't get it.

FLASH TO: Rick's Cabaret, my favorite strip club in New York. 

I'm here with a couple Japanese friends and some Latinos. Next to me sits Maxine, at least that's her stripper name. She's a beautiful Negress wearing a long red wig and not much else. As I don't do lap dances, I buy her drinks so she'll talk to me and touch my arm every once in awhile. We discuss George Orwell, and Russian mafia owned strip clubs in Florida.

My Japanese friends, half of them married-- wives in Japan-- are off in various corners of the club... their one-eyed unagis massaged by the tender tushes of the other strippers. $20 a song... the usual price.

$40 later... one-by-one... the guys return... big smiles, thumbs up, and a wink.

Jiro is gone. Disappeared... gone off with a blond white girl... Slavic accent... Olga is her stage name... he's been gone for 20 minutes!

“I think he went upstairs for special service,” says Ricardo, the italics clear in his voice.

We all smile. I wink at Maxine.

FLASH TO SCHOOL: The next day, I tell the other teachers about the strip club, laughing at the story of the missing Jiro.

“That's awful,” says Madeline. “His wife is in Japan and he's screwing around in New York.”

“What?” I ask. “His wife is in Japan! Why SHOULDN'T he screw around in New York?”

“Maybe because he loves her,” she says.

“Huh?” I say, my forehead wrinkles deepening. “He's in New York. Would you mind if he went out to eat with another woman-- or man? Would you mind if he went to a ball game with them?”

“That's different,” says Madeline. “This is sex.”

“And why is sex different?” I ask. “What's it got to do with love? It's just friction! Less energy than a night of mastication.”

“Mykel,” says Madeline, “you're just trying to stir the pot... causing trouble... You know the answer.”

But I don't. I don't get it. Eating dinner is pleasure. Screwing a stripper is pleasure. Taking a huge beer shit is pleasure. Throwing a birthday party for your 90-year-old mother is pleasure. What the fuck? Why is one forbidden pleasure? Why is one love and one NOT love? Do girls fall in love only through their cunts?

How girls think is beyond my ability to understand. What is in their minds? Someone should write a book called What's Love Got to Do With It? and actually answer that question.

FLASH TO WASHINGTON DC 1994: Then Senator Joe Biden introduces a Violence Against Women Act. One of the results is:

“All states have authorized warrantless arrests in misdemeanor domestic violence cases where the responding officer determines that probable cause exists.”

In New York, when there is a “domestic violence” complaint, THERE MUST BE AN ARREST. Women support the law, though it's clearly a violation of presumption of innocence... the foundation of the American justice system.

The victim of a woman's wrath... Bang! In jail... no trial... no defense... just off to the big house. Kerpow!

“But Mykel,” says Claudine, a friend visiting from Portland. “Women need these laws because they're weaker than men... and in more danger.”

“I'm five foot three inches tall!” I yell at her. “There isn't a woman under fifty who can't beat the shit out of me. How are women weaker?”

“Average, Mykel,” she says. “We're talking about average.”

“Average shmaverage,” I say. “How can you put AVERAGE in jail? Do they measure your averatude before they throw you in the clink? I don't think so.”

“Besides,” I add, “we're supposed to have presumption of innocence. You're forcing the cops to arrest someone they presume is innocent.”

“It protects the woman,” she says.

“So would wrapping each female in a suit of armor... with a chastity belt!” I answer. “This law gives all women an incredible weapon! Any time they're pissed off at a guy they call the cops... BLAM! The guy's in jail. It's crazy. It's like an every-woman dictatorship... You don't like me... a phone call and I'm in jail... with a record!”

“It's better to save one woman from one black eye than to keep a dozen so-called innocent men out of jail,” she tells me.

WHAT? In high school we learn that it's better to let ten people go free than jail one innocent. Who switched that around? Why is it switched just for women? How is saving a black eye more important than saving the freedom of a dozen innocents? Is that how women think? I don't get it. How can women think this way?

FLASH TO: Tucker Max, an author my jailbird pal Kyle told me about. Tucker wrote an entertaining book called I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell. At first I thought he was a kind of preppy GG Allin... a guy who lives for drinking, fucking and the occasional fight. But there's one section where he writes about a visit from some girl who sucks him off before going to see her boyfriend.

At first, he's thrilled that he somehow put one over on some other guy. HE got it first. Then he thinks a bit more and wonders how many girls he's kissed/screwed/ate out have just come from giving OTHER guys blowjobs. This repulses him. Disgusts him. Gives him the heebee jeebees. He can't stand to think about it, but he's obsessed by it.

What the fuck? If I think that someone I'm kissing might have just given a blowjob to someone else... it thrills me. The idea that I might be tasting semen in someone else's saliva makes me hard. I imagine a threesome. Me having withdrawn that semen myself. The more people, the more erotic the situation. It's just logical. What is this Tucker-guy talking about? Do people really think like that?

Boys! Sometimes I just can't understand how they think.

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]

-->Kindness is illegal dept: 77 year old Sam Samsonov was fired from his job as a Florida toll booth collector because he took $6 out of his own pocket to pay for a driver who didn't have the cash.

Says the official highway agency "the action of personally funding or withdrawing cash to make it correct before it is turned into accounting is considered fraudulent by the auditors and a terminable offense"

-->Provoking Matters dept: This Week Magazine reports that Richard Valdez, a former employee of conservative activist James O'Keefe said that his old boss “instructed an undercover operative to goad Black Lives Matter protesters with statements like 'I wish I could just kill some of these cops.' Few were goaded.

In related news, some Negresses jumped on stage at a Seattle Bernie Sanders rally. They harangued the crowd, complaining that Sanders did not address Black Lives Matter issues. It later came out that these girls were in no way connected to Black Lives Matter.

Maybe they were working for O'Keefe. My bet, though, is they were Hillary operatives.

-->More provoking dept: It's lucky it didn't work in this hyper anti-Muslim atmosphere. Jason Paul Smith, from West Virginia, was charged with a fake bomb threat to the Statue of Liberty. He phoned 911 claiming to be ABDUL YASIN, an ISIS terrorist.

Lucky there was no REAL Abdul Yasin around for some loony veteran to shoot in the head... and be proclaimed A HERO by FOX News.

-->Where's my cash dept: The manager of a Popeye's Chicken in Texas was fired for not paying back $400 stolen during an armed robbery. The manager was behind the register when the robber burst in.
The boss said he fired her for “keeping too much cash in the register.”

-->Naked anger dept: A teacher who won a national award for teaching Shakespeare in Los Angeles was suspended for reading a passage from Tom Sawyer that mentioned nudity.

“. . . the king came prancing out on all fours, naked. He was painted in rings and stripes all over in all sorts of colors and looked as splendid as a rainbow.”

The act of reading was deemed inappropriate for the young children, who probably bathe with their clothes on.

-->Long overdue dept: Sid Yiddish reminded me that I should thank my friends at PORK magazine in Portland for printing some of my columns. They're quarterly, so they can only do one out of four... but THAT'S a big help. Thanks guys. It takes balls.

-->Keeping the Pressure on Dept: And on the side of the ball-less... take Maximum Rock'n'Roll... please!

I want to thank reader George Metesky for suggesting a continuing Bring Back Mykel effort directed at Maximum Rock'n'Roll for their firing me as their contribution to the world of censorship. 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.

-->Just heard dept: The former editrix of MRR quit the zine to become editor of REVOLVER magazine. That's a pop punk zine with ads for Nike and major labels out the wazoo. Maybe I should ask for a column there.

-->And: I'm still on a massive clean-up/divest kick. I'm giving away DVDs, cassettes, VHS videos, CDs, posters, and a few 7-inch singles. Just pay separate shipping and handling. Details at: MykelsGiveaway

-end

Mykel Pulls the Ole Switcheroo Mykel's Post MRR Column Number 5

YOU'RE STILL WRONG

POST MRR COLUMNS

POST MRR COLUMN NUMBER 5

by Mykel Board

or Mykel Pulls the Ole Switcheroo

There is another elephant in the room we're not discussing: racism and how it's putting our entire society at risk when it comes to mass shooters. If a black kid was pulling knives on his family and threatening their lives, just how fucking long do you think he'd be allowed to remain free, walking among us until he finally snapped? If a black kid made people as uncomfortable as Adam Lanza did, would he make it to 20 years old and a mass shooting of an elementary school before people FINALLY deemed him dangerous? Black kids can't even listen to loud music in parking lots before they're perceived as threatening, yet somehow white kids like Adam Lanza go their whole lives with excuses being made for them before they finally snap and kill dozens. --Comment on a blog post about the Sandy Hook school killings

It looks like an anus. It's pink and the size of a baby's fist. In French Guiana, they call it a pomme rosa. I don't know what it's called here in Suriname... maybe a Suriname apple. I sit here in Paramaribo, munching on one, deciding that it indeed tastes more like an apple than an anus. Eyes closed, tongue only, I would've guessed anus on the lick, apple at first bite. On the other hand, if I started on the BACK of the fruit, I would only guess apple, without anal influence.

Sometimes, what it takes to understand something is to put in the switch. Take the back for the front, the top for the bottom, the apple for the anus. The same switcheroo works in human relations. You'd get a whole nother understanding, if you substitute black for white. Gay for straight. Old for young. Jew for Goy.

For this column, I focus on race. It's something I've been thinking a lot about recently, and it's all I have room for.

Take gun-control... please. My long-time readers know I oppose gun-control. Background checks are worthless, as most of the notorious (mainly white) school killers have no criminal backgrounds. Most murders committed with non-stolen guns are done by first timers. Background checks-- like permanent sex-offender registrations-- are just another Big Brother invasion that makes it impossible to simply serve your time and be over with it.

I've written before that American violence comes from a culture of violence. A place where standing up for human rights means killing people... where protecting American interests means killing people... where the solution to every international problem means killing people. It's hard to imagine that people in such a society would solve their problems any other way than by killing people. Guns don't kill people. AMERICANS kill people.

That said, there are those who just don't get it. They want to ban semi-automatic weapons. Have background checks. Make it harder to get a gun than to get a car. (Guess which one kills more people.) With ideas as un-American as that, these people don't get very far... but they could. There is a strategy that would have Americans chomping at the cheeseburger for gun-control.

Here's some fuel for the other side: I want to teach them how to promote their point of view. How to achieve gun control quicker than a hundred full-page ads in THE NATION. I'm not afraid to reveal this technique. I have nothing to fear. They never listen to me anyway.

So what is the amazing gun control method? You guessed it, buckaroos. It's the SWITCHEROO-- aka RACE CHANGING.

Here's the plan. A bunch of black guys buy high-powered assault rifles and go out to the hills of Montana... er better make that Tennessee. The uniform is the old Black Panther one. Black beret, red sweatshirt with a clenched fist on the front, and a panther on the back. They practice target shooting with target cutouts of Rush Limbaugh and Sarah Palin. They do two hundred push-ups... run 20 miles... every day. They develop tight military skill, become an army. They call themselves the Trayvon Militia.

POW! You wanna see how fast there's gun control? Mitch McConnell introduces it the day after the NY POST runs its exposé. The NRA calls for MORE restraints on gun ownership, just like they SUPPORTED gun-control during the Black Panther era. If folks want to bring back that support, all they have to do is bring back the Black Panthers... or something like them. Every Dixiecrat and Tea Partiyer will be hiding under the bandwagon until congress controls those weapons.

SCENARIO TWO: It's a typical day under Michael Bloomberg. In Midtown, the tourists and the businessmen mingle in la-de-dah appreciation of the new New York. New skyscrapers. New bike lanes. New rich people. The only cop to be seen is the smiley-faced woman directing traffic around the new blocks of tar in the middle of the street... closed to cars and renamed PARKS. It's all part of Bloomberg's Greening of New York.

But in Brooklyn, in Brownsville-- called Blacksville by the locals-- things are different. A group of black teens has just been visiting their schoolmates. Friends hanging out in the projects. Get together, listen to music, talk about girls. As they leave the building, they hear, “Alright, freeze.”

They are not afraid. It happens all the time. A cop, shorter than they are, night stick hanging from his belt, speaks the words. The kids know the routine.

“Hands up against the side of the building. Spread your legs. Look straight ahead,” They stand next to each other. Hands against the building. The cop frisks up and down their legs, making sure to press against their balls, then their ass, then front pockets.

“What's this?” asks the cop, feeling around in the front pocket of one of the boys.

“It's my wallet,” says the boy.

“Take it out,” says the cop, “slowly.”

The boy removes the wallet and hands it to the cop. The cop opens it, rifles through the ID section, comes across a couple condoms.

“You use these a lot?” he asks.

“Not as much as I want to,” answers the boy.

The cop doesn't laugh.

It happens... happened dozens of times a day. Called “stop and frisk,” the theory is that if you make it likely that people will be stopped on the street, then they won't carry weapons or drugs. It'll make the streets safer.

Of course, it is unconstitutional. The fourth amendment prohibits unreasonable searches and seizures and requires a warrant supported by “probable cause.” But because these guys are black, the constitution doesn't matter. White folks tell them “it's for your own good,” like a parent excusing the beating of a child. “It makes your neighborhoods safer,” they say. But the people who actually LIVE in those neighborhoods don't think so.

So, what's the cure for Stop and Frisk? Easy. The old switcheroo!

Now we're in Times Square... across Broadway from that stupid billboard-screen that shows live video of people across the street. It's a huge collective selfie. A massive ego display of people wanting to see themselves on video, looking at themselves on video.

A vacationing couple from Japan makes peace signs. They jump up and down pogo-style to locate themselves on the display. They hear, but don't understand, a voice from behind them.

“Hands up against the side of the building. Spread your legs. Look straight ahead,” it says.

The tourists don't understand English, and have no way of knowing the cop is talking to them. They continue jumping and snapping pix.... until they're tackled. Somewhere there's a scream. The man's head hits the ground. He lies now with shattered glasses.

“I said up against the side of the building,” shouts the cop.

The couple struggles upwards. The cop pushes them against the building, grabbing wrists and ankles to position them correctly. When frisking the man, the uniformed one pushes his hand hard between his legs. The crowd, now gathered around the pair, gasps as the man doubles over in pain. The cop forcibly straightens him up.

After the frisk and some passport showing, the cop walks away. He meets up with another officer further down the street.

“I always look for the Japanese,” he tells the co-cop. “Remember that sneak attack in Pearl Harbor... you can never tell.”

Meanwhile in Wall Street, cops push stock brokers and bankers against the wall, examining pockets and suit jacket linings for smuggled insider trading information.

“You can never tell,” says Mayor Bloomberg when challenged. “Those stockbrokers and bankers caused a lot more pain than any mugger. We gotta keep 'em under control. Make 'em afraid.”

The Japanese government protests. There is a sit-in on Wall Street. The brokerage companies occupy themselves. In a week, Stop and Frisk is stopped. For everyone.

SCENARIO THREE: Okay, you've heard about the Knockout Game® Origins unknown, it came to prominence here in New York when a slew of Hasidic Jews... including woman and children as young as 12... were attacked. The story goes that the motive is a game... a kind of contest among young black guys. See who can knock out the Jew with one blow. Pow, s/he's down. You hit twice, you lose. So here's the switch:

An older colored lady, grandmotherly, walks with a cane down the streets of Crown Heights... the borderline district. She's alone on a Monday night. Slowly, she goes forward on the sidewalk. Cane-tap, step, step. Cane-tap, step, step. A big SUV rounds the corner... the windows dark. It passes her and turns right at the next corner. Cane-tap, step, step. Cane-tap, step, step. The woman begins to feel uncomfortable. She pulls closer to the buildings, just hugging the porches as she walks from one to the other in her slow march home. Cane-tap, step, step. Cane-tap, step, step. The street is silent except for the low hum of an approaching car. It's the same car... the same SUV that passed her before.

This time it stops. The side door opens. Eight or nine young men get out. They're white men, wearing long black coats, curly sideburns, and yarmulkes.

“My turn! My turn!” yells a particularly large young man, as he approaches the woman. In the young man's grin, the woman sees the space of a missing tooth. It's the last thing she sees before the approaching knuckles rip into her face, sending her reeling to the ground. She loses consciousness and smashes her head on the sidewalk before she can hear the joyful yells of “I DID IT! I DID IT!” She dies on the way to the hospital.

Al Sharpton, who's already criticized the black-on-Jew version of the Knockout Game®, is up again. “This has got to stop!” he says. This time, Rabbis and Black Ministers agree. There are marches in Jewish and Black neighborhoods. Huge posters appear with KNOCK IS SHLOCK on them. Mayor De Blasio's Afro-ed son is photographed tongue-kissing a rabbi's son. We are the World re-enters the Top 40, and The Game is over.

[NOTE: These days, I can't write fast enough to outrun reality. As I type these words, an email appears from Social Reader. It reports on an alleged attack by Hassidic Jews on a solo gay black youth. From the report it isn't clear whether this is a case of “reverse knockout” or your run-of-the-mill gay bashing-- or even a complete fraud. Who can tell in these days of charges and counter-charges thrown at the speed of Twitter? So for now, my solution is only a fantasy. We'll have to wait for larger numbers before we see if it works.]

ENDNOTES: [You can contact email me at god@mykelboard.com. Postal contact (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. Just join the MYKEL'S READERS Yahoo group readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

--> Crossover dept: I'm (too slowly) writing a travel blog of my last trip. But I did want to mention that bands who want to tour in South America might start in the Guyanas. A promoter contact in Suriname is Jerry Orie, PINNACLE GROUP, Commissaris Weythingweg 142b Paramaribo SURINAME (+597) 462-830 jeroie@hotmail.com Jerry is a great guy, and if he can find a spot for you, he will. His tastes run to the metal side of punk, but he's open-minded to everything except shit.

--> Pat Buchanan gets it right dept: Over at Antiwar.com, arch villain, Pat Buchanan, absolutely nails it with his analysis of Al Qaeda and America at war. Like Ron Paul, this guy who's awful at domestic policy-- the epitome of the worst of paddle your own canoe-ism-- is right about foreign policy. Here's a sample quote: Is it not time to put al-Qaeda in perspective and consider whether our Mideast policy is creating more terrorists than we are killing?

In 2010 America lost 15 citizens to terrorism. Thirteen of them died in Afghanistan. The worst attack was the killing of six Americans at a Christian medical mission in Badakhshan Province.
Yet, in 2010, not one death here in America resulted from terrorism. That year, however, 780,000 Americas died of heart disease, 575,000 of cancer, 138,000 from respiratory diseases, 120,000 in accidents (35,000 in auto accidents), 69,000 from diabetes, 40,000 in drug-induced deaths, 38,000 by suicide, 32,000 by liver disease, 25,000 in alcohol-induced deaths, 16,000 by homicide and 8,000 from HIV/AIDS.

Is terrorism the killer we should fear most and invest the lion’s share of our resources fighting?

--> Blowing my own department: I think I posted this before, but I'm too lazy to double check. Early in 2013, I guested on Blag Dahlia's radio show RADIO LIKE YOU WANT You can hear the interview here.

--> Internet boiling dept: As I write this, America seems embroiled in such sensitivity overkill, that anyone of any notice is virtually gagged. The latest is some actor in Duck Dynasty. It's a show I've never seen (I don't have cable), and am not particularly interested in. Evidently, the show's star gave an interview to GQ magazine... on his own time. In the interview, he gave non-liberal views of gay life and race relations. POW! He's fired... only for saying what he thinks. The guy loses his job for speaking... off the job.

This kind of firing/banning-- he's the latest, but there've also been Howard Stern, Imus, and a ton of others-- reminds me of the McCarthy era studio blacklisting of lefty actors . Neither case was government censorship. Both were just as effective. My pal, Jim Goad, wrote about it. It's a good read, though he doesn't mention McCarthy. Maybe this switcheroo didn't work. Too much time in between and one side forgets about the other.

UPDATE: OH NO!! Again, before the ones and zeros are dry on the screen, A&E reinstates the Duck guy making me agree with a critic who thinks the whole thing was a publicity stunt from the get-go. 

--> Keeping the pressure on: I want to thank reader George Metesky for suggesting a Bring Mykel Back concerted effort directed at Maximum Rock'n'Roll. He forwarded me an answer to a letter MRR printed where the editors excuse my firing not as censorship for content, but because I “refused to answer letters in the letters section.”

That is wrong. I only asked that I be allowed to say I don't LIKE to answer letters there. I feel it's unfair to the letter-writer for the columnist to always get the last word. If they want me to answer there, I will. SO, here I'm publicly agreeing to abide by their rules. Here it is in ones and zeros. Their reason for my being censored disappears.

I hope you'll cut and paste the paragraph above into an email, and send it-- along with your comments-- to mrr@maximumrocknroll.com with the subject line: BRING MYKEL BACK. Let me know how they answer.

-end-

MRR column for no 358 (Violence in Connecticut)

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