You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
(for MRR iss. 283, December)
by Mykel Board
Girls aren't supposed to play in bands. They're supposed to give blowjobs to guys who play in bands.
-- Drunk Girl at a party in Scranton PA
The attractive Dominican boy cups one hand over each of his nipples.
“I see it like this,” he says. “White girls have it here...” He moves his hands away from his chest. “Colored girls have it here...” He places one hand on each of his buttocks. “But Spanish girls... ah Spanish girls. They've got it here and there and everywhere you want.” You can guess where his hands go.
This image comes back to me as I think about how the world changes. The two of us sat at a table in a Santo Domingo park. No other listeners. Just me and this guy, discussing things that guys discuss. Things we might feel uncomfortable talking about in front of our mothers.
This discussion does not come back to me as I gaze at well-proportioned Hispanic girls on the subway. It comes back as I walk down Fifth Avenue, passing this very white girl with very wide hips. She speaks loudly into her cellphone.
“... So it's like, I want him, ya' know? I'm practically drooling over him. But it's that time.... yeah... that's what I'm saying... I'm bleeding like a... I donno, tell me something that bleeds... hahaha that's funny... yeah, like that. So if I come on to him, ya know, I mean he's gonna get me home and... yeah, grossout! I mean yuck. I'll never see him again... So I told him I had to go somewhere and do something, but... yeah, you guessed it... it was in Soho, right on that street with all the shoe stores... no, I don't know if he likes that street with all the shoe stores... no, I don't know if he likes shoes... why, you think he's gay?...”
So here we are, the kind of conversation that should be private, across a secluded park table. Here it is walking down Fifth Avenue. It's what people should talk about at home, in a corner café, where the music or ambient noise covers the conversation. Someplace where there are just you two. That's where you should discuss things not fit for public consumption.
Like the relative appealing endowments of various races, your monthly period and his homosexuality should not be public. I don't want to know. I don't know you. Why should I know about the effusion of your menstruation?
But kids these days. There is no privacy. Their parents give them cellphones at 8 and the world becomes their private network. It's a new kind of generation gap. When I grew up, one side of the gap had the Vietnam War supporters, the other its opponents. These days, the gap has changed. One side has people who feel uncomfortable yawning in front of others. The other side has people who loudly discuss their genital warts.
There I have it. The perfect topic for a column. It's tighter than a feminist sphincter. No need to think it through, run it through the mill and see what happens. No need to write the column first to find out what I think. Uh uh. This time I know. It's the new generation gap. Those who have a sense of privacy, and those who don't.
Ah, but my tightly orchestrated, thought-out, obvious column collapses faster than a hard-on at a Hillary Clinton fund-raiser. I'm in Scraton PA. It's a reading from my books. Part of an open mic night, at a local coffee shop. No booze here. Just an espresso machine and some quiche. I arrive early to scope out the place.
It's small, with a few tables and a library so people can read while they sip their lattes. I check out the book titles: How to Live Fat Free catches my eye. The other books are somewhat less intellectual. The café is right across from a dorm. That street will be my generation gap.
Tonight's show will have a record turn out for the café. More than a hundred people. By the evening's end, the promoter will have over $200 in admission. He'll also get another $50 for “special services.” I'll tell you about that later. Me? I'll wind up with bubkas.
The rattle of a doorknob disturbs my thoughts. A young blondguy enters. He wears jeans, a t-shirt and looks very collegiate.
Dan, the organizer, greets me with a handshake.
“You got a fan,” he says. “I was doing promo for this show and this guy says. 'Wow, Mykel Board.' That's one in your corner. I'll ask him if you can stay there tonight.”
“Is he attractive?” I don't ask.
Flash ahead: We've moved the furniture. The first performer is a guy and his guitar. The guy has red hair, a scraggly beard and wears sandals.
“Anybody got a capo?” he asks, pulling his guitar out of its soft case. Someone hands him one and he straps in on the guitar. Then he starts. Cover songs. The greatest hits of the 70s and 80s. Heart felt. Shot through the heart and you're to blame! Half the crowd sings along. When he's done, there is wild applause.
The next performer is a guy and his guitar. Cover songs. One or two originals. Heart felt. The guy has blond hair, a scraggly beard, and wears sandals. The next guy has light brown hair. Everything else is the same.
I look around. The folding chairs creak under fat girls who sit with their hands in their laps and applaud to Horse With No Name. Most of the guys sport their first beards, and wear just-bought-for-college sandals. The crowd is really white. There's one huge Negress and another girl who could have some Spanish in the woodpile somewhere. That's it. Not an Oriental in the room. I feel uncomfortable around too many white people. Like someone is going to ask me if I've accepted Jesus as my own personal savior.
And there are tons of bell bottoms, low cut under tons of lard.
Yowsah! I think. They're gonna hate me. Me, with my GG Allin t-shirt. And that's only for starters. This is gonna be fun. How long before the groans start? Will they throw things or will my host just say, “er.. Mykel... I think you need to wrap things up.”? Will I need a chicken-wire fence to protect me from the raging folkies? Will they crucify me for my lack of sensitivity? I hope so.
There's one more folk singer. A guy with a dark beard looking much like one of the Nirvana guys who didn't die. They applaud his version of the 1967 hit, If You Can't Be With The One You Love, then Love the One You're With. Then comes me!
So I'm staying with some friends in this house in Philadelphia and there's this naked girl hanging from the ceiling... A couple people laugh.
I continue my story. Getting grosser and more offensive as I go on. The polite laughs continue. One person leaves... but soon comes back, eating a sandwich, drinking a cup of coffee.
No heckles. A few chuckles. Some polite applause. After I finish, I wave, go back to my corner to sell books. This big Arab-looking guy comes up to me. He points to my t-shirt.
“GG Allin,” he says. “Yeah, I love GG Allin.”
He gives me the thumbs up sign, then walks away and sits down. A chubby blond guy is up next.
“Anybody got a capo?” he asks.
After he finishes, Dan introduces the other special guest of the night: LIMA.
LIMA's got dark curly hair. He wears a pink shirt, carries a green mic stand, plastic flowers, and a megaphone. One “guitar” is a Casio VL Tone glued onto a guitar body. He throws confetti in the air and starts playing feedback. Then, a kiddie kind of song, you know like B-I-N-G-O. But his chorus is L-I-M-A.
“Come on, join me!” he shouts. “L!”
The audience comes back with a loud L.
I... I!
M... M!
A... A!
After they've got it. He gets them cheering: LIMA! LIMA! LIMA!
Then he launches into his next song. He wants the crowd to stand with him. At first a few people come to the center. Then everyone. The entire audience standing. Clapping. Waving their hands side to side above their heads.
“Come on, everybody,” shouts Lima. “It'll be really gay if you don't join us.”
No need to worry about gay. Everyone's already standing. Their hands are up high. All hundred plus sway side to side. Embracing, oozing love out of every non-gay pore. Holding hands-- a hippie parody from people who know about hippies from textbooks. A new camp, from people who don't have a clue about camp. They might as well be dancing the Charleston.
I've never been a fan of audience participation. Especially when I'm in the audience. It's the anti-authoritarian in me. If someone tells me to clap along, or stand up, or honk that I love Jesus, I immediately don't want to. It seems dictatorial to tell your audience what to do. On the part of the audience, it's sheep-like obedience to do it.
“You guys like sea horses?” shouts Lima.
A few people answer yes.
“Let me hear it! Use your balls,” shouts Lima. “Ladies, use what you got.”
Yes! comes the massive reply.
Balloons bounce. There's a sound-effects tape of bubbling water. Lima sings about sea horses. Balloons skitter all over the audience. As soon as one begins to fall, an enthusiastic zaftig bounces it back up in the air.
A pretty girl, tall, with permed hair that looks like it'll break if you touch it, gets hit in the face with one of the balloons. It knocks mascara into her eyes. Lima walks over to her and kisses her on the eyelid. Instantly making it all better. Then he goes back to the guitar.
The crowd is still bouncing the balloons, clapping to the music, swaying back and forth. Pure form with no purpose. I'm the only one not on my feet. Maybe the only one lamenting the lack of booze in this place. Whassamatter, don't kids drink anymore?
I'm not feeling very good. It's probably just jealousy. They love him – but can't get it up to hate me. What's wrong with them?
Lima climbs up on the furniture. Joins in the dancing, let's the Casio play itself.
'What a great crowd! I love you.” he says. “What a great crowd!”
As he leaves the stage, Lima shouts, “I have CDs. You can buy 'em from me... or trade. A hug for a CD! That's all I ask.”
After Lima, balloons, confetti, flower petals litter the floor. Folks are laughing, hugging, panting for breath.
Dan walks in the middle of the crowd.
“Now, if everybody can please have a seat, we'll bring back our other featured act: Mykel Board.”
It's about 11 PM. The Monster is finally kicking it. I'm on again and they are not ready for me. No booing. No reaction at all, except polite applause. I cut it short.
There is more polite applause.
“Now,” Dan explains to the crowd, “you know we don't have any money to pay our performers. Mykel is selling some books and CDs, check it out and buy something.”
No one moves.
This is the most unpunk group I've seen outside of a Baptist church. Whatever punk is... and it's something different to different people... it's not clapping along to Everybody Wants to Rule The World and strumming guitars. It's not sandals. It's not covers of 70s sensitive rock. It's not trading hugs for CDs. Blowjobs, maybe. But not hugs.
I'm feeling sorry for myself when Lima walks over to me. He's friendly, smiley faced, no trace of I blew you off the stage man. Just a nice guy from New Jersey.
“You work for Maxim?” he asks.
I laugh. “Er, not exactly. I write for Maximum Rock'n'Roll.” I tell him. “But I don't write about music.”
He smiles and turns as a cherubic girl tugs on the back of his shirt.
“I wanna trade a hug for a CD,” she says.
The other acts that night are even more awful. After me comes a guy and his girlfriend. He strums the guitar. She plays the bongos. (I shit you not!) She also sings so off key that even I know there's something wrong.
“Wow, am I glad we didn't have to follow Lima.” she says.
Here comes the last act. A smooth-faced young man with a guitar. He's not wearing sandals... He's wearing Nikes.
“Hey Dan,” he shouts to the promoter. “I'll give you $50 if you don't let anyone leave.”
From the front of the room comes a voice. “You just bought yourself an audience,” it says.
The guy turns to us and shrugs. “You do what you gotta do,” he says. “Anybody got a capo?”
Before I have time to consider this further, the guy with the guitar puts on a harmonica holder, blows a few notes and then starts playing BORN IN THE USA!
A young man who looks slightly Indian (turban, not feather) comes up to me. I wonder if he really looks Indian, or if I'm just searching for ethnicity in this group.
“I listened to you tonight,” he says. “Very interesting. How would you describe yourself?”
“About five foot three inches,” I tell him. “A hundred thirty-five pounds. Brown hair... losing it... Four and a half inches of...”
“No,” he says, smiling, “I mean if someone asks you What Are You? how would you answer. For example, I'm a theist.”
“I'm a me-ist,” I tell him. “Just like it says on the book cover. It rhymes with theist.”
He frowns.
“Me-ist,” I explain. “Like communist, anarchist, scientist.”
“I see,” he says. “Tell me, have you accepted Jesus Christ as your own personal savior?”
Flash ahead:
“I'm sorry,” says Dan. “We had a good crowd. I don't know why people didn't buy your books.”
“Maybe it was the wrong crowd,” I say. “By the way, where was my fan?”
“He never showed up,” Dan tells me. “I don't know what happened.”
“My fans are not the most responsible people in the world,” I tell him.
He laughs.
“I found you another place to stay,” he says. “I'll take you there.”
We get in my rental car and drive about half a mile. There's a parking place a block away from the house. One and a half car lengths long. When we reach it, I get out of the driver's seat.
“You park,” I tell Dan. “I'm not very good at it.”
Without a snicker, Dan gets out, crosses to the driver's seat and parks the car. Then we walk uphill to THE HOUSE.
It's clear this is THE PARTY HOUSE in town. It's a ramshackle old wooden structure with a large porch on the ground floor and an outside staircase that leads to apartments on higher floors.
A couple of girls sit on an old porch rocker. One of them wears a thin cotton dress that looks like a 1940s couch covering. The other has on a short black skirt and a black thing that I think people call a bustierre. She's white, but to disappoint my Dominican friend, does not have the bust to be properly boosted by the bustierre.
“Dan!” shouts the girl in the couch material. “Come here so I can give you a big kiss.”
Dan walks up to the girls. They both hug him-- one on either side.
“Party going on?” says Dan.
The bustierre girl nods, “Upstairs.”
Dan lets go of the girls and heads up the stairs to the second floor. I follow. Inside is a college house.
To the right is a bar, the inset, where the counter should be is filled with bottle caps. The caps are all from LIONSHEAD BEER bottles. They are turned face up and face down so they make a pattern spelling out 226, the address of the house.
In front of the bar, a boy and girl wrestle on the floor. In the room to my right are two couches, a table, a huge TV, and a stereo set. On one couch sit a couple guys in jeans and t-shirts.
On the other couch sit two other guys, each holding a plastic guitar. They are playing some kind of video game. You have to match the notes on screen with the notes played by a skeleton heavy metal band on the monitor. The music is old blues, tough to play-- like Muddy Waters or something. The TV musicians look like Misfits rejects. The combination is weird.
The guys “playing” the guitars are very intent, and by the high scores they're racking up, very good.
On the table are two sets of plastic cups partially filled with beer. Some one arranged them in V-formation, like bowling pins at opposite ends. At each end of the table, a boy-girl team is trying to throw ping pong balls into the opposing cups. I guess it's some kind of game.
A big guy with a shaved head wears a green football Jersey. I can easily believe he plays in it. He turns as if noticing me for the first time and holds out a meaty palm.
“Hi, I'm Mike,” he says.
“Mykel,” I reply. “Mykel Board.”
“Oh, you write for Maxim,” he answers. “Dan said you might stay here.”
“Er... no, it's Maximum Rock'n'Roll,” I tell him. “But I don't write about music.
“Welcome,” he says. “Take off your hat and coat. There's beer in the refrigerator.”
Few words ring more pleasantly in my ears than There's beer in the refrigerator. I'm off to fish out a Lionshead Light.
Light beer? Me? Ah well, even a daughter is better than nothing. So I twist off the cap and suck on it. It's not bad-- for a light beer.
I walk back into the living room and sit on the couch. A chubby girl, wearing what looks like a stretchy cloth tube walks up to me. She holds a half-full bottle of Lionshead.
“Hi,” she says, “I'm Sandy.”
“I'm Mykel,” I answer. We click bottles.
“Hey Mykel,” comes a voice from the couch. It's one of the guys who was playing guitar in the game.
“Sit over there. I wanna teach you this drinking game...”
He explains a complicated game of touching your shoulder, pointing to other people, making an equal sign with your arms and one more rule that I forgot. If you make a mistake, you gotta take a drink.
I find myself part of a circle around a coffee table. I'm challenged to move, choose, drink up, choose again. This is fun. The big guy comes over with more Lionheads. It's not long before I'm feeling pretty good.
What gets me is that these kids don't know me. Most of them weren't at the show. I'm just this strange guy sitting here. Older than their dads. They don't care. I have a beer in my hand, I'm one of the gang. That's it.
When I was 17 or 19 or however old they are, the intrusion would have outraged me. I would have thought I was a cop. I would have felt invaded. What's this old guy doing at the party? He probably supports the war! That old fart. Thinks he can span the generation gap? Yeah, right.
But now... there is no generation gap. It hits me. I'm trying to bend reality to fit my concept of it. It doesn't work. My idea of privacy, now that I think about it, is true for all ages. I hear as many old ladies talking about their grandkids, as kids talking about their bloody OBs. I divided it into a generation gap, because I wanted there to be one. My desire made me see it that way. Privacy may be as dead as chivalry, but it's got nothing to do with The Generation Gap. There is no generation gap.
“Drink, Mykel, drink!” come voices as I focus back to the present. “You missed the point.... Al pointed at you.”
I smile and down my plastic cup's worth. The big guy fills it up again. The game peters out when one girl sits back in a pout. No more. I keep mishing my shoulder. Any more drinksh and...! She gets up and runs to the bathroom.
I go out to the porch. There's a crew there. Sitting and drinking. The guy who looked like the Nirvana drummer sits on the stairs. A beer in one hand, a girlfriend on his knee.
“Hey,” he says, “I'm Randy.”
“Me too,” I answer. I don't think he gets it. Probably never been to England.
“Naw,” I correct, “my name's Mykel.”
“You wanna play the ping pong drink game?” asks the girl, grabbing me by the arm.
“I already played a drink game. You had to touch your shoulder and...”
“No not that one,” she says. “This one is with ping pong balls. You got to put 'em in the right place.”
As she speaks, she's pulling me back into the living room. “Can I chose where to stick 'em?” I ask with a smile.
She smiles back. “Later maybe,” she says. “Now we drink.”
She drags me to the one side of the table with the neatly lined up cups. She tells me I have to throw a ping pong ball into the cup on the other side. If I get it in, the other guy has to drink the contents. If I miss, it's their turn. Last man standing wins. Eventually, I lose.
Scene shift to the next morning:
Any couch surfer knows that when you sleep at the party house, you're the last person to go to bed and the second person to wake up. It's pitter patter to the shower that wakes me up this morning. Then the thump thump thump of the big guy with the shaved head, wrapped in a blanket.
I have a surprising lack of headache. In fact, for whatever time it is, I'm groggy, but not grouchy.
“Whatimzit?” I ask.
“About ten,” says the big guy with a smile.
“Okay,” I say, “I'm outta here.”
I head toward the bathroom just in time to see a naked girl leave and head toward a bedroom. She smiles at me at she walks by. After taking care of my morning needs, I head off to the next reading in Allentown.
It's a show in an Allentown record store, set up by my long term pal, Sue. It's also a bust. This time only one person shows up. We rope some other folks in. The record store owner buys a few books and records. No one else does
But it's not a failure, this trip. Oh no. I learned something. The end of privacy will have to wait until next month. But it won't be a generation gap column. I now understand that I've spent so much time looking for the dingleberries, I haven't realized there's no shit to begin with. There is no generation gap. There are no KIDS anymore, except as defined by stupid lawmakers who were born when it meant something to be over 21 or 30 or 40 or whatever.
I want to raise a Lionshead beer to the drinkers of Scranton PA. I don't give a shit if they voted for Bush. For all I know they think Bush is just another kind of beer. I do know, they drink, fuck, get drunk and don't give a shit about your age, race, or anything more than that you also drink, fuck and get drunk too. Maybe there's hope for America yet.
ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get live links and a chance to email comment on the column]
-->Thanks Dept. Dan Mahoney was the organizer in Scranton. After the show, he buys a book. The only sale of the night. I can't fault him for the financial disaster. He tried, and got a good crowd. It was the wrong crowd for me, but it was an adventure-- and I got a column out of it. Thanks Dan.
--> Class of 1984 dept: According to the Utne Reader, many schools in “the remote African interior” lack current textbooks. A Swiss company wants to “help” by using satellites to beam textbooks into eBook Readers. The promoters of the technology say that it will be less expensive than replacing old printed textbooks. The eBooks can easily be updated.
Governments should love this when they need to change history to suit the political climate. A few clicks of a mousekey will wipe out the past forever. No hard copy to prove otherwise. Slaves? What slaves?
-->Strange what doesn't make the news dept: Fat chance you'll read about it in America's Christified press, but it happened. Indonesia recently executed 3 Christian terrorists. What did they do? Kill 70 Muslims in a terrorist attack. Nothing like equal opportunity terrorism. Right?
-->Fox guards the henhouse dept: A US military contractor accused of human rights violations has won a multi-million-dollar contract to police post-Saddam Iraq. The DynCorp company, which has donated more than $200,000 to the Republican Party, began recruiting a private police force in Iraq for the US State Department.
The awarding of such a sensitive contract to DynCorp has caused concern over the company's policing record. A British employment tribunal recently forced DynCorp to pay £110,000 in compensation to a UN police officer. The courts said it unfairly fired her in Bosnia for whistleblowing on DynCorp colleagues involved in an illegal sex ring.
DynCorp, which has its headquarters in Reston, Virginia, employs almost 25,000 people, many of them former US military personnel.
--> Punk Porn dept: Thanks to Dick Freeman who sent me a DVD Twin set called FUCK THE SYSTEM. It may be the first full-out/self-proclaimed made-for-the-public punk porn production. It's certainly the first porn DVD to come with it's own companion soundtrack.
A few of the girls are okay looking, the guys are ugly, but it's a great start. Dick Freeman, by the way, is the editor of BATTERIES NOT INCLUDED, a porn review zine (no pictures), that sometimes features me. It always has great things to say, with writers like Nina Hartley and Richard Pacheco. Sample issues $3 from BNI, 513 N. Central Ave., Fairborn OH 45324
-->Take out them teeth granny, you're chafin' me dept: BNI also reports that the Senior Citizens' VILLAGES community near Orlando is reporting epidemic levels of sexually transmitted diseases. One gynecologist said she treats more cases of herpes in the retirement community than she did in the city of Miami.
Socrates, when he became old and lost the urge is rumored to have said, “I feel like I've been freed from an old and terrible dictator.”
Today, I'm happy to say, “Not so fast, buster.”
-->Personal dilemma dept: I'm a supporter of kids' rights. I believe people should be allowed to fuck whatever consenting people they want. Kids are the world's captives. They live in legal slavery, bound to people they sometimes hate. I also believe in privacy. My email to you is OUR communication. It doesn't belong to George Bush.
So what happens when a right-wing Republican congressman gets caught sending emails to a 16 year old page? First, I'm happy. It's a right-winger getting screwed. Then I'm sad, somebody who did NO HARM is getting fucked over in the same kind of scandal I hate. Then I'm happy, because it could lead to the end of the Republican controlled House. Then I'm sad, because it will encourage even more spying and less freedom. Maybe I shouldn't care at all. Maybe I should have a drink.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Youre Wrong #282
You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board
Feeling tonight like my brain is on fire. Don't touch me tonight I'm a high-tension wire.
–Dead Boys
Oh, the Protestants hate the Catholics, and the Catholics hate the Protestants, and the Hindus hate the Muslims, and everybody hates the Jews. – Tom Lehrer
ONE: I’m tireder than Ron Jeremy after take 10. In my rental car. Back from New Jersey. Off the bridge, coming down to the West Side Highway. I pull over to the right. There’s a horn. Blast. BLAST! BLAAAAAAAAST! Some smarmy guy in a Mercedes SUV. He thinks I cut him off. Maybe I did. Sorry.
He pulls past me. The driver’s side window opens. A hairy arm comes out of the open window. At the end of the arm is a hairy hand, middle finger raised.
Something happens. I feel it rising in my body. It’s a kind of pressure, beginning in my belly, a few inches north of the naval. It rises quickly. In waves. One after the other. It rises up over my chest, tingling my nipples. I feel it in my throat, a constriction, as if I were trying to force a cough. Behind it is another wave, moving up from my diaphram. Northward, ever northward the waves progress. Through my nose, making my breathing shallow, noisy. Up to my eyes. The blood shoots through the whites of my eyes like a speedball shoots through a junkie’s veins. Higher and higher moves the ripple. The first wave hits my brain. Like speed shot directly into the cortex or whatever it is that controls—or releases-- emotions.
Reason begins to drain. Then another wave hits the same spot. Reason is completely gone. Awareness of my surroundings, of my body, is gone. There’s only the asshole who gave me the finger. He is THE ENEMY. I’m after him.
I pull the car into the next lane, cutting off the guy who was behind the evil SUV. I pull behind the bastard. There’s no more than three inches between my bumper and his. I see his worried face in his rear view mirror. I grin back. A maniacal grin. His worry turns to fear.
He signals and pulls into the next lane. Me too. I’m on his tail. I imagine the sweat beading on his face. By the time I’m done, he’ll never give anyone the finger again—even if he lives.
He speeds up. 55, 60, 65. I’m right on his tail. He can’t shake me. He touches the brakes, figuring I’ll screech to halt. Yeah right. I’m up his ass. This is rape and the victim deserves it. I again catch his eyes in his rearview mirror. He looks like he’s going to cry. I laugh, loud, head thrown back, eyes bugged out. I hope he can see me. Hear me. I hope he’s shat in his pants. If he calls the cops, I’ll be as innocent as a lamb.
“Chasing him? Sorry, officer, I don’t know what you mean. I was just minding my own business, cruising down the...”
He’s changed lanes again. Fuck. I can’t get over.
I speed up, and pull into the next lane, trying to get ahead of him; then cut him off. He sees what I’m up to and slows down. Way down. The car behind him gets impatient. It pulls behind me. I pull in front of the SUV to let it pass. Then I pull back into the other lane and slow down. Way down. An exit. He’s off. Away. Damn!
But I feel good. My pulse slows. My breathing deepens. It’s like after an orgasm. Wow! I was a monster. The Hulk. All powerful. A little guy able to strike terror into the heart of some SUV jock who will never forget me. It makes my night.
TWO: I’m at work. At school actually. It’s where I go every morning to teach the New York working Japanese how to speak so people won’t make fun of ‘em. Before I give you the details of this adventure, I need to tell you about apartment phlegm.
It happens to you all the time. You’re home. You set something down, a set of keys perhaps or an earring. You turn to do something and turn back. What you’ve set down has gone. Disappeared into some quantum wormhole. It’s happened to everyone. Things just disappear into a giant sucking space hole, never to be seen again. My apartment is at the other end of that hole.
My apartment just spits up stuff. Underwear, jewelry, books. I find things that aren’t mine, have never been mine. I can’t imagine knowing anyone who would own such things, let alone leave them at my place. This stuff, puked from another dimension, I’ve christened apartment phlegm. I can sell a bit of it on eBay. Some is funny or interesting—but worthless. I bring it to work to offer for the enjoyment of my fellow teachers. It’s my gift to the gang. Some entertainment. Something to bring a spark, a laugh, rather than the depressing daily papers.
Today I have a hunting magazine from the 60s. Lots of pictures of proud white guys standing over animal carcasses. Ads for guns, bullets, an anachronism from a time where men were men and bucks were shot. Where did it come from? Who knows?
With it, as almost poetic counterpoint, is one of my sister’s old teen magazines. On the cover, a beauty queen from the 1960s sits on a rattan throne. White dress, full teenage glory of 50 years ago. It should get some laughs and maybe a few sighs for nostalgia or forbidden lust.
Now to introduce the villain of this story. I’ll call him Uragi. Japanese, he works at the front desk of my school. He’s part office manager, part tech expert, part hole in the condom. We have a history. A teacher I was boffing dumped me for him. Since then, he’s gone through students, teachers, and random white girls like I go through bedside tissues. Slightly pudgy, without a hint of body hair, I don’t get the appeal. Girls tell me he’s “the most sympathetic and understanding a guy can be… without being gay.” I still don’t get it, but whatever it is, it works. He gets more pussy than the local animal shelter.
I tend not to get along with studs. Besides taking all the fresh meat, I’m plain jealous of the ability to play the game, win the prize, and then do it again. You know what I mean?
I still wonder what makes him tick? Why should he care about me? I’m just this shlub of a teacher. I’m no threat. Twice his age, with half his hair, what does he have to worry about? But there’s hostility in there. He’s out to get me.
An hour after I put my magazines in the teacher’s lounge, they’re gone. Disappeared. I ask if someone took them. Maybe they want to read them at home. Jerk off to the Maidenform Bra adverts. Great! I’m glad they’ll be of use.
“Where are the magazines?” I ask randomly.
“Ask Uragi,” comes an answer from someplace.
“Let this be a warning to you,” says the Oriental himself. “I told you not to bring in that stuff. So don’t do it again.”
“You threw them out?” I ask. “They were here less than an hour and you threw them out?”
His silence answers.
Bad enough he has thrown out a gift from me to my fellow teachers, but now he’s also forced me to stop to one of the few enjoyments I have at work. One of the few ways to relieve the tedium is to share this weirdness. Now, I’m not allowed to show that. I’m not allowed to do that. I can’t share the fun with my fellow teachers. I’ll read today’s news or I’ll read nothing. He’s a censor: my most pettish of peeves.
And I told you! He said I told you! He’s not my boss. He’s never been my boss. What fuckin’ right does he have to TELL ME anything! I don’t take orders.
The ripples start. One following the other. They rise up over my chest, tingling my nipples on the way up. I feel them in my throat, a constriction, as if I were trying to force a cough. Behind them are more, moving up from my chest. Northward, ever northward the waves progress. Through my nose, bringing my breathing to something shallow, noisy. To my eyes, where I feel the blood shooting through the whites eyes like a speedball shoots through a junkie’s veins.. Higher and higher. The first wave hits my brain. Like a drug. Like some speed shot directly into the cortex or whatever it is that controls—or releases-- emotions. My temples pound. Reason begins to drain. Then another wave hits the same spot. Awareness is gone. Except for the Oriental who threw my gift away. He is THE ENEMY. I’m after him.
I have enough control not to hit him. Barely. My mind races. The bile of pure hate takes over. I’ll get him. Let him bring something in for the teachers. Pow! In the wastebasket. A gift from his hometown in Japan… cookies for everyone. BLAM! Faster than you can say, trash compactor. The revenge scenarios come faster than a thirteen year old boy on a teacher’s aid! Yeah!
Already I’ve embarrassed him in front of his fellow Orientals.
“Mykel?” he asked.
“What?!!” I shouted back in my best face-destroying growl.
Last weekend I missed the company picnic. A no-show for personal reasons. Let the real boss ask why. I’ll tell him.
I’m obsessed. It’s weeks later. I haven’t had either an apology with a promise not to do it again—or better still—TRUE REVENGE! Thoughts of getting even consume ever more of my waking time—and much of my sleeping time. I’m manic. Jerked awake at night with scenarios of getting even. Plans of revenge, future dialogs, clear as play scripts, race through my mind.
“He’ll see,” I think. Then I think it again.
THREE: There must be at least 150 pounds of books in my suitcase. It’s a tough green thing. A twenty pound veteran carrier. It’s been to Mongolia. It can put up with anything. There are wheels on the bottom, so as long as I don’t have to lift it, I can manage most any weight.
I’ve just returned from picking up books at friends of friends. A pair of Polish octogenarians. Old time liberals/radicals. He’s a holocaust survivor who thinks it’s stupid to punish Günter Grass for a 60 year old mistake. It’s hard to imagine so much persecution and not a continuing hate. But Itzak, (his real name!) thinks Grass is a good man. His past is past.
“Hate only means dead people,” says Itzak.
I like Grass as a writer, and don’t care about his past. But for me it’s different, objective. My favorite writer: Celine, was a Vichy sympathizer and anti-Jew to boot. Itzak is a little closer to the problem. He’s had it with hate. I haven’t.
So I’ve got my suitcase full of Itzak’s books, given to me to sell on Amazon. I’m struggling on the street, trying to flag down a cab. The taxi ride will probably cost me $15. Since I’m splitting sales with Itzak and his wife, that’ll mean I’ll have to sell $30 worth of books to pay for the ride. But there’s no way I can get this suitcase down the subway stairs, let alone UP the subway stairs on the other end.
A cab stops. The driver pops open the trunk latch and sits in the front seat, jabbering on his cellphone, expecting me to hoist the back-breaking bag into the trunk. Yeah right.
I slam the trunk shut and pull open the back door. It slams into the curbside car next to the cab. A chubby colored girl in the car sticks her head out.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she yells at me. “You slammed into my door. You opened the cab door right into my door.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t realize it.”
“You didn’t realize it? You blind? You hit my fuckin’ car.”
“Sorry,” I say again, dragging the bag into the back seat of the cab and curling up behind it.
“Why didn’t you let me help you with the bag?” says the driver.
“It’s a little late now,” I growl at him. “I’m going down to Broadway and Bleecker.”
“Should I take the FDR drive?” he asks.
I was a cab driver too. I know that trick. It’s blocks and dollars out of the way.
“No thanks,” I tell him. “Just take Second Avenue downtown.”
He shrugs and starts speaking in his cellphone again. I can’t recognize the language. Hindi? Hebrew? Arabic?
We’re at 86th Street heading downtown. At 64th Street, the driver suddenly turns right.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“There will be too much traffic on Second Avenue,” he says. “Do you want me to take Lexington Avenue or Fifth Avenue downtown?”
“I want you to take Second Avenue,” I say. “I said Second Avenue.”
“It’s too late for that now,” says the driver.
We turn left on Fifth Avenue heading south. Then we hit traffic. Stopped. Not moving an inch.
“This is much faster than Second Avenue,” I say, looking at his license.
His name is Muhammad Islam—I shit you not--Muhammad Islam.
The ripples start. One following the other. They rise up over my chest, tingling my nipples on the way up. I feel them in my throat, a constriction, as if I were trying to force a cough. Behind them are more, moving up from my chest. Northward, ever northward the waves progress. Through my nose, bringing my breathing to something shallow, noisy. To my eyes, where I feel the blood shooting through the whites like eyes like a speedball shoots through a junkie’s veins. Higher and higher. The first wave hits my brain. Like a drug. Like some speed shot directly into the cortex or whatever it is that controls—or releases-- emotions. My temples pound. Reason begins to drain. Then another wave hits the same spot. Awareness is gone. Except for the Arab taxi driver. He is THE ENEMY. I’m after him.
Red light. Green light. We move an inch. Red light.
“Stop!” I yell. “Stop now! I’m getting out here!”
The fare on the meter is $10.50. My hand shaking from anger, I pass a twenty and a one through the plastic protection window. “Give me a ten. Now!”
He looks back at me, reading the rage on my face. He fumbles through his money and hands me a ten. I slam the door open. In traffic. The taxi behind us honks wildly. Struggling, I pull the bag out of the cab and ignoring the cars around me, stagger with it onto the sidewalk.
Dragging the suitcase down 5th Avenue, I plot my revenge. I’ll call the city. The office of taxi and limousine commission. That fucker! The law says he’s got to take me where I want to go—and the way I want to go. Mohammad Islam?!!! He’s probably a terrorist. Besides, he knew I was a Jew. It’s written all over my face, beard-to-baldness. He can’t treat me like that. It’s a hate-crime. I’ll show him! I hate him and his hate-crime committing cohorts.
It doesn’t occur to me that I have Muslim friends and a great pal whose name is Bassam. I don’t think about the holocaust survivor who warned me so few minutes before. Instead, I’m consumed by primal hate—and loving it.
FOUR: Twenty-five years ago, a great man (me!) wrote, Hate has gotten a bad name during the last twenty years… Things have changed since then.
People are realizing that hate just feels good. It gets the blood rushing, the nerves pumped. It’s probably not healthy. High blood pressure, strokes, murder. But it is fun. It’s the total abandonment of self. You can become pure id. You’re relieved of all responsibility. You have no worries except the object of your hate. Hate is the name of the game. It was once shunted away, hidden, embarrassing. Now it is in the open. Running free. The world invites you to hate for the fun of it.
I credit religion for bringing hate out of the closet. What could be more obvious than the Reverend Fred Phelps? He’s one of the truest Christians I know. His website: godhatesfags.com is the most Christian site on the net. It explains everything. And not only Christianity.
Look at the world: Can you imagine invading a country, slaughtering hundreds of people, just because someone in the same political party as someone in that country kidnapped a citizen? It doesn’t make sense. But hate doesn’t need to make sense. Those who try to analyze the Israeli invasion of Lebanon will miss the point if they don’t consider HATE.
It is the driving force of history—especially religious history. The Catholic Inquisition, Protestant Witch-burning, Jewish prisoner torture, Muslims flying planes into tall buildings, Genghis Kahn forcing Buddhism on Asia. All this and more is fueled by hate.
In the 60s, hippies tried to build a movement on love. They tried to create a society where people respected each other. They believed that down deep we all wanted and needed love. They were wrong and the “movement” barely lasted ten years.
Religion got it right. Religion knows that the way to a man’s loyalty is through his hatred. Why do most religions stress abstinence? No sex. No booze. No drugs. They allow you only one outlet that feels good. You’ve got one place to let it out, enjoy the adrenalin. Live the life godhatesfillintheblank wants you to live. Religion will find the object. The focus. You don’t have to wait for someone to give you the finger from a moving car. You don’t have to work in an office where some petty staff member throws away your gifts. You don’t need to take a cab with Muhammad Islam. You only have to follow the religion. Joyous hate will soon be yours.
When those pundits and TV talking heads try to analyze the world situation, you’ll know better than them. When the lefties talk about oppression and the righties talk about strategic advantage, you’ll know it’s bullshit. Remember when Clinton told you “it’s the economy stupid,” you can laugh at how wrong he was.
You know it’s the force of hate that drives the world. Every synagogue, mosque, church, temple is a house of hate. And every-once-in-awhile, you’ll find yourself praying at your own house of hate—even if you’re not a believer.
ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get live links and a chance to email comment on the column]
--> For those who didn’t get the reference dept: Günter Grass is a liberal German writer. He won the Nobel Prize and has worked hard in support of somewhat liberal political candidates. It was recently revealed that he was also in the SS. He says economics and politics forced a young impressionable Günter into the Secret Service. Most Jews don’t buy it. Even the Poles want to take back the award they gave to the old man. As if the Poles were so pure in their WWII Jewish relations. The new Pope was a member of Hitler Youth. No one’s talking about taking anything back from him. But he’s not a liberal.
-->Small Victories dept: In Iowa, a federal judge ruled that the state could not fund an InnerChange prison program. The ruling said that the program was "overwhelmingly devotional in nature and intended to indoctrinate inmates into the Evangelical Christian belief system." That's one for us… 6,324,003,234 for them.
-->How about a MYKEL'S LAW dept: New York Metro newspaper says that the sister of Imette St. Guillen is pushing for Imette's Law. A bouncer at a local NYC club was charged with Imette's murder. Her sister wants a law that would "mandate the installation of security cameras at the entrance to all establishments in New York that hold liquor licenses." Can you imagine? And what happens if someone is murdered at home? In her bedroom? In the bathroom? Mandatory security cameras there too? Jeezus! If you want your freedom, you've got to take risks. That's what freedom is. Enough security already!
--->Psychologists at Lund University in Sweden presented 120 participants with pairs of photos of faces. They asked them to choose “the most appealing” of the two. Then the researches secretly exchanged the selected picture for the one not chosen. These they gave back to the subjects. More than 74 percent of the participants didn’t notice the mismatch between their intention and the outcome. Not only that, they gave a reason for why they chose the face they did not, in fact, choose.
The psychologists call it "choice blindness." And though they're not sure what it means, I think it means people who participate in psychology experiments don't give a shit. The researchers, perhaps, will find a deeper meaning.
--> Corporations and your government dept: A couple of weeks ago, AT&T revised its privacy policies. It now says the company owns customer records and can do what it wants with them. This includes turning them over to whoever asks. The old policy said it would turn over the records only in response to "a subpoena, court order or other legal process."
At about the same time, an article in Salon detailed the experiences of two former AT&T employees working at a facility that has a secret, secure room where a government agency monitored Internet traffic.
And what did AT&T get in return? Remember Net Neutrality? The idea that everyone has a right to equal access across the net? AT&T managed to get exactly what it wanted from the House of Representatives. That means NO NET NEUTRALITY. AT&T also managed to stop a bill in the Senate. And finally, it convinced the FCC that cable providers and small ISPs -- especially wireless providers -- should be made to reconfigure their networks such that they can wiretap their customers as easily as AT&T can. Even better, the government has budgeted up to $500 million in subsidies for the telephone companies to make the changes-- but not a dime for other broadband providers.
-->Intellectual property dept: The Motion Picture Association of America hired a hacker to break into the networks of TorrentSpy and other file-sharing companies. The goal was to shut the companies down.
What's entertaining is that while the MPAA was trying to figure out ways to wreck file-sharing companies, at least one studio is negotiating a deal with those companies to distribute video content. While at least part of the movie industry is getting the idea, the recording industry isn't. The lawsuits will continue. But fear not.
In the true spirit of capitalism a Swedish company will insure you in case you get sued. The cost: $19 a year. Pay them and download away. They’ll defend you. (More info at: http://www.techdirt.com/articles/20060629/0038249.shtml)
-->Mongolians have been doing it for years dept: New York Metro reports that San Francisco will begin picking up dog shit for use as a power source. The shit will be tossed into a methane dumpster and the rising gas will be used for "a gas stove, heater, turbine, or anything else powered by natural gas." If I could only run my AC on my natural gas. I’d save a bundle!
-->Police blotter dept: Franklin Paul Crow was charged in Florida with the death of his roommate Kenneth Matthews. The man was charge with fatally beating his roommate with a sledgehammer. The reason? There was no toilet paper in the house and the offending person did nothing about it. Police said Crow "confessed during questioning." I wonder how they did the good cop/bad cop routine without breaking out laughing.
“I understand, son. I’ve been there too. Ruined a good pair of jockey shorts, I did. Talk to me son. Get it off your… er… chest. I understand.”
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board
Feeling tonight like my brain is on fire. Don't touch me tonight I'm a high-tension wire.
–Dead Boys
Oh, the Protestants hate the Catholics, and the Catholics hate the Protestants, and the Hindus hate the Muslims, and everybody hates the Jews. – Tom Lehrer
ONE: I’m tireder than Ron Jeremy after take 10. In my rental car. Back from New Jersey. Off the bridge, coming down to the West Side Highway. I pull over to the right. There’s a horn. Blast. BLAST! BLAAAAAAAAST! Some smarmy guy in a Mercedes SUV. He thinks I cut him off. Maybe I did. Sorry.
He pulls past me. The driver’s side window opens. A hairy arm comes out of the open window. At the end of the arm is a hairy hand, middle finger raised.
Something happens. I feel it rising in my body. It’s a kind of pressure, beginning in my belly, a few inches north of the naval. It rises quickly. In waves. One after the other. It rises up over my chest, tingling my nipples. I feel it in my throat, a constriction, as if I were trying to force a cough. Behind it is another wave, moving up from my diaphram. Northward, ever northward the waves progress. Through my nose, making my breathing shallow, noisy. Up to my eyes. The blood shoots through the whites of my eyes like a speedball shoots through a junkie’s veins. Higher and higher moves the ripple. The first wave hits my brain. Like speed shot directly into the cortex or whatever it is that controls—or releases-- emotions.
Reason begins to drain. Then another wave hits the same spot. Reason is completely gone. Awareness of my surroundings, of my body, is gone. There’s only the asshole who gave me the finger. He is THE ENEMY. I’m after him.
I pull the car into the next lane, cutting off the guy who was behind the evil SUV. I pull behind the bastard. There’s no more than three inches between my bumper and his. I see his worried face in his rear view mirror. I grin back. A maniacal grin. His worry turns to fear.
He signals and pulls into the next lane. Me too. I’m on his tail. I imagine the sweat beading on his face. By the time I’m done, he’ll never give anyone the finger again—even if he lives.
He speeds up. 55, 60, 65. I’m right on his tail. He can’t shake me. He touches the brakes, figuring I’ll screech to halt. Yeah right. I’m up his ass. This is rape and the victim deserves it. I again catch his eyes in his rearview mirror. He looks like he’s going to cry. I laugh, loud, head thrown back, eyes bugged out. I hope he can see me. Hear me. I hope he’s shat in his pants. If he calls the cops, I’ll be as innocent as a lamb.
“Chasing him? Sorry, officer, I don’t know what you mean. I was just minding my own business, cruising down the...”
He’s changed lanes again. Fuck. I can’t get over.
I speed up, and pull into the next lane, trying to get ahead of him; then cut him off. He sees what I’m up to and slows down. Way down. The car behind him gets impatient. It pulls behind me. I pull in front of the SUV to let it pass. Then I pull back into the other lane and slow down. Way down. An exit. He’s off. Away. Damn!
But I feel good. My pulse slows. My breathing deepens. It’s like after an orgasm. Wow! I was a monster. The Hulk. All powerful. A little guy able to strike terror into the heart of some SUV jock who will never forget me. It makes my night.
TWO: I’m at work. At school actually. It’s where I go every morning to teach the New York working Japanese how to speak so people won’t make fun of ‘em. Before I give you the details of this adventure, I need to tell you about apartment phlegm.
It happens to you all the time. You’re home. You set something down, a set of keys perhaps or an earring. You turn to do something and turn back. What you’ve set down has gone. Disappeared into some quantum wormhole. It’s happened to everyone. Things just disappear into a giant sucking space hole, never to be seen again. My apartment is at the other end of that hole.
My apartment just spits up stuff. Underwear, jewelry, books. I find things that aren’t mine, have never been mine. I can’t imagine knowing anyone who would own such things, let alone leave them at my place. This stuff, puked from another dimension, I’ve christened apartment phlegm. I can sell a bit of it on eBay. Some is funny or interesting—but worthless. I bring it to work to offer for the enjoyment of my fellow teachers. It’s my gift to the gang. Some entertainment. Something to bring a spark, a laugh, rather than the depressing daily papers.
Today I have a hunting magazine from the 60s. Lots of pictures of proud white guys standing over animal carcasses. Ads for guns, bullets, an anachronism from a time where men were men and bucks were shot. Where did it come from? Who knows?
With it, as almost poetic counterpoint, is one of my sister’s old teen magazines. On the cover, a beauty queen from the 1960s sits on a rattan throne. White dress, full teenage glory of 50 years ago. It should get some laughs and maybe a few sighs for nostalgia or forbidden lust.
Now to introduce the villain of this story. I’ll call him Uragi. Japanese, he works at the front desk of my school. He’s part office manager, part tech expert, part hole in the condom. We have a history. A teacher I was boffing dumped me for him. Since then, he’s gone through students, teachers, and random white girls like I go through bedside tissues. Slightly pudgy, without a hint of body hair, I don’t get the appeal. Girls tell me he’s “the most sympathetic and understanding a guy can be… without being gay.” I still don’t get it, but whatever it is, it works. He gets more pussy than the local animal shelter.
I tend not to get along with studs. Besides taking all the fresh meat, I’m plain jealous of the ability to play the game, win the prize, and then do it again. You know what I mean?
I still wonder what makes him tick? Why should he care about me? I’m just this shlub of a teacher. I’m no threat. Twice his age, with half his hair, what does he have to worry about? But there’s hostility in there. He’s out to get me.
An hour after I put my magazines in the teacher’s lounge, they’re gone. Disappeared. I ask if someone took them. Maybe they want to read them at home. Jerk off to the Maidenform Bra adverts. Great! I’m glad they’ll be of use.
“Where are the magazines?” I ask randomly.
“Ask Uragi,” comes an answer from someplace.
“Let this be a warning to you,” says the Oriental himself. “I told you not to bring in that stuff. So don’t do it again.”
“You threw them out?” I ask. “They were here less than an hour and you threw them out?”
His silence answers.
Bad enough he has thrown out a gift from me to my fellow teachers, but now he’s also forced me to stop to one of the few enjoyments I have at work. One of the few ways to relieve the tedium is to share this weirdness. Now, I’m not allowed to show that. I’m not allowed to do that. I can’t share the fun with my fellow teachers. I’ll read today’s news or I’ll read nothing. He’s a censor: my most pettish of peeves.
And I told you! He said I told you! He’s not my boss. He’s never been my boss. What fuckin’ right does he have to TELL ME anything! I don’t take orders.
The ripples start. One following the other. They rise up over my chest, tingling my nipples on the way up. I feel them in my throat, a constriction, as if I were trying to force a cough. Behind them are more, moving up from my chest. Northward, ever northward the waves progress. Through my nose, bringing my breathing to something shallow, noisy. To my eyes, where I feel the blood shooting through the whites eyes like a speedball shoots through a junkie’s veins.. Higher and higher. The first wave hits my brain. Like a drug. Like some speed shot directly into the cortex or whatever it is that controls—or releases-- emotions. My temples pound. Reason begins to drain. Then another wave hits the same spot. Awareness is gone. Except for the Oriental who threw my gift away. He is THE ENEMY. I’m after him.
I have enough control not to hit him. Barely. My mind races. The bile of pure hate takes over. I’ll get him. Let him bring something in for the teachers. Pow! In the wastebasket. A gift from his hometown in Japan… cookies for everyone. BLAM! Faster than you can say, trash compactor. The revenge scenarios come faster than a thirteen year old boy on a teacher’s aid! Yeah!
Already I’ve embarrassed him in front of his fellow Orientals.
“Mykel?” he asked.
“What?!!” I shouted back in my best face-destroying growl.
Last weekend I missed the company picnic. A no-show for personal reasons. Let the real boss ask why. I’ll tell him.
I’m obsessed. It’s weeks later. I haven’t had either an apology with a promise not to do it again—or better still—TRUE REVENGE! Thoughts of getting even consume ever more of my waking time—and much of my sleeping time. I’m manic. Jerked awake at night with scenarios of getting even. Plans of revenge, future dialogs, clear as play scripts, race through my mind.
“He’ll see,” I think. Then I think it again.
THREE: There must be at least 150 pounds of books in my suitcase. It’s a tough green thing. A twenty pound veteran carrier. It’s been to Mongolia. It can put up with anything. There are wheels on the bottom, so as long as I don’t have to lift it, I can manage most any weight.
I’ve just returned from picking up books at friends of friends. A pair of Polish octogenarians. Old time liberals/radicals. He’s a holocaust survivor who thinks it’s stupid to punish Günter Grass for a 60 year old mistake. It’s hard to imagine so much persecution and not a continuing hate. But Itzak, (his real name!) thinks Grass is a good man. His past is past.
“Hate only means dead people,” says Itzak.
I like Grass as a writer, and don’t care about his past. But for me it’s different, objective. My favorite writer: Celine, was a Vichy sympathizer and anti-Jew to boot. Itzak is a little closer to the problem. He’s had it with hate. I haven’t.
So I’ve got my suitcase full of Itzak’s books, given to me to sell on Amazon. I’m struggling on the street, trying to flag down a cab. The taxi ride will probably cost me $15. Since I’m splitting sales with Itzak and his wife, that’ll mean I’ll have to sell $30 worth of books to pay for the ride. But there’s no way I can get this suitcase down the subway stairs, let alone UP the subway stairs on the other end.
A cab stops. The driver pops open the trunk latch and sits in the front seat, jabbering on his cellphone, expecting me to hoist the back-breaking bag into the trunk. Yeah right.
I slam the trunk shut and pull open the back door. It slams into the curbside car next to the cab. A chubby colored girl in the car sticks her head out.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she yells at me. “You slammed into my door. You opened the cab door right into my door.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t realize it.”
“You didn’t realize it? You blind? You hit my fuckin’ car.”
“Sorry,” I say again, dragging the bag into the back seat of the cab and curling up behind it.
“Why didn’t you let me help you with the bag?” says the driver.
“It’s a little late now,” I growl at him. “I’m going down to Broadway and Bleecker.”
“Should I take the FDR drive?” he asks.
I was a cab driver too. I know that trick. It’s blocks and dollars out of the way.
“No thanks,” I tell him. “Just take Second Avenue downtown.”
He shrugs and starts speaking in his cellphone again. I can’t recognize the language. Hindi? Hebrew? Arabic?
We’re at 86th Street heading downtown. At 64th Street, the driver suddenly turns right.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“There will be too much traffic on Second Avenue,” he says. “Do you want me to take Lexington Avenue or Fifth Avenue downtown?”
“I want you to take Second Avenue,” I say. “I said Second Avenue.”
“It’s too late for that now,” says the driver.
We turn left on Fifth Avenue heading south. Then we hit traffic. Stopped. Not moving an inch.
“This is much faster than Second Avenue,” I say, looking at his license.
His name is Muhammad Islam—I shit you not--Muhammad Islam.
The ripples start. One following the other. They rise up over my chest, tingling my nipples on the way up. I feel them in my throat, a constriction, as if I were trying to force a cough. Behind them are more, moving up from my chest. Northward, ever northward the waves progress. Through my nose, bringing my breathing to something shallow, noisy. To my eyes, where I feel the blood shooting through the whites like eyes like a speedball shoots through a junkie’s veins. Higher and higher. The first wave hits my brain. Like a drug. Like some speed shot directly into the cortex or whatever it is that controls—or releases-- emotions. My temples pound. Reason begins to drain. Then another wave hits the same spot. Awareness is gone. Except for the Arab taxi driver. He is THE ENEMY. I’m after him.
Red light. Green light. We move an inch. Red light.
“Stop!” I yell. “Stop now! I’m getting out here!”
The fare on the meter is $10.50. My hand shaking from anger, I pass a twenty and a one through the plastic protection window. “Give me a ten. Now!”
He looks back at me, reading the rage on my face. He fumbles through his money and hands me a ten. I slam the door open. In traffic. The taxi behind us honks wildly. Struggling, I pull the bag out of the cab and ignoring the cars around me, stagger with it onto the sidewalk.
Dragging the suitcase down 5th Avenue, I plot my revenge. I’ll call the city. The office of taxi and limousine commission. That fucker! The law says he’s got to take me where I want to go—and the way I want to go. Mohammad Islam?!!! He’s probably a terrorist. Besides, he knew I was a Jew. It’s written all over my face, beard-to-baldness. He can’t treat me like that. It’s a hate-crime. I’ll show him! I hate him and his hate-crime committing cohorts.
It doesn’t occur to me that I have Muslim friends and a great pal whose name is Bassam. I don’t think about the holocaust survivor who warned me so few minutes before. Instead, I’m consumed by primal hate—and loving it.
FOUR: Twenty-five years ago, a great man (me!) wrote, Hate has gotten a bad name during the last twenty years… Things have changed since then.
People are realizing that hate just feels good. It gets the blood rushing, the nerves pumped. It’s probably not healthy. High blood pressure, strokes, murder. But it is fun. It’s the total abandonment of self. You can become pure id. You’re relieved of all responsibility. You have no worries except the object of your hate. Hate is the name of the game. It was once shunted away, hidden, embarrassing. Now it is in the open. Running free. The world invites you to hate for the fun of it.
I credit religion for bringing hate out of the closet. What could be more obvious than the Reverend Fred Phelps? He’s one of the truest Christians I know. His website: godhatesfags.com is the most Christian site on the net. It explains everything. And not only Christianity.
Look at the world: Can you imagine invading a country, slaughtering hundreds of people, just because someone in the same political party as someone in that country kidnapped a citizen? It doesn’t make sense. But hate doesn’t need to make sense. Those who try to analyze the Israeli invasion of Lebanon will miss the point if they don’t consider HATE.
It is the driving force of history—especially religious history. The Catholic Inquisition, Protestant Witch-burning, Jewish prisoner torture, Muslims flying planes into tall buildings, Genghis Kahn forcing Buddhism on Asia. All this and more is fueled by hate.
In the 60s, hippies tried to build a movement on love. They tried to create a society where people respected each other. They believed that down deep we all wanted and needed love. They were wrong and the “movement” barely lasted ten years.
Religion got it right. Religion knows that the way to a man’s loyalty is through his hatred. Why do most religions stress abstinence? No sex. No booze. No drugs. They allow you only one outlet that feels good. You’ve got one place to let it out, enjoy the adrenalin. Live the life godhatesfillintheblank wants you to live. Religion will find the object. The focus. You don’t have to wait for someone to give you the finger from a moving car. You don’t have to work in an office where some petty staff member throws away your gifts. You don’t need to take a cab with Muhammad Islam. You only have to follow the religion. Joyous hate will soon be yours.
When those pundits and TV talking heads try to analyze the world situation, you’ll know better than them. When the lefties talk about oppression and the righties talk about strategic advantage, you’ll know it’s bullshit. Remember when Clinton told you “it’s the economy stupid,” you can laugh at how wrong he was.
You know it’s the force of hate that drives the world. Every synagogue, mosque, church, temple is a house of hate. And every-once-in-awhile, you’ll find yourself praying at your own house of hate—even if you’re not a believer.
ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get live links and a chance to email comment on the column]
--> For those who didn’t get the reference dept: Günter Grass is a liberal German writer. He won the Nobel Prize and has worked hard in support of somewhat liberal political candidates. It was recently revealed that he was also in the SS. He says economics and politics forced a young impressionable Günter into the Secret Service. Most Jews don’t buy it. Even the Poles want to take back the award they gave to the old man. As if the Poles were so pure in their WWII Jewish relations. The new Pope was a member of Hitler Youth. No one’s talking about taking anything back from him. But he’s not a liberal.
-->Small Victories dept: In Iowa, a federal judge ruled that the state could not fund an InnerChange prison program. The ruling said that the program was "overwhelmingly devotional in nature and intended to indoctrinate inmates into the Evangelical Christian belief system." That's one for us… 6,324,003,234 for them.
-->How about a MYKEL'S LAW dept: New York Metro newspaper says that the sister of Imette St. Guillen is pushing for Imette's Law. A bouncer at a local NYC club was charged with Imette's murder. Her sister wants a law that would "mandate the installation of security cameras at the entrance to all establishments in New York that hold liquor licenses." Can you imagine? And what happens if someone is murdered at home? In her bedroom? In the bathroom? Mandatory security cameras there too? Jeezus! If you want your freedom, you've got to take risks. That's what freedom is. Enough security already!
--->Psychologists at Lund University in Sweden presented 120 participants with pairs of photos of faces. They asked them to choose “the most appealing” of the two. Then the researches secretly exchanged the selected picture for the one not chosen. These they gave back to the subjects. More than 74 percent of the participants didn’t notice the mismatch between their intention and the outcome. Not only that, they gave a reason for why they chose the face they did not, in fact, choose.
The psychologists call it "choice blindness." And though they're not sure what it means, I think it means people who participate in psychology experiments don't give a shit. The researchers, perhaps, will find a deeper meaning.
--> Corporations and your government dept: A couple of weeks ago, AT&T revised its privacy policies. It now says the company owns customer records and can do what it wants with them. This includes turning them over to whoever asks. The old policy said it would turn over the records only in response to "a subpoena, court order or other legal process."
At about the same time, an article in Salon detailed the experiences of two former AT&T employees working at a facility that has a secret, secure room where a government agency monitored Internet traffic.
And what did AT&T get in return? Remember Net Neutrality? The idea that everyone has a right to equal access across the net? AT&T managed to get exactly what it wanted from the House of Representatives. That means NO NET NEUTRALITY. AT&T also managed to stop a bill in the Senate. And finally, it convinced the FCC that cable providers and small ISPs -- especially wireless providers -- should be made to reconfigure their networks such that they can wiretap their customers as easily as AT&T can. Even better, the government has budgeted up to $500 million in subsidies for the telephone companies to make the changes-- but not a dime for other broadband providers.
-->Intellectual property dept: The Motion Picture Association of America hired a hacker to break into the networks of TorrentSpy and other file-sharing companies. The goal was to shut the companies down.
What's entertaining is that while the MPAA was trying to figure out ways to wreck file-sharing companies, at least one studio is negotiating a deal with those companies to distribute video content. While at least part of the movie industry is getting the idea, the recording industry isn't. The lawsuits will continue. But fear not.
In the true spirit of capitalism a Swedish company will insure you in case you get sued. The cost: $19 a year. Pay them and download away. They’ll defend you. (More info at: http://www.techdirt.com/articles/20060629/0038249.shtml)
-->Mongolians have been doing it for years dept: New York Metro reports that San Francisco will begin picking up dog shit for use as a power source. The shit will be tossed into a methane dumpster and the rising gas will be used for "a gas stove, heater, turbine, or anything else powered by natural gas." If I could only run my AC on my natural gas. I’d save a bundle!
-->Police blotter dept: Franklin Paul Crow was charged in Florida with the death of his roommate Kenneth Matthews. The man was charge with fatally beating his roommate with a sledgehammer. The reason? There was no toilet paper in the house and the offending person did nothing about it. Police said Crow "confessed during questioning." I wonder how they did the good cop/bad cop routine without breaking out laughing.
“I understand, son. I’ve been there too. Ruined a good pair of jockey shorts, I did. Talk to me son. Get it off your… er… chest. I understand.”
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Youre Wrong (MRR 281)
You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board
We are all our own legal system, where we feel the need and see the opportunity; apprehending, judging, dispensing and, where we can, enforcing whatever by our personal philosophy we deem legitimate. –Iain Banks
What is it with hets? I’ve been writing for years about how I don’t fall for this genetics=sexuality crap. How we’re masters of our own souls, captains of our individual destinies. But if I did believe in a genetic link, I’d say that it there must be a link between the gene which imparts the disease of heterosexuality, and the gene that imparts the disease of stupidity.
Steve is as ugly as a hairy back: fat, bad teeth, jowls that nearly touch under his chin. A het if there ever was one.
“Hey Steve,” I ask. “Wanna go in here for a drink? They serve Yeungling on tap.”
“Mykel!” he whispers. “That’s a gay bar. I don’t want to go in there. They’ll be all over me. I’ll feel, you know, uncomfortable. I believe in rights and all that, but I don’t want to go where I’m going to have a hand on my ass.”
“You’re ugly!” I don’t tell him, but should. “Being homo gives you taste. It doesn’t make you lose it. Just because guys like some other guys, it doesn’t mean they like all other guys. Jezus fuckin’ Christ. You like girls, but are you gonna try and cop a feel on Hillary Clinton?”
Steve doesn’t answer this, because I don’t really say it. We’re friends despite his stupidity. But it gets me thinking about this homo matter. It also provides me with a convenient introduction to this month’s column which, although called The Boy with The Perfect Nose, is actually about my jury duty.
The jury system could be great. It’s a chance for the average Jane to judge the relative idiocy of the laws made in her name. If she doesn’t like a law, she can vote NOT GUILTY to show her dislike of that law, or the methods used to enforce it. It is only incidentally important if the person accused, actually committed the crime. That’s small potatoes in the stew of things. But an individual voting on the entire criminal justice system? That’s a big deal! At least it should be.
But, in its never-ending efforts to make individuals powerless, the government has lied to jurors. Judges tell us that we cannot decide on the law. We can only decide the facts. Is a witness lying or telling the truth? Were they where they said they were, or somewhere else? Jury duty becomes a meaningless act, a waste of time. No wonder most people hate it. What good is it?
Every four years, I get a letter calling me to serve time on a jury. Actually, the letters come more frequently, but I only have to go once in four years. Last time was on a bribery case. I was the only hold-out. 11 guilty votes and me. Sure the guy did it. But I hated the way the government used wiretap evidence and informers. Eventually, my co-jurors brow-beat me into changing my vote. A real loss of integrity. I hated myself for it and vowed it wouldn’t happen again.
“I just tell ‘em I’m gay,” says my pal Marshall. “That gets me excused right away.”
“Isn’t that illegal discrimination?” I ask.
“Oh, they just think I’m too liberal. They always find another reason to send me packing,” he tells me.
Now I find myself in the jury waiting room, typing this very column. Thank G-d for the lack of music! But silence is not to be had. Two older women chat in front of me: The old body parts aren’t what they used to be. Isn’t it awful what some celebrity did to some other celebrity.
I try not to listen. Others here, like most of silence-hating America, have to clear their throats, cough loudly or fiddle with a newspaper. At least I can thank the Bitch Goddess that they confiscate cellphones on the way in.
There’s a library-like feel here, though the biddies in front don’t get it. From way in the back comes the buzz of another pair of chatting females. Only women talk. Men cough.
I guess there’s nothing wrong with it. It isn’t a library. No shhh signs. But somehow there doesn’t seem to be… I donno, a respect.
I notice a young blond guy with curly hair. He smiles at me… friendly type. He’s wearing some college sweatshirt, an awful salmon color with white lettering. Exactly which college never registers on my brain. I’m too busy planning what I’ll say to the judge. He’ll ask me, “Can you promise to judge the facts of the case as you see them and follow the law as I give it to you?”
“I believe in the right of jurors to vote their opinions,” I’ll say. “I believe that each individual must judge the law as well as the facts. Juries are the last protection against bad laws.”
It’s likely he’ll throw me out then. But everyone in the courtroom will have heard me. I can make more of an impression by being excused than by serving.
A big black court clerk enters and gives us an introduction and orientation—nuts and bolts—no civic duty stuff.
You must not serve if you do not live in the area covered by the Southern District Court. That is Manhattan, The Bronx, Westchester, Rockland and Putnam counties. You must not serve if you have been convicted of a felony or are under indictment for a felony. You may not serve if you are over 70 years old. If you are over seventy, it is optional. If you choose to serve, we welcome your service.
So those most sympathetic to the defendant… those who know what it’s like having been convicted… they are denied the right to convict. Ah America, how do I hate you? Let me count the ways.
The clerk tells us to stand on line at the sides of the room. We then should hand in our summons and answer the question Are you ready to serve?
“Not that it matters,” he says. “Ready or not here you come.”
The guy has a good sense of humor. He seems to like performing.
With so much experience, the organization here could have been better. Why not stand a row at a time—like on an airline. Reseating provides a lucky break, though. The biddies are no longer together. It’s quiet… er.
Now there’s a movie about the jury process. Here’s where all the civic duty and thrill of the jury service come into practice. The woman in the movie—the hostess—has a very severe body. She could be anorexic. She’s in office lady drag, about 45, sharp features and hollow cheeks, white as country club.
The movie takes about ½ hour. In it, the judges are all white. There’s an Indian (turban, not feather) lawyer. The former jurors they interview are mostly white. They talk to a farmer in front of his cows. A septuagenarian former librarian is at home, in front of a bookcase. This was not made for New Yorkers.
The film stresses what I hate about the jury system: the need for ignorance. Don’t look things up. Don’t research the topic. Don’t know anything—that’s the key. It’s awful. Then, it’s over.
After the movie—nothing. Now we have real silence—except for an occasional cough—more like throat clearing—and the rustle of pages. If I concentrate, I can hear the hum of air conditioning. No music. No voices. Even the tap tap tap of my computer keyboard destroys the calm. I’ll stop. I wish I were awake enough to enjoy the quiet.
Now, it’s 10AM. I guess there’ll be one round of jury picking then, in an hour, back again for a second round… then home. Outside, it’s pouring rain.
I’m called on the first round. Part of 50, around 25% of the whole room. We line up. “I hope you brought your umbrellas,” says the guard.
We go outside, downpour, torrents, ark-building weather. We’re across the street, in the other building. Another Federal court, in the worst of all possible worlds. I’m on the panel for Grand Jury Duty. 1 MONTH OF SERVICE. How can I survive on no income for a month? $40,000 in debt. I’ll sink. I’ll never get out. I’ll have to live off eBay or something. What awful bad luck. I guess everyone in the room is thinking the same thing.
At first they pick 23 people. Then they go through them, one at a time, as each tries to get out of service.
One by one, the jurors whine to the judge. He dismisses the first three—a bad sign for the rest of us. Number four stays. Looks like the judge is getting tougher. Is being thrown out of your apartment for not paying rent a good enough excuse?
After they go through everybody (most have some excuse), they call new names to fill the vacated spots. From the 1st round, 14 of the original 23 are still stand—err… sitting.
We’re in a beautiful old building. 20 foot ceilings, recessed lighting, elegant floral design on huge ceiling tiles. It strikes me how churchlike the place is. Long pews, an altar up front, a large US Court seal where the cross would be. Even the windows are high. Though arched, they’re not quite as pointed as a church’s.
But there is something evil about this church. The District Attorney says the proceedings are secret. No one’s allowed in except the jury, the prosecutor, the defendant and his lawyer. Secret trials.
And I count the rows—the number of pews. There are six on each side. Six-Six And how many windows? Six. SIX SIX SIX It is a church. The Church of Satan. It’s right here in lower Manhattan.
But there’s no fire or brimstone. In fact, it’s ice cold. Several people have complained about the air conditioning. We’ve just come in from the pouring rain and the air conditioner is on so high the snot is freezing in our noses. The finger tips of my right hand are numb. I look at them. They’re wrinkled as if I’ve just come out of a pool. A tubercular guy in the front row coughs for real, from deep in his lungs. Jezus fuckin’ Lucifer.
Now, they’ve got 9 empty seats to fill. Where will I be? 8,7,6,5,4,3,2… I’m not in this round. But there’ll be other whiners, others excused. How can I get out of it? Book tour? Old parents? Contrary views? I don’t know. If I have to serve, I’ll be out on the street. Jury duty itself puts a crimp in my budget, but a month? I’ll die.
I should have worn an Osama bin Laden was right t-shirt. Or maybe carried that Dennis Cooper novel. You know the homo one where the guys fuck each other. Then one guy rips open the other and plunges his hands into the still warm intestines. Yeah, Dennis Cooper would keep me off a jury.
My head is pounding. My blood pressure’s way up. I can feel the mercury rising, a million over 7324. I’ll explode like that guy in Scanners. Seat number 13 has been excused 3 times. I’m going to get seat number 13. I know it. It’s jinxed. Like Apollo 13. I’ll never make it. Some mob boss will have me rubbed out… Ah, they filled it with someone else. But seat number 1, the foreman’s seat, is empty. I can’t be the foreman. The foreman has to be there every day. The guard explained that we can have a few days off. All we have to do is check with the foreman. That means the foreman has to be there. Otherwise, who do you check with? Fuck, I’m going to be the foreman.
Okay, I’ve decided to serve. I won’t complain. It’ll be an adventure. Somehow, I’ll live. It’ll be a chance to spout off to 22 other people. Tell ‘em about the real jury system. Tell ‘em how it’s their duty to vote their conscience regardless of the law. Tell ‘em that juries are—or should be-- the last protection humans have against bad laws. Everything else is just representative. You vote for someone and—they win. You never have a say personally. It’s an awful system. Here’s a chance to act on your own. A tiny sliver of real power. Seize it! Don’t like government spying? Refuse to indict if it’s used. Don’t like crimes with no victims? Drug laws? Prostitution? Refuse to indict! For this one time, you have the power. Use it.
I picture myself standing up before my fellow jurors, index finger in the air making an impassioned speech. The Patrick Henry of Pearl Street.
The score: 14 out of 23 stay.
9 out of 14
5 out of 9
2 out of 5
Not quite yet.
1 out of 2
Here it comes… I’m the last to be chosen… nope.
But wait—there’s a hitch. There are two more jurors to be chosen. This time for really long term service. Eight months. That I cannot do. I guess I’ll just be honest and say it’ll break me. If I don’t work, I don’t get paid. I can’t live for 2 months on no pay.
There is a tension in the room. Everyone hopes it’s someone else. Everyone hopes there’ll be no dismissals as our pool of jurors has shrunk considerable. They call one person. Not me. Then another. Oh no, the first is let off. Some lame ass excuse, I’m sure. How could the judge be so dumb as to buy that?! What a sucker. He believes this guy, but he won’t believe me. It’s just not fair.
Another name chosen. Again, not me.
Then it’s over… at least for the grand jury.
“Those of you not chosen for the grand jury will return to the jury pool,” says the judge.
“We’re free,” breathes a woman a few years younger than me. Her long blond hair frames a hippie-ish face, pretty, without make-up.
I’m sure someone will call us back. There’s been a mistake. They need one more. Will the jurors please return to the Grand Jury room? It doesn’t happen. I’m free. Sort of.
The courtroom clerk tells those of us lucky enough not to have been chosen to return to the jury pool. As we head back toward the x-ray machine a guard stops us. (Note: there has been an increase in security. In the subway yesterday, there were cops and a check table. When I passed City Hall, there were riot cops with bulletproof vests and machine guns. I guess the terror alert is up. Are we orange yet?)
I look around at the pool of jurors. There’s one older colored guy who wears a blue shirt and tie. One other white guy has a suit on, but he looks more like a salesman than a lawyer or businessman. Most of the rest of the jurors are under 40, more women than men. No one looks rich. There is one beautiful boy with a perfect nose. His brown hair curls around the lower part of his ear. But it is the nose that attracts me. Not large or fat or wide, but perfect, coming out from between his eyebrows with a strong, intentional force, then ending in a soft smooth roundness. He could be a first year college student. Maybe he’s into older men. I smile at him. He doesn’t smile back. I go to lunch.
I eat outside in the food court. I order a $5 veggie melt wrap and sit down. At the table next to me is the blond college student with the curly hair and ugly sweatshirt. He seems like a friendly guy, but I don’t have anything to say to him. He looks very non-punk, and I’m not really in making-new-friends mode. (Except maybe for the guy with the perfect nose.)
We nod hello at each other, and don’t say a word. After I finish my wrap, I get up and walk down to Nassau Street. There used to be a store there that sold cheap porno videos. Maybe I can find it.
I give the college kid a little wave as I get up. Heading toward Nassau Street it suddenly occurs to me: SECURITY. When I enter the courthouse, I’m going to have to show my bag to the security guard. Am I gonna want to explain Oriental Gash Guzzlers? I don’t think so. Maybe it’ll help keep me off a jury, but the way things are going—it might sooner rather than later—bring me in front of one. I forgo the trip and head back to the courtroom. It’s 1:30.
Lunch is officially over at 2:00. I sit in the workroom, right outside the main jury assembly room. It’s a room with library-like study cubicles. I take out my Toshiba, and type these words. At 2:30 the court clerk begins a new round of name calling. My name is third. Also chosen in this round is the college kid, and the guy with the beautiful nose. HERE! I shout from the workroom, when the clerk calls my name. I gather up my computer and notes, and head upstairs to yet another courtroom.
In this new room, another clerk has placed the paper slips with our names in a cage, like the one they use to choose the lottery balls. He spins the cage and picks out a name.
Juror number one… please take the first seat in the front row, closest to the judge. He reads the name from the paper: Jonathan Hagler.
A man about my age, taller with more hair, though it’s gray, stands and walks through the gate to the front of the room. He climbs up into the jury box and takes the first seat.
Juror number two… please take the seat next to juror number one, in the font row. He reads the name from the paper: Mykel Board.
(Actually, he reads Michael Board, which sounds exactly the same as Mykel Board. But the first is my legal name, the latter my pen… err… e-Name.)
I pick up my computer bag, walk to the front and sit down next to Jonathan.
One by one, the clerk picks other names to fill the rest of the vacant chairs. The college kid sits in the front row of the waiting area. He catches my eye several times. I wonder if we’ll be on the same jury. Weird feeling. Does he know me?
Juror number six… please take the seat next to juror number five, in the font row: Joshua Rothenstein.
A 30-somethingish guy with jeans and a black muscle t-shirt, clicks his tongue loudly enough for the rest of us to hear. He takes his seat at the end of the row I’m sitting in.
Juror number seven… please take the seat at the front of the next row: He reads the name from the paper: Edward Rogers.
Juror number eight… please take the seat next to juror number seven, in the font row. He reads the name from the paper: Jennifer Lopez.
“Really?” says the judge.
There is a scatter of light chuckling in the courtroom. A chunky yet attractive Hispanic-looking woman stands up among the other jurors. Certainly A Jennifer Lopez, but not THE Jennifer Lopez. She sits next to Edward.
Juror number nine… please take the seat next to juror number eight. He reads the name from the paper: Sven Anderson.
There is a stirring from near the back of the courtroom. I hear a vague excuse me. I look up to see who’s coming. It’s the guy with the perfect nose. The beauty who was there with me in the grand jury room. We’re gonna be locked together for how long? We’ll be on intimate terms before you can say, pitcher or catcher? This isn’t gonna be so bad after all.
After the initial 12 seats are filled, each person is questioned by the judge. Just the basics. Education, marital status, job, address, do you know any of the involved parties.
The guy in seat number one isn’t married, has a Masters in Linguistics, is a teacher. He is not me. On my turn, I tell the judge we’re not brothers. That gets some laughs.
The guy at the end of my row is in the orchestra at the Met. MFA in music studies. Is he married?
“Hardly,” he says, “but I’ve had the same boyfriend for 15 years.”
He doesn’t say lover or roommate. He says boyfriend.
Maybe it worked for Marshal. It doesn’t work for this guy. But, he’s got another sleeve up his trick.
The judge thanks him and goes on to the next person. The questioning continues. We learn that we’ve got a grandma “tax-consultant” who doesn’t look like she can read. We’ve got a guy in business for himself—owns a crew of trucks, cranes, heavy machinery. He’s wearing a suit—the only one of us. One woman is from Inwood, one of the few working class neighborhoods left in Manhattan. There are a couple attorneys, one who works for some financial institution, one who works for an insurance company. After the judge questions everyone, he calls on the lawyers interrogate us.
They use this chance to let us know the basics of the case. The plaintiff is a cop who works on the waterfront, the NY City equivalent of the Coast Guard. He was injured while climbing out of a boat onto a dock. Something went wrong with the ladder. It’s not clear whether he slipped, or the ladder broke. I guess we’ll find out during the trial.
The cop’s lawyer looks pure MOB. Big-chested. Full head of grey hair. Expensive suit. A neck as thick as my thigh.
The defendant, of course, is the City of New York. Their lawyer, asking us if we believe that, “sometimes accidents just happen, and nobody is at fault” looks like a Jewish intellectual. Thin guy, gray beard, with a head slightly too big for his body.
“And is there anyone who has a relative in the police force?” asks the city counsel.
The woman from Inwood raises her hand. “I have three nephews who are police officers.”
“Are they all patrolmen, or are they officers?” asks the lawyer.
“Two are patrolmen. One’s an officer,” says the woman.
“Your honor?” says the lawyer to the judge.
“Any objection?” he asks the lawyer for the cop.
The lawyer gets up and asks the woman, “Do you think you can put aside your relatives and decide this case only on its merits?”
The woman doesn’t answer.
“Do you think you can be fair and impartial here?” he asks.
“Of course,” says the woman.
“Fine,” says the judge. And the attorney goes to the next juror.
He gets to the guy with the boyfriend of 15 years.
“I can’t possibly be objective,” says the guy. “I mean I just lo-o-o-ve policemen. I workout with them at the gym every day. I see them all the time. They’re a-a-a-lll my friends. They’re just t-o-o wonderful.”
“Err,” stumbles the attorney, “do you think you could put your… err… special feelings aside and judge this case strictly on the merits?”
“Oh no,” says the young man—with the enthusiasm of a used car salesman, “that would be impossible. I couldn’t be objective. They’re just too wonderful.”
All right,” says the judge, “you’re excused. Thank you for your frankness.”
Suppressing the urge to jump up and clap his hands—but not suppressing a faint smile-- the guy gets up, takes the paper from the judge and heads back to the jury room.
The city lawyers ask a few more questions. I haven’t said anything to hurt my chances of staying on this jury. I should be fine. Sequestered with the boy with the perfect nose.
Now it’s time for the cop’s lawyer to ask the questions.
“This may seem like a strange question,” he says. “But there’s a reason I’m asking it.”
He clears his throat.
“Of all the people alive,” says the lawyer, “who is it that you admire most?”
He pauses for dramatic effect.
“Take a second to consider,” he says, giving it just about that time before he continues. “We’ll start with juror number one.”
“There’s nobody I admire,” the teacher tells the lawyers. “I dislike most people. I think they’re all a bunch of conceited worthless…” He lets this words trail off.
The lawyer, and a few other jurors chuckle a bit.
“And juror number two?” he says.
That’s me! Fuck, it’s a tough one. Everybody I admire is dead. Celine, Lenny Bruce, GG Allin, William Burroughs. Who am I going to say? I don’t wanna lie, but I don’t wanna say anything that will get me kicked off either. There’s that guy with the perfect nose!
“Jimmy Carter,” I say. “I most admire Jimmy Carter.”
“That’s admirable,” he says. “And juror number three?”
He goes down the line. Two of the women in the front row say their mothers. Before long it’s Sven’s turn. He seems to be a brooder, sitting there with his legs crossed at the knee and stretched in front of him. His head is tucked down, chin to chest.
“Dennis Cooper,” he says. “I like Dennis Cooper.”
I don’t turn to look at him.
“Who’s Dennis Cooper?” asks the lawyer.
“He’s a writer.” answers the boy of perfect nose.
The lawyer nods and continues down the line.
Once everyone answers this question, the City lawyer again gets up to speak.
“One thing I forgot to ask,” he says. “You read a lot in the newspapers these days about law suits, and people getting money from lawsuits. Is there anyone out there who has feelings one way or another about the right to sue and collect damages?
A few hands go up. I raise mine too… a bit tentatively.
The attorney calls on the lawyer for the insurance company.
“Every day I see the actual, excuse my language, bullshit that people file these days. They claim the most outrageous things. Day after day I see this crap. I can’t be objective about it.”
“Do you think you could put those feelings aside and judge this case solely on its merits?” asks the lawyer.
“If you would have asked me that last month-- before I got this job, I would have said yes,” says the attorney. “But now, after what I’ve seen. There’s no way. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you for being candid,” says the lawyer. “You’re dismissed.”
He hands the guy his walking papers and the clerk calls a replacement, a shlubby looking guy who could be a butcher. After the initial questions, the city attorney continues. He points to me.
“You had your hand raised,” he said. “Do you have feelings about lawsuits?”
“Oh yes,” I say. “I believe in the right to sue. It’s lawsuits or the threat of lawsuits that keep government and big corporations honest. They could run roughshod over the public without fear if it weren’t for lawsuits. The courts are our last protection.”
“Thank you,” said the attorney. “Do you think you could put those feelings aside and judge this case solely on its merits?”
I look at Sven sitting sexily to my right and behind me.
“You bet,” I tell him. “No problem.”
Whew, almost blew that one.
After a few more questions from the lawyers, the judge speaks to us.
“All right ladies and gentlemen of the jury… err… perspective jury. You have gone through what’s called a Voir Dire or “say the truth” process. Thank you for your candid replies. The attorneys will now have a conference where they will decide whether to exercise their preemptory exclusions. That means, they can excuse any juror based on a hunch or gut feeling. These are limited, but lawyers have the right to them. Please don’t take it personally. If you are excused, it is not a reflection on you. It is only a reflection of what the lawyer feels is best for his client. Give them a few minutes.”
When the few minutes is over, the lawyers return.
“We have three jurors excused,” says the judge. He calls the name of the woman from Inwood. He calls the name of one of the woman who most admired her mother. He calls my name. He doesn’t not call Sven’s name.
“Thank you,” says the judge. “After you’re replaced on the jury, you and the rest of the panel should return to the main jury room.”
Discouraged, I climb down from the jury box glancing briefly at the boy with the perfect nose. I join the others in the back of the room. We then head back to the jury waiting room. By the elevator, the guy with the college sweatshirt comes up to me and speaks softly into my ear.
“Jimmy Carter?” he whispers. “Yeah right.”
Flash to now: I’m out in Chelsea, with Steve. Under my arm is Frisk, a novel by Dennis Cooper. It’s a hell of a long shot, but who knows? If Sven, hangs out in the city, he’ll probably be here. At least in this neighborhood. Steve could be my shill. The ugly guy I’ll look so good next to. But he doesn’t want to go into the bar. He’s afraid they’ll go for him. What an idiot!
ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get live links and a chance to email comment on the column]
--> For more information about jury power, and the possibilities of a real jury system, check out www.fija.org. And if you ever get called for jury duty. Just tell the truth, they’ll never pick you.
--> Too Bad Dept: AP reports that Rush Limbaugh was detained at Palm Beach International Airport in June. The problem? He was found with a bottle of Viagra prescribed in his psychologist’s name—not his own. The police were called, but unfortunately, no charges were pressed. Now if it had been you or me…
-->See You at the Finale Dept: In Halberstadt Germany, the local church is sponsoring a John Cage concert scheduled to last 639 years. It’s a version of a composition called "As Slow as Possible." According to a recent press release, a chord change is planned for Friday. Two pipes will be removed from the organ which is being built as the composition proceeds.
"In these times, acceleration spoils everything," said Heinz-Klaus Metzger, a prominent musicologist whose chance comments at an organ conference nine years ago sparked the project. "To begin a performance with the perspective of more than a half-millennium — it's just a kind of negation of the lifestyle of today."
--> Whatever Happened to Consent Dept: I think Kesha forwarded me the article about 3 guys in jail on felony charges of castration without malice and practicing medicine without a license.
Sheriff Tom Alexander and District Attorney Michael Bonfoey announced the arrests of the men in connection with the illegal castrations. The sheriff and prosecutor said the victims were willing participants. The victims met the accused through a locally produced website that published photographs of men engaging in sadomasochistic behavior. Yahoo! shut down the site in December 2004. The castrations took place last year beginning in March and continued through November, according to police documents. The case is the first involving willing castration in the county and could be the first in North Carolina.
“This right here beats everything I have ever seen,” the sheriff said.
Dr. Paul Appelbaum, a professor of psychiatry at Columbia University and a past president of the American Psychiatric Association, said voluntary castration appears to be a very rare phenomenon.
“The people who I have seen who have undergone voluntary castration have been psychotic and often in the grip of a delusion that their sexual organs were causing them to behave in evil ways.” Appelbaum said. “And they felt that to rid themselves of that evil, it was necessary to rid themselves of their sexual organs.”
I say, they sound like the perfect Christians to me. What’s the problem? For Christians, sex is evil. I only wish ALL Christians had the same courtesy these North Carolina guys. It’d sure help reduce the spread of disease. Christianity, I mean. What other disease?
-->Borders without Borders Dept: The Utne Reader points out that the success of the French-based humanitarian group “Doctors Without Borders” has spawned dozens of imitators, anxious to build on the successful franchise. There’s Geeks Without Borders, Sisters Without Borders, Librarians Without Borders and my favorite, Clowns Without Borders.
Stay tuned with your donations for the next installment: Pedophiles Without Borders. Get those checkbooks ready!
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board
We are all our own legal system, where we feel the need and see the opportunity; apprehending, judging, dispensing and, where we can, enforcing whatever by our personal philosophy we deem legitimate. –Iain Banks
What is it with hets? I’ve been writing for years about how I don’t fall for this genetics=sexuality crap. How we’re masters of our own souls, captains of our individual destinies. But if I did believe in a genetic link, I’d say that it there must be a link between the gene which imparts the disease of heterosexuality, and the gene that imparts the disease of stupidity.
Steve is as ugly as a hairy back: fat, bad teeth, jowls that nearly touch under his chin. A het if there ever was one.
“Hey Steve,” I ask. “Wanna go in here for a drink? They serve Yeungling on tap.”
“Mykel!” he whispers. “That’s a gay bar. I don’t want to go in there. They’ll be all over me. I’ll feel, you know, uncomfortable. I believe in rights and all that, but I don’t want to go where I’m going to have a hand on my ass.”
“You’re ugly!” I don’t tell him, but should. “Being homo gives you taste. It doesn’t make you lose it. Just because guys like some other guys, it doesn’t mean they like all other guys. Jezus fuckin’ Christ. You like girls, but are you gonna try and cop a feel on Hillary Clinton?”
Steve doesn’t answer this, because I don’t really say it. We’re friends despite his stupidity. But it gets me thinking about this homo matter. It also provides me with a convenient introduction to this month’s column which, although called The Boy with The Perfect Nose, is actually about my jury duty.
The jury system could be great. It’s a chance for the average Jane to judge the relative idiocy of the laws made in her name. If she doesn’t like a law, she can vote NOT GUILTY to show her dislike of that law, or the methods used to enforce it. It is only incidentally important if the person accused, actually committed the crime. That’s small potatoes in the stew of things. But an individual voting on the entire criminal justice system? That’s a big deal! At least it should be.
But, in its never-ending efforts to make individuals powerless, the government has lied to jurors. Judges tell us that we cannot decide on the law. We can only decide the facts. Is a witness lying or telling the truth? Were they where they said they were, or somewhere else? Jury duty becomes a meaningless act, a waste of time. No wonder most people hate it. What good is it?
Every four years, I get a letter calling me to serve time on a jury. Actually, the letters come more frequently, but I only have to go once in four years. Last time was on a bribery case. I was the only hold-out. 11 guilty votes and me. Sure the guy did it. But I hated the way the government used wiretap evidence and informers. Eventually, my co-jurors brow-beat me into changing my vote. A real loss of integrity. I hated myself for it and vowed it wouldn’t happen again.
“I just tell ‘em I’m gay,” says my pal Marshall. “That gets me excused right away.”
“Isn’t that illegal discrimination?” I ask.
“Oh, they just think I’m too liberal. They always find another reason to send me packing,” he tells me.
Now I find myself in the jury waiting room, typing this very column. Thank G-d for the lack of music! But silence is not to be had. Two older women chat in front of me: The old body parts aren’t what they used to be. Isn’t it awful what some celebrity did to some other celebrity.
I try not to listen. Others here, like most of silence-hating America, have to clear their throats, cough loudly or fiddle with a newspaper. At least I can thank the Bitch Goddess that they confiscate cellphones on the way in.
There’s a library-like feel here, though the biddies in front don’t get it. From way in the back comes the buzz of another pair of chatting females. Only women talk. Men cough.
I guess there’s nothing wrong with it. It isn’t a library. No shhh signs. But somehow there doesn’t seem to be… I donno, a respect.
I notice a young blond guy with curly hair. He smiles at me… friendly type. He’s wearing some college sweatshirt, an awful salmon color with white lettering. Exactly which college never registers on my brain. I’m too busy planning what I’ll say to the judge. He’ll ask me, “Can you promise to judge the facts of the case as you see them and follow the law as I give it to you?”
“I believe in the right of jurors to vote their opinions,” I’ll say. “I believe that each individual must judge the law as well as the facts. Juries are the last protection against bad laws.”
It’s likely he’ll throw me out then. But everyone in the courtroom will have heard me. I can make more of an impression by being excused than by serving.
A big black court clerk enters and gives us an introduction and orientation—nuts and bolts—no civic duty stuff.
You must not serve if you do not live in the area covered by the Southern District Court. That is Manhattan, The Bronx, Westchester, Rockland and Putnam counties. You must not serve if you have been convicted of a felony or are under indictment for a felony. You may not serve if you are over 70 years old. If you are over seventy, it is optional. If you choose to serve, we welcome your service.
So those most sympathetic to the defendant… those who know what it’s like having been convicted… they are denied the right to convict. Ah America, how do I hate you? Let me count the ways.
The clerk tells us to stand on line at the sides of the room. We then should hand in our summons and answer the question Are you ready to serve?
“Not that it matters,” he says. “Ready or not here you come.”
The guy has a good sense of humor. He seems to like performing.
With so much experience, the organization here could have been better. Why not stand a row at a time—like on an airline. Reseating provides a lucky break, though. The biddies are no longer together. It’s quiet… er.
Now there’s a movie about the jury process. Here’s where all the civic duty and thrill of the jury service come into practice. The woman in the movie—the hostess—has a very severe body. She could be anorexic. She’s in office lady drag, about 45, sharp features and hollow cheeks, white as country club.
The movie takes about ½ hour. In it, the judges are all white. There’s an Indian (turban, not feather) lawyer. The former jurors they interview are mostly white. They talk to a farmer in front of his cows. A septuagenarian former librarian is at home, in front of a bookcase. This was not made for New Yorkers.
The film stresses what I hate about the jury system: the need for ignorance. Don’t look things up. Don’t research the topic. Don’t know anything—that’s the key. It’s awful. Then, it’s over.
After the movie—nothing. Now we have real silence—except for an occasional cough—more like throat clearing—and the rustle of pages. If I concentrate, I can hear the hum of air conditioning. No music. No voices. Even the tap tap tap of my computer keyboard destroys the calm. I’ll stop. I wish I were awake enough to enjoy the quiet.
Now, it’s 10AM. I guess there’ll be one round of jury picking then, in an hour, back again for a second round… then home. Outside, it’s pouring rain.
I’m called on the first round. Part of 50, around 25% of the whole room. We line up. “I hope you brought your umbrellas,” says the guard.
We go outside, downpour, torrents, ark-building weather. We’re across the street, in the other building. Another Federal court, in the worst of all possible worlds. I’m on the panel for Grand Jury Duty. 1 MONTH OF SERVICE. How can I survive on no income for a month? $40,000 in debt. I’ll sink. I’ll never get out. I’ll have to live off eBay or something. What awful bad luck. I guess everyone in the room is thinking the same thing.
At first they pick 23 people. Then they go through them, one at a time, as each tries to get out of service.
One by one, the jurors whine to the judge. He dismisses the first three—a bad sign for the rest of us. Number four stays. Looks like the judge is getting tougher. Is being thrown out of your apartment for not paying rent a good enough excuse?
After they go through everybody (most have some excuse), they call new names to fill the vacated spots. From the 1st round, 14 of the original 23 are still stand—err… sitting.
We’re in a beautiful old building. 20 foot ceilings, recessed lighting, elegant floral design on huge ceiling tiles. It strikes me how churchlike the place is. Long pews, an altar up front, a large US Court seal where the cross would be. Even the windows are high. Though arched, they’re not quite as pointed as a church’s.
But there is something evil about this church. The District Attorney says the proceedings are secret. No one’s allowed in except the jury, the prosecutor, the defendant and his lawyer. Secret trials.
And I count the rows—the number of pews. There are six on each side. Six-Six And how many windows? Six. SIX SIX SIX It is a church. The Church of Satan. It’s right here in lower Manhattan.
But there’s no fire or brimstone. In fact, it’s ice cold. Several people have complained about the air conditioning. We’ve just come in from the pouring rain and the air conditioner is on so high the snot is freezing in our noses. The finger tips of my right hand are numb. I look at them. They’re wrinkled as if I’ve just come out of a pool. A tubercular guy in the front row coughs for real, from deep in his lungs. Jezus fuckin’ Lucifer.
Now, they’ve got 9 empty seats to fill. Where will I be? 8,7,6,5,4,3,2… I’m not in this round. But there’ll be other whiners, others excused. How can I get out of it? Book tour? Old parents? Contrary views? I don’t know. If I have to serve, I’ll be out on the street. Jury duty itself puts a crimp in my budget, but a month? I’ll die.
I should have worn an Osama bin Laden was right t-shirt. Or maybe carried that Dennis Cooper novel. You know the homo one where the guys fuck each other. Then one guy rips open the other and plunges his hands into the still warm intestines. Yeah, Dennis Cooper would keep me off a jury.
My head is pounding. My blood pressure’s way up. I can feel the mercury rising, a million over 7324. I’ll explode like that guy in Scanners. Seat number 13 has been excused 3 times. I’m going to get seat number 13. I know it. It’s jinxed. Like Apollo 13. I’ll never make it. Some mob boss will have me rubbed out… Ah, they filled it with someone else. But seat number 1, the foreman’s seat, is empty. I can’t be the foreman. The foreman has to be there every day. The guard explained that we can have a few days off. All we have to do is check with the foreman. That means the foreman has to be there. Otherwise, who do you check with? Fuck, I’m going to be the foreman.
Okay, I’ve decided to serve. I won’t complain. It’ll be an adventure. Somehow, I’ll live. It’ll be a chance to spout off to 22 other people. Tell ‘em about the real jury system. Tell ‘em how it’s their duty to vote their conscience regardless of the law. Tell ‘em that juries are—or should be-- the last protection humans have against bad laws. Everything else is just representative. You vote for someone and—they win. You never have a say personally. It’s an awful system. Here’s a chance to act on your own. A tiny sliver of real power. Seize it! Don’t like government spying? Refuse to indict if it’s used. Don’t like crimes with no victims? Drug laws? Prostitution? Refuse to indict! For this one time, you have the power. Use it.
I picture myself standing up before my fellow jurors, index finger in the air making an impassioned speech. The Patrick Henry of Pearl Street.
The score: 14 out of 23 stay.
9 out of 14
5 out of 9
2 out of 5
Not quite yet.
1 out of 2
Here it comes… I’m the last to be chosen… nope.
But wait—there’s a hitch. There are two more jurors to be chosen. This time for really long term service. Eight months. That I cannot do. I guess I’ll just be honest and say it’ll break me. If I don’t work, I don’t get paid. I can’t live for 2 months on no pay.
There is a tension in the room. Everyone hopes it’s someone else. Everyone hopes there’ll be no dismissals as our pool of jurors has shrunk considerable. They call one person. Not me. Then another. Oh no, the first is let off. Some lame ass excuse, I’m sure. How could the judge be so dumb as to buy that?! What a sucker. He believes this guy, but he won’t believe me. It’s just not fair.
Another name chosen. Again, not me.
Then it’s over… at least for the grand jury.
“Those of you not chosen for the grand jury will return to the jury pool,” says the judge.
“We’re free,” breathes a woman a few years younger than me. Her long blond hair frames a hippie-ish face, pretty, without make-up.
I’m sure someone will call us back. There’s been a mistake. They need one more. Will the jurors please return to the Grand Jury room? It doesn’t happen. I’m free. Sort of.
The courtroom clerk tells those of us lucky enough not to have been chosen to return to the jury pool. As we head back toward the x-ray machine a guard stops us. (Note: there has been an increase in security. In the subway yesterday, there were cops and a check table. When I passed City Hall, there were riot cops with bulletproof vests and machine guns. I guess the terror alert is up. Are we orange yet?)
I look around at the pool of jurors. There’s one older colored guy who wears a blue shirt and tie. One other white guy has a suit on, but he looks more like a salesman than a lawyer or businessman. Most of the rest of the jurors are under 40, more women than men. No one looks rich. There is one beautiful boy with a perfect nose. His brown hair curls around the lower part of his ear. But it is the nose that attracts me. Not large or fat or wide, but perfect, coming out from between his eyebrows with a strong, intentional force, then ending in a soft smooth roundness. He could be a first year college student. Maybe he’s into older men. I smile at him. He doesn’t smile back. I go to lunch.
I eat outside in the food court. I order a $5 veggie melt wrap and sit down. At the table next to me is the blond college student with the curly hair and ugly sweatshirt. He seems like a friendly guy, but I don’t have anything to say to him. He looks very non-punk, and I’m not really in making-new-friends mode. (Except maybe for the guy with the perfect nose.)
We nod hello at each other, and don’t say a word. After I finish my wrap, I get up and walk down to Nassau Street. There used to be a store there that sold cheap porno videos. Maybe I can find it.
I give the college kid a little wave as I get up. Heading toward Nassau Street it suddenly occurs to me: SECURITY. When I enter the courthouse, I’m going to have to show my bag to the security guard. Am I gonna want to explain Oriental Gash Guzzlers? I don’t think so. Maybe it’ll help keep me off a jury, but the way things are going—it might sooner rather than later—bring me in front of one. I forgo the trip and head back to the courtroom. It’s 1:30.
Lunch is officially over at 2:00. I sit in the workroom, right outside the main jury assembly room. It’s a room with library-like study cubicles. I take out my Toshiba, and type these words. At 2:30 the court clerk begins a new round of name calling. My name is third. Also chosen in this round is the college kid, and the guy with the beautiful nose. HERE! I shout from the workroom, when the clerk calls my name. I gather up my computer and notes, and head upstairs to yet another courtroom.
In this new room, another clerk has placed the paper slips with our names in a cage, like the one they use to choose the lottery balls. He spins the cage and picks out a name.
Juror number one… please take the first seat in the front row, closest to the judge. He reads the name from the paper: Jonathan Hagler.
A man about my age, taller with more hair, though it’s gray, stands and walks through the gate to the front of the room. He climbs up into the jury box and takes the first seat.
Juror number two… please take the seat next to juror number one, in the font row. He reads the name from the paper: Mykel Board.
(Actually, he reads Michael Board, which sounds exactly the same as Mykel Board. But the first is my legal name, the latter my pen… err… e-Name.)
I pick up my computer bag, walk to the front and sit down next to Jonathan.
One by one, the clerk picks other names to fill the rest of the vacant chairs. The college kid sits in the front row of the waiting area. He catches my eye several times. I wonder if we’ll be on the same jury. Weird feeling. Does he know me?
Juror number six… please take the seat next to juror number five, in the font row: Joshua Rothenstein.
A 30-somethingish guy with jeans and a black muscle t-shirt, clicks his tongue loudly enough for the rest of us to hear. He takes his seat at the end of the row I’m sitting in.
Juror number seven… please take the seat at the front of the next row: He reads the name from the paper: Edward Rogers.
Juror number eight… please take the seat next to juror number seven, in the font row. He reads the name from the paper: Jennifer Lopez.
“Really?” says the judge.
There is a scatter of light chuckling in the courtroom. A chunky yet attractive Hispanic-looking woman stands up among the other jurors. Certainly A Jennifer Lopez, but not THE Jennifer Lopez. She sits next to Edward.
Juror number nine… please take the seat next to juror number eight. He reads the name from the paper: Sven Anderson.
There is a stirring from near the back of the courtroom. I hear a vague excuse me. I look up to see who’s coming. It’s the guy with the perfect nose. The beauty who was there with me in the grand jury room. We’re gonna be locked together for how long? We’ll be on intimate terms before you can say, pitcher or catcher? This isn’t gonna be so bad after all.
After the initial 12 seats are filled, each person is questioned by the judge. Just the basics. Education, marital status, job, address, do you know any of the involved parties.
The guy in seat number one isn’t married, has a Masters in Linguistics, is a teacher. He is not me. On my turn, I tell the judge we’re not brothers. That gets some laughs.
The guy at the end of my row is in the orchestra at the Met. MFA in music studies. Is he married?
“Hardly,” he says, “but I’ve had the same boyfriend for 15 years.”
He doesn’t say lover or roommate. He says boyfriend.
Maybe it worked for Marshal. It doesn’t work for this guy. But, he’s got another sleeve up his trick.
The judge thanks him and goes on to the next person. The questioning continues. We learn that we’ve got a grandma “tax-consultant” who doesn’t look like she can read. We’ve got a guy in business for himself—owns a crew of trucks, cranes, heavy machinery. He’s wearing a suit—the only one of us. One woman is from Inwood, one of the few working class neighborhoods left in Manhattan. There are a couple attorneys, one who works for some financial institution, one who works for an insurance company. After the judge questions everyone, he calls on the lawyers interrogate us.
They use this chance to let us know the basics of the case. The plaintiff is a cop who works on the waterfront, the NY City equivalent of the Coast Guard. He was injured while climbing out of a boat onto a dock. Something went wrong with the ladder. It’s not clear whether he slipped, or the ladder broke. I guess we’ll find out during the trial.
The cop’s lawyer looks pure MOB. Big-chested. Full head of grey hair. Expensive suit. A neck as thick as my thigh.
The defendant, of course, is the City of New York. Their lawyer, asking us if we believe that, “sometimes accidents just happen, and nobody is at fault” looks like a Jewish intellectual. Thin guy, gray beard, with a head slightly too big for his body.
“And is there anyone who has a relative in the police force?” asks the city counsel.
The woman from Inwood raises her hand. “I have three nephews who are police officers.”
“Are they all patrolmen, or are they officers?” asks the lawyer.
“Two are patrolmen. One’s an officer,” says the woman.
“Your honor?” says the lawyer to the judge.
“Any objection?” he asks the lawyer for the cop.
The lawyer gets up and asks the woman, “Do you think you can put aside your relatives and decide this case only on its merits?”
The woman doesn’t answer.
“Do you think you can be fair and impartial here?” he asks.
“Of course,” says the woman.
“Fine,” says the judge. And the attorney goes to the next juror.
He gets to the guy with the boyfriend of 15 years.
“I can’t possibly be objective,” says the guy. “I mean I just lo-o-o-ve policemen. I workout with them at the gym every day. I see them all the time. They’re a-a-a-lll my friends. They’re just t-o-o wonderful.”
“Err,” stumbles the attorney, “do you think you could put your… err… special feelings aside and judge this case strictly on the merits?”
“Oh no,” says the young man—with the enthusiasm of a used car salesman, “that would be impossible. I couldn’t be objective. They’re just too wonderful.”
All right,” says the judge, “you’re excused. Thank you for your frankness.”
Suppressing the urge to jump up and clap his hands—but not suppressing a faint smile-- the guy gets up, takes the paper from the judge and heads back to the jury room.
The city lawyers ask a few more questions. I haven’t said anything to hurt my chances of staying on this jury. I should be fine. Sequestered with the boy with the perfect nose.
Now it’s time for the cop’s lawyer to ask the questions.
“This may seem like a strange question,” he says. “But there’s a reason I’m asking it.”
He clears his throat.
“Of all the people alive,” says the lawyer, “who is it that you admire most?”
He pauses for dramatic effect.
“Take a second to consider,” he says, giving it just about that time before he continues. “We’ll start with juror number one.”
“There’s nobody I admire,” the teacher tells the lawyers. “I dislike most people. I think they’re all a bunch of conceited worthless…” He lets this words trail off.
The lawyer, and a few other jurors chuckle a bit.
“And juror number two?” he says.
That’s me! Fuck, it’s a tough one. Everybody I admire is dead. Celine, Lenny Bruce, GG Allin, William Burroughs. Who am I going to say? I don’t wanna lie, but I don’t wanna say anything that will get me kicked off either. There’s that guy with the perfect nose!
“Jimmy Carter,” I say. “I most admire Jimmy Carter.”
“That’s admirable,” he says. “And juror number three?”
He goes down the line. Two of the women in the front row say their mothers. Before long it’s Sven’s turn. He seems to be a brooder, sitting there with his legs crossed at the knee and stretched in front of him. His head is tucked down, chin to chest.
“Dennis Cooper,” he says. “I like Dennis Cooper.”
I don’t turn to look at him.
“Who’s Dennis Cooper?” asks the lawyer.
“He’s a writer.” answers the boy of perfect nose.
The lawyer nods and continues down the line.
Once everyone answers this question, the City lawyer again gets up to speak.
“One thing I forgot to ask,” he says. “You read a lot in the newspapers these days about law suits, and people getting money from lawsuits. Is there anyone out there who has feelings one way or another about the right to sue and collect damages?
A few hands go up. I raise mine too… a bit tentatively.
The attorney calls on the lawyer for the insurance company.
“Every day I see the actual, excuse my language, bullshit that people file these days. They claim the most outrageous things. Day after day I see this crap. I can’t be objective about it.”
“Do you think you could put those feelings aside and judge this case solely on its merits?” asks the lawyer.
“If you would have asked me that last month-- before I got this job, I would have said yes,” says the attorney. “But now, after what I’ve seen. There’s no way. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you for being candid,” says the lawyer. “You’re dismissed.”
He hands the guy his walking papers and the clerk calls a replacement, a shlubby looking guy who could be a butcher. After the initial questions, the city attorney continues. He points to me.
“You had your hand raised,” he said. “Do you have feelings about lawsuits?”
“Oh yes,” I say. “I believe in the right to sue. It’s lawsuits or the threat of lawsuits that keep government and big corporations honest. They could run roughshod over the public without fear if it weren’t for lawsuits. The courts are our last protection.”
“Thank you,” said the attorney. “Do you think you could put those feelings aside and judge this case solely on its merits?”
I look at Sven sitting sexily to my right and behind me.
“You bet,” I tell him. “No problem.”
Whew, almost blew that one.
After a few more questions from the lawyers, the judge speaks to us.
“All right ladies and gentlemen of the jury… err… perspective jury. You have gone through what’s called a Voir Dire or “say the truth” process. Thank you for your candid replies. The attorneys will now have a conference where they will decide whether to exercise their preemptory exclusions. That means, they can excuse any juror based on a hunch or gut feeling. These are limited, but lawyers have the right to them. Please don’t take it personally. If you are excused, it is not a reflection on you. It is only a reflection of what the lawyer feels is best for his client. Give them a few minutes.”
When the few minutes is over, the lawyers return.
“We have three jurors excused,” says the judge. He calls the name of the woman from Inwood. He calls the name of one of the woman who most admired her mother. He calls my name. He doesn’t not call Sven’s name.
“Thank you,” says the judge. “After you’re replaced on the jury, you and the rest of the panel should return to the main jury room.”
Discouraged, I climb down from the jury box glancing briefly at the boy with the perfect nose. I join the others in the back of the room. We then head back to the jury waiting room. By the elevator, the guy with the college sweatshirt comes up to me and speaks softly into my ear.
“Jimmy Carter?” he whispers. “Yeah right.”
Flash to now: I’m out in Chelsea, with Steve. Under my arm is Frisk, a novel by Dennis Cooper. It’s a hell of a long shot, but who knows? If Sven, hangs out in the city, he’ll probably be here. At least in this neighborhood. Steve could be my shill. The ugly guy I’ll look so good next to. But he doesn’t want to go into the bar. He’s afraid they’ll go for him. What an idiot!
ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get live links and a chance to email comment on the column]
--> For more information about jury power, and the possibilities of a real jury system, check out www.fija.org. And if you ever get called for jury duty. Just tell the truth, they’ll never pick you.
--> Too Bad Dept: AP reports that Rush Limbaugh was detained at Palm Beach International Airport in June. The problem? He was found with a bottle of Viagra prescribed in his psychologist’s name—not his own. The police were called, but unfortunately, no charges were pressed. Now if it had been you or me…
-->See You at the Finale Dept: In Halberstadt Germany, the local church is sponsoring a John Cage concert scheduled to last 639 years. It’s a version of a composition called "As Slow as Possible." According to a recent press release, a chord change is planned for Friday. Two pipes will be removed from the organ which is being built as the composition proceeds.
"In these times, acceleration spoils everything," said Heinz-Klaus Metzger, a prominent musicologist whose chance comments at an organ conference nine years ago sparked the project. "To begin a performance with the perspective of more than a half-millennium — it's just a kind of negation of the lifestyle of today."
--> Whatever Happened to Consent Dept: I think Kesha forwarded me the article about 3 guys in jail on felony charges of castration without malice and practicing medicine without a license.
Sheriff Tom Alexander and District Attorney Michael Bonfoey announced the arrests of the men in connection with the illegal castrations. The sheriff and prosecutor said the victims were willing participants. The victims met the accused through a locally produced website that published photographs of men engaging in sadomasochistic behavior. Yahoo! shut down the site in December 2004. The castrations took place last year beginning in March and continued through November, according to police documents. The case is the first involving willing castration in the county and could be the first in North Carolina.
“This right here beats everything I have ever seen,” the sheriff said.
Dr. Paul Appelbaum, a professor of psychiatry at Columbia University and a past president of the American Psychiatric Association, said voluntary castration appears to be a very rare phenomenon.
“The people who I have seen who have undergone voluntary castration have been psychotic and often in the grip of a delusion that their sexual organs were causing them to behave in evil ways.” Appelbaum said. “And they felt that to rid themselves of that evil, it was necessary to rid themselves of their sexual organs.”
I say, they sound like the perfect Christians to me. What’s the problem? For Christians, sex is evil. I only wish ALL Christians had the same courtesy these North Carolina guys. It’d sure help reduce the spread of disease. Christianity, I mean. What other disease?
-->Borders without Borders Dept: The Utne Reader points out that the success of the French-based humanitarian group “Doctors Without Borders” has spawned dozens of imitators, anxious to build on the successful franchise. There’s Geeks Without Borders, Sisters Without Borders, Librarians Without Borders and my favorite, Clowns Without Borders.
Stay tuned with your donations for the next installment: Pedophiles Without Borders. Get those checkbooks ready!
Friday, June 23, 2006
Mykel's Column for MRR 280
You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board
I sit inside a park in Green Bay Wisconsin. In a field to my right are several guys with red t-shirts, and several others with white. A bat, and a fat white ball… softball! Thud. Second pitch. Fly out. Next batter also flies out… deep to center.
Ahead of me some really little kids play a kind of kickball. The kids wear shorts, and knee socks. They may all be girls, I can’t tell from this distance. If I get closer and stare, someone will call the cops.
Shit presses in my large intestine. It’s travel shit. My innards always act strangely while away from home. Not the runs. Just the need-- four or five times a day-- to evacuate long thin brown tubes, occasionally perfectly straight, but more often fragile, broken, or spiraling.
My computer battery will only last a couple hours in the park. I’ve brought a charger that works through the rental car cigarette lighter. With gas at $3.00 a gallon, I should feel reluctant driving around charging the computer, but I love doing it. Driving aimlessly. Listening to a comic detective novel on CD. Then returning to the park to write. I want to write backwards. Tell my story from the most recent to the beginning. Like remembering a dream.
I ate lunch/dinner in a local bar. Fried perch. The waitress collects from me as soon as she brings the food. No bill at the end. Just put down the food, collect. I wonder if all the customers have to pay when served. Or is it just me? Maybe I don’t have an honest face. I’m on a Midwest booktour. Chicago and Wisconsin. 9 shows 10 days. Punkrock.
I arrive in Green Bay from the Wisconsin Peninsula, aka Door County. I’ve left the house of Marge Grutzmacher who handed me a check for $83 for 5 of each book. She owns a bookstore in Sister Bay. After a year, she might sell all five of the Mongolia book. But there’s a hard-on-in-a-lesbo-bars’ chance of her selling even one of my books of columns, much less the five she bought. This is tourist-town Wisconsin. People come here to hunt, fish, boat. They’ll buy The DaVinci Code, not a book where someone gets her vagina stitched shut with boot laces.
Did she buy my books out of the kindness of her heart? Yes! I’ve known her for 35 years and haven’t seen her for the last 30. In fact, I don’t remember meeting her at all. Though, when I see her this time, she immediately looks familiar.
She was the wife of Hal Grutzmacher, Dean of Students at Beloit College, my undergraduate alma matter. Hal was a dean I had constant run-ins with. A dean in a place where I was the badguy. As often happens, my high-positioned enemies become friends when the power relation dissolves. I have a problem with authority.
The kids are leaving now… en masse. They walk by me, oblivious, not curious about what I’m typing, or doing at all.. One little girl says hi to me, then quickens her pace as she passes. I don’t have an honest face.
One year Hal suddenly disappeared from Beloit. I never got the whole scoop. Some say it was an alcohol-related incident. There are other rumors I neither can nor care to remember. Once a year, we kept in touch. His Xmas cards. My New Year cards.
Has it started to rain again?
When I next heard… maybe around 1980, Hal and Marge had moved north to Ephraim, Wisconsin. They opened a bookstore, Pastime Books, and settled into a new, non-academic life. A few years ago, I heard that Hal died. It didn’t stop the cards, however. Marge and I have kept in contact. It’s been a long time.
When I set out to book this tour, Marge offered me a reading at Passtime, in its new home in Sister Bay. A couple of weeks before the scheduled read, I was apologetically disinvited.
“It’s a bad weekend, Mykel,” e-mailed Marge. “Memorial Day. We just don’t get customers. But you should come anyway. It’d be nice to see you.”
Come I did. Marge bought 10 books from me. “For the store.” They’re gonna sit for a long time. It was a kind of charity.
Whoops, the trouble with writing backwards is that time passes forwards. Before you can get back to it, you’ve got more to write. I now sit at O’Hare airport, facing the last stage of this trip. The plane should take off in 7 minutes, but it’s not even in the airport yet. They project an hour and a half delay. Who knows what it’ll end up?
I sit far from the gate. The only noise is the chattering of some black-clothed Muslim woman… cellphone chattering. In my checked bags is a full bottle of Everclear, wedged carefully among my clothes. They won’t allow it in carry-on baggage. It could be an instrument of terrorism. The stuff’s illegal in New York, and I feel like a smuggler. I’ve got a 6 pack of Mickey’s Widemouth in my backpack. Plus multiply wrapped Wisconsin Cheese that is melting in the heat.
I’m really tired. I slept 4 hours last night, after having slept a glorious 9 hours the day before that, after having slept only 3 hours the day before.
I got a ride to the airport today from Lew Brickhate, who brought along his mother. Sid Yiddish, my poet-throat-singing host in Chicago, advised me not to get her riled up. She’s a rabid Republican, he told me. She gets upset easily. Turns out we get along well. We’re both rabid.
It’s 7:30. There’s an announcement. Passengers from flight 6465 scheduled to leave at 12:30 can now board. Passengers for my flight scheduled for 3PM, can also board this one… provided we haven’t checked bags. I’ve checked 2. One with my Everclear. I wait. A kid among the Muslims begins crying. I think back to Appleton Wisconsin, Home of Joseph McCarthy.
Rainbow Books’ partner, Alan Ruff, tells me that The Fugs used to come to Appleton every year on McCarthy’s birthday-- just to piss on his grave. I don’t visit the grave… no time.
I expect to be Christianed to death there. You know: those stupid little Jesus fish on the back of car, a ton of What Would Jesus Do? signs stuck into manicured front lawns. It’s not what I expect.
My reading is at a house party. A basement show, between two bands. The first band has two extremely attractive musicians, one of each gender. I don’t remember their name. The other, called Chinese Telephones, just rocks. I set my books up in the kitchen.
“We weren’t going to play this show,” the Chinese Telephone’s singer tells me. “Then we heard that you were gonna be here, so we changed our minds.”
Yeah! Stroke me! You’ll get an add on MySpace.
As usual, basement punkshows turn out to be the highpoints. I sell half a dozen books. Get plastered.
Hangin’ out at the showhouse, after the show, a long-haired guy, about 15, sits on the couch with us adults. “Come on, let’s put on some music!” he says, walking over to the record collection in the living room. I hear his voice.
“How ‘bout Damaged?” he asks.
“Yowsah!” I say. “That’s one of the ten best records ever made.”
The guy puts on the record and starts to sing along. To the whole thing. He not only knows the words, but all the TV shows in TV Party. He wasn’t even born when that record came out. Ten punk points, kid. You know your history.
Later, I sleep on the couch of a punkhouse where one of the guys is a big lug. He could have been a football player, but is soft, funny and smart instead. He spends the evening cooking pasta and complaining about not being able to get laid.
“If you were hard, stupid and a football player, it would be easy,” I tell him. “This is Wisconsin.”
In the punkhouse, a pretty Oriental girl plays with the cat and kittens. I chuck chuck koochie koo too—but it is other feline-related activities that occupy my mind. Eventually, the girl goes home, leaving me to the couch and my own ministrations.
Except for the lack of poontang, Appleton is the best show of the trip. The biggest crowd. The most merch. The coolest people. After Appleton is Sister Bay and Marge Grutzmacher. After that it’s Green Bay, home of The Packers (off-season) and Norb (also off-season—away camping.)
The show in Green Bay starts with a 50th birthday party. The bass player in BLITZKREIG ROK, a Ramones cover band, is just passing into AARP eligibility. His son plays guitar in the band… and is responsible for most of the dozen or so people at the bar tonight.
It’s an old scummy bar, in the best sense of the word. It’s a place for drunks, not book readers—but it’s friendly enough. At least the bar is friendly. I guess there’s been trouble, though. A crotchety neighbor has posted a notice on the door leading to the building next to the bar. Actually, he has posted several notices:
MEMBER OF POLICE WATCH. 0 TOLERANCE. I CALL POLICE. says one of them.
TUESDAY, MAY 30. WHO WILL GET BEATEN UP OR ROBBED HERE TONIGHT? says another.
A third lists offences from previous months:
JANUARY 10, 2006: SMOKING DOPE IN FRONT OF TAVERN
JANUARY 26, 2006; DRUG SALES ACROSS FROM TAVERN
MARCH 10, 2006: FIGHT ON STREET ACROSS FROM TAVERN
MAY 16, 2006, WOMAN SCREAMING AND CRYING IN FRONT OF TAVERN
MAY 17, 2006: DRUNK WOMAN TRIED TO KICK IN MY DOOR
It could be a novel.
The bartender is also the bar owner and booker. Rev Norb said he was well-meaning, but “an airhead.”
I’m not exactly sure if air is the chemical I’d use to describe his condition. About 5’ 5”, slightly plump, in his mid-40s, he’s got long stringy hair and wears a generic band t-shirt. He works at being accommodating. He likes to talk.
“Oh, you’re the guy,” he says to me when I ask him what time we’re going to start. “I like having these old punks around. Guys still doing what they want to do after all this time. I mean like I try. But I’m sort of married. Not exactly married, but like hooked up. Taking care of my girlfriend’s kid. That means like I’m a good person right? I can’t live like I used to. No punkhouse, but I try, right? I mean like I’m a good person, right?”
“Can I set up a table to sell my books?” I ask
“Sure, I’ll get one for you.” He pulls over a table and sets a chair behind it.
“Can I go on between bands, read a bit, then go on again?”
“Sure, I’ll ask the soundman to do a check for you,” he says.
As a matter of fact, he’s always saying. He never stops. Talks about music, his girlfriend, his girlfriend’s 20 year old son that he takes care of, the business, how hard life is, how he doesn’t get out so much anymore. And more, and more.
Besides me and BLITZKRIEG ROK, there’s a band from Boston called THE COFFIN LIDS. They’re a bunch of late 30-something rockers, tattooed, rockabilly-ish looking, friendlier than the neighbor’s Saint Bernard. They set up their t-shirts and CDs next to my books. Before the night is over, they sell out of t-shirts. I sell one book. To THE FAN.
THE FAN is a large heavy-metal looking guy with a nasty-looking scab between his eyes. It’s as if someone punched him in the face and broke the top of his nose. It was a heavy spurt and only just now, scabbed over.
“Man,” he says, “it’s great meeting you. I used to read you when I was growing up. All that stuff about GG Allin and screwing in the bathroom. Is that all true?”
I nod. “It’s all true, though stretched in some spots.”
“Man,” he says, “you’ve had a life.”
“It ain’t over yet,” I tell him.
He laughs. “I live right here in Green Bay. Not much happens here.”
“This is life,” I tell him. “Something always happens.”
And this is punkrock. Something WILL always happen. Anyone who tours, learns that the night isn’t over when the bands stop playing. Then, it’s PARTY-TIME. Here I am, a 65 year old writer, and I’m off to the punkhouse to listen to CDs (actually watch DVDs) with THE COFFIN LIDS at the house of THE FAN.
The guy’s house is like a record library. CDs, DVDs, 7”, LPs. On the kitchen table lies the 7” from the CHINESE TELEPHONES.
“Hey,” I say, “I just played with these guys.”
It then occurs to me that I don’t play anymore. I read/recite-- or at best, perform.
In the living room, we watch DVDs. There are neither girls, nor attractive buttboys. The Coffin Lids’ bass player is cool though—and not ugly. At this stage, he’s lookin’ better and better every minute. Yowsah! Pull back the sheets.
“I never read,” he tells me. “Well, maybe a fanzine once-in-awhile. I like the idea of reading, but it just takes too much work.”
“You guys got Everclear up here?” I ask. “When I went to undergrad school in Wisconsin, it was illegal. We had to go to Illinois to get it. I hear it’s legal in this state these days. We still can’t get it in New York.”
“You can get it,” says THE FAN. “I just don’t have any now. There’s beer in the refrigerator though.”
On TV, Tom Sneider is interviewing The Sex Pistols.
“What’s it all about, Johnny?” he asks.
I get up to get a beer. It’s Pabst… small cans, regular cans, a giant 40 ounce can like I’ve never seen. Here we are in Wisconsin, America’s beer capital, and all they have is Pabst!
“What’s with this Pabst?” I complain. “This is Wisconsin.”
“Waddaya mean?” says THE FAN. “Pabst is FROM Wisconsin. Milwaukee, ya know? Ever hear of it?”
“Oh.” I say, sheepishly popping open the 40 ouncer and going back to the couch. OK, it ain’t Leinenkugel, but it IS Wisconsin.
Another DVD is on. This one is a compilation of the classic punk bands: Buzzcocks, Ramones, Patti Smith, The Clash. I wonder if I’ll be in the audience at some of these shows. But looking for me is not interesting enough to keep me awake. I look at the clock on my cellphone. 4AM.
“Hey,” I say, “it’s 4AM. I have to get to Sister Bay tomorrow. I don’t know where I’m staying. What do you think I should do?”
“Hold on,” says the Coffin Lids’ bass player. He rummages through his knapsack.
I wonder how that’s going to help me with my sleep problem. Is he gonna pull out a sleeping bag and suggest a quick romp in the other room? But it’s not a sleeping bag he fishes from his pack.
“Here,” he says holding up a bright orange t-shirt. On the front of the shirt, in black letters it says: WHAT WOULD GG ALLIN DO?
Is that what my pal Sid Yiddish thought when he said, sure, Mykel, you can stay here while you’re in Chicago. Is that what he thought when he invited me to pick my way through the books, magazines, cassettes, old LPs of Jack Kerouac? You remember Sid. I’ve written about him before. He’s the rotund poet, tap dancer, throat singer, man of all interests. He’s a freak’s freak. An effortless freak. As unassumingly weird as GG Allin.
What would GG do? When Sid and his pal Mitch drove me to Madison where I promised him a chance to perform for the crowd… when “the crowd” was two people roped in from the other side of the store? Did GG Allin have a driver’s license? I can’t imagine it.
Sid throat sings and recites poetry. I invite him to join me in every town we’re together. He wears a new fashioned yarmulke that looks like a jazz hat. In Madison, the bookstore owner wants to hook him up with a klezmer band called Yid Vicious.
“Wadda double bill,” he says. “Sid Yiddish and Yid Vicious.”
What would GG do?
After the hell flight from Chicago, I’m back home. The front page of the Newspaper of Record— the same newspaper that said there were no bisexuals—reports that there are no humans at all. There are no independent entities with choice and free will. We’re all victims, pushed around by a genetic code that tells us whether or not we’ll be risk-takers, alcoholics or homos, as surely as it tells us if we’ll have brown hair or attached earlobes.
I don't know which is worse. A Supreme Court that says you have no control over your life because the government can take away your property and give it to a private company-after it busts in your door without a warrant. Or a newspaper-supported culture that says you have no control over your destiny because your genes are in charge of everything.
Humanity is free will. The choice between right and wrong, good and bad, boredom or excitement. Without that freedom, we're no longer human.
Jeezus fuckin’ Christ! Don’t take away my Mykel Boardness. Don’t stuff the life I made for myself into my genes.
And what about them? Is Sid Yiddish a tap dancing throat singer because of his grandfather’s genes? Is that kid in Appleton cool enough to know all the words to Damaged because his dad screwed into his mom’s coolness chromosomes? Did Marge Grutzmacher treat me like a lost relative because of a tiny marker in the 273th place in some DNA? What horrible thoughts. What’s more horrible, is that they’re trying to get you to believe this shit. It’s wrong! Not only because it should be wrong. And we should have control over our lives. But because it just is wrong. Plain ole BAD science. Basic science rules say this genetic-behavior stuff is wrong.
The key to science is predictability. If I believe in gravity, I have to predict that when I drop something it will fall. On the rare occasions it doesn’t—a helium balloon for example—I’d better have a reason. In the balloon’s case, it is lighter than air, and if I drop it in a vacuum, it will fall.
If I believe in evolution, I have to predict that a species will change its characteristics to survive better—or it will go extinct. The ever-mutating HIV virus and the dinosaur show that’s true.
If I believe in genetics, I have to predict that two blue-eyed people will not have brown-eyed children and that brown-eyed parents will have mostly brown-eyed kids. That is, in fact, how it works.
You know how many predictive experiments there have been on this new gene stuff? None. Zero. Zilch. You know how many brain scans of people have been done to predict their homosexuality? Their alcoholism? Their risk-taking? None. Zero. Zilch.
What passes for science picks a self-identified group, looks for a common genetic characteristic, doesn’t find one, but finds a tendency. Presto. That’s the cause. It’s as if voting for Bush causes stupidity, rather than results from it.
Oh, it’s a comfortable belief. We don’t have to be responsible for anything. Our genes do it. Hitler and Alcoholics Anonymous are right. Everything’s genetic. There’s no cure—yet. Is that how you want to live?
At times like this, you have to ask yourself What would GG Allin Do? If I know him, he’d take a shit right there on the social scientist’s floor—then throw it at ‘em.
Find a gene for that, Motherfuckers.
ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get some live links and a chance to comment on the columns]
--> It’s gotta be a bandname dept: As if medicine wasn’t loopy enough anyway. National Geographic reports: Three commercial companies are working on the use of medical maggots to treat various blood-related diseases. The maggots, when inserted into a wound, clean and disinfect the wound, preventing infection and allowing better healing. Also under investigation are worm eggs that “are swallowed by patients with inflammatory bowel disease.” Their purpose is to control internal infection.
--> Let sleeping dogs lie dept: While waiting on my interminable flight from Chicago to NY, I happened to thumb through the SkyMall catalog stuck into every seat back. A list of such useless stuff you’ve never seen before! My favorite is: Songs to Make Dogs Happy, a $14.99 CD designed to be played for your dog. This CD is recommended by PETA who says, it’s great for stay-at-home' dogs or dogs who have separation anxiety or are fearful of thunderstorms. Yeah.
--> Benefits of being old dept: One of the benefits of being old is that you get the AARP Bulletin. There you can read lots of stuff not reported in the punkrock press.
One of my favorites is a story about some New Zealand researchers. They discovered a formula that when taken right after strenuous exercise slows the aging process by boosting mitochondrial proteins in the body. The mysterious substance? Chocolate milk.
The same issue (May, 2006) also reports that the German government is now training former prostitutes as geriatric nurses. Streetwalkers are good with people, says a program official, and they have absolutely no fear about touching or being touched.
-->Those d*mn poets dept: Censorship News reports that a Reno, Nevada high school barred a 14 year old from reciting W.H. Auden’s famous poem, The More Loving One. It was supposed to be part of a local poetry contest. The reason? The poem had the words damn and hell in it. Fortunately, the local court overturned the prohibition. The kid won second place and $1,000 bucks.
-->Ah Americans dept: As if you need another reason to acknowledge American’s stupidity, the National Coalition Against Censorship reports that a recent survey says that 1 in 5 Americans believe that the first amendment to the US Constitution protects a citizen’s right to own pets.
-->How ‘bout transplants? dept: I found an old copy of the newspaper Extra. It seems to have my kind of news. One of the stories was about the Toronto Children’s Aid Society that started a program of free hairdos for mothers who beat their children. They say it “reduces aggressive urges.”
Oh yeah, the same paper carries the story of Derek Mayhew who took a British Airways flight from Bahrain to London. He was the only passenger on the plane. He checked one bag. The airline lost it.
-->Useful information dept: Knowing when you’re going to die is useful information for planning the rest of your life. Of course, there’s a website for that. I’ve still got another 30 years. Start getting ready for the funeral! Find your own deathdate at: http://www.deathforecast.com/
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