You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board
Mykel's column for MRR 290


Without free speech no search for truth is possible... no discovery of truth is useful... Better a thousandfold abuse of free speech than denial of free speech. The abuse dies in a day, but the denial slays the life of the people, and entombs the hope of the race. --Charles Bradlaugh


PART ONE: I was madder than a snubbed Korean in Virginia. Mad or sad, I'm not sure which dildo properly fits the asshole of emotion. But there it is.

Maybe it's a cycle. When you're in your late elementary years, you've got a ton of heroes. Your parents, some sports guys, maybe, if you're young enough, some superhero TV guy. Then in your teens, early twenties, they disappoint you. One by one they do something. You find that Pikachu isn't real. You walk in on Dad boffin' Mrs. Klingstein. Sammy Slugger gets thrown in the slammer for throwin' the game. You turn cynical. Everything is shit. No one is worth anything. Life's a joke and there are no good guys or bad guys. It's all crap. Just laugh at it. Take some drugs, and laugh some more.

Then, around age thirty or so, you see someone. You hold back a bit, because you were so disappointed before. But now you're more tolerant of minor mistakes. You know that you've found a good person. Someone who'll be there when it counts. Someone who takes good stands on important issues, who takes risks that could mean big trouble. Martin Sprouse would call him A Threat By Example.

You become inspired. Regain the faith. You lose your cynicism. Finally admire someone again. Your life has a goal.

In dumb people, cynicism turns to religion. They find God. They feel loved by an all-loving being. Jesus, who protects you and gives you the love your father didn't. You feel needed, hopeful. You believe in a perfection called God.

In smart people, the cynicism turns to a quiet kind of hero worship. You find a person to admire. Someone who seems to have principles. Like a real-life Spiderman, they may be flawed, but you can count on them for the important things.

Whichever it is: God or human. Ten, or twenty, or thirty years later, something happens again. For religionists, God kills a bunch of innocent people in a flood or famine. You get cancer.
For humanists, your idol suddenly does something so horrendous, so wrong, that you find yourself shoved back into the protective cocoon of cynicism.
“Fuck 'em all!” you say.

And you haven't said that since you were a 20 year old.

Fuck 'em all! That's what I say. Al Sharpton. Al Sharpton. Al Sharpton. My hero. The politician who danced like James Brown on Saturday Night Live. The man who marched against Guiliani to support the KKK's right to demonstrate in New York. The guy who told the Democratic Convention, “I'm speaking during prime time at the convention or in the parking lot, but I'm speaking.” Al Sharpton who's been right on almost everything, suddenly comes down so hard on the wrong side of his non-nappy-haired head, that I could cry.

Al, why hast thou deserted me? You and your National Action Network.

Al, how could you demonstrate for the Klan's right to speak and then deny Imus's? How you could think that government censorship is any worse that corporate censorship? How could you believe that the tyranny of the court, the law, the government, is any less totalitarian-- or effective-- than the tyranny of the marketplace?

[Note: For those not familiar with the case. Don Imus, a New York disk jockey, called the women on the Rutgers basketball team “nappy headed ho's.” Originally, his radio station suspended him for 2 weeks. But because of pressure from Sharpton, Obama, and Jesse “Hymietown” Jackson, WFAN fired him.]

There's more. Now that Al has flexed enough muscle to get Imus kicked off. He's going after hip hop and movies and who-knows-what next. A regular Carrie Nation.

[Note: For those who slept through history class, Carrie Nation was the founding force behind both prohibition and feminism. With the face of a bulldog and the personality of a pitbull, she broke into pre-prohibition bars. With a bible in one hand and an axe in the other, she turned perfectly fine drinking establishments into splinters.
      She called herself a bulldog running along at the feet of Jesus, barking at what he doesn't like. Her bite was worse than her bark.]

Al, are you listening? This is Mykel talking. I want to make it clear enough to get through your very unnappy head. I'll make it boldface so you won't miss it.

Censorship by the marketplace is worse than censorship by the government. Got that?

If the government prohibits something, there can be an underground, a way around it. Supporters can organize, protest, use the internet. The government can try to stomp on it, but it's still there, with outlets, people interested. When the motive is ideas, you can beat the government. Check out the Samisdat movement in the former Soviet Union. They thrived while fighting Communism. The government could not censor them.

On the other hand, if the marketplace censors, there's nothing left. If words or ideas are only commodities, they don't exist when they can't be sold. If the motive is profit, when the profit is gone, there is nothing.

If George W. Bush tells a publisher not to publish a book there's an ACLU protest. A slew of internet sites run copies of the original. There's a demonstration on the Whitehouse lawn. Every newspaper writes about it.

If Barnes and Noble tells a publisher not to publish a book, it's just not published. No one hears about it, because the press needs ads from Barnes and Noble. The publisher needs Barnes and Noble for its other books. It's nothing personal, just the bottom line, you know. Poof, and there it isn't.

In socialist countries, like Denmark, there are laws. The laws protect individual freedom from the marketplace. A distributor cannot cut or change a movie. Period. A controversial magazine will get government support if public pressure makes advertisers run. That's a free market of ideas. Not a free market of Bud Lite vs. Miller. Look at which country ran the Allah cartoon? You didn't see it in the New York Times.

In case you're missing the point, here it is. Again in boldface: You cannot both support the firing of Imus and oppose capitalism. The same force that drove him off the air, is the force that keeps Nike workers in sweat shops for a dollar a day. It's the marketplace.

Conversely (funny word, speaking of sweat shops), if you support free speech... and a living wage, you realize the need for government protection. You CANNOT support Sharpton or the forces that drive the offensive off the air.

Come on Al! You want the right to walk around with your James Brown hair, and promises to marry homos... but you want to deny the right of Imus to say nappie-headed?? You sicken me Al, and worse, I used to respect-- almost worship-- you. Man, am I pissed off.

Then again, maybe I've got a grain of faith left. Maybe I'm not ready to return to the cynicism of a 20 year old. A few things still inspire me.

I'm at a comedy club in the East Village. There's a Negro comedian. He's a little guy, not much bigger than me. Hair out to here, he wears a clownlike black and yellow t-shirt, with long sleeves. He rocks the micstand as he blasts away at 90mph New York patter.

Now he's talking nigger this and nigger that. Then he takes a swipe at Sharpton's National Action Network.

Says the comedian, “Some people say if we stop using the N-word, they'll stop using the N-word. They say, white people only call us nigger, because we call ourself nigger...”

He slams his palm into his forehead and continues, “Wake up Reverend Sharpton! Seems to me they was calling us nigger way before we ever used the word. We come over from Africa, did we know we were niggers? Sorry Rev, it's them who told us we were niggers. They didn't learn that word from us. We learned it from them. And I'm usin' it until it don't mean nothing no more. I wanna use that word 'til it's only a sound... with NOTHIN' attached to it. I wanna wear that word out til it's got so many holes in it, it's no good for nothing. Got me, Mr. Sharpton? Nigger. Nigger. Nigger. Nigger. Nigger... Ah, I feel better already.”

Then, there's a letter in a recent issue of MRR. It answers a “homophobic” complaint about a band named RABIES. I forget the actual wording, but it's something like:

How could you complain that we're homophobic because someone said faggot? This is PUNKROCK you fucking pussies! It's supposed to be offensive.

What can I say besides: YEAH. If anything supports free speech, it's exercising the right to be offensive.

In January 2002, an Olympic torch relay passed through Juneau, Alaska. Joseph Frederick, a student at a local high school held up a banner that said BONG HITS 4 JESUS. The principle of the school demanded Fred hide the sign, saying it violated the school's anti-drug policies. Fred refused. Now the Supreme Court will decide.

Whatever they decide, Joseph Frederick is more of a hero than Al Sharpton should ever be.
Maybe I need to stop having faith in the stars, the politicians, the people in the news. Maybe I need to believe enough in punkrock to know that someday soon a Negro all-girl punkband will name themselves The Nappy Headed Ho's, and play at ABC NO RIO. Maybe I need to have faith in the faggots and the nappy headed ho's themselves. They're the ones that'll save us from the THEM who started it all. Ah, I feel better already.

PART TWO: And speaking of Koreans at Virginia Tech. I guess everyone will be writing about this. It was big enough to knock Imus right off the front pages. What's left to say?

You can predict the stupid debate between the folks who say guns did it and those who say the movies did it.

I've heard some are even trying to blame the college. “They should have known. They should have done something.” Jeezus fuckin' Christ.

Look at the tape Seung Hui Cho sent to NBC. He felt picked on, bullied, like his heroes in Columbine.

Though the guy was Korean, there is something very American about his attitude. It's the American that says, “the solution to your problems is to kill people.”

When the Columbine kids were Swiss cheesing their fellow students, Clinton had the bombers shitting their heavy metal on Yugoslavia. When Cho reached the new American shooting record in Virginia, G.W. Bush was reaching for a shooting record of his own in Iraq.

Violence is as American as a free market. You feelin' better 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]

-->Sweat That dept: A dozen middle-aged and elderly men-- but no women-- turned up for a Dutch gym's first naked work-out session. Journalists, photographers and five TV crews outnumbered the participants at the FITWORLD GYM in Heteren.
         Staff and helpers wore aprons with nude bodies painted on. The gym required exercisers to put towels on weight machines and use disposable seat cover while riding bikes. In addition, the machines were to be cleaned 3 times before being used again by the gym's regular clientèle. Doesn't sound like a hit to me.

-->Speaking of naked dept: Strippers at the Gilda 2 strip club in Viareggio, Italy are offering a year's free entry to their show. The pass is for anyone who finds their missing poodle mascot, Gianni.
       One of the strippers reports, "Since we made the offer, we have had lots of responses, but so far none of the dogs have turned out to be our little Gianni."
       I've got the dog. Now get me to Italy!

-->$50,000? No problem dept: Gunther Baum, stormed into the Bawag bank in Vienna waving a gun. He held police at bay for five hours. During that time, he took calls from customers and offered them loans. He eventually gave himself up. That left the bank to deal with the angry customers who thought they had secured the answer to their financial problems.
         Gunther Baum. There's an idol for you.

-->Letting her down gently dept: A court in Palermo Italy, found Luca Prodi guilty of fraud because he married his girlfriend without telling her he was impotent. Besides granting a divorce and alimony, the man also had to pay more than $20,000 in court costs.

-->Also on the divorce front: Floridian Lawrence Roach agreed to pay alimony to the woman he divorced, not the man she became after a sex change.
        That's what his lawyers argued in an effort to end the payments. But the ex-wife's attorneys said the operation doesn't alter the agreement.
          Roach and his wife, Julia, divorced in 2004 after 18 years of marriage. The 48-year-old utility worker agreed to pay her $1,250 a month in alimony. Since then, Julia Roach had a sex change and legally changed her name to Julio Roberto Silverfoot.
          The judge noted that appeals courts have declined to legally recognize a sex change in Florida when it comes to marriage. The judge said that the appellate court “is telling us that you are what you are when you were born.”
         He or she, you still gotta pay

-->Band name of the month dept: In Melbourne, I missed the band J-Lo Biafra. I wonder if they lived up to their name.
             I promised to write more about my Australia, New Zealand, Japan adventures this month, but I got distracted. You'll hear more next month.

-->Toy of the Month Department: clipped from a fanzine I since lost: TICKLE-ME EMO "Because no-one understands you" It sobs. It cries. It thinks life is just SO unfair.” Only 60 bucks gets you one of your own.

-->Word of the month dept: PRONK, I just love the way it sounds. It means "the leaping run of the gazelle,” and it comes from the Dutch "pronken," to strut.
          Despite its real meaning, it sounds like one of those words that just fits so many situations.
Example: "there comes a time when you've come to the end of talk and it's time to start pronking." or "I still had 3/4 of a bottle left, but the plane was taking off, so I just pronked it."

-->I'm safe; I've had a bath dept: The Journal of the Brazilian Society of Urology has published a report that shows that men who soak in hot baths, jacuzzis, or hot tubs have lower sperm counts than those who don't. After staying out of the bath for 3 to 6 months, sperm count increases almost 500%.
          I say, who's gonna fuck you after 6 months without a bath?
    [The Journal of the Brazilian Society of Urology??? Where does he find this stuff? --eds]

--> Here's a shortened version of a personal plea from National Deneke Memorial:

Most of you know the story of Brian Deneke who was viciously murdered for being a Punk. His murderer received a measly sentence of probation. Since his death ten years ago, his hometown of Amarillo, TX has held annual vigils with punx, bands and media traveling from afar to attend. There have also been big memorial shows in Chicago and Atlanta and a 5-year anniversary TX memorial. With the 10th year anniversary of his death looming and Brian evermore well-known, it seems only fitting that the entire country would want to memorialize him.
               Here’s the goal: in honor of Brian and in our fight against prejudice, we are asking that everyone plan an event in their area on December 12, 2007. We’re looking for bookers and bands to put their local events together, for anti-racist & anti-violence organizations to get involved, and for volunteers to help with promotion and other aspects. Texas is planning a special memorial with a big show of bands this year and all other show proceeds will be donated to the Brian Deneke Foundation (www.briandeneke.org)
promoting anti-violence and anti-racism. You can check out the website or communicate through the MySpace page at: http://www.myspace.com/natldenekememorial

-->Girls' night out dept: Yowsah, a day full of girlpunk at ABC NO RIO! Yeah! I wish I remembered all the bands who played. But I do remember the club was filled with Lesbos and Latinos... what else could you want??
             The great band, Condenada gave me their single and were really nice to me. Maybe they didn't know who I was.

You're Wrong (289)

An Irregular Column

by Mykel Board

for MRR 289

"That's what moving about, traveling, is; it's this inexorable glimpse of existence as it really is during those few lucid hours, so exceptional in the span of human time, when you are leaving the customs of the last country behind you and the other new ones have not yet got their hold on you.” --Celine

I'm stranded on my own. Stranded far from home.” --The Saints

I slip my hand inside. Pushing upwards, going on touch alone. Straining, my finger tips reach the goal. A brief jerk of pleasure. Found it. I keep feeling upwards, around the curvature. Then I look for the break, the opening, the edge. None. I move more, twisting my hand in the narrow slot. Still no edge, no break.

A frigid breeze comes from somewhere, bashing itself against my naked thighs. A chill runs up my spine as I push my hand even further upwards. There it is. The hard roundness I'm seeking. Still no opening. I dig in my nails... and tear. One two three. There comes a ripping. I pull down hard. Finally, the toilet paper comes out of the opening and I can clean myself off. My first shit in this archipelago of a country.

I begin this column laying in bed in Wellington New Zealand. On the road for two weeks now. Within those two weeks I've been on almost a dozen planerides, in 3½ countries, petted a kangaroo, and rode a rescue boat in the coastal waves off Sydney.

My sense of geography has changed. I pictured Australia as an upside down America. Then, if Australia took a shit, two of the turds would be New Zealand. I pictured New Zealand as a hop skip and a fart from Sydney. I figured the same climate, same people. I figured wrong.

[It could be worse. Ilka told me that some Australian TV team showed a map of Australia to Americans. They asked them to find South Korea. The Americans pointed to Tasmania.]

The reality is that Northern Australia is tropical and redneck. Southern Australia is moderate, and so laid back it makes Los Angelans look like New Yorkers by comparison.

Southern New Zealand is cold, white, with pounding surf and hurricanish weather. You can see Antarctica from the southern tip. There are penguins!

Northern New Zealand is more multi-cultural. Punks here have a sense of humor. One guy wears a SKREWDRIVER t-shirt to my show. That's the spirit. Non-punk Kiwis, however, are generally grumpy.

What else can I tell you? The weather shifts from spring to early winter-- in a day. Houses are underheated. Insulation? What's insulation?

But let's go back to the beginning of this journey. Before we do, I need to tell you more than you want to know about my psychological peculiarities.

Most people are nervous fliers. The idea of being several thousand feet above the ground makes them shudder. I am not like most people.

Flying relaxes me. Taking off is like being rocked in a cradle. A little turbulence is like a jeep riding through the Gobi. A lot of turbulence is like a roller coaster. Yeah!

Although I enjoy being on a plane, there are things that can make the experience a little less fun.

I grab the crying tot by her pink bib, twisting it around her neck, picking her up off her mother's lap and dragging her to the emergency exit... the one over the wings. With one hand, I pull the lever that opens the exit, bracing myself against the seat to keep from being sucked out of the plane. Using the bib like the tail of a lasso, I spin the kid over my head before letting go. A slight gurgle bubbles from the flying child as it sails past the wing gracefully plunging, arching downwards toward the blue pacific waters... I wish.

What am I doing here? On a flight from Houston to Hawaii. A packed 767, in an aisle seat in the middle section, behind the only seat tilted back. I'm in a pissy mood. Slight headache from caffeine withdrawal and lack of sleep. Not only is the woman ahead of me enough of a bitch to lean her seat back, she's the one with the baby.

Besides the baby, there's a cough-til-he-pukes guy two rows up. In back of me sits a card shuffler who not only shuffles at a volume greater than the engines of this plane, but whacks the cards after each shuffle. Maybe he's trying to infuse luck into his solitaire hand.

And what am I doing here? Why am I on a flight from Houston to Hawaii when I'm going from New York to Australia? The little digital clock in the corner of my computer screen shows that it's 11:49 somewhere. The map on the plane video screen shows us nearing the middle of Mexico.

Until 2 hours ago, I had no idea I'd be going to Hawaii. My ticket gave me 3 boarding passes. One from Newark to Houston. One from Houston to Guam. One from Guam to Cairns, Australia. Even that's an odd route. Look at a map.
I made the arrangements 6 months in advance.

“I see you're using frequent flier miles,” said the Continental Airlines Customer Torture Agent. “We'll see what we can do about finding you some way to get there. You know, Continental only flies to Cairns.

Is that in Australia?” I asked.

“Heh, heh,” comes the reply.

[I declare WAR on the woman ahead of me. She just pushed her seat back again. She keeps bumping my knees. Every time she does, I lean on the table attached to her chair. Pavlov's dog. Hmmm, maybe I'll try loud dead baby jokes too. The matron sitting next to me doesn't look very receptive.]

“So,” says the Continental inquisitor, “I think I've got something figured out. You could fly from Newark to Houston. Then, we have a flight to Guam. And from Guam there's a flight to Cairns. That looks like it.”

The plane leaves Newark at 5:30... in the morning. Then I have one hour in Houston... if the plane's on time. In Guam, I wait 6 hours. Then, I arrive in Australia at the convenient hour of 12:30 AM. That's the information the agent gives me. That information is wrong.

But the Newark time is right. And for me to get to Newark at 3:30 (2 hours before check-in) I need to leave NYC at 2AM.

There are no trains at that time of night...er... morning. That means call SUPERSHUTTLE and ask 'em to pick me up at 1:30. (Their site says to figure 1:30-1:45 to account for traffic.) At 1AM I'm at the door ready. At 1:50, I call the shuttle company to find out where the ride is. At 2:00 the driver calls me and says he'll be late.

Waddaya mean WILL be late, you're already late.

Somehow he gets me and his other two passengers to Newark Airport by 3:00. The airport is closed.

Like I said, flying does not make me nervous. Airports make me nervous. Security. Security. Security. Beeping metal detectors. Taking off my shoes. Putting my change, my cellphone, my computer, my wallet, my camera in a little tray. Going back and forth under a metal detector while some stranger swipes a metallic paddle over my body.

Right now, a few people sit on a few uncomfortable chairs waiting for someone at the ticket counter. The electronic check-in machines all have one of those Microsoft progress bars on the screen. UPDATING they say. TRY AGAIN LATER. At 3:30, the bars are gone. I try again.

Your ticket needs special attention. Please check-in with Airport personnel.

By 5AM I can check in. My boarding pass lists times much different from the ones I got on the phone. Nowhere is there more than an hour to spare. My plane lands in Houston and I make the change. Just. The plane in Guam is due to leave at 7:45. We're supposed to land at 7. Back in the current plane, the screen in front of me gives a Guam landing time of 7:14 now. We've run into headwinds. The most secure transfer, I thought. Is now the most precarious. I'll prepare everything in hand when I leave. The gate has to be at the other side of the Guam airport. I wouldn't be surprised if it were on the other side of the island. (ETA now 7:15). Actually, I could handle a day in Guam. If Continental pays for the hotel. I'd have to call my Cairns hosts and the Youth Hostel, but I could handle it. We get to Guam with 20 minutes until the next flight leaves. No problem. I'm there with enough time to breath. The plane is late in taking off.

Suddenly, I get it. All flights are scheduled to connect within an hour. They all wait until the others arrive. I can't miss a connection. I shudda relaxed.

The 5 hour flight from Guam to Cairns is fine. An attractive Australian girl shares my row. But my first hour in Cairns is among the worst hours in my life.

First, the setup: A 4 hour planeride from New York to Houston. A planefull of screaming babies, shuffling card players, coughers and sneezers. Then, 8 hours from Houston to Honolulu. Then, 7 hours from Honolulu to Guam. Finally, another 5 hour planeride from Guam to Cairns.

So that's 4 plus 8 plus 7 plus 5. My mathematical mind puts that at exactly 24 (22 sleepless) hours in the air. Not counting the gate to gate runs. Not counting the wait for the van the day before or that, since I left at 2 AM, I hadn't slept for 15 hours before the trip started.

You can imagine the condition I'm in when I finally arrive in Cairns and go through customs and immigration. No you can't.

As much as airport security makes me nervous, Customs and Immigration makes me even more nervous. I hate it. I shake at the counter. My voice quivers. I've been stopped, questioned, stripped, enough times to make a dozen warning: this could happen to you public service announcements. Maybe I don't have an honest face.

Sometimes they find something. In East Germany, they found the Commie money. I was smuggling in $20 of forbidden currency. In England, when I was 20, it was the jar of vitamins. They opened it, sniffed it, asked me about it. I was sweating bullets. How did they know, that bottle had been stolen? Naw, they didn't. In Buffalo it was marijuana. I'm not cut out to be a smuggler.

I always find something to worry about. Even if I don't have Commie money or a bottle of stolen vitamins, there's something. Here I was worried about my electronic visa. You have to purchase one before you get to Australia. I called and registered by phone. I MasterCarded the required $30.

“Can I have a confirmation number or something?” I ask.

“You don't need one,” says the voice from the other side of the phone. “You've paid and I've recorded that.”

“But what if it gets lost, or there's a mistake?” I ask, confident of my bad luck.

“It's impossible to get lost,” says the exasperated voice.

“It's in the computer! It can't get lost.”

Ah, that gives me confidence. Yeah, right.

So I'm on the FOREIGNERS line waiting to go through customs at Cairns airport. The immigration agents are all women. It's the only place I've seen this in the 43 borders I've crossed.

As I approach, the Australian line ends. I'm shuffled over to the former Australian-only immigration lady. She's slightly chubby, with her dark brown hair pulled into a bun behind her round face. I hand her my passport. She types my name into her computer.

“Yes, Mr. Board,” she says. “I have your information right here. And what is the purpose of your visit to Australia?”

“I'm actually visiting a friend in New Zealand,” I tell her (true). “I decided to make a trip of it and see the country while I'm here. I'll do a little sight-seeing, then visit my friend.” (Not exactly the whole story.)

“Ok,” she says, “that's all.” And she stamps the passport. I thank her and walk through the line to go to the baggage claim area. That's when the hell begins.

Is it something about my trench coat and boots in the middle of shorts and sandals? If I were a smuggler or terrorist, would I dress like a smuggler or terrorist? Come on guys!

Maybe they think I'm super clever. They think I think that they'd never stop someone who looks like a criminal, because that person would never really be a criminal. So they're surprising me, and stopping me.

A thin blond woman with extremely large teeth smiles at me when I enter the area with my bags.

“Do you have any checked baggage?” she asks.

I shake my head.

She smiles wider as she asks the question and continues smiling through the following third degree. It is not the sadistic smile of Ilsa, She-wolf of the SS. Rather it is the vague, empty, smiling-is-all-I-do smile of the Stepford Wives. [If you don't know those movies, see them. Then return to this column.]

“Could you come with me to this inspection station?” she says, using a question intonation, but obviously not asking a question. “Let's chat on the way, shall we?”

Every sentence, question or not, ends in a rising intonation like annoying valley girl talk. Here, the intonation is more sinister than stupid.

“You're here on vacation?”

I nod.

“And your job is...?”

“I teach English,” I say. “I've got a business card. Would you like one?”

“Yes, I would?” she says.

I hand her one.

“And you're here on vacation??” she asks again.

I nod.

“You said you were going to visit a friend in New Zealand?”

“That's right,” I tell her.

“Can I see that ticket? The one to New Zealand?” Again, this is not a request.

I fish through my bags, pull out the confirmation of the New Zealand flight and hand it to her. She looks it over and hands it back to me.

“And while you're here, what are you going to be doing?” she asks. “You're here on holiday?”

That's right, I nod.

“And what exactly do you plan to do here?” she intones.

“Oh lots of stuff,” I say, “I'll go to the beach and...”

I frantically try to remember what was in the guidebook. An awful book, called INSIGHT GUIDE. It gives you an overview of the land, pretty pictures, but nothing you can use to bullshit a customs guard. Nothing about what's in the town, nothing about the local clubs, celebrities, statues. Where I can get a picture taken with a kangaroo. Nothing like that.”

“...I want to have my picture taken with a kangaroo.” I tell the customs lady.

By this time we're at the special inspection station.

“I'm required by law to ask you these questions, do you understand?”

“Yes,” I reply.

She points to the customs form. “You've signed this form and this is your signature?”

“Yes,” I say.

“And you understand the nature of the form and all the questions on the form?”

“Yes,” I say.

“And everything you've said is true?”

“Yes,” I say.

She nods, still smiling.

“Please open that bag?”

I open the bag and take out the few books I brought with me. I also take out my personal diary, the OLD PUNKS NEVER DIE, THEY JUST WRITE BOOKS t-shirts, half a dozen wishful thinking condoms, and a bunch of promo postcards for my books.

She picks up my diary and thumbs through it. Then she goes for a sheaf of paper: the text of my readings: Sex with animals and extensive drug use. She asks, nothing, only raises her eyebrows and reaches for the promo postcards.

“And these are?”

“Oh, I wrote a couple books,” I tell her. “I figured while I'm traveling, I could do some promotion.”

“You're here to promote your books?”

“No, I just thought I might... I can talk about the books while I'm here, can't I? If I don't earn any money I'm not working, right?”

“This is Australia,” says the customs agent. “Customs and immigration are separate. I'll get an immigration agent who can answer your question?”

She leaves, returning soon with the woman who first stamped by passport.

“You told me you were coming for tourist reasons,” said the woman. “Now I hear you're going to promote your books. According to Australian law, you are not permitted to work: paid or unpaid. You're not permitted to do anything that has the appearance of work. You may stop in a bookstore casually, but if you have a series of meetings with bookstores, don't come back and say immigration allowed it. We did not. Do you know the penalty for immigration violation?”

Death? Castration? Hanging? 30 hours of Hillary Clinton speeches? I say nothing.

The officer answers her own question. “Your visa will be canceled. You will be deported. You will not be able to return to Australia for 3 years.”

“I understand,” I say.

“You may go now?” says the customs lady. “Out the hall turn right. There are the taxis.”

For the rest of the trip, I'll be looking over my shoulder. This does not bode well for things to come. The boding seems to be correct. More next month.

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 department: Wow! There are so many people who helped on this tour: Krystie, Shawn, Rich, Vera, Keiran and Chrystie and probably a ton of folks I've forgotten. I couldn't have done it without you! Also thanks to Larry Livermore for showing up at the reading in Sydney, then writing about this super collector nerd as “the only guy I've ever seen who can shut Mykel up.”

-->Nervous Flier Dept. Today's Christchurch Morning News reported that first class travelers on British Airways to New Delhi found one of their fellow passenger was a corpse. A woman had died in transit and was being shipped back to India in first class. The dead woman's daughter sat next to her and spent the entire trip wailing over her mother's corpse. I guess that proves that a kid-free airline won't solve all the annoyances of flying.
An interesting sidenote: passengers complained. They paid more than $4,000 each for first class. Instead of comfort, they got a corpse and a wailing woman. The airline told them “Get over it.” No other compensation was given.

-->Were they training for Iraq? dept. The same newspaper also reported that 170 Swiss soldiers on night training practice got lost and marched into the neighboring country of Liechtenstein. An army spokesman said it was “highly unlikely,” there would be serous repercussions for the mistaken invasion.

-->Just found out dept: http://www.networkadvertising.org/consumer/opt_out.asp lets you disable internet cookies that follow you from site to site. Those cookies check your browsing habits and "tailor ads to your desires." Since there is no way in hell they can tailor ads to my desires. I'm opting out, thank you.

--> What's next, humorous feminism? dept: Dutch performance artist, "Iepe the Fool" has been crowned world champion of CHESS BOXING. In that contest, the participants alternate six rounds in the boxing ring with five rounds on the chess board. Iepe's next match is in Tokyo on April 17th.

-->Credit where it's due dept: Sometimes I have problems with the ACLU. I give 'em a few bucks a year, but their shift from being first amendment protection advocates to something vaguely liberal bothers me. For example, their concern for enforcing “orders of protection,” and other feminist issues bothers the shit out of me.
Still, when I read this, I have to stop and take my fedora off to them. This is from a recent mailing:

In response to new, potentially restrictive criteria, The ACLU has decided to turn down $1.15 million from the Ford and Rockefeller Foundations. The ACLU said the new language used by the foundations was unnecessarily vague, which could have a chilling effect on civil liberties. The language includes potential prohibitions on free speech and other undefined activities such as "bigotry" as part of the war on terror.
The loss of funding is significant and it will have profound implications for our programs. But while it may weaken our finances, it also strengthens our resolve," said ACLU president Romero.
The ACLU made a similar decision in August to pull out of the Combined Federal Campaign (CFC) because of a new requirement that groups accepting funds check their employees’ names against government-compiled “terrorist watch lists.”

I only wish MRR had thought about that before it turned its subscription list over to homeland security. Who's that knocking on your door... right now?

-->Yuck dept: Trung Nguyen is “Vietnam's premier coffee shop,” and that's a big deal, since Vietnam is second only to the US in per capita coffee consumption. One of their specialties is Legendee.

In Vietnam, the weasel is famous for its ability to select the juiciest and ripest coffee beans. And they're even better once they've passed through the weasel's entire digestive tract. The adverts are not clear in whether these beans are naturally harvested, or artificially induced on factory weasel enema farms.

PETA? Are you investigating?

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board (for MRR 288)

Ninety percent of the politicians give the other ten percent a bad reputation --Henry Kissinger


If you're going to do something right, why bother doing it at all? --Mykel Board


By the time your read this, I'll be back from my trip to Australia and New Zealand. As I write it, I haven't yet left. Before I leave, there are two things I want to write about. That's why there are two parts to this column.

Of course, there's a chance I'll fly into some building or die from spongebrain caused by mad kangaroo disease. You never know. So if this is my last column, let it at least be a mediocre one.


PART ONE: In a novel called Skinny Dip, Carl Hiaasen writes about a fake ecological charity. Created by agricultural and industrial polluters, the organization poses as an earth-friendly bunch. They go door-to-door asking residents if they “support the rain forests.”

“Certainly” people say. “I'm concerned about damage to the rain forests.”

Then the hustlers explain how that means that Congress needs to allow agribusiness to cut down US trees and drill for oil in the American wilderness. If they do it here, they won't have to do it in Indonesia. That saves rain forests.

The plot is pure satire. A vision of a 1984-like world. A newspeak world where the fox protects the chickens by making more foxes.

Life imitates art. Two of the most evil Republicans: Joe Lieberman and John McCain have joined in a clear... But let's go back to the beginning.

I'm wiping the Vicks VapoRub from my balls. Aah, that was nice. A new PornoTube vid. A long one. Seven minutes of one guy and his webcam, but yowsah! What a show!
As I finish wiping up, I notice an envelope sticking out from the pile of papers on my desk. It's from The Environmental Defense Fund. Usually, I just toss this stuff. These groups are all the same. Some stupid save-the-something organization that will give me a canvas bag with a picture of the earth on it... in exchange for a minimum donation of $25.

Yeah right.

But for some reason, I open this one. Sure as semen, it asks for money. BUT, it's signed Joe Lieberman and John McCain!! Yikes! What's the scam? Reading further, I see that it wants laws to create pollution credits. These allow corporations to trade their filth-creation rights. The LeberCain crew says:

Such a system encourages innovation and creates incentives for companies to find the least-costly technologies that allow people to do what they need to do in their daily lives -- from heating homes to driving cars -- while meeting our environmental responsibilities.

The idea of pollution credits is mind boggling. It's saying that A can break the law if B sells A credits for the times B doesn't break the law. Instead of making pollution illegal, it says that it's okay to pollute, as long as you give money to someone who doesn't pollute.

It's the ultimate extension of the market economy. A right to violate the law that you can buy from or sell to someone else. Amazing! And, they offer a canvas tote bag with a picture of the earth on it.

“Wow!” I think. “What an idea! I've got to get myself to Bar Nomiso and check this out.”

I walk down Bleecker Street to the little bar around the corner from where CBGBs used to be. I look for the small blue neon sign. Most people just pass the place by.

“What's a Nomiso?” they think, hurrying down the bock to The Model Bar.

Entering the bar, I wave to George Metesky, the bar-tender. About my size, he has a full head of dark black hair and a belt-busting waistline. He's been here 30 years and looks exactly like he did when he started. I wonder how he does it.

I glance around at the mostly empty bar and walk to the back. I enter the door under the sign that says MEN. The room is empty. I go into the third stall, and scrunch up under the toilet tank. Pressing out the hollowed wall, I push through to the other side.

The mensroom I leave looks much like the one I entered, but I've done this before. I know the truth. I've entered a trial world. A world of ideas, where I can test my theories.

Coming out of the mensroom, I stop at the bar.

“Hi George,” I say.

“Got a new theory?” he asks me.

I smile.

“Give me a Wild Turkey with a Brooklyn chaser,” I tell him.

He shakes his head and whistles. After pouring the drinks, I pound back the W.T. and suck down the Brooklyn lager.

“That'll run ya' eight fifty,” says George.

“I'm running a tab,” I tell him. “Fill it up again.”

The goddess bartendress Sharon introduced me to Wild Turkey about 10 years ago. For those who get a buzz from Bud Lite, I'll tell you W.T. is hardcore. It burns the stomach and numbs the brain. One shot will make you woozy. Two shots will get you drunk. You won't make it to four.

I beat this one back, slamming my glass down hard. George knows that means another. I down that one. Then another. Then:

“One more!” I yell, “I shink zhatsh almosht enough.”

“Mykel,” says George, “you're 65 years old and five foot three. Don't you think you've had enough?”

“ONE MORE!” I yell, even louder.

George shakes his head.

“Sorry, Mykel,” he says. “I'm cutting you off.”

“Ah hah!” I tell him. “Zhachs what I wash hopin' you'd shay! Shee, you CAN'T cut me off! I got drunk credits!”

I open my wallet and pull out an officially signed and sealed document. I pass it over to George.

“I got 'em off zhis Morman,” I say. “He never drinksh, sho he wazhn't gonna uzhe 'em. Costsh me eighty dollars, but I can drink till I puke”

George examines the documents, shrugs, and pours me another drink. I slam it back... and puke.

Puking on a bar floor is usually a signal that it's time to leave that bar. Debating briefly whether I can manage the superhero feat of jumping from the stool to the floor, I take the plunge. And plunge I do, slipping in my own barf, smashing cheek-first into the wooden floor. The smell of vomit fills my nose and makes me sicker. The guffaws of the other patrons barely penetrate my pickled brain.

Somehow I manage to crawl out of the bar and prop myself up against the side of the building. Fishing a copy of the New York Post out of a garbage can, I use the sports section to clean the blood and puke off the side of my face.

I'm not feeling too good. I puke again, using the paper to wipe my mouth off. Suddenly it hits. The beer and W.T. have worked themselves through my system and now press against my bladder, begging for release.

Usually, I can't piss in public. But if I'm drunk enough, I can let loose that steaming yellow stream almost anywhere. That includes against this cop car parked at the curb. I expect this will cause some fun. I'm right.

“Okay Buster,” comes the Brooklyn-bred voice to my left. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

I look and see two guys in uniform. Both with mustaches. Both with faces as blurry as an MRR band photo. Before I have time to reinsert my little friend inside his cubby-hole, I feel my arms being pulled behind my back.

“You're under arrest,” says one of the mustaches. “Public urination, defacing public property, indecent exposure and... and resisting arrest.”

“I'm afraid not officers,” I say. “If you'll reach into my back pocket you'll see my public urination credits. I bought them off this woman in Montana. She lives by herself in the woods and rarely goes into town. She can pee anywhere and no one will know. Montana is a big state with nothing but trees. She sold me her credits real cheap. She was never gonna use 'em.”

Before they ask, I continue, “I also have indecent exposure credits I bought from an injured Iraqi vet. Friendly fire blew off his personal equipment, so he has nothing he can expose. Sold me his credits.”

The cop reaches into my back pocket to pull out and examine the papers. I use the temporary relaxation of restraint to put myself back into my pants. Despite the long wagging in the wind, a few last drops drip down the inside of my leg.

The cops know they're helpless against my credits. They get back in the car and take off. As for me, ah, zee night eez young!

Slightly more sober, I start my trek toward Hell's Kitchen. Staggering up the street, I skirt the muggers spending their mugging credits (purchased from spinsters in Des Moines) ripping off Japanese tourists. On Eleventh Ave. I pause, stopped in my tracks by the screams of burning people caught in a building with inadequate fire escapes.

The landlord had purchased his building code violation credits from a Wyoming log cabin builder. The arsonist, I later learn, got his arson credits from a scuba diver in Miami.

Me? I'm heading for the 16 year old hooker on 41st street, right behind the Port Authority bus terminal. A hot Latina, who is, in another world, jailbait. But I've got a pocketful of teen sex credits, and my little no-longer-dripping friend is aching to use 'em.

“Maritza! Maritza!” I shout, waving my credits in the air. “I've got credits! I've got credits.”

“Mykel! Mykel!” comes a Spanish tinged voice. “Tu tienes dinero tambien?”

“Si!” I shout, “Lo tengo!”

Soon we're joined in conjugal bliss, my aging equipment solidly strong thanks to erection credits I bought from a priest in Milwaukee. All too soon, the night is over and I have to return to that old mensroom in Bar Nomiso.

Maritza and I do a quick fifth one, I head back to the bar, a smile pasted on my face. I wave to George as I head for the mensroom into the stall and out the other side. It would be nice if there were credits that would give me more than a day on the other side, but those kinds of credits do not exist... yet.

Trading credits to break the law, huh? Maybe it's not such a bad idea.

PART TWO: According to the latest poll, G.W. has a favorability rating of 27%. Even Republicans are running to distance themselves from the guy.

But what if things aren't that clear cut? My favorite authors: Celine, Hamsun were Nazis. Even Jimmy Carter, my favorite human, was not a great president. So you separate the person from the idea. The artist from the art. The politician from the politics. And you judge independently. You see value in one, while not liking the other.

So what happens when a person you really hate shows the kind of moral integrity you really love? What happens when someone who is wrong about everything is wrong in a way that you have to admire? What happens is George W. Bush.

As time passes, I'm liking the guy more and more. I don't like the war. I don't like the religious shit. But I like him. He lost the last election for the Republicans. He wants to strengthen troops in a massively unpopular war. A war that most people (including me) think should be ended immediately. He doesn't give a shit about public opinion, or elections or even the constitution for that matter.

Bill Clinton was his opposite. Clinton had to read the opinion polls to know which shoelace to tie first. He never made a decision without 50 advisers telling him what everybody else thought.

Bush isn't like that. He has his ideas and he sticks with them. Like an anarchist throwing a bomb on Haymarket Square, he has a clear vision of the omelet he has to break eggs to make.

Someone told me that 12% of the American people believe Bush is right in increasing the troop strength. TWELVE PERCENT??? But he doesn't care. I have to admire him for that.

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]

--> Now don't you feel superior dept: Yeah, the last column was my annual April Fool's column. The truth is that I have NOT converted to Islam. The method of conversion, of course, was also bogus. All the bible and Koran quotes, however, were real, as were the endnotes.

-->Now don't you feel safe dept: The Washington Post notes that two members of the Montgomery County Homeland Security Department walked into the library in Bethesda Maryland. They announced that "the viewing of Internet pornography is forbidden."
          After the announcement, one of the men challenged an Internet user's choice of websites and "asked him to step outside." A librarian intervened. Someone else called the local cops. The Homelanders left.
          Later that afternoon, Bruce Romer, the County's chief administrative officer, called the incident "unfortunate" and "regrettable."
         “The security division is not responsible for enforcing obscenity laws,” he said.
         The homeland officers have since been reassigned to other duties.

-->By the time you read this, I'll be back from Australia. Unfortunately, I won't have a chance to see Ayers Rock. Actually, I'll NEVER have a chance to see Ayer's Rock. It is no longer Ayer's Rock.
             In a case of political correctness rivaling the worst of the academics, Ayer's Rock has been renamed ULURU-- its aboriginal name. Now I wonder when they're going to rename Delaware, LENAPE. That's what the original Delaware Indians called themselves. At least that's what I've heard in New Iroquois.

--> As if you need another reason to hate her dept: Hillary Clinton has joined with our old pal Joe Lieberman in introducing The Family Entertainment Protection Act. The bill requires heavy fines for retailers who sell “violent or explicit” games to minors. Sure Hill, support the Iraqi war, but you wouldn't want to give the kids violent video games, now would you?

-->Twin Brains? dept: People who guessed at whatsmyimage.com don't seem to fall for stereotypes. The website had people guess GPAs for female students with bra cup sizes from A to DD. Web surfers guessed A-cup students to have only a .3 point average above their D-cup classmates.
             Even that was probably skewed. How many of the A-cup students were Orientals? Everybody knows that Orientals score A's on both the academic and bra-size front.
            Oh yeah,  although the report of the differing opinions was made public, it was not revealed if the answers were right.

 -end-

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board
for Maximum Rock'n'Roll #287
April 2007

There shall be no compulsion in religion. --The Koran

Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of heaven. –The Bible

It's more satisfying than a Christian Scientist with rabies. I sit here. Letting the brown semi-liquid pour out of me. Feeling the relief down to my naked toes. Sometimes, I think I drink just for this. Just for this moment of release. Just for the ecstasy of draining myself. I can feel it for hours. A joyful emptiness. A relief like an innocent defendant must feel at a not guilty verdict. A masterful AAAAHHHHH.

April is the date of this issue. Like an April morning, I feel renewed. Back from the depths of an alcoholic winter. Blasting my way to spring.

Each blast loosens another, higher up, further to the right. Blaaatzing out, spraying green or okra or whatever color that fried calamari has become overnight.

Oh my God. This is wonderful. I'm going to get drunk EVERY NIGHT just for this experience. It's better than sex!

Then, the headache hits... and the nausea. AGONY and ECSTASY. If only I could separate them.

Freshly empty, I pop an Advil and pad nakedly to my bedroom and turn on the computer. Before I check with PornoTube-- to increase my total evacuation-- I tune into Gather.com.

The New York Times called that site “a MySpace for Adults.” Adult usually means sex. I check it out.

Instead of sex, I read an attack on my hero Jimmy Carter. Written by Alan Derschwitz, Israel's chief apologist, it completely ignores Carter's arguments and attacks him-- or his foundation-- for accepting money from Saudi Arabia. The group is “anti-Semitic,” says Derschwitz.

Being a shill, Derschwitz uses typical shill tricks. I wonder if the Israel lobby trains people to paint everyone against them as anti-Jewish (if they're not Jews) or “self-loathing” (up from “self-hating”), if they are Jews. It's called an ad hominem attack. It means if you can't attack the ideas, attack the people and no one will notice.

With Derschwitz, it's easy to see that his ideas, are wrong. His methods are wrong, and he's scum as a human being. (Is that ad hominem enough for you?)

“What is this crap?” I ask myself, embarrassed to be in the same tribe as this guy. “I've had enough.”

I click on PornoTube and write Scat in the search window. Not much. One ugly guy with a hairy belly. That, I don't want to see. Here's one that looks like Kitty Porn. Oh I get it: SCAT!

Hmmm, looks like they tightened up. No shit! Well, I might as well click on the news icon. Here's something from Israel:

The Israeli human rights group B'Tselem has said that last year Israeli security forces killed 660 Palestinians. In the same period, 23 Israeli civilians were killed by Palestinians.

Jeezus 660 to 23!!! This is getting nasty.

**************

Whoever killed a human being should be looked upon as though he had killed all mankind; and whoever saved a human life should be regarded as though he had saved all mankind. -- The Koran

"For I will at this time send all my plagues upon thine heart, and upon thy servants, and upon thy people; that thou mayest know that there is none like me in all the earth." --The Bible

*********

Newly limp, I dress and walk down Bleecker Street. You know how we deal with ethnic minorities as special friends? You refer to people as my black friend, my vegan friend, my gay friend, my Japanese friend. It gives you a feeling of tolerance. You're such a mench because you have all kinds of friends. You trot them out for special occasions. You invite them to parties. You let your real friends know how liberal you are.

I'm walking to the subway to go to Amal's place in Brooklyn. Amal is my Muslim friend. When I get out of the station on the Brooklyn side, I hear some loud music. It sounds vaguely Middle Eastern. That's okay, I'm on Atlantic Avenue. Everything is vaguely (or not so vaguely) Middle Eastern.

I look over at the source of the music. It's a huge van with a giant menorah on the side. A guy comes up to me. A chubby guy, dressed in black. A chubby guy, dressed in black, with long curly sideburns, and a big hat. A chubby guy, dressed in black, with long curly sideburns, a big hat, white fringes, carrying a big book.

“Are you Jewish?” he asks.

I'm ready with my usual. “I'm a Jew. No -ish about it!” but I don't say it. I'm not in the mood today.

“Why?” I ask.

“I just want to invite you inside to bind tefillim. Jews are special people, and as a Jew you should celebrate that.”

“Who said I was a Jew?” I asked.

“Your face says it,” he replies.

I shrug, and continue walking.

Amal lives on Harriet Tubman Avenue. It runs parallel to Atlantic Ave. It used to be called Fulton Street. His morning prayers are over, so he comes down to meet me for lunch. We're going for shish-kabob. Amal knows the best places.

Over lunch, I tell my friend that I've been depressed lately. All my people seem to be jerks. Worse than that, the history of my people is a history of jerks.

“Maybe it's time you change people,” he says.

I laugh. But then I don't.

[Aside from The Washington Post, Oct. 9, 2006: Two major American Jewish organizations, The Anti Defamation League and The American Jewish Committee, helped block a prominent New York University historian from speaking at the Polish consulate saying that the academic was too critical of Israel and American Jewry.]

**************************

Requite evil with good and he who is your enemy will become your dearest friend... Allah loves the equitable...Allah is forgiving and merciful. --The Koran

For every one that curseth his father or his mother shall surely be put to death. --The Bible

*********

Test 1: I sit at a desk. It's bare. Not a book, candle or paper clip on the shiny wood. I'm behind the desk where I'd sit in any office or home that actually has a desk.

“Now rest your elbows on the desk,” says Amal.

I do.

“Next, make a fist with both hands and stick out the index fingers. Let them point to one another. Leave about 6 inches of space between them.”

I do as he says, though I'm not sure what to expect. Sparks?

“Focus your eyes on the wall, on the other side of the fingers,” Amal continues. “I mean, look past the fingers. When the wall is in good focus, think of Allah. Think Allah is great. Allah is great. Then slowly bring your fingers together. If Allah is truly great, you'll see the great unification.”

And there it is. Floating in the air between my outstretched fingers. Looking like a sausage or a half moon, with a fingernail on each end. There, suspended between my fingers, is the great unification.

“I see it! I see it!” I shout to Amal. “It's like a dildo suspended in space.”

From the corner of my eye, I can see him smile.

“That's not what I would call it,” says Amal. “But I'm glad you see it. Now you know. Allah is great.”

Test 2: It's dark. I walk down a long corridor. A candle glows from a single candle holder attached to the wall. There's barely enough light to see the candle stem, let alone the entire hall. I have to trust my punkrock damaged ears and follow the footsteps ahead of me. Ptht. Ptht. Ptht. I can only just make out the stockinged feet against the hard floor. Suddenly the footsteps stop. I stop close enough to feel the light cloth of the kameez on the man ahead of me.

There's a faint rattling, like a knob turning. Then a sudden rush of light as a door opens, temporarily blinding me in its brightness.

After a few seconds, my eyes adjust to the room. It's white. About 10 feet by 10 feet. There are no windows. The walls are white. The ceiling is white. The floor is white. There is no furniture in the room. In fact, the only thing in the room besides Amal and me is a scale. I don't mean an old hanging scale, like that naked lady holds in Washington. I mean a white scale like you see in the gym locker room or the doctor's office.

Without speaking, Amal motions for me to stand on the scale. I do. He adjusts the weights. 134. Just what I expect.

“I want to show you the power of Allah,” says Amal. His voice is a whisper. So faint I wonder if I'm hearing it at all-- or if it's coming from someplace inside my head.

“Yes,” I answer, “show me.”

“Concentrate on your left leg,” he continues. “You must ask Allah to remove the weight from your leg. You must pray that your leg will weigh nothing. Allah will reduce the weight of your leg, like the oppression of your soul, to zero.”

I nod and close my eyes. I concentrate on my leg. I ask Allah to show me his power. I ask Him to make my leg empty. To free it from its weight, like he will free me from the weight of the world.

Little by little, I can feel it. I feel the weight lessen. I feel my leg getting lighter, gradually free from its earthly attachments. It wants to float. Amazing. I've never felt anything like this before. Tears come to my eyes.

“Now,” whispers Amal, “lift your left leg.”

I lift my leg from the scale, holding it straight up in the air.

“Look at the scale,” says Amal.

I do. 134!! Jeezus fuckin... er holy Allah! My left leg weighs nothing! Through the power of Allah, I have reduced the weight of the leg to zero! I weigh exactly what I did before: one leg less. That means the leg has NO WEIGHT!

“Do you believe now?” says Amal. “I mean really believe.”

I can feel myself sweat. My answer at first is as quiet as Amal's voice. An almost psychic whisper. Yes. Then louder. YES. Then loudest. YES! YES! YES! I shout. “I believe.”

There's really not much to the actual conversion ceremony. After all, I am... er... had been... a Jew. The necessary surgery was already performed. It's only a question of learning how to read Arabic. Not so difficult. Each letter matches a Hebrew letter. Just a squiggle where there was a line.

After I learn to read, I learn to dress. For someone who's used to wearing black all the time, the white dishdash takes some time getting used to. And putting on the checked keffiyeh takes some dexterity. It's adjusting that agal-- you know the black headband that holds the towels on us towelheads-- that's most difficult. Now I've got it. I like the way I look in the mirror. Like Yassar Arafat-- a young(er) Yassar Arafat. Maybe I'll stop dying my beard.

Yeah, it'll be a strain living without the booze. I'll have to arrange for spicy cous cous and lamb to make my morning shits. I may be able to avoid the headaches. And yeah, it'll be annoying to have to stop what I'm doing in the middle of the day to find east and let Allah know I'm thinking about Him. So what? Easy lives are boring lives. A little strain will be like that spice in the cous cous.

****************

Do not say to any one who offers you peace: You are not a believer. --The Koran

Anyone arrogant enough to reject the verdict of the judge or of the priest who represents the Lord your God must be put to death. Such evil must be purged from Israel. --The Bible

**********************

So, what can I say? My door is still open to you. I have not changed, though I am changed. I no longer have to live a hypocritical life where people “like me” are always on the wrong side, where “my people” are the liars, sleazebags, oppressors, and landlords. I'm back again among the deli owners. I'm back with the underdog, with the freedom fighters trying to bust out of their ghettos.

You may not agree with me. But, as it says in the Koran, I don't care: as long as you come in peace. As for me, I've found peace. Thank G-d... er... Allah.

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]

-->Christians should like this one dept: BBC News reports that 1/4 of the girls in Cameroon undergo a practice called "breast ironing." The way it works is that mothers heat coconut shells then use them to pound and iron the newly budding breasts of their just pubescent daughters.

The idea is to protect the kids from unwanted sexual advances. The pain is supposed to be incredible, but not as bad as sex, right?

-->A better use for coconuts dept: Rather than tit flatteners, Peruvian scientists have found that coconuts work as bacteria incubators. But it's a GOOD kind of bacteria.

The Bti bacteria kills mosquitoes. Put a q-tip filled with the bacteria in a coconut. Allow it to ferment. Before you know it, the coconut will breed enough of the little buggers to clean up a whole mosquito-filled pond. According to the Peruvians, the bacteria are only harmful to mosquitoes. It's fine for the rest of the world.

-->First Paul Newman, now PETA? dept: Animal's Agenda magazine reports that PETA has reached an agreement with McDonald's and suspended its "McCruelty to Go" campaign. In exchange for the pressure release, the giant burger chain will "increase hen's living space, ban forced molting, and phase out debeaking."

Whew! Wadda relief. Now those vegetarians have a place to go for a double cheeseburger!

-->Modern Times for Old Folks dept: Gives me hope. Bob Dylan's MODERN TIMES LP opened at the number one spot on the Billboard 100. Sixty-five-year-old Dylan is the oldest person ever to launch an album in that spot. Gives me hope for my next book.

-->Yet another Norway story dept: While American churches are taking over the government, in Norway we have the right way to do things.

The Lutheran Church has been of "Official Church of Norway" since 1537. (That's even before I was born.) This year, the church officers voted to abolish its status as official church. They want to be just another church-- NOT a government institution. Yowsah! Christian leaders with integrity? What's next? Feminists for free speech?

-->Yet the reverse: Christians here want to see the wall of Church-State separation topple. Maybe they can learn a lesson from China, where it happened. The Chinese government has chosen Wang Renlei, a vicar, to be a new bishop. They've ignored the Vatican, and picked their own Bishop. Previously, they've picked their own Dali Lama. Hey Christians, beware of what you ask for in a government-religion mix. You just might get it.

-->Health Notes dept: What's wrong with this picture? Why do so many people (doctors and patients alike) believe that drugs are the answer to all our health problems? The statistics, after all, are dismal. Health-care spending has gone up by 73% over the past five years, mostly for drugs. We're now spending more than twice as much per person as the 21 other industrialized countries, but we're dead last in healthy life expectancy. Could the American (mis-)belief in its health have anything to do with drug commercials? Naw, that can't be it.

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board (for MRR 286)

"Never give advice! Let them stew in their own juice and rot!...the more the better!... one little piece of advice and people never forgive you!” -- Celine

Before I start in on my Celine violation-- handing out advice like it was candy to a pre-pubescent. First, I've got to bring you into my bedroom. Here, have a seat in the desk chair.

It's late. I lay in bed. My fall-asleep jerk off, already jerked. My nightly chapter of NIGHTMARE ALLEY already read. It's time to hit the hay, crash, catch some Z's. Visions of Orientals dance behind my closed eyelids. It must be midnight. I've got to get up at 7, make coffee, check eBay, drink coffee, shit, brush my teeth, roughly in that order. Then the subway to work where, at 9:00, I begin the task of teaching Japanese housewives how to talk good English.

A faint whirring comes in through the closed window behind my head.

The whirring gets louder. Ah, a police siren... and voices. Lots of voices, and whistles, and more sirens. I'm up now, madder than a Jew at a bacon breakfast.

Jesus fuck! It's another demonstration. This one later than any rational person would be on the street. I bet it's bikes. Sounds like the storm troopers of Critical Mass.

I look out my window. I see first one then a dozen guys on bikes. The first to enter my field of vision wears a yellow shirt, black spandex shorts, and a helmet with a big circled A on it. Then, there are dozens of 'em. Bikes, riders in spandex, with helmets or not, shorts or not, leg muscles out to here, skimpy clothes in the fall on Broadway. Average age? I guess 25. Not a chubby one in the group. Fit as fiddles, the lot of 'em. Kids out for a good loud time. Causing chaos down below. As a fan of chaos, you'd think I like this kind of thing. You'd think wrong.

Is it anarchist? No! It's fascist. It's goose pedaling to the beat of the master race. It's macho, saying if you aren't tough... if you don't have the leg power to ride a bike, stay at home, you faggot! You wimp! WE own the streets.

Are you an 80 year old woman? Tough, ride or die! Paraplegic? Fuck you cripple. Pedal with your hands!

The Critical Mass website says, “We aren't blocking traffic. We ARE traffic.”

Yeah, tell it to the guy who dies of a heart-attack or is felled by a stroke because the ambulance couldn't get through your bells and whistles.

It's not only in Critical Mass demos that this spandexed machismo runs rampant in the city. I dodge it every night, when common bike riders don't have the decency to put a light on their bikes. When they say to pedestrians and drivers: death? Hah! I'm tough. I don't fear death. My death is your fault. If you can't see me, that's tough for you. Come on, hit me. I dare you.

I see it in riding the wrong way down one way streets. I see it in bike riders terrorizing pedestrians going through red lights and shouting at people to get out of the way.

“It's my world,” they say, “and if you want to survive in it, get out of the way.”

Listen, buckaroos, if you want to ride a bike, it's up to you. I'm pro-choice. But if you want ME to ride a bike. If you tell me and my wheelchair-bound parents, and the old lady who lives next door, and the heart attack patient, and the UPS driver, to ride bikes, I'm gonna fight back. I'm not gonna take the bullying. I will defy you.

Sudden flat tire? Guess who. Chain slipped? Hmmm, I wonder. I'd like to take that chain and shove it up your critical mass. If I don't, someone else will. My advice is: watch your back.

Am I saying that militant bicyclers are the cause of all the world's problems? Ah, were it only true. We could just open our car doors into traffic. BLAU! Downhill splat. Like spraying mosquitoes. It would be easy.

But there is another group... just as totalitarian, just as macho, just as dangerous. Before I discuss them, I want you to join me in some time and space travel.

The year is 2004. The place: the highlands of Mongolia. It's the winter. Mongolia faces its worst zuud in fifty years.

[Aside: A zuud is a series of winter blizzards accompanied by extreme cold. It kills millions of livestock and hundreds of people. A zuud means physical and economic devastation.]

A herder on the steppes walks over to one of his goats, frozen solid in the extreme weather. Hungry, newly impoverished (in Mongolia, your animals are your wealth), he thinks about lying down in the cold. Letting it devour him. It's easier than living through this.

Instead, the man cradles the dead animal and carries it into his ger (those big round tents that Americans like to call yurts). There is a dung-fueled fire in the central stove. On the stove, a pot of water boils. The man's wife, a moon-faced woman with high cheekbones and a square body that belies her extreme hunger, sits and waits. Their 3 month old son sucks hungrily at her almost dry nipple. Next to them sit his three daughters, eagerly awaiting his return.

The man has decided he wants to live. His family needs him. He will be poor, but they will live.

Inside the ger, it's toasty warm. Mongolians are experts at insulation. In a few hours, the goat thaws enough for the man to skin it, cut it apart and put it into the boiling water. The plunging meat cools the water a bit. The boiling stops. Then a few bubbles rise to the surface. In an hour, it's time to save some lives.

As the family begins to divide the fresh meat, the sound of a helicopter comes from overhead. The ger shakes as the whirlybird comes closer. In the front of the ger, the man hears a sharp THUMP. Then, the sound of running and a bang on the door.

Stunned, it's a few seconds before he goes to the door to see a young American wrapped in plastic, dragging a parachute.

“Stop!” shouts the American. “You can't do that. Don't you know MEAT IS MURDER?”

Yes! I'm talking about vegetarians!

Like people who ride bikes for pleasure, I have no complaints about casual vegetarians. I eat pizza with friends who go for a half-sausage half-mushroom. I'm yelling at those swaggering, victual hitmen. Food fascists who demand the world pay homage to their preferences.

They would have Kwashiorkor (disease caused by sever lack of protein) sufferers die to save the life of a lamb. They would scoff at complaining when a JAWS shark has a water-skier for lunch. But let the skier be on the other side of the table. Whoa! Save the sharks.

Okay, let's look at the whole picture. Half a million people die in Iraq. Are a few loud bikers that serious? The U.S. government is building a database on every American, every email, every phonecall. Are a few hundred (thousand?) jackass vegetarians that important in the scheme of things?

Answer: They're not important like the E-Coli virus. They're important like a rotted liver. They are not the disease, but symptoms of something very serious. Bike riders and vegetarians are part of the same totalitarian thinking that gives us George W. Bush and Southern Baptists. They are symptoms of the idea that we know right from wrong and you have to follow our right-- or we will hurt you. They are symptoms of all fascism.

Just as there's no space in the world of the bike riders for the weak or handicapped, there's no space in the world of the Baptists for homosexuals or prostitutes.

Just as there is no place for meat-eating self-determination in the world of vegetarians, there is no place for Iraqi self-determination in the world of G. W. Bush. It's no accident that Hitler was a vegetarian. The most basic foundation of vegetarianism-- and bike-riding-- is fascism.

Want my advice? Tough, you're gonna get it anyway. That is: STOP IT. STOP IT! STOP IT!!! Your way is not the only way. If you want to ride a bike, do it. But realize there's no moral high ground in it. Recognize it for what it can be: a macho exercise in self-glorification.

If you want to eat vegetables, do it. But realize there's no moral high ground in it. Recognize that one gal's broccoli is another man's chicken a la king.

My advice is the same for bike-riders, vegetarians, war supporters and racists. Learn a little tolerance. Not everyone is like you. Not everyone should be like you. Relax. Give the rest of us a little slack. That's my advice. Sorry Celine, I'm not keeping it to myself.

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]

-->Global Warming? What global warming dept: the Competitive Enterprise Institute released two TV commercials just before Al Gore published his book on the horrors of global warming.
CEI is an industry apology group funded by Exxon, Amoco and the American Petroleum Institute. Their commercials feature children blowing dandelions, animals skipping around in their natural habitats, and people getting into their cars.
Say the ads: "They call it pollution. We call it life."
So first they say there is no global warming. Then, they say humans didn't cause it. Now they say, there is global warming, humans caused it... and it's good for you.

-->Further on the global warming front dept: The Utne Reader reports that researchers from Duke and Harvard Universities piped carbon dioxide into a controlled forest environment at levels expected by 2050. The result? Poison ivy grew 150% faster and produced a stronger concentration of urushiol. The “poison” in Poison Ivy. If global warming continues, things are gonna get mighty itchy around here.

-->I'm king of the Bushmen dept: Leo De Caprio being called on by the Kalahari Bushmen to help save their land from evil diamond miners? Sounds like the plot of a Hollywood blockbuster - except it's true.
Cute-boy De Caprio, star of Blood Diamond, a new movie about this sinister diamond trade. Meanwhile, real miners have just started digging in the Central Kalahari Game Reserve.
The Kalahari bushmen have lived in the area for thousands of years but are only now succumbing to First World diseases. AIDS is spreading rapidly as they get screwed in more ways than one by corporate investors. Their way of life is under the threat of extinction as they are evicted and forced into reserves. They have called on the Titanic heartthrob to highlight their plight to the world. See www.survival-international.org for more details.

--> I'm number 885,550,364 dept: Are you feeling loaded? No? Well how about some help to put it into perspective? At www.globalrichlist.com you can enter your yearly income and it will calculate exactly how rich you are. So, I am the 885,550,364th richest person in the world! Top 14.75%. No you cannot borrow $10. Ask number 885,550,363.

--> Carrying the torch dept: For many years I had an organization called The World for Free, where folks could stay with each other free, all over the world. The idea was to screw hotels, meet fine folks, and maybe end up screwing each other (in a good way).
Post office incompetence put an end to THE WORLD FOR FREE. In the meantime, I've discovered two similar organizations, internet based. I joined them both: couchsurfing.com and hospitality club. I have no idea if they work... yet. I'll let you know when I get back from your couch.

-->Yowsah dept: I wanna thank Maria and Rys from ROCK YER SOCKS in Connecticut. They put on a great show, had me read between bands, and I sold a ton of books. Yeah! If you're looking to play somewhere between New York City and Boston, check out www.rockyersocks.org. They're great people and really easy to work with.

-->And also dept: Part of that CT show was a band called BOVACHEVO. You can check them out at their MySpace spot. They are jaw-droppingly great. No vocals, just a hugely powerful trio with a drummer who gives Dickie Peterson a run for his money! If you don't see these guys, your life will be worth a little less.

-->Seems like every month there's another story about Norway. We had one about traffic tickets, one about how Oslo is the world's most expensive city. Now a United Nations survey ranks Norway as the world's best nation to live in. Number two is Iceland. The U.S. ranks number 8. Hard to believe we're so high on the list.
Oh yeah, in case you're thinking of traveling, Sierra Leone is smack dab at the bottom.

-->Higher numbers dept: If the U.S. manages to rank a high number 8 on the livability index. It ranks a low number 53 in Worldwide Press Freedom. After a mediocre 17 in 2002, we've plummeted to a new low.

Reporters without Borders, who does the ranking, rated Finland as number 1. They dropped DENMARK, the former number one to number 19. The country dropped because of serious threats against the authors of the Mohamed cartoons published there in autumn 2005. For the first time in recent years in a country that is very observant of civil liberties, journalists had to have police protection due to threats against them because of their work.