Mykel's MRR Column for #327 (August 2010) Mexicans...

[NOTE: There may be a little Spanish in this column. I will not translate it. Americans who can't speak Spanish should be deported to where they originally came from.]

    An American, a German, and a Mexican are in a sinking boat. Each of them has to throw things out to make the boat lighter.
    The German throws out 4 cases of beer and says, "We have a lot of bear in Germany so we don't need these!"
    The Mexican throws out 5 cases of burritos and says, "We have a lot of burritos in Mexico so we don't need these!"
    The American grabs the Mexican and throws him out.
    “Why'd you do that?” asks the German.
    The American replies, "We have a lot of Mexicans in America so we don't need him!."
              --Internet Joke

Of course, the Mexican should've grabbed the gringo, tossed him over, and said, Nosotros estábamos en America antes que tú. Chinga tu madre!

The Aztecs, the first Mexicans, were more advanced contemporaries of the American Indian. The first Spanish speakers came to North America in 1492. Annoying gringos didn't arrive until almost 200 years later.

Now, Arizonans want to keep out illegal Mexicans-- and make the legal ones wear a yellow chili pepper for identification. Why?  Because Chicanos would rather eat and drink, than work and go to war. Because their heroes are professional wrestlers rather than soldier-murderers. Because they idolize rebels more than Christian hate-mongers.

      

White Americans fear Mexicans because they might steal their car radios. Me? I fear white Americans because they might throw me in jail for drinking on the street. Given a choice, I'd say. Take my radio... please!

     

Those last two paragraphs are part of what I wrote for a documentary on La Merma, one of the earliest and longest running punkbands in Mexico. I never saw them play, but because of my love of things Mexican, Gilberto asked me to write the intro. The movie will be called 15 AÑOS DE CAMINO.

      

In 1984, I produced WORLD CLASS PUNK for ROIR. 27 bands, 25 countries.  

     

I never met most of the bands on that CD. They sent me tapes. I fiddled with them in the studio. ROIR pressed and distributed the thing. Once every five years or so, I send out 35¢ in royalties.

      

The band from Mexico was SOLUTION MORTAL. Until this week, I'd never met them. Ah this week, therein lies the tale. 

     

But before we get to the nachos, I need to put out the salsa.

      

Flashback: It's 2004. I write about Lucho, a Peruvian-American who may be America's greatest promoter of Latin American punkrock. He's certainly the most loved.

     

A test:

     Some attractive brownskin says, “Oh yeah, we're from Bolivia and we played in Chicago in 2001.”

     You answer, “Oh, do you know Lucho?”

     If they answer Who?, they're lying.

     

Back to Now: Lucho's been in the US for 15 years or so. And, he's had enough. He and Letycia, his beautiful Mexican-American girlfriend, are tired of the grind: Up at 7 to get to work. Home at 7. Same thing tomorrow.

      

Or maybe they just see the writing on the wall. The Arizona ethnic-cleansing law is a whole statefull of wall writing.

     

They're getting while the getting's good. I would too.

      

ASIDE: Ah those Hispanics, if they hate America, why do they come here in droves?

     

 Why indeed? I ask.

     

 Americans work 48 hours a week. By the time the next paycheck rolls around, they have no money. Hispanics relax.

     

 Hispanics smoke weed, drink on the street, listen to loud music and show up when they feel like it. For Americans, ten minutes is late (except for Negroes, punks and girls, who are barely Americans anyway).

     

 Hispanics, Mexicans in particular, create the best soap operas on television. Catfights. Incest. Screaming brawls. Sex up the wazoo. America has CSI-Miami and American Idol.

     

 Latin America gave the world the poncho and the taco. White America gave the world McDonald's and the atom bomb.

     

 Life in America is banal, boring, drab, drudging, dry, dull exhausting, fatiguing, insipid, irksome, lifeless, soporific, tiresome, unexciting, uninteresting, vapid.

     

 Why would anyone want such a bucket of shit? I donno. I only stay because I have a cheap apartment in New York. END OF ASIDE

     

Lucho's farewell party is in Boston... or some nearby suburb. It's going to be a mad carousal, with punk rock bands, lots of beer, and Lucho-worshipers from around the world. I wouldn't miss it for a 3-some with Dominicans... well...

      

On the same day as Lucho's party, Verbal Desecration, a Mexican band with the drummer of the original SOLUTION MORTAL, is playing at ABC NO RIO. I can't fuckin' miss that show either.    
     

 Gilberto told me they're coming from Boston by bus. They need to return to Boston to play Lucho's party.

     

So what's a 70 year old punk-rocker to do?

      

The answer? Rent a van, meet the band at ABC NO RIO, drive 'em up to Boston so they can play Lucho's party and I can be there.

     

 Here's the plan: They arrive late Thursday via Chinatown bus. Play in Brooklyn Friday night. Then play ABC NO RIO on Saturday. We'll meet/set up at 2, be off stage at 3:30, then jump in the van, drive to Boston and arrive by 8. Everything timed perfectly.

     

 Yeah, right. THESE ARE MEXICANS! Not only that, they're PUNKS. Timed perfectly my white ass!

     

Thursday: tonight is Drink Club. We meet at Paddy Reilly's, an Irish bar smack dab in the middle of an Indian neighborhood. I hear they have eight beers on tap-- all Guinness. Outside the bar, the street smells like curry. Ah, it'll be a good tonight.

      

Steve, the couch-surfing pal who put me up in Trinidad will be there. He's in town for a few days. He'll take my couch tonight and fill me in on the doings in that blissful island country.

     

The problem? Gilberto is coming in with the band tonight. Normally, they'd stay on my couch, the floor, anywhere. Six Mexicans in a one-room apartment is not a problem.

      

But Steve is originally an American... a New Yorker. I'm not sure he'd be up for sharing a couch with all those Chicanos.

     

Besides, they don't get in till after midnight. We may be home and asleep by then.

      

At 9:14, while I walk from the subway to the bar, my cellphone vibrates. It's a text message from Gilberto.

     

Hey Mykel, U no cheap hostel for us?

      

A cheap hostel??? This is New fuckin' York! There are no cheap hostels here.

     

Ah the guilt. In Mexico, I stayed weeks for free with Mexican punks... and their parents! The fed me, beered me, took me to sex shows... and I'm gonna make these guys stay in a cheap hostel? And there are NO cheap hostels in New fuckin' York.

      

Just as I reach the bar door, the phone vibrates again. It's another text message. This one says:

     

Mykel, I won't be meeting you tonight. A pal of mine tried to kill himself. I gotta take care of him. See you later. --Steve

      

Near death. What luck for the Mexicans!

     

I text Gilberto: 4get da hostl. My place 2nite.

      

At about midnight, after Drink Club, I come back home... sloshed, of course.

     

I fall on the couch in a hazy half-sleep.

      

GZZZZZZZ, GZZZZZ. GZZZZZ.

     

What? The alarm already? I feel like I just fell asleep.

      

Through the fog I realize I did just fall asleep. My alarm goes MEEEP MEEEP MEEEP not GZZZZZZZ, GZZZZZ. GZZZZZ. That must be the doorbell.

     

Somehow avoiding puking between the couch and the doorbell, I walk over and press the talk button.

      

Ola Mykel, comes Gilberto's voice, we're here.

     

I push the DOOR OPEN button, wait until I hear them click in. Then, I run for the bathroom and kneel next to that porcelain receptacle. The smell of fecal ferment disgorges a bellyful of Guinness. Heave! Heave! Heave!

      

BONG BONG!

     

It's the doorbell. With a towel, I wipe a few strands of beer-ralf from my beard and answer the door.

      

Gilberto gives me a big bearhug. Then steps into my apartment, sniffing, but not commenting on the parmigiana-scented air.

     

He introduces my new guests.

      

First there's Alex, a bearded guy (bass player) who I assume has a painful earache. His hand permanently presses the side of his head. Later, I find out it's not an earache, but a heartache. In his ear-pressed hand is a cellphone. On the other end is his girlfriend. I hope he doesn't want to use the bathroom to jerk off. I forgot to flush the toilet.

     

Next comes Alan, the grizzled drummer with an easy smile and a hearty, friendly, hug. Almost my age, he wears a cap-- kind of like a ship captain's hat. I figure he must be going bald. Why else would a punk rocker wear a hat indoors?

      

“Ola viejo!” I say. “Como yo.”

     

Next comes the 40 ounce bottle of Reingold. Alan hands it to me. I barely take a sip before passing it to... a teenage goddess.

      

Seventeen, skinny, a splotch of green through her black hair. Faride's sexier than a chipped front tooth, funnier than a priest caught alter-boy stuffing, and cooler than the Aquavit in my freezer... and she's the girlfriend of the drummer!!!

     

That guy is nearly my age and he has the coolest seventeen-year-old girlfriend this side of the Rio Grande. Why can't I???

      

I'll tell you why. No soy Mexicano! That's why. ¡Ay, caramba!

     

 “Hay otros?” I ask

     

“Everybody else rented a hotel room,” says Gilberto. “We're staying at Hotel Board.”

      

“Los otros tienen dinero!” I say.

     

“Si,” says Gilberto... “And Mykel, speak English. Otherwise these guys won't be able to understand you.”

      

Wise guy.

     

After emptying the 40 ouncer, Alan and Faride crowd together on the couch. Alan takes off his hat. He is NOT going bald. I don't get it.

      

Gilberto pulls out a drawer-like mattress from under the couch and lies on that. Where's Alex?

     

I hear the flushing toilet. Fuck! Well, he's a punk rocker. He should be familiar with the smell of puke. It's punk rock.

      

Yeah, these exact thoughts will come back later to haunt me. You'll hear about that later.

     

I check the clock. It's 3AM.

      

“Sorry buckaroos,” I say. “I gotta work tomor... er... today. So I'm going to bed. Buenas noches. See you at 2PM Saturday afternoon at ABC NO RIO.”

     

“Muchas gracias,” comes the chorus from beneath me. “Duerma bien.”

      

I climb onto the loft and fall asleep with a hard-on... fantasies of a seventeen year old.

                *****

      

FRIDAY: The pain hits at 8:30 on Friday night. It's sudden, blinding. As if some S&M girl suddenly jammed her stiletto heel into the front of my left ankle.

     

No warning. I didn't even move it. I'm just sitting at the computer, jerking off to xhamster.com and then... a sudden strike. Kerpow! Stars! Like in cartoons!

      

I scream.

     

No one bangs on the wall. My neighbors are used to weird sounds coming from my apartment.

      

I look at my naked ankle? No swelling. No blanching. Looks like an everyday ankle. The pain subsides.

     

KEBLOOEY! Again... harder. I grab the ankle. Massage. It doesn't help.

      

What is it?

     

A strain? Naw, it wudda hurt before, when I injured it. I didn't injure it.

      

Diabetes? My father is diabetic and always has painful legs. My high blood pressure? It's been up there lately... OWWW! This is killing me! I can't drive to Boston tomorrow. I need to go to the hospital... NOW!

     

The pain disappears. Whew. It's passed, whatever it was. Gilberto and the band are counting on me. AAAAAHHHRRRGGG. It's back... with a vengeance.

      

It hits in a negative of before. From my ankle to my shin. From the middle of my foot to my toes. The only place NOT hurting is where it hurt 5 minutes ago. I'm gonna die. Tears come to my eyes. Snot drips from my nose.

     

I don't go to doctors. Doctors spend their time and my money putzing around, not finding things or finding things that they can't do anything about. I'd rather suffer.... AAAAAAH. KILL ME NOW! I can't take it.

      

An overnight hospital stay would put a crimp in the Boston plans. An amputation would really make us late. I don't think I could have a stump fitting by 2PM tomorrow. OK, I'll just suff... AAAAARGH! Fuck!

     

I don't sleep much. The pain wakes me at 6AM. I return to xhamster.com, type MEXICAN TEENS in the search window, jerk off, and get a few more hours of sleep.

      

I make it to work, but the pain continues all day. In waves. Ten seconds of pain. Ten seconds of nothing. Ten seconds of pain... in a different place. It's hell.

     

I work until 9, then go home, and load up on Advil.

      

Tomorrow is ABC No Rio.

     

“We'll be there at 2 o'clock,” Gilberto told me.

      

Yeah right.

     

SATURDAY: Figuring punkrock time plus Mexican time, I arrive at ABC NO RIO at 3. It's still way too early... and I still hurt... bad. 

      

About 4:30, Gilberto arrives with the band.

     

He's smiling... and shaking his head.

      

“Hey Mykel,” he says. “Sorry we're late. Last night there was a brawl. You know. Pow!”

     

He lightly hits the side of his face with his fist.

      

“Fist to face,” he continues. “Girls going at it, like a soap opera.”

     

He describes the mini-riot.

      

Then he asks me about equipment for the band. Since they're touring by Chinatown bus and Boardmobile, they have none of their own. They need to borrow some from another band. 

     

I refer them to Huasipungoist and ABC door-king Esneider.

      

“Debe preguntar a Esneider. Él lo sabe todo,” I tell them.

     

“Yo no se nada,” says Esneider.

      

“Hasta luego,” I tell them, as I leave for Hertz with Gilberto.

     

By the time we get back, they've found equipment and are  just setting up the stage.  It's almost 6 o'clock. We were gonna leave at 3:30.

      

It's a terrific show, though. Alan's son, Alan Jr, sings. He looks like any hardcore kid from the 80s. But this is the 10s. Plus, he's a great active performer. Throwing himself around stage, into the crowd. It's been awhile since I've seen so much energy from a 19 year-old NOT on xhamster.com. Oh yeah!

     

I know most of the ABC NO RIO regulars... especially anyone as geriatric as me. But there's a woman here. In her 40s, she wears red... pants and beret. She's Latina shaped and sits on the merch table with her legs curled under her. She seems to know the Mexicans.

      
“Who's that?” I ask Gilberto.

     
“That's (I forget her name, but I'll call her) Carmelita,” he says. “Alan's mother. She'll be traveling with us.”

      
As it turns out, the 7-person van will traveling with:

1. Alan, the drummer, 50-something.

2. Faride, 17, the guitar player and Alan's girlfriend

3. Alan Jr., 19, Alan and Carmelita's son

4. Alex, 20-something, the bass player

5. Jessica, around 20, Alan Jr.'s girlfriend-- maybe pregnant, in any case puking the whole trip

6. Carmelita, 40-something, Alan's former wife and Alan Jr.'s mother

7. Argel, around 30, and a mutual friend of Gilberto and me. A nice quiet guy-- the only one

8. Gilberto, 30-something, I think, the tour organizer.

9. Me

      
Hmmm, singer, singer's mother and father (no longer together), singer's father's new teenage girlfriend, singer's maybe pregnant girlfriend, heartsick bass player, and a few bit players.

     
 Does this sound like the makings of a tour diary? A Mexican soap opera? Ho ho! You have no idea... but you won't find out either... At least not until next month. 

ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get live links and a chance to post comments on the column]  

-->Thanks Norb dept: I want to thank the Rev. Norb for writing (in Razor Cake) about how the only reason punks wear hats indoors is that they're going bald. It's one of those things everyone knows, but no one says.

-->Next-door to Arizona, they believe in equality dept: The first legal male sex worker in Nevada says he want to be called a gigolo, not a prostitute.
     He told the press, "this is the first time in the economy of the United States that a male has stood up and said, I want to do this for a living, and be protected under law to do it. It's just the same as when Rosa Parks decide to sit at the front instead of at the back of the bus."

-->The Menifee California school district has banned the Miriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary because it contains definitions for "oral sex."

-->The Center for Responsive Politics reports that 44 percent of members of Congress are millionaires. Of those, seven top $100 million.

-->They should play in Arizona dept: Don Lewis is the commissioner of an all-white basketball league called THE ALL-AMERICAN BASKETBALL ALLIANCE. Why all white?
    
Says Lewis, "Would you want to go to the game and worry about a player flipping you off or attacking you in the stands or grabbing their crotch?"

-->Who's the bad guy? department: On one hand, Apple, notorious for cutting off Google from its iPhone... also cut off hundreds of other apps. Many of them were sex related and were cut ONLY because they were sex related. That gets Apple a big BOO!!
      On the other hand, Apple said that developers cannot use geo-location to target advertisements to users. That gets them a big YEAH!
     Then there's Google. They take anything. Got an app? Google says: GO AHEAD! Yeah!
      Not so fast. Right now, Google is working with advertisers to help them use its Android system to target people based on their location. Spam by GPS. BOO!!
    The moral? With megacorps there are no YEAHS. Only more or less boo for your buck.

-->Coming next to an Arizona near you dept: The Republican candidate for the Third District Congressional Primary in Iowa wants to do something about illegal aliens. He wants to implant microchip tracking devices under their skin. Then, we can all keep tabs on them with our Google Android phones!
    The Iowa Independent has the details:

     Candidate Pat Bertroche made it clear that he wasn't joking when he suggested treating undocumented immigrants like pets.
     "I think we should catch 'em, we should document 'em, make sure we know where they are and where they are going," he said. "I actually support microchipping them. I can microchip my dog so I can find it. Why can't I microchip an illegal?”

-->Makes you wonder about YAHOO dept: In its reports on the Times Square smoking-car incident, Yahoo wrote:

     Officials said the device found Saturday was crudely constructed, but Islamic militants have used propane and compressed gas for years to enhance the force of explosives. Those instances include the 1983 suicide attack on the U.S. Marines barracks at the Beirut Airport that killed 241 U.S. service members, and the 2007 attack on the international airport in Glasgow, Scotland.

     Funny they didn't mention the fertilizer in the car, or that Christian terrorist Timothy McVey used it in America's second largest terrorist attack.

-->What a surprise dept: Life Extension Magazine reports that medical journals with the MOST pharmaceutical ads published significantly FEWER major articles about dietary supplements than journals not supported mainly by the drug industry.
     Those drug-pushing journals were also twice as likely to conclude that "dietary supplements are ineffective."

-->The right way and the wrong way dept: Frankly, I don't give a shit about your underpants. But if New York State Senate President, Malcolm Smith wants to buy stop-the-sag billboards, it's his dime. The senator has, in fact, paid for posters and billboards to ask colored people to pull up their pants.
       “It's a matter of pride,” he says.
        I say-- depends on what you're proud of.
        On the other hand, Trenton NJ, Atlanta GA, and several cities in Louisiana have legally banned the style, fining people whose trousers drop too low. That is the wrong way. Whose pants are they anyway?
     It's as wrong as the French banning head scarves. Laws dictating fashion? Jeezus, where will it end? Laws banning ethnicities? Oh, I forgot. Arizona.

-end-

You can go to Mykel's Homepage right here

Mykel's MRR Column for #326 (July 2010)

  You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board

"If God didn't exist, it would be necessary to invent him." --Voltaire

"What if God is not as imagined? What, for instance, if he disapproves of gamblers, especially those whose purported belief in Him is dependent on some acorn-beneath-the-cup mentality? God might prefer the honest doubter to the sycophantic chancer”. --Julian Barnes

For months I've been reading about how the Texas Board of Education is trying to insert Intelligent Design in the school curriculum. What's all the fuss about?

For those who don't know, Intelligent Design is a kind of creationism. Instead of the usual creationist 7-Days-Pop-There's- The-World!, I.D. people believe that someone or something set things in motion. Then, there was evolution. Instead of lightning striking a primordial soup, there was a creator who did the designing.

I.D. doesn't use the word God right out, but who else could it be? Aliens? Even if it were aliens, who designed the aliens? Ultimately, it has to be God.

Christians use Intelligent Design to get around the evidence that the earth is millions of years old. The universe is much older. These facts make it hard to swallow the mere 6000 years that Biblical creationism can explain. I.D. people try to bring God to Darwinism. Their basic argument though, is the same as that of the creationists:

 

When you look at the workings of a watch, if you see that the gears move against one another... What one does, affects the other in calculated precision. You know there must be a watch-maker. A watch cannot happen by accident.

Creationists say that, given enough time, the watch can, in fact, happen by accident. Like moneys at the keyboard writing Shakespeare.

In the current evolution discussion, then, there are three theories: Darwinism (chance and the survival of the fittest), Intelligent Design, and Creationism. I will propose a third theory, but to understand it you have to come take a shit with me.

 

FLASH TO THE JOHN: It must be all that matzo. Binds me right up. It's lucky I cut my nails because my middle finger is now inserted into my anus, all the way to the third knuckle. I just touch the edge of a turd. As dry as the Gobi.

I grunt it down a little, tightening my abdomen as I give a peristaltic push. Ahh, it's a little farther down now. I can just wrap my finger around it. It's about the size and shape of a Brussels sprout. Push a bit more. Pull with the finger. Come on. A little more. Almost out. Kerplunk! There it is. Sinking in the toilet like a drowned kitten. I reach back in to coax out another one. Jeezus. This is awful.

Why can't your rectum come with a little more lube? Your nose comes with lube. Your mouth comes with lube. Why not your asshole?

I push again, trying to squeeze down the next one. Silver lights pop in my brain... behind my eyes. I nearly faint. In that moment I have a revelation... a vision. I see God-- the designer. Yes!

Let's look at the evidence: it's as plain as the dried dung in my rectum.

Take my balls... please. What a stupid invention. The most sensitive, painful part of a guy's body and where is it? Hanging outside, ready for the slam of a stepped-on rake or an errant baseball. My appendix is protected by layers of muscles and fat... and how often do I use that? But my balls?

 

“Hmmm, well I think I'll just leave 'em out to dangle in the air. Leave those fragile glands in a spot they'll most likely get damaged.”

What kind of thinking is that? Dumb!

And what about the other part of that dangly device?

“Oh baby, I'd love to, but...”

How come I can't? Or at least can't always. Why can't I just raise my dick like I can raise my middle finger? I can lift that finger to tell someone to fuck off whenever I want to? But (especially after a certain age) I have to take a little blue pill to raise my penis. Why?

But the moronitude extends to more than just me.

And how about the history of the world? Before humans?

90% of all species that ever existed on earth are extinct. They didn't work and died out. Is that intelligent design? Sounds pretty dimwitted to me.

Besides stupidity, there's downright evil in the history of the world. Is it “intelligent design” for some people to be able put others in ovens?

Once, I answered a Facebook critic who said he drove an SUV because he “wanted to show you PC people that we are free to drive whatever we want.”

“You're free to nail your penis to a tree,” I said. “That doesn't mean you should.”

But why should we even be able to nail our penises to a tree? Is that a useful ability in the year of our iPad, 2010? Isn't it plain stupid?

Oh, I know what the Christians/Jews say. That's free will™. God gave the gift of free will™. It's up to individuals to use it for good or to toast their fellow humans-- or nail their own penises to a tree.

Free will? Free will??? I don't have free will. Can I walk through walls? No! Can I flap my arms and fly? No! Can I make myself invisible? Keep an erection for an hour? No. No! NO! Why aren't those things part of free will?

I can imagine God designing free will.

“Let's see. I have a choice. Either I allow people to murder one another... in huge quantities, and build ovens for the bodies... or I let them fly. I think I'll choose mass murder.

Hmmm, should I let people be able to turn invisible or should I let 'em be able to nail their penises to trees? Hah, the answer is obvious. Nail those dicks.”

It's crazy.

****

What I propose is an alternative to evolution, intelligent design, and creationism.

The I.D. people say “Look at the world. Look how everything works in one beautiful pattern. Even if the world is old, you can see it must have been designed by some great intelligence.”

I say, “Look at the world. Look at earthquakes, hurricanes, war, capitalism and American Idol. It must have been designed by some great idiot.”

And that's my theory. STUPID DESIGN.

Why does it hurt so much to have a kid?

Why are black holes eating the universe, destroying everything in their path?

Why are newborns so fragile that they'll die when left on their own?

Why are our heads supported by such a flimsy thing as the neck? Ripe for the axe or an accident under a truck?

Why do teeth rot just when an animal (or person) gets too old to chew effectively?

Why are there mosquitoes, cancer, viruses, swine flu?

These things cannot happen by themselves. There's just too much wrong, too much ugliness to happen by accident. The answer is clear: STUPID DESIGN.

Aliens... God... The master planner... They're idiots. Morons with power. Retards. Mentally challenged.

I say, image a watch that spins out of control... Where the gears fight each other... Which is right only once every several thousand years... Which requires you to take it apart before you can know what time it is...

You'd say that watch was designed by an idiot.

I'd say, EXACTLY!

The letter X is better designed than this universe. That letter is simple, with clean lines, easy to understand, and causes no pain. The parts work together, getting along well, even when they cross. 

The same cannot be said of the rest of this universe.

I propose schools teach STUPID DESIGN. Textbooks could be any history, geology, astronomy book. Students can learn about an earth too weak to hold in its own insides, causing volcanoes to wreck havoc like pus out of a pimple.

They can learn about cosmic collisions like the asteroid that wiped out the dinosaurs.

The can learn about human slavery, or the universal tendency of all matter to move to chaos.

Any subject. Any time. Anywhere. It all points to the same unavoidable conclusion. A unified theory of the universe. STUPID DESIGN.

ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get live links and a chance to post comments on the column]

--> Bambi does it again dept: President Obama disappointed millions of Americans by announcing his plan to open vast coastal areas to offshore oil drilling.

    When we need clean energy and climate solutions, this plan is a giant step backward -- allowing oil companies to reap billions, while feeding America's addiction to dirty fossil fuels.

Of course Candidate Obama said in 2008, "We can't simply drill our way out of the problem. And we're not going to be able to deal with the climate crisis if our only solution is to use more fossil fuels that create global warming."

      The Union of Concerned Scientists estimates that by 2030, the new oil drilling regions would yield only two months worth of oil in the next 20 years.

Talk about Stupid Design...

-->Naughty Boy dept: Army chief warrant officer Lewis Welshofer will spend ZERO months in jail after a military jury convicted him of homicide. The trial was for the murder of political prisoner, Abed Hamed Mowhoush. During the interrogation, Welshofer forced Mowhoush head-first into a sleeping bag, tied him with electrical cord and sat on his chest. There was a penalty, however. Welshofer was sentenced to 60 days restriction to his home, church and office. How horrible!

-->Naughtier people dept: The St. Patrick's Day Four is a group of anti-war protesters who threw blood on a military recruitment center in upstate New York. A judge sentenced them to an average of 5 months each for "damaging government property and entering a military station for an unlawful purpose." Shows where priorities are, huh?

-->Make up your mind to be naughty dept: In Ashland Oregon, the mayor cast a tie-breaking vote. That vote defeated a proposal to ban nudity within 1000 feet of schools. Yeah!... But, wait.

     After the vote, the mayor sent out an email saying he was rethinking his position because a tourist from Minnesota wrote that he wanted to be naked near Ashland schools. I don't get the fuss. But in any case, it ruins MY vacation plans.

-->666 dept: The Virginia House of Delegates has passed a new law. That law will prohibit employers and insurance companies from requiring people to implant microchips into their bodies. Why? Well one lawmaker gave the reason:

    “It might be the mark of the Beast,” he said.

  Pet owners and parents are exempt from the ban.

  Pet owners, I can understand, I mean those sub-skin microchips ARE the mark of the beast. But parents? Already some are doing it... in their children's best interest, of course. Nya hah hah!

-->Look at the right-center lobe for that one dept: Stanford Magazine reports on the new scientific field of decision neuroscience.

     Using MRIs to map the brain. Scientists are learning to determine “what triggers certain responses during purchasing decisions.” The idea is that if merchants/advertisers can create something to pull that trigger, they can sell more product. 

    I don't know why they bother. Apple has had that information for years. They can spit into a thimble, name it i-Sputum, and people will line up around the block to buy it.

-->Keep this under your towel dept: The French magazine Maisonneuve writes that Islamic clerics have decided “there's no opposition to a husband sucking his wife's breasts, but he should avoid drinking her milk.” This is related to an earlier decision that “a married couple may engage in oral sex as long as no semen is swallowed.” 
   Sounds positively Christian to me.
 

-->What the f**k? dept: Google finally admitted that it's Nexus One voice recognition software is constructed to censor “offensive words.” The software, used on iPhone competitor Android, drives that system's voice activated commands.
   That's not STUPID DESIGN. It's malicious!

-end-

visit Mykel's homepage here

Mykel's MRR Column for #325 (June 2010)

If you want to read more about Mykel's adventures in Albania, The US South-- or life in General-- check out Mykel's Diary For a look at the weird, the scary and the funny in real life, check out Mykel's Article's and Propositions.     

  You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board

"The purpose of having boundaries is to protect and take care of ourselves. We need to be able to tell other people when they are acting in ways that are not acceptable to us. A first step is starting to know that we have a right to protect and defend ourselves. That we have not only the right, but the duty to take responsibility for how we allow others to treat us."   --Robert Burney

“I never met a fence I didn't want to climb over, nor a border I didn't want to sneak across.” --Mykel Board

I've told this anecdote before. The year is 1970. I'm at Big Sur in California. It's the College-Summer-Across-America trip. Everybody does it. I'm traveling with my Beloit pals. The car. The acid. The air. Ah, the air. 

Big Sur freedom. Like a Keroac novel. It smells like grass, growing grass, not mowed lawn grass. Each blade sings as the air whips by. Open spaces. I run here and there... Absolutely free. A Zen slap to my acid-addled consciousness. 

I walk away from the others. A straight line. Knee-high shrubbery. Looking out for miles over the Pacific. It's a view you can jerk off to. I do. Then, I walk some more. Something catches my pantleg. I reach down.   

Jeezuz fuck! It's barbed wire. About 7 foot by 7 foot. A fenced-in patch of land. Here! In the freest place in America... a fence! About 3 feet high, rusted, it's not much of a fence, but still, it's a fence.  

The Great Wall of China didn't stop Genghis Kahn. He couldn't go over it, so he went around it. Ptuuuiii, Great wall, my ass!

So three feet of barbed wire? Hah! I can almost step over it. Climb it. I do, wondering what it could be protecting. I search. Figuring it's a potpatch or buried loot. I can't find a thing. I don't get it.
 

Fuck it. Anyone who fences-in freedom deserves to be shat upon. That's what I do. Take a shit. A fierce beer shit. A stinking pile in the midst of the barbed-wire corral. Grabbing a few leaves from the ground, I wipe my ass and climb back over to the other side.

Soon, I'm back with my friends. We finish the LSD picnic. Have more beer, then head back to San Francisco.
 

In a few hours, I learn why the fenced in area is fenced-in. It's filled with poison oak. Poison oak?? My ass!

Flash ahead: It's 2010. I'm in the teacher's lounge at work. As is often the case, one of the teachers is laying into me.

“Mykel,” she says, “What is it with you? I go to teach this new student. I introduce myself to her and she says, Oh you're Sara. You're the one who lived in Bali. I never met her and she already knows about my life.”

“And?” I ask, “Is there something embarrassing about living in Bali?”

“Of course not,” she says, “but my life is MINE. It's not yours. You just don't respect boundaries! You've got to learn. I am here. You are there. If I want to tell a student about my life, I can. But it's got to be my choice. You don't know where you end and other people begin.”

I check to see if I have a Siamese twin.

“I mean it, Mykel,” she says. “You're not like most people, I know. Still, would you like me telling everyone about your life?”

“Sure,” I say. 

“Well, most people wouldn't,” she says. “You've got to respect boundaries.” 

Before I can answer, she stalks out of the lounge in a huff. 
 

“Boundaries,” I think. “I don't really get this boundary stuff. A few fences are there for a good purpose, like keeping your ass out of the poison oak. But most fences keep your ass in, more than out. It's like Mexican immigration. Fences pretty much suck.”

As I leave the lounge, I pass one of my favorite teachers. One with a perfect ass. Exactly right curvature, the smooth roundness... bulging behind, not to the side. So beautiful she could be Dominican. (How many perfect asses has U.S. Immigration law kept out of America? I hate to think about it.) 

Passing her, I rest my hands... just briefly... on that gluteal masterpiece. 

Whooosh! Pain. An elbow to the chest. I fold, like a Democrat supporting the public option.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Mykel,” says the callipygious queen.
 

“Don't you go touching my body without my permission.”

I'd like to say I come back with a witty answer, but I can't come back at all. I think she's crushed my sternum.

I don't get it. If I had an ass like that, I'd be running the gauntlet. Touch me you fools. Look what I got! Yeah! Pretty hot, huh?

Maybe it's an extension of what I wrote about a few columns ago. The iPods, and the iPhones. The plugged ears and turned-off senses. Barbed wire fences, pulled so tight they scratch the skin. I'll build a little wall around myself. Don't touch me. I'm poison oak!

Flash to the Silent Club, a Hispanic/anarchist punk club near the border of Queens and Brooklyn: R-Tronika has played, as well as another Latino band, and a whiteboy band that I can't remember the name of... but was fuckin' good. 

Right now, Taina, one of the R-Tronika singers, is signing my ass. Marking pen, sure to leave a good impression on the guys at the gym. Yeah! 

“There it is Mykel,” says Taina. “You sure like to push the envelope, huh?”

Flash to Annie Moore's, a local Irish bar: My weekly Drink Club has been flagging lately. The weather? The economy? This week it's only me and Eiji, a Japanese student. We're discussing how hard it is to meet people in New York and why Drink Club-- established to help relieve that isolation-- seems like a flop. 

“Why don't teachers come to Drink Club?” asks Eiji.

“Last time I asked,” I tell him, “they said they spent all day with students and got paid for it. It's a job. They don't want to carry their job outside of working hours.”

“Why is that?” he asks. “If they like their job and the students, they should enjoy it anytime. If they don't like it, they should quit. I don't understand.”

“Boundaries,” I tell him. It doesn't help.

Boundaries. Boundaries. Boundaries. It's the current word. Parents are supposed to teach their kids boundaries. Conservatives want them around countries. Liberals want them around (especially women's) bodies. Workers want them around their jobs. This is my job. This isn't. Now I'm at work. Now I'm not.

Me? I will not respect boundaries. If I get elbowed in the chest, I'm going to have to observe them... but I will not respect them.

If you're sitting in the corner with your friends, talking about your latest herpes outbreak. I'll be there. Offering you my Lysine. 

If you're blithely walking down the street, minding your own business. I'll be there minding your business with you. You cannot talk on your cellphone about your boyfriend, without me asking how big his dick is. Your business is MY business. 

If you build a fence, I'll climb over it. I might get an assful of poison oak, but I'm still gonna climb. Make it a wall, and I'll break through. If I can't break through, I'll go around. 

I don't want to push the envelope. I want to puncture it. Tear it apart. I want that envelope to disintegrate into a hundred scraps. I want to see the paper turned into confetti... shredded around me. 

Boundaries? Fuck boundaries. You can sign my ass. 

******

A Note on Bruce Roehrs: I don't cry very easily. Those few times I do, it's either legit... like when my mother died, or manipulative... like when I saw They Once Were Warriors. 

For me, a good cry is not cathartic... not at all like a good 

shit. The last MRR cry I had was when Timmy Y died. If you believe in the afterlife (he didn't), I'm sure he's having a good laugh at that one. But crying did not make me feel any better.

I didn't cry when I heard Bruce died. But I felt like shit. We are (were?) about the same age. Both MRR vets. We'd only met a few times over the years. The first was when Timmy introduced us sometime last century. On my rare visits to the left coast, we saw each other at the MRR house. 

Bruce was jolly. Always in good spirits. Always talking about this band or this show or this music. He didn't care if the MRR orthodoxy was to hate Agnostic Front... He didn't care about orthodoxy at all. His life was ruled by music, not politics. Obama? Rush Limbaugh? Dominican ass? What excited Bruce?

Fuck! A blistering slab of hardcore appeared at MRR the other day! This fucking record devastates everything in its path. 

So much energy. So much enthusiasm. So much life. He was the kind of guy that NOBODY hates. He was a spark. A breath of punk air. I didn't cry, but I will fuckin' miss him. 

ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get live links and a chance to post comments on the column]

-->Politically Correct dept: Bambi adviser, Rahm Emanuel apologized to the Special Olympics Committee for using the word "retarded" when he criticized activists who were pushing for true healthcare reform, not the lame law that actually passed. Of course, without real healthcare, the retards will probably have no chance to improve their lives... But it's the apology that counts, right?

-->Small Victories dept: At first, YouTube censored the videos of Amy Greenfield. The National Coalition Against Censorship and the Electronic Frontier Foundation protested. 

The videos are rather tame. A naked girl rolling in the mud, mostly. But in today's atmosphere, you need to wear a raincoat in the shower. 

After the protest, YouTube undid the censorship... sort of. If you want to watch to the videos, you'll be met with the following warning:

“CTS_Element by artist Amy Greenfield” This video or group may contain content that is inappropriate for some users, as flagged by YouTube's user community.

To view this video or group, please verify you are 18 or older by signing in or signing up.

So is it a victory? Yeah, it's a small one. Like the healthcare bill.

--->Fee this baby! dept: As if airlines, phone and cable companies didn't have enough fees and surcharges, CONTINENTAL AIRLINES is charging extra to be tall! Yep, those “premium seats” in the exit rows. You know, the ones with legroom. They now cost up to $59 extra. Ah, the joys of being short!

-->Obama at the pulpit dept: A presidential advisory council, filled with priests and rabbis, is scheduled to offer recommendations on the “faith-based” initiative and other issues.
Americans United for Separation of Church and State said, however, that the Obama administration needs to take action, not spend time studying reports. 

“I am deeply disappointed at President Obama’s handling of the faith-based initiative,” said the Rev. Barry W. Lynn, Americans United executive director. “He has kept the harmful Bush-era policies in place and added a constitutionally inappropriate council of religious leaders to offer policy advice. This is not separation of church and state.”

My feelings are summed up in this quote from THE NATION:

AUDACITY fits nothing on the list of (Obama's) last year's activity save the suggestion that this is the administration the candidate had promised.

-->I've been saying it's a disease for years dept: Now the American Medical Association is considering a resolution in support of BANNING NECKTIES in hospitals. According to allbusiness.com, studies show that neckties harbor bacteria that creep down and spread from doctor to patient and back again.
 I say, why only doctors? Neckties are a hazard to all humans. Ban 'em everywhere... Okay, I guess they're all right among consenting adults... in private!

-->Private cop for fun and prizes dept: The Calgary Herald reports that interneteyes.com is setting up a system where stores pay $32 a month to be members. Once paid, the stores' surveillance monitors are broadcast on the website. Netsurfers watch the cameras and turn in shoplifters. The viewer who turns in the most shoplifters in one month wins more than $1000. 

 

It's probably illegal to suggest some hacker switch the video feed to sweatshops in India... so I won't do that.

-->My new heroine dept: My jailbird pal Kyle sent me a link (http://wadvpress.org/?p=81) to a great article by Barbara Kay. I don't have space to go into detail, but you can guess the content from the title: OCTOBER IS DOMESTIC VIOLENCE AWARENESS MONTH. HOW ABOUT MAKING NOVEMBER FALSE ALLEGATIONS AWARENESS MONTH?
Men are screaming and no one is listening. Why do women assault men? Because they can! (Thanks, Jim Goad)

-->Free Speech on the other side dept: Sid Yiddish, sent me a link to an article about a Dallas County jail guard fired over supporting slavery (“It's in The Bible”) and saying gay people should be put to death.

Where are the liberal free speech defenders in this case? Yeah right, that's what I thought.

-->Holy (beer) shit dept: Yow! Nothing like a birthday party to put you on to a new beer. I discovered HOP STOOPID, a gift from a guy who usually drinks wine. It is the best beer I've tasted this century. It comes in big 22 ounce bottles, but I was drinking it with some Mexican pals, so I didn't get most of it. Ah well, I could savor my third... quarter... fifth. I wonder if it comes in 6-packs.

 

-end-

visit Mykel's homepage here