Mexico and Selling Out in Arizona (MRR 333)

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You're Wrong
An Irregular Column

Column for MRR 333
by Mykel Board

aka Mykel Sells Out and Goes to Arizona... and Mexico

Imagine twin clown noses tightly squeezed together. Glowing red, so bright they seem lit from within. Those are my balls. Worse case of jock itch I ever had. Jock itch. I hate that term. How about jungle rot? Crotch mildew? I donno. I've got so much fungus growing between my legs that every time I take a piss, the air smells like mushroom soup.

I read on the internet that something called tea tree oil will fix you right up. It comes from Australia and costs $20 for 4 ounces. It smells like Eucalyptus... Halls cough drops, Dr. Bronners... I try it. Hurts like hell.

It makes my balls redder than ever. The itch... the pain has spread to my legs, to the taint. Used to be I couldn't go a minute without thinking about my dick. Now it's my balls that provoke even less noble thoughts.

And we three... my balls and I... are on a plane to Phoenix of all places. But let's zoom out a bit to get some perspective.

I'm glad I already wrote a column in praise of hypocrisy. Here I am... the month after urging my surging fandom to boycott Arizona. Here I am, Mr. Vivan Los Chicanos. Here, I am, Mr. Ethnically Correct. Sitting on a back porch in Tucson, waiting till Mr. Beef finishes the steak on the backyard barbecue grill. Do I get points that this house belongs to a Mexican American? That it's in a Mexican neighborhood? That the whole purpose of being here is Mexico... not Arizona? I don't think so.

Not by way of excuse, but by way of ego boost, I'll tell you why I'm here.

“Hey Mykel,” writes Gilberto, “some of your Mexican fans want to put together a band, learn your songs, and then have you come down and sing with them. You'll tour Mexico with Cojoba (a Puerto Rican band). What do you think?”

What the fuck do you think I think? I'm so there!

“Umm...,” he continues, “a couple shows will be in Arizona.”

“I'm boycotting Arizona,” I tell him.

“You're with Mexicans, Puerto Ricans. It's okay,” he says.

I'm convinced.

So the tour will be Sin Arte (the Artless coverband), Cojoba, La Merma in a reunion tour, plus shows with other groups in other places. It'll last 10 days, 4 shows in Mexico and 2 in Arizona. Every band will be Mexican or have Mexicans in it... except Cojoba. And they are half Puerto Rican, and a quarter each American Negro and Dominican American. Gilberto will be the tourmeister, pay for the van rental, take care of our special needs. He's also invited me to his birthday party... with his family in Agua Prieta.

Juarez is the most dangerous city in Mexico. Numbers two and three are Tijuana and Nogales. My pal Ivan, who lives on the US side near the Nogales border was awakened one night by the sound of a hand grenade. I will not be going to Juarez. The rest, oh yeah!

I wear my Greetings To Arizona from Mexico t-shirt. It shows a sunset behind a cactus... the cactus giving the finger to the gringos across the border.

I wear the boots I gave up because of severe leg pains. I can't tour Mexico wearing Payless sneakers. It's gotta be combat boots. Only ten days, what harm could they do in that time? Yeah right.

Flash to now: Medium shot inside the plane, still on the ground in New York: Me, my red balls and my combat boots. There are only a few empty seats. One next to me. Pretty good luck, I think.

Then they let on the stand-by passengers. A 30-something blond wearing a business suit. Her expression so stern and her demeanor so I-Mean-Business, that I don't even look at her tits. She sits down, crosses her legs, pointing the top one away from me. Then she begins to dribble snot.

Coughing, sneezing, nose blowing. By the time the plane takes off there is a Berlin Wall of snotty tissue between me and her. Fuck, just what I need on the way to Mexico, some dorky gringa to make me sick.

When the plane lands in Phoenix, I load up on vitamin C, but it's too late. The cough has already started and there's more to come.

It's three hours in the airport until the others show up: Gilberto, the best thing to come from Mexico since Texas, Pamela, a cute little Chicana whose got more balls than most guys and Ivan La Merma, a pal and the guy from Nogales who heard the grenade.

They're coming from Spain via Boston.

A recorded voice comes through the airport speakers: Welcome to America's friendliest airport. The current terror alert level is orange. When you proceed to the gates, please be advised that all liquids must be in containers of no more than three ounces each. They must be placed in clear plastic bottles, sealed in a Ziplock bag, and put separately in a tray. You will be subject to search at any time. Do not accept any gifts from strangers. Do not accept any ride offers from drivers inside the airport. The airport is equipped with surveillance cameras.... Welcome to America's friendliest...

Inside the airport are empty food concessions. A Starbucks. No. A McDonalds. No. I go to DICK CLARK'S for some too-expensive food and a beer to take care of my waiting time.

I remember Dick Clark's from a Michael Moore movie. Something about taking welfare mothers away from their babies. I can't recall the details.

When I walk in, there is no one on the floor. A blond bartender is talking with the only customer, somebody commenting on the football game on the TV. I'm trying to get someone to help me, but there is no one. The place looks deserted.

Behind the cash register is a bored-looking white woman-- as bland as daytime TV. Blond, mid-40s, completely forgettable. I ask her if I should just take a seat.

“See that sign behind you?” she says, pointing with her thumb.

PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED it says.

Couldn't she just say, “I'll be happy to show you to your seat?” Does she have to be an Arizona equivalent of Wassamatta you dumb?

She's the first of the Arizona White Girls. You'll hear more about them. One of 'em was elected governor. They are serious. They are nasty. I do not like them.

“Can I get you something to drink while you're waiting?” she asks when she shows me to my seat. I'm the only customer and it's 7PM. Maybe the boycott's working.

“I'll have a Sam Adams,” I tell her.

“Can I see your I.D.?” she says.

I'm 70 fuckin' years old, pretty bald, with gray chin hair. I can only guess she wants to check my ID to make sure I'm not an illegal Mexican.

I show her my driver's license. She nods and leaves.

The beer is okay. The food is awful. Before long Gilberto, Ivan and Pamela arrive at the airport. I meet them at the baggage collection area. Gilberto and I go from there to the car rental office. He hands his debit card to the woman behind the counter.

“Sorry,” she says. She's a white girl with a scrubbed face and an I'm gonna grow up to be Sara Palin smile.

“I see this is a one way rental,” she says, staring at Gilberto's DON'T WORRY GRINGO, I'M LEGAL t-shirt. “We can't rent one way to... I mean on... debit cards. Only real credit cards.”

“What do you mean...” starts Gilberto.

I kick him subtly.

“No, problem,” I say. “We'll bring it back here.”

He looks at me with wrinkled brow. I flash a wink, then rub my eye like it's got something in it. The white girl takes the debit card.

As we walk to the parking lot and the 7 person van, Gilberto speaks.

“You mean, all you have to do is lie?” he asks.

I nod... Then cough... uh oh!

“You tell 'em what they want to hear,” I say. “It's like speaking to the cops. Yes officer. I realize I shouldn't have run that red light. My mother is in the hospital I was just trying to reach her before she sucks in her last breath of air. I panicked, but it was wrong and I know it. I'm sorry. Just tell 'em what they want to hear. They don't care about truth anymore than your girlfriend does when she asks How do I look?”

I don't know what happens to Ivan and Pamela. I guess they take her car. It's only Gilberto and me who drive the 2 hours to Tucson.

“This is the only Mexican neighborhood I know that's right downtown,” says Gilberto.

“I wonder why?” I ask. “Don't they have any pretentious white artists to move in and kick out the Mexicans? In any case, we'd better lock the car doors and turn on the alarm when we get out.”

He knows me well enough to laugh. Others in the neighborhood, it will turn out, do not.

When we arrive, Güera meets us at the door. She looks like your typical Arizonan. Blonde, light skin, cute in a tough-looking country way. Weird that she lives in this Mexican neighborhood.

“Hi,” says I.

“Ola,” says she. She Mexican.

Also at the door is Mona. Mona doesn't bother with the formalities. She's all over me. Passionately kissing me, right from the start. Just on me like a dog in heat. In fact, she is a dog in heat. And she's shedding like a rattlesnake in the sun.

Then comes a rumble, a shake. Do they have earthquakes in Arizona? No. It's just the train passing. Right outside the front door. So THAT'S why the Mexican neighborhood is right downtown. It's next to the tracks!

On Güera's back porch is Ivan, and this huge white guy with jet black hair, combed Elvis style... Presley not Costello.

Ivan and I hug. The huge guy is broiling some meat on a tiny barbecue. Smells good.

“I'm Beef,” says the huge guy, shaking my hand.

I don't get it, but figure it must be Mexican-Arizona dialect that means I'm cooking beef.

“I'm hungry.” I say. “All I ate today was Dick... Clark.”

Then I cough some more-- God's punishment for breaking my boycott Arizona pledge. The bitch-goddess pays me back for my hypocrisy. After three hours next to the sick blonde on the plane, I've suddenly got a cough--- and I'm starting to drip snot myself. Are my glands swollen or am I happy to see you?

Beef takes the beef from the grill, carrying the hot meat in the aluminum foil it was cooked in. He does not offer it to me, but takes it past all of us into the kitchen. There, he delicately cuts the pieces, seasons them, rolls them into soft flour tortillas, and hands them to us: me, Güera, Ivan, and Gilberto.

“Here you are,” he says with more than a touch of modesty. “I really hope you like them.”

They're delicious. Such a big guy, but such a good cook, and so delicate with the spices. Such a meek and modest guy.

The next time I see him, he'll be pouring a drink over a white girl's head. He becomes one of two white guys I like on this trip.

Cojoba shows up: Taina, the singer and personality of the band, Javiar, boyfriend of Taina, guitar player and Hell's Angeles wannabe (long hair and a headscarf). They're both GG Allin fans. Then there's semen-inducing Moe, bass player and Dominican American, and Ray, the black drummer born in the USA. It's his first time on tour.

Those guys brought their sleeping bags. Me? I sleep on a mattress on the floor, covered with dog hair. Soon, I'm also covered with dog.

My cough gets worse during the night. And we have to leave tomorrow and drive all night to reach the show in Tijuana.

(By the way, the U.S. government has issued a travelers advisory against visiting Tijuana.)

It's the only Mexican show Sin Arte is not scheduled to play, and we have to drive 16 hours to get there. But that's grist for the next column.

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]

-->You missed it department: I've been sick as a Chihuahua since I've been back in New York. I go to Mexico, two days after my return, go to some dumb sports bar in New York... eat bad nachos and get the shits. Go figure

     That, plus the cough and several other diseases begun on the plane to Arizona, persist in New York. Despite this, I drove to Philadelphia with the multi-talanted performance artist, Sid Yiddish and the punkrock Trididadian, Randy Ali. I don't want to spoil it for you, but think Shlomo Carlebach meets Gypsy Rose Lee. The audience was small, but the reaction sure as fuck wasn't. See Sid when he comes in your town.

 

-->There goes that e-books save trees argument: Citizens of the Dutch city Alphen aan den Rijn commissioned a study of the effects of Wi-Fi on trees. They found that all deciduous trees in the western world are affected by radiation from mobile-phone networks and wireless LANs.

      Over 70 per cent of trees in urban areas in the Netherlands are afflicted by Wi-Fi sickness They show significant variations in growth, with bleeding and fissures in their bark. That's compared with just 10 per cent showing these symptoms five years ago.

-->Basketball? That's what they do, isn't it? dept: President Obama needed 12 stitches on his upper lip after he was accidentally hit while playing basketball with friends and family at Fort McNair in Washington, D.C. The president was playing defense when Rey Decerega, an opposing player, turned into him to take a shot. His elbow hit Obama in the mouth. The president was given a local anesthetic for the procedure.

-->Milestone Dept: On Saturday Nov. 27, the US was in Afghanistan a day longer than the Soviet Union was in the same place. What's more, the U.S. announced during the NATO summit that it intends to spend at least four more years, and possibly longer. Even then, many Afghans -- perhaps even the president installed by the U.S. invasion -- appear to doubt that the Americans will succeed where their Cold War enemy failed.

-->Wadda surprise dept: New York Magazine reports study after study shows that having kids makes people less happy. Is that a surprise? Spending time and income on a drooling ball of wrinkled skin is supposed to make you happy? Yeah right.

 

-end-

Mykel's personal website is here.

OR you might be interested in Mykel's Travel Blog (more on Mexico)

OR random musings and collections

Mykel Board Wonders if Suicide is Bullying (MRR 332)

 

You're Wrong

An Irregular Column

by Mykel Board

"However great a man's fear of life, suicide remains the courageous act, the clear-headed act of a mathematician.” Graham Green

"Psychiatrists claim, and most people now believe, that mental illness causes addiction, crime, suicide and countless other acts we abhor and fear. Therein lies the virtual limitless power of mental illness and psychiatry to undermine the idea of responsibility and subvert justice.” -Thomas Szasz

"Suicide is the most sincere form of self-criticism.” Robert Heinlein

I wipe the semen off my hands. Fuck! I don't spurt like I used to. Just a little dribble down that V in the back. The build up is as good as ever, but the climax is no better than a decent fart.

Ah well. I'm glad they've got free samples of those clips from Broke Straight Boys on Gaytube. I like 'em, but I sure as dripping cum don't want to pay for 'em!

After wiping up, I hit Facebook. Someone's posted a video of Ellen Degeneres. In the video, she talks about some college kid who jumped off a bridge. Someone interneted a spycam video of him giving a blowjob. It was just oo humiliating to live.

Among other things, Ellen says: "There are messages everywhere that validate this kind of bullying and taunting, and we have to make it stop. We can't let intolerance and ignorance take another kid's life."

My first reaction is: Uh oh! They're gonna used this as an excuse for internet censorship. There goes spycam.com!

“You see what freedom does?” they'll say. “It kills people! We need laws to stop this kind of thing.”

Then, somehow, they'll twist it so laws against posting cam pictures promote freedom. It's illogical. But I bet they do it. 

And what about the kids who set up the spycam? As of now, they're charging them with invasion of privacy... as a hate crime.

The more I think about it, the more it pisses me off. I've written before about the dangers of bullying and hate crimes laws. I'll get to hate crimes later. But even before that... is this bullying?

Joe Jockstrap walks up to Wimpy Pudge, pokes him in the stomach. “Hey fatso,” he says, “gimme your lunch money or I'll lift up your belly, find your balls and cut 'em off.”

That's bullying.

Showing a picture of me jerking off to Broke Straight Boys is not bullying. It may be poor taste, uncivil, humiliating, tabloid journalism, an invasion of privacy, blackmail (if it comes with a threat) or a host of other things. But it's not bullying.

My pal Tony, who used to write in these pages wrote on Facebook: I think the answer is to teach young people by example how to stand up to bullying. It was something I was never taught as a young man. If some bastard made a video of you or me at our ages today and streamed it over the web we'd get furious & SUE the freak for everything he had.

It's the fact that the kid was humiliated that caused him to make a death leap. The only shield against a weapon of homophobic humiliation is to teach the kid how to refuse to permit himself to be humiliated. It's not enough to just be out of the closet if a gay kid still thinks his sexuality is somehow more humiliating than that of a straight boy. If a straight boy had something like that happen to him, he'd just get pissed off at the "prank" and fight back. You have to open the eyes of a gay kid and tell him to stand up for himself because he's no different than any straight boy. You say: "Hey, do you know any straight boys who'd kill themselves over that?"

Nothing makes a gay boy any less equal to a straight boy.

I like Tony's answer, but disagree with part of it.

First, if a straight guy sees videos of himself screwing on the internet, he does not sue. He brags.

Second, there are several things that make a gay boy less equal to a straight boy.

Take hate crimes laws. (Please!) I've written before about how these thought-crime bills are bad for civil liberties and worse as public policy. I could go on, but that's not why I'm writing this column. Besides Alexander Cockburn said everything I had to say on that. You can read it at: http://tinyurl.com/cockburnhate.

There is another aspect to the hate-crime bills, though. They create an us and a them. A protected group (them) and everybody else (us). As long as there are laws singling out special groups... As long as victims are defined as Negroes, Hispanics, Jews, or a myriad of others... When you disallow hate on the basis of race, gender, sexual orientation, religion, nationality, but allow it for clothes or eye color, you create inequality.

If I punch you because you're a Republican, I spend 30 days in jail. If I do it because you're a homo, I spend 5 years. That means homos are not equal to Republicans. And it's the law that creates that inequality.

Then, there's the question of suicide itself. If you kill yourself, who's the murderer? Imagine this:

Radley Smirton is a comedian. His shtick is SUPERNERD, like Pee Wee Herman, but less creepy. He makes fun of jocks, meatheads, blonde airhead girls.

So this football coach walks into the locker room before the game. He talks to Joe Dirt, star running back.

“I'm not supposed to let you play since you failed math, but we need you in there. So if I ask you a math question and you get it right, you can play."

Joe frowns.

"Okay,” says the coach, “now concentrate...what is two plus two?"

Joe thinks for a moment and answers, "Four?"

At that, all the other players on the team began screaming, "Come on coach, give him another chance!"

Smirton takes a bow on Leno, walks over to him, pretends to give the high five... and misses. The audience is in stitches. This guy is headed for the stars... or at least Vegas.

Then it happens. Someone bugs his apartment. Sets up a spycam. Before long, there it is on the Internet. Ridley Smirton, sitting in an armchair, bowl of popcorn by his side, feet up, watching the Superbowl!

In a few minutes, it's everywhere. Smirton's career drops from Superbowl to toilet bowl. Instead of laughing with him, his former fans are laughing at him. Anti-jock nerdboy! Yeah, right.

Unable to stand the humiliation, Smirton buys a ticket to a New York Knicks game at Madison Square Garden. At the end of the game, he hides among the vendors' carts. Then, when the Garden is empty, he hangs himself from one of the baskets.

The press is outraged! His death is a hate crime! The result of bullying. There's gotta be a law. Someone has to pay for this. Ellen Degeneres makes a video. Yeah, right. 

 

Suicide may be sad. It may even be a crime. But unless you're hypnotized or drugged, if you commit suicide, you commit the crime. If it's a hate crime... it's a self-hate crime.

I feel sorrier for the poor guys who set up the cam. In the case of the homo bridge-jumper, it was a pair of non-American born, non-whites: an Indian guy and a Chinese girl. Easy targets. I bet they feel worse about the death than any of the critics calling for their blood. And, unlike the bridge-jumper, they have to live with it.

Wake up, buckaroos. This is 2010. You EXPECT a camera behind every dorm room mirror. Your sexting photo today is gonna be on Facebook tomorrow. In England, 20% of all divorce cases involve Facebook. What were they thinking? Mark Zuckerberg says, “I don't believe in privacy,” then goes on to prove it.

Your morning wood, my jock itch, her foaming yeast infection, they're all out there. Videoed, tallied, reported. There are no secrets. That tube of KY you bought at CVS has been recorded and broadcast to every CVS in America. Check out the coupons at the end of your receipt. THIS WEEK 20% OFF ON KY JELLY. Hey, isn't that private?

The problem is not invasion of privacy. It's what needs to be private. What people are afraid others will see. That too is part of the crime. That kid who jumped from the bridge because he was videoed sucking cock. That he felt he had to jump is a crime, and America is the perpetrator.

[Aside: a former governor of New Jersey was caught in a similar video. He resigned, but has since become active in homo rights groups. See? You don't HAVE to kill yourself. There, Tony's right.]

Ah, what's the use? Americans are vengeful people. If somebody dies, somebody's got to pay. The victim and the society can't pay, so we'll find someone else. Hate is bad, so we'll put it in jail. That poor Indian guy is gonna go get raped by a bunch of thugs in a little cell somewhere. That'll teach him to love homos. Right? No more hate coming from him, right? It's sick.

I'm finished now, I think I'll go back to spycam.com. Maybe the next orgasm will be better than the last.

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]

-->Speaking of unequal dept: Chuck Shepherd reports that until August, 2010, Nettleton Middle School in Mississippi had a strict policy for election of class officers for 6th, 7th and 8th graders: Only white students could be president. Only black students could be vice president.

       Officials explained that it was the only way to insure black representation. Three-fourths of the students are white. A school memo was leaked to  The Smoking Gun website in August. A day later, the school district rescinded the policy.

-->And on the bullying front: The Smoking Gun also reports that: With school bullying and harassment now the subject of a growing national controversy, the rapper Eminem has his own bully story.

As an elementary school student in Detroit, young Marshall Mathers was the target of bullying so severe that his mother sued the local school board for failing to protect her child.

      In her 1982 Circuit Court complaint, Deborah Mathers alleged that her nine-year-old child endured repeated assaults while enrolled at Dort Elementary School. Her son, she reported, was beaten so severely that he suffered a cerebral concussion, post-traumatic headaches, intermittent loss of vision and hearing, and other injuries to his head, face, back, and neck. 

         The lawsuit, which asked for more than $10,000 in damages, was eventually dismissed on the grounds of governmental immunity. 

-->And what's replaced it? dept: In an interview with a British newspaper, the singer Prince says that the Internet is completely over.

       I donno. I must be jerking off to all those sites on the medium formerly known as the Internet.

–->International conspiracy dept: Ever wonder how China and Syria get the technology to censor all those pro-Democratic Internet sites? They buy it from the U.S.

      Two particularly noxious programs: SmartFilter and Websense are marketed to parents in the U.S. They're supposed to keep junior from learning there's more he can do with his floppy than piss out of it. But as bad as that it, those programs do worse.

Governments even more repressive than our own use these programs to block access to unapproved pro-Democracy sites. Check out opennet.net for the scary details.

-->On the other side dept: Walid Al-Saqaf, former editor of the Yemen Times has developed Alkasir (alkasir.com). This program resides on a USB flash drive and lets a browser circumvent the censorware. Download it and give it to your friends in China... or to the kids at the elementary school down the block.

-->My kind of politician dept: Florida Congressman, Alan Grayson has complained that “next year's budget allocates $159,000,000,000 to perpetuate the occupations of Afghanistan and Iraq. That's enough to eliminate federal income taxes for the first $35,000 of every American's income.” He's introduced a bill to stop those wars and cut those taxes. You can join him at: TheWarIsMakingYouPoor.com

-->I'm writing this just before my Mexican trip. No right-as-it -happens blog on that one. No computer. If I die in Tijuana, you'll probably read about it here. I donno, I've always admired Ted Rall for his war reporting. I guess I'll be doing the same thing. (Or maybe the danger is just the press exaggerations. Maybe I'll even get laid.)

you can connect to Mykel's homepage and a bunch of other stuff here

Geriatricophilia Defined (MRR 331)

You're Wrong

An Irregular Column

by Mykel Board

If The Beatles were making music now, they'd be thrown in jail. I mean “She was just seventeen. You know what I mean.” That's pedophilia! --Peter Crowley

It's a season for nostalgia... for reunions... for old photos. The Mudd Club will have its reunion in October. PIL just finished its latest tour... Johnny Rotten the only original member. Other bands tour with one or two more obscure members, the rest dead or feuding. Some pick-up bass player who spent ten minutes with SUICIDAL YOUTH, now leads the SUICIDAL YOUTH REUNION tour.

And the audiences? If it's not old men, the remains of their gray hair scooped together in a pathetic ponytail. It's old women, obscenely trying to stuff themselves into too tight pants, their too-tight t-shirts bulging over their not-tight-enough bellies. Those bellies poke six inches beyond the flabbed-out tits hanging loosely over them.

I used to find these reunion shows as pathetic as you do. A bunch of old farts hiring some new farts to support something that should have died decades ago. Ok, I thought, you were great in the 80s, but you don't make it now. Move aside and let the newest punkrockers move in. Have the good taste to die... Now!

Then there's the fear of youth in the modern world, at least in America. You have prove your age to buy a bottle of beer. Consensual sex is rape if you're too young for government approval.

In the 70s, The Blessed was a kiddie punk band whose 13-year old members played together at Max's Kansas City. They were cute and punk at the same time. Billy, the singer, looked like an adolescent Stiv Bators. I often fantasized about things with these guys that, in 21^st century America, are probably illegal to fantasize about. No wonder old farts think they're the shit. Young farts are illegal.

CUT TO 2010. DELANCY STREET. THE BASEMENT OF THE DELANCY STREET BAR:

It's the Max's Kansas City reunion. The second night of a three-night stint. As I go in, I wish for Photoshop glasses. I'd set them to reverse time so when I looked at people, I'd see them like they were thirty years ago. Wrinkles removed. Bellies tightened. Hair restored both in quantity and color.

Do I know you? runs through my mind as I peer at everyone, wondering if, at some time, I shared body fluids with them.

“Hey Mykel,” comes a voice next to me. I look over at this middle-aged guy, somewhat rounded, wearing the kind of baseball hat those of us who have “nothing to hide” hide it with.

He can tell I don't recognize him.

“It's Billy,” he says. “From The Blessed. Remember me?”

My heart sinks.

Somewhere in a drawer at home I have a t-shirt. It's a drawing of a woman holding a baby. A word balloon comes out of her mouth. He's so cute. It's too bad he'll grow up to be a man. My thoughts exactly... except in retrospect. It's too late. He's grown up.

Billy and I talk for awhile. He tells me he's living in New Jersey now and has plans for new music. He wants to do something else. He's not 13 anymore.

You're telling me! I don't say. Then I think, I'm not 13 either. Or 30. Or 40. Or 50...

Despite the growing up, it's good to see Billy. And to see the others I used to know in a different form. I wonder why it's such a tragedy that we grow up and grow old. I wonder if it's life's tragedy or one of our own creation.

Then, I see Teddy.

I recognize him immediately. It's the old Teddy. The guitar player from Just Pants, Max's house band. Boy did I have a crush on him in those days. It was him and Tish, one of the singers of THE SICK FUCKS.

[Aside: The Sick Fucks played tonight. That's why I'm here. Both girl singers look real good for their years. A little jowly, a TINY bit turkey necked, but still, after all those years and drugs. They're sexy enough to jerk off to. Especially in their nuns-in-nylons costumes. Oh yeah!]

Teddy isn't wearing the years very well. He's allowed his remaining fringe of gray hair to grow long-- Benjamin Franklin like. His formerly skinny body droops. It's as if, in the contest between gravity and the connective tissue that holds skin to bone, the tissue just gave up.

His belly bulges downward over his belt, like it's trying to hide his cock. His chin doubles... triples... beneath his neck. His formerly tight smooth cheeks now sag into bulldog jowls. His eyes show their whites as the bags beneath them pull the lower lids into a fleshy mess. A wart pokes from his jaw where his chin used to be.

“Mykel,” he says unselfconsciously, “you look the same as 30 years ago. Well, less hair, I guess. But who doesn't? How'd you avoid gray beard?”

“Just For Men,” I answer.

He laughs like I'm kidding.

We talk for awhile. But we don't talk like old men. We don't discuss our prostates. We don't lament about those were the days. We don't talk about punk rockers who kicked the bucket while they were still good-looking.

Our talk is the talk of people living. Of people drinking, fucking, going to clubs, listening to Cojoba and World War Nine. Of getting drunk, getting in trouble, running from cops, causing trouble. It's a terrific talk.

“You wanna come over for a drink after the show?” he asks me.

“That would be great,” I tell him.

The show itself is terrific. Besides the Sick Fucks, are The Bullys, who I associate with The Continental more than Max's. Wow. Ruby and the Rednecks play, with Ruby bravely singing from a walker, wheeled on stage. It's more like a victory flag than a prop for a cripple. Amazing!

Like I said, the Sick Fucks were masturbatorily good. As was Walter Lure who did Heartbreakers/Johnny Thunders songs, backed by a band of young Japanese guys. Peter Crowley, Max's main man back in the day, put together a masterful show... on its own... not (just?) as a piece of nostalgia. When it's over, I go to Teddy's place.

His apartment is on Bedford, in the West Village. It must be rent-controlled. A huge place... right near Houston Street. A sunken living room. A bedroom off to the side. A kitchen as big as my entire apartment.

It's to the living room we go. There is a couch in that room. Black and white, like fake cowhide... ripped right off your local milking cow. In fact, the whole room is black and white cow. The wallpaper. The lamp shades. The carpet, for God's sake. The lava lamp on the coffee table is NOT black and white, but its cow-spot-shaped bubbles fit perfectly with the rest of the décor.

The woman on the couch, however, does not fit perfectly with the décor. She's lounging like a sultress on the cover of a romance novel. Her arm rests along the back of the couch. Her tilted body radiates come and get me.

Her jowls, bushy gray hair, and flaccid breasts, however, do NOT radiate come and get me... at least that's what I'm thinking when I see her.

She wears, I donno what to call it. It's black, shiny, some kind of plastic material. It hugs her bulging belly, and flattens her mammarian paucity even further. Through it all, though, there's something familiar about her. As if we'd met before. Again, I long for my Photoshop glasses.

“Mykel,” says Teddy, “this is my wife, Edith... Edith, this is...”

“I know,” she says, “we... er... had a relation... Before you were around, Teddy.”

I smile, still unable to place her... or our relation. It's all too obvious that I don't have a clue.

“You don't remember do you?” she asks. “It was the bathroom at Max's. End stall. You asked me, Can I just watch? I like to watch girls. Will you squat on the seat for me?”

It vaguely comes back to me.

“And then...” she continues and stops. She makes a fist with one hand and raises just the pinkie. “See?” she says, “I remember you.”

“Me too,” says Teddy. Pushing me gently to the couch. He leans over me, pressing a hand on each of my shoulders. His face approaches mine, the jangling jowls slowly disappearing on either side of my peripheral vision. His lips press against mine. His tongue pushes its way into my mouth. A hand... Teddy's? Edith's? wiggles like a five-legged spider on my crotch.

The sounds of zippers unzipping break the silence of the room.

We're naked, on the floor. My mouth follows the flab of skin from under Teddy's neck, down to his chest. Gray chest hair covers skin folds that droop from his beneath his arms and down his side. Like one of those Chinese dogs... Sharpees, I think they're called.

I run my tongue under each fold, savoring the sweet smell of sweat... lighter than most... from the dry skin flaking under my mouth. Then I lick over his bulging stomach, past a hairless wart-- just like the one on his face. I nosh the fine gray hairs that act as a downward trail for my tongue.

Edith is between my legs now. Slowly nibbling her way from my knee up to the good part. Teddy's tongue probes my navel as his hand pumps my spouted little sprout.

Wait! He says, lifting his head up and looking at me.

His cheeks puff like a sax player's. His mouth moves as if he were using his tongue to dislodge an errant piece of chocolate mousse. In fact, he is dislodging his teeth.

First the top set. Then the bottom. He carefully removes the dentures and places them on the coffee table. The moving blue light from the lava lamp plays eerily over the whiteness of the false teeth.

He returns to my navel then licks southward sucking my suddenly limp limpness between his gums. It feels like sideways labia. It feels like... It feels damn good.

Teddy runs his gums up and down my again stiff Vienna sausage. Edith has pulled one of my hairy... no both... of my hairy hangers into her mouth.

As she sucks, she rotates her body... crawling upward so her knees are just above my head. I get the hint.

Where I expect tuna, I get sawdust. A dry smell. Like an old leather couch. I press my face deeper into the gap. Using my nose to separate the labia, I lick up and out. I bring my hands behind her, to press her into my munching mouth. My hands lose themselves in the loose flesh of her ass. My middle finger strikes a hemorrhoid, wiggles it playfully, then presses inward.

Ouch!

Edith reacts by biting down on my aching testicles. But the pain isn't bad pain. It's just what I need to push me... ahhh... ahhh. Ahhhh!

Who cares if the Beatles are illegal in 2010. Just change the lyrics.

She was just sevenTY, you know her and me. The way she felt was way beyond compaaaarrrrre! So how could I fuck with another oooooooooo When I saw her layin' there.

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]

-->Corporations United dept: Citizen's United is the ironically named group that filed the Supreme Court case. You know, the one that said corporations are people with the same "free speech" rights as real people. In their latest strike for freedom, C.U. has been trying to force the "Wisconsin Democracy Campaign" to change its Facebook name. They don't like: Citizens United Against Citizens United. So much for free speech.

-->Is there anything else tobacco companies can do for their image dept: Human Rights Watch has found that Philip Morris buys tobacco from Kazakh farmers that use child labor. They have documented 72 cases of children working in tobacco fields. According to the group, in a day, workers absorb the amount of nicotine equal to thirty-six cigarettes. And, unlike here in New York, they don't have to pay $12 a pack to do it.

-->If that's a pickle in your pocket, why's it glowing dept: Nukewatch Quarterly reports that the Studsvik Memphis Nuclear Processing Facility will pay $650,000 to 23 black employees who protested being exposed to "far more radiation than their white counterparts." The workers complained that the company manipulated the black workers' radiation monitors. Those monitors would then falsely indicate lower levels of radiation than was actually the case.

-->No inmate left behind dept: According to The Nation, BP has recruited prison labor to clean up the oil spill. Businesses in Louisiana earn a tax credit for every inmate hired. So why not make some money on slave labor? Guess what color most of those prisoners are.... And oil? It's much more toxic that tobacco.

Was someone complaining about Kazakhstan? We have Kazakhstan right here in Louisiana... and Tennessee. Who needs kids when you've got Negroes to do the dangerous work?

-->Wal-Mart does it again dept: A Wal-Mart employee was stripped of his responsibilities and forced to wear a yellow vest after telling his manager he was gay. The employee says his boss asked him if he was gay in front of four of his co-workers and then, presumably, when he answered yes, "alienated him from the other workers." To be fair, there are other factors involved in this case. But this is WAL-MART! Do we want to be fair?

-->The Progressive reports that the Pentagon is investigating Defense Department officials and contractors who have purchased and downloaded kiddie porn. What's the danger to our national security?

       "It puts us at risk of blackmail and threats." 

       Now, is it the PORN that does that, or the laws against it? Hmmm.

     Reminds me of Obama's refusal to release the Gitmo torture pictures because "they will incite anti-American feelings." Yo Barak! It's not the pictures that incite. It's the torture! 

-->More on Arizona dept: Jan Brewer, the horror governess of Arizona, has appointed a tourism task force to "address concerns about the state's recent immigration law." The new PR campaign will promote the state as a "safe and welcoming destination."

Safe and welcoming? For whom? I guess it depends on your accent or skin color. I'm bringing my passport, just in case.

-->Out of the frying pan dept: I'm writing this at the end of September. In November, I'll be breaking my Boycott Arizona pledge by doing a reading in Tucson. I'm doing it with a FUCK ARIZONA t-shirt or maybe one that says Habla Español o muerte.

     I feel a bit guilty about this, though I expect there will be as many Mexicans (Yeah!)in the audience as Arizonans. And I'm also sure NONE of these Arizonans supported the racial laws.

After Tucson, I'm going to Tijuana and the Mexican side of the border areas to pay my dues for reading in Arizona. Here's what the US government says:

     Much of the country’s narcotics-related violence has occurred in the northern border region. For example, since 2006, three times as many people have been murdered in Ciudad Juarez, across from El Paso, than in any other city in Mexico. More than half of all Americans killed in Mexico in 2009 were killed in the border cities of Ciudad Juarez and Tijuana. 

-->Just as I was finishing up this column, the news comes that a Princeton university student jumped off a bridge because he was spycammed in dorm homosex. Liberals are calling for blood I won't comment on it here, because my thoughts would take a whole column... they will... next month.