Origin of VOLTMAN or Mykel's Post MRR Column no 43

Mykel's

Post MRR Column no 43

Voltman

I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it. --Voltaire (attributed)

Free speech is the right to shout THEATER in a crowded fire. – Abbie Hoffman

You need to allow people to shout FIRE in a crowded theater. There might really be a fire. --Voltman

[NOTE: This blog/column introduces a new Superhero, VOLTMAN. This is the first episode in what I hope will be a comic or a graphic novel. If you'd like to illustrate the VOLTMAN series, send some drawings to me at: god@mykelboard.com]

I'm out to buy a 6-pack of McSorely's... Morton Williams has 'em on sale... eight ninety nine. Only 3 bottles left in the fridge... better stock up. I'm on the street, walking toward the grocery store... What's this?

Right outside the NYU student center... at least it was the student center when I was at NYU. These days... it could be the NYU MILTON FREIDMAN HALL OF CAPITALISM.

In any case, there's a fight... a doozie. Half a dozen big guys... black leather jackets... kerchiefs over their noses and mouths... pounding on the doors of the building. I figure it's a protest against free speech, because that's what guys in black leather jackets do in 2017.

Fists are flying, but they don't seem to be landing anywhere. Why? Standing in front of the door, arms catching punches and flinging them back... is a superhero. I shit you not... a real superhero with tights, a shiny white shirt with the letter V on it, a black cape and a mask... more like a washcloth with eye-slits... draped over his face.

His arms move in a blur, deflecting punches, returning kicks, sending the leather-jacketed thugs flying. A crowd has gathered to watch the battle.

“What happened?” I ask a very masculine-looking girl standing at the edge of the throng.

“We planned to shut him down,” she says. “And this clown comes and fucks it up.”

“Who is HIM?” I ask.

She looks heavenward, as if to summon enough strength to answer my stupid question.

“Him! Him!” she shouts, pointing to a placard with a picture of an attractive young man... very femmy looking. Under the nose of the young man, someone had-- rather unartisticly-- drawn a small dark mustache.

“It's Milo Yiannopoulos,” she says. “He's a Nazi.”

“Oh, I see,” I say. “He wants to kill Jews and homosexuals and invade Poland?”

“No!” she shouts. “You're an idiot. He's gay!”

By this time the fight is over. The sidewalk is littered with bloodied antifas. The superhero lords over them... his hands on his hips.

I walk up to the guy. We shake hands.

“Mykel Board,” I say.

“Voltman,” says he.

“I figure you're some kind of super-hero, like Super- or Bat-,” I say.

He makes a grunting sound, either laughing or the verbal equivalent of eye-rolling. I can't tell.

“I'm an... er... independent journalist,” I bullshit. “I'd just like to talk to you. I've never interviewed a superhero before, so excuse me if some of the questions are... um... naive.”

“No problem,” he says, “but I don't know how much time we have. I may be needed quickly. This crowd still looks a bit determined.”

“That's the first question,” I say. “What happened here?”

“Well, some students invited Milo Yiannopoulos to speak at NYU. Other students didn't like what they thought he had to say, so they wanted to stop him from speaking. They broke some windows, threatened violence... the usual.”

“So what did you do?” I ask.

“I chaperoned Milo... ushered him into the hall. Bashed a few of the censors... the usual,” he answers... as if I had any idea what the usual is.

“Okay, okay,” I say, “that means you're a right-winger who supports this Nazi guy?”

“Nazis are against homosexuals and Jews. This guy is a Jewish homosexual. Nazis build concentration camps, invade Poland and bomb England. What's that got to do with Yiannopoulos?”

“I dunno,” I say. “I just heard he was a Nazi.”

“He's not,” says the superhero. “But that's beside the point. Even if he were a real Nazi, he still should have the right to speak. My job is to insure that right.”

“That's what I want to ask you about,” I say. “What exactly is your job?”

“I can't talk about my day job,” he says. “You know, it's like you tell me I'm an actor... I answer Yeah? What restaurant?“

“You mean you have a Clark Kent identity?” I ask.

He nods and laughs.

“Okay,” I say, “tell me about your planet Krypton... and why you're dressed so dorky... and how come you have your face covered... and you have a tight suit with a V on the front. Is that for Victory or Voodoo?”

“It's for Voltaire,” he says, “Volt for short. You can call me VOLTMAN. You know, I may not agree with what you say, but I'll defend to the death your right to say it. THAT Voltaire.”

“That quote's in dispute,” I tell him. “It's not clear Voltaire actually said it.”

“Don't be so pedantic,” he says, shaking his head. His mask wrinkles with the action.

“Come on,” I say, “superheroes don't use words like pedantic.... You can't be real.”

He picks up one of the bricks dropped by a protester, probably intended for a nearby window. Holding one end in each hand he twists. The brick crumbles into little pebbles.

“Real enough for you?” he asks.

I nod.

We sit on the stairs that lead up to the building he just defended. Voltman sits very close to me...our thighs touch. Then he starts talking. He has a raspy voice, like someone who has done a lot of yelling... or a lot of drinking.

“Let me tell you how it started,” he says. “You remember the Nixon Theater fire... in DC... about ten years ago?”

I nod, having a vague memory of something like that.

“Half a dozen people were killed... roasted alive. Others escaped with major injuries.... a few with minor injuries...” He clears his throat. “It was an electrical fire. Started with a short circuit in the motor that opened and closed the curtains. I was sitting in the third row, and thinking back now, I realize I could smell the plastic insulation melt from the wires before there were flames. I guess that guy in the front row could smell it too... he gets up... stands on his chair... shouts FIRE! FIRE! … This being DC, there are cops everywhere. They rush the guy.”

“They thought he was making it up,” I say, “the classic shouting fire in a crowded theater. But there really was a fire?”

Voltman nods.

“Just after the cops usher him out, there's an explosion... a horrible POW! Then a roar... like a freight train passing... a huge ball of fire engulfing the audience. I could feel my face melt like the wire insulation. When I brought my hands to my cheeks, the skin stuck. The horror of realizing what happened was worse than the pain... I didn't have time to feel pain... I was blown back by a ball of fire... I landed somewhere... on top of some wires... high voltage... super high... I could feel the electricity course through my body... but with the pain, I felt a power... like I was absorbing the electricity rather than being destroyed by it... After that, I blacked out and woke up in the hospital.”

“I'm beginning to get it,” I say. “The fire destroyed your face, so you have to wear that mask. The electricity gave you superpowers... electricity... Volt... I get it.”

“Sort of,” says Voltman. “I didn't become Voltman right away... but as I spent time in the hospital, I saw that I wasn't responding to things the way other people were. The other theater-survivors were screaming in pain... I couldn't sleep at night, but I felt nothing. Doctors pressed my body here and there... I felt nothing. I could see the faces of the doctors and nurses when they came to check on me. They tried to hide their horror in a smile, but I could see the revulsion in their eyes... I felt nothing.” He pauses.

“Okay,” I ask, “how long before they let you out?”

“They never let me out,” he says. “I just left. In the middle of the night... I took off... I can't tell you where I spent the next 36 months. Let's just say some sympathetic people protected me, trained me and educated me. I trained my body to use my new powers and to learn that, when I'm injured. I no longer feel physical pain.”

In his right hand, he picks up another brick from the street. He puts his left hand on a concrete step, brings the right hand over the left... about 2 feet above it... and drops the brick onto his hand. He doesn't even flinch.

“Nothing,” he says.

“During my stay,” he continues, “My hosts brought me stories about censorship by government, by economics... by mobs.... all fascinating. But what put the whole thing in focus was my encounter with the Supreme Court decision that said Free speech does not give you the right to shout fire in a crowded theater. That is just soooo wrong! You have to be allowed to shout FIRE! Sometimes there IS a fire... Then there's the quote from Voltaire....”

I start to speak. He anticipates.

“Attributed to Voltaire... the one we talked about before.”

“I spent three years...” he continues, “I can't tell you where... training, honing this terrific power... While training, I read: Voltaire, Nat Hentoff, Alexander Cockburn, Proudhon, stuff from the ACLU and NCAC... more... I was obsessed with free speech and how every group supports free speech for itself, but not for anyone who disagrees.” He rests his hand on my thigh. I involuntarily tighten my muscles.

“After those three years,” he says, “I became VOLTMAN, super-hero of free speech.”

“Can you fly?” I ask him.

“Did anyone ever tell you you were an asshole?” he asks.

“My middle name,” I answer.

He slides his hand between my legs.

“We'll see,” he says.

“Is this your first gig?” I ask. “I mean have you only been in New York to support Milo?”

“I started at a shopping mall in Florida. Freedom of speech, of course, includes religious freedom to express your beliefs. The Boca Raton shopping mall, in response to a complaint about a Christmas nativity scene, allowed a Satanist group to... er... erect a pentagram. Wowie... the locals didn't like that one...”

He seems to drift off into memory... and his voice changes... more... I dunno... ethereal.

“Once the pentagram was up, the local good ole boys decided to knock it down. I know, ya figure Florida... it's gonna be a buncha old Jews with walkers.... but it wasn't. It was a buncha skinheads... flight jackets instead of black leather... and no kerchiefs... otherwise, they were just like these antifa guys I just fought here in New York. They came with crowbars... sledgehammers... they were gonna crush this thing... the symbol of Satan... and anyone supporting it.... I heard about the planned destruction...”

“Searchlight beaming into the sky with a big V on it?” I ask.

“You really are an asshole,” says Voltman.

I smile.

He pushes his hands up between my legs.

I cough.

“I was there half an hour before the thugs arrived,” he continues. “They must've confused my Voltman drag for something satanic. As soon as they saw me, the crowbars came out and I was dodging metal. Then... I cleaned the floor with them. Local security called a couple ambulances, and the pentagram stayed throughout Christmas.”

“Ever do anything big? I ask. “Like against the government?”

He nods.

“Last month I was in Africa,” he says. “Right after Trump issued his abortion gag order. Charities couldn't even use their own money to tell the locals about abortion. Well, I'm sure you read about “the mysterious distribution of abortion information” after the clients left the NGO offices... something that happened in the jungle.”

“You?” I ask.

He nods and smiles.

That's all the space I've got this month. Look for the manga as soon as I get an artist-- and a publisher. Don't forget, if you can draw... I WANT YOU!

-end-

ENDNOTES: [You can contact me by email at god@mykelboard.com. Through the post office: send those... er... private DVDs..or music or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to: Mykel Board, POB 137, New York, NY 10012-0003. If you like my writing, you can be notified when anything new is available by subscribing to the MYKEL'S READERS Yahoo group readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

-->Speaking of publishers Dept: Word is that a doctored YouTube video of Milo Yiannopoulos talking about his early sexual experiences... and how he actually ENJOYED them... caused Simon and Shuster to drop his book contract, after they had agreed to publish it.

Imagine if someone doctored a Planned Parenthood YouTube to make it seem that that the organization was encouraging abortion to harvest body parts. The left would have a fit over that. Whoops... that happened.

Then, the “libertarian” CPAC, disinvited the mighty Milo to speak at their convention. I guess, FREE SPEECH^® only goes as far as the next YouTube Video.

Imagine if... whoops, that happened too.
As Voltaire said, A PLAGUE ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES. Whoops, that was Shakespeare.

-->Oh No, Can't Say Anything Nice! dept: Censorship news reports that Scholastic publishers has withdrawn a title A Birthday Cake for George Washington. Why? There is a page where the slaves make a birthday cake for George Washington because they like him.

The censors complained that the book might present an image that slavery was nice. Any touch of humanity for slave owners is a BIG taboo. Take a look

--> Keeping the Pressure on Dept: I want to thank reader George Metesky for suggesting a continuing Bring Back Mykel effort directed at Maximum Rock'n'Roll for censoring me.

As their revolving editrixes move on to commercial ventures, each blames her predecessors for my demise... as if they had no control over the business... and couldn't simply invite me back.

Send your comments to mrr@maximumrocknroll.com (or post on their facebook page) with the subject line: BRING BACK MYKEL! Let me know how they answer.

See you in hell.

-end-

NOTE: If you're interested in my travel blog, you can read it at mykelsdiary.blogspot.com. (It hasn't been updated in awhile, but you might enjoy the history.)

Trannies & Trumpers Mykel's Post MRR Column no 42

Mykel's

Post MRR Column no 42

Trannies and Trumpers

by Mykel Board

PISSY (& SHITTY) SECTION: I rarely use the ladies'... either at work or in a public place. Usually there's a line... I figure if someone wants to piss in the W, they've got to wait for a stall. In the M, the guys who can use the urinals, do. Stall pissers like me, have more chances.

Tonight is different. I rarely go out on Saturday night... too many tourists... but tonight I'm meeting my pals, Toshi, Pedro and Sven at Harp... the local Irish seafood place... (almost) all boys.

My bladder's three Harp-pints full, I gotta go. There's a line at the Men's... from the door to the bar... no amount of knee holding is gonna take care of me. The Ladies' seems empty...not a surprise since the drinkers here are mostly guys. Why not? I'll be in a stall. Who's gonna know?

A couple quick over-the-shoulder glances and I slip inside. It's empty. Whew! I run for a stall and close the door. There's a crack between the stall door and the frame. From my seated position, I have a full view of the front/sink part of the room. I have other fish to fry.

I sit down (my aim is worsening with age) and let go. While the relief comes over my body, I hear the door open. Footsteps... more than one pair.

I see two women enter, both twenty something... one white, a bit sorority-looking with melon bazooms under a striped black and white sweater... no ass to speak of under her jeans. The other... black, with one of those asses that Christians want to outlaw. She's wearing a CUNY sweatshirt, and pants so tight I feel my good part rise on the toilet.

“Let's go!” whispers one of the girls... I can't tell which from my vantage point. I watch... keeping deadly silent in the stall.

Then it starts. The white girl crosses her arms over her chest grabbing the bottom of her sweater. Uncrossing her arms, she pulls the wool over her head.

Double melons... real.. not the never-limp hard shell of implants... but the soft natural fall of Godly endowment. The kind of tits you can slide a sheet of paper beneath... and it'll stay.

Then the black girl... I dunno... there's something about dark skin.. all the way from Mexican-Lite... to African Noir. It's better up close, of course. In my little stall I'm too far away to see those tiny goose bumps... each one like a raised dot on an expensive condom. I imagine it and throb.

The two embrace. I hear the slurp of their kiss. It's like watching a porno movie on girls4girls.com. Then... more-so. Another woman enters. She's a bit older than the embracing ones... Late forties, I'd guess.... with a matronly haircut and the kind of body that shops at Walmart.

In a flash she's naked. They move to one of those three-way kissing triangles... All touch tongues. Then the housewifey one drops to her knees and pushes he face between the black girl's legs.

One by one, more people enter. They strip off and join the orgy.

---

Of course, none of that happened. I haven't been in a Ladies' Room in a dozen years. My vaginated friends assure me that nothing has changed. You go in, take care of business, wash your hands... maybe adjust your make-up... and leave... not very sexy.

Then what the fuck? What are the women and (mostly?) men worried about when they demand a bathroom closed to transsexuals... or anybody, for that matter? Unless my first fantasy accurately reflects what goes on, why should they care? What do they have to protect from MEN or women in men's bodies? Or anything? There's a stall. You piss privately... occasionally shit... and that's it. Otherwise NOTHING HAPPENS. You're more likely to be raped in an elevator than in a bathroom.

Do you care who sees you wash your hands? I don't even understand why there are separate Men's and Ladies' Rooms in the first place... unless they need to know where to put the urinals.

Even at the urinal, you're facing the other way, Goddamn it! What possible difference does it make?

SMILEY FACE SECTION: After the last election, my fuck-buddy Barack Obie said, “The sky won't fall. The sun will still rise tomorrow.” But you wouldn't know it from the panic

Trump coughs... he's intentionally spreading TB to help the drug industry. He scratches his earlobe... He's receiving secret messages from Putin about who he should appoint Secretary of State.

It's called The Halo Effect... though for Trump I'd call it The Horns and Tail Effect. It's a psychological principle that says if you like someone... or their ideas... everything they do will be good. Even if you only like their looks, everything will seem better about them.

Among liberals, the halo effect worked for Obama. He was responsible for thousands of foreign drone deaths. He bombed a Doctors Without Borders hospital. Killed a US hostage. Deported more people than any two presidents before him. Tried to push through the awful TPP, letting a business council decide American environmental and labor laws. He jailed more whistle-blowers than all previous presidents combined. If Donald Trump had done all that, there'd be marches in the street. There are marches in the street anyway.

But Obama has a nice face. He's a colored guy. He has a soft, intellectual voice. That's a huge Halo.

Donald Trump is ugly... as belligerent as a punk rocker... and as abrasive. No matter what he does, it's EVIL. Negotiate lower drug prices using the buying power of the government? It's a trick. Convince companies to stay in America? It's just propaganda. They were gonna stay anyway. No matter what he does... it's EVIL... because... well... because he's Donald Trump.

So Donny T's taking the limo home from a hard day supervising wall-building.

“Driver,” he says, “take me to the colored neighborhood. I wanna see how those people live.”

“We don't say colored anymore,” says the driver, turning the limo South.

“I'm the fuckin' President,” says Donald. “I can say what I like.”

The exchange ends there. In front of them is an old Washington wooden house, with a front porch... on fire. Big leaping flames... hotter than a tranny's thigh... right there in front of them.

“Stop the car, NOW!” shouts the president. BANG! He's out of there, racing into the burning building.

“What the fuck?” asks the driver frantically searching for a place to park. He's supposed to protect this guy, but the heat from the fire is too much for him to enter into the building.

He calls a special number and before long sirens ring in the distance. In what seems like hours, but is probably only a few minutes, a figure appears at the door of the burning house. It's the President. In each of his arms is a small child, faces covered with ash. The president's blond locks are singed. His red face is even redder. Blisters appear.

The next day Facebook liberals tell each other that Trump's own staff set the fire so he could profit from the publicity.

Trump can't win. There's nothing he can say or do that's right for those in the grip of the Horns and Tail Effect. After the fire, they hate the president even more because “he'd risk the lives of children, just to get some good press.”

Anyone who says, the guy might have an ounce of compassion is suddenly “a Donald Trump supporter.”

BACK TO REALITY: You can't even joke about Trump... unless the jokes you're telling are anti-Trump. Make fun of Obama, criticize Clinton... and you're a Nazi. The Halo effect makes every other view a danger... They warn: Don't take the risk!

“Listen,” they'll tell you, “Trump's an unqualified bad guy... stupid... insane!”

It's the Horns and Tail effect. You want to stay safe. (I already was unfriended^® by a long-term real-life friend because I said that Donald Trump had not yet started a nuclear war. Really!) So you agree, laugh at the guy. Fifteen years ago he made a joke about pussy grabbing... grab that line! Run with it.

Look at the TV liberals: Bill Maher, Stephen Colbert. What is their humor? Anti-Trump jokes. In those circles, being anti-Trump is as safe as being anti-Hitler.

Sorry buckaroos. As my condom supplier knows (I don't have one), I never play safe.

-end-

ENDNOTES: [You can contact me by email at god@mykelboard.com. Through the post office: send those... er... private DVDs..or music or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to: Mykel Board, POB 137, New York, NY 10012-0003. If you like my writing, you can be notified when anything new is available by subscribing to the MYKEL'S READERS Yahoo group readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

-->A Wet One Dept: Former Navy SEAL Carl Higbie told Fox News that torture isn't so bad.

"Well, I can tell you, NOT waterboarding didn't get us the information. So why not give it a shot."

Donny seems to agree, but that doesn't surprise me. I've heard he's a fan of watersporting anyway.

-->Girls vs God dept: During a basketball game between a heavily Jewish Boston-area public school, and a visiting all-boys Catholic school, the Jews taunted the Catholics by shouting, "Where are your girls?"

The Catholics shouted back, "You killed Jesus!"

-->Side effects dept: Tylenol, already marked because of a cyanide scandal last century, has since been shown to cause severe liver damage... and the latest report shows that the drug "dulls empathy." That means, if you take Tylenol, you're less likely to give a buck to that homeless guy sitting freezing on his cardboard box.

My question: Why hasn't there been a study about capitalism? I'm sure it will find an even strong correlation between it and lack of empathy. Take Ayn Rand.... please!

-->It had to happen dept: The city of Toronto had to cancel a public meeting on accessible housing for the disabled. Why? You guessed it. The building where the meeting was held was not accessible to the disabled.

-->Public Transportation Dept: Pastor Tim Jones of Resurrection Baptist Church in Kannapolis NC offered voters a ride to the polls in the last presidential election.

"The only stipulation is you vote against abortion, corruption, excessive gun control, Obamacare and career political criminals. Otherwise, you will have to take a cab! Our church is NOT ashamed to stand up and support Donald Trump!"

-->Xmas cheer dept: A man visiting Six Flags over Texas was asked to leave because he looked too much like Santa Claus.

WALB News reports that when parents saw this guy with a white beard and long hair,they asked him to pose with their kids. He did, and park officials kicked him out for... er... interacting with children.

Hmmm, we wouldn't want Santa interacting with children would we?

-->Show some respect dept: Indian police have arrested at least 20 people for not standing during the national anthem at a movie theater. Says a NY times article:

The arrests were the first known efforts by the police to enforce compliance with the Supreme Court ruling, which requires movie theaters to play the national anthem before each screening. Patrons, according to the ruling, are required to stand respectfully for the duration of the song unless they are physically unable.

The court said it was necessary that “the citizens of the country realize that they live in a nation and are duty bound to show respect to the national anthem.” The Constitution, it continued, “does not allow any different notion, or the perception of individual rights.”

Seems like football fans in the US also are not very big on "different notion of perception of individual rights," when players express THEIR disagreement by not standing during OUR national anthem.

--> Keeping the Pressure on Dept: I want to thank reader George Metesky for suggesting a continuing Bring Back Mykel effort directed at Maximum Rock'n'Roll for censoring me.

As their revolving editrixes move on to commercial ventures, each blames her predecessors for my demise... as if they had no control over the business... and couldn't simply invite me back.

Send your comments to mrr@maximumrocknroll.com (or post on their facebook page) with the subject line: BRING BACK MYKEL! Let me know how they answer.

See you in hell.

-end-

NOTE: If you're interested in my travel blog, you can read it at mykelsdiary.blogspot.com. (It hasn't been updated in awhile, but you might enjoy the history.)

Hate, a Crime? or Mykel Board's Post MRR Column no. 41

Mykel's

Post MRR Column no 41

Hate is a Crime?

You fucked him? Him? With a chest hairier than my head? Him with a belly? Him with that pimple on his nose... that puss-oozing pimple. You fucked HIM???

At each question mark I lift the knife out of the body now on its knees in front of me. Then, I plunge it into a different spot. The deep red splashes my arm, my chest, my face. I can't tell if the wetness dripping under my eyes is from blood or tears. I keep pressing. IN... OUT... IN... OUT... the knife fucking skin like my penis used to fuck flesh.

I LOVE you! I yell to the still-whimpering naked body. The screams now faded into barely sobs. Again and again the force of love guides my stabbing hand. The body stills.

I press my face into the now silent face on the couch in front of me. I LOVE YOU! I yell, as the knife cuts through the neck flesh choking the last sob... slicing around... deep and around...sticking hard on the vertebrae.

I LOVE YOU, I yell as I use the blade like a crowbar, separating... cutting... like removing a stubborn fishhead from my future dinner. Cradling that now-severed head in my arms, I kiss the lips... lapping the still warm blood... that puddles in a lipstick parody around the mouth.

Under the severed neck hangs the bloody tube that once connected that most perfect mouth to the stomach below. It now flaps and inflates and deflates like the end of a balloon farting out air.

I unzip... pull out my five inches of throbbing love... insert it into the blood-lubricated esophageal opening. Yes! Yes! This is love. I love you. You'll be with me forever, I tell that head. We can love each other and never have to be apart...

=======================

At the trial, they... of course... find me innocent. Temporary insanity... a crime of passion. Blinded by love. A quick visit to the looney bin, and I'm out on the street... rehabilitated.

Affection, Amusement, Anger, Annoyance, Anxiety, Agitation, Boredom, Calmness, Caring, Contempt, Contentment, Delight, Despair, Disappointment, Disgust, Doubt, Elation, Embarrassment, Empathy, Envy, Excitement, Fear, Friendliness, Frustration, Guilt, Happiness, Helplessness, Hope, Humility, Hurt, Interest, Irritation, Joy, Love, Pleasure, Pride, Relaxation, Relief, Sadness, Satisfaction, Serenity, Shame, Shock, Stress, Surprise, Tension, Trust, Worry

During Yom Kippur, we ask forgiveness from The Holy One^® for the past year's sins. We have a prayer that lists all the different emotions in which we sin. It's an alphabet of sinful feelings... a Hebrew alphabet... from Aleph through Tav. And those are only the BAD emotions.

There are dozens of human emotions. Maybe scores... maybe a gross. You've felt most of them, I bet. That's the nature of humanity. It isn't a crime, is it?

You bet your iron cross it's a crime. If it's the WRONG emotion you're feeling there, buckaroo. It's criminal. LOVE crimes we can forgive... HATE crimes are evil. Here's the law in New York:

When a person is convicted of a hate crime pursuant to this article and the specified offense is a misdemeanor or a class C, D or E felony, the hate crime shall be deemed to be one category higher than the specified offense the defendant committed, or one category higher than the offense level applicable to the defendant’s conviction for an attempt or conspiracy to commit a specified offense, whichever is
applicable.

That means, if you draw a swastika... six lines on a wall... graffiti... protest art since Roman times... You can go to jail for a year! Minor nothing! If you do it in hate, it becomes major something. You pay for what's in your mind... not for your action. As if being thrown in jail with cripplers and murderers is a cure for hate.

Where are the BOREDOM crimes? The INDIFFERENCE crimes? I type this in a bus between Boston and New York. The asshole in the seat in front of me is reclining right into my lap. I'm like a circus clown in a clowncar... crunched into an ever tinier space by this shithead who didn't even look behind him before he hit the release lever. INDIFFERENCE CRIME! OFF WITH HIS HEAD!

And it's not just me: More people are injured, crippled or killed from not-caring than from hating.

Earthquake in Haiti? Let 'em die. My best friend is suicidal? I don't give a fuck. Drones in Syria are making refugees who can't go anywhere? Who cares?

INDIFFERENCE CRIMES! A YEAR IN THE CLINK! I say.

And where are the PRIDE crimes? Wad you say 'bout my Nikes? Take that you fuck!

How 'bout the IRRITATION crimes?

Listen you shithead. I don't give a fuck if you just have to text your boyfriend to tell him you saw this cute little cabinet that would look soooo good under the bathroom sink. You're in my way. You're walking too slow. I push you off the sidewalk... into the street... you get hit by a Citibike going the wrong way. It's an IRRITATION crime! Off with MY head!

The worst crimes of emotion are LOVE crimes. Of all the crimes in the world... LOVE crimes are the most vicious, most destructive of crimes.

My severed-head opening paragraphs recreate a love crime. Motel floors are littered in love crimes. But the problem is bigger than that. In some countries (India), it's the duty of a man to kill his wife's lover. A duty? It should be a LOVE crime!

And as bad as love crimes is LOVE SPEECH. The little goo-goos and kuchi-kuchis that inevitably lead to violence. Free speech is one thing. But there are limits. LOVE SPEECH is that limit. Besides engendering disgust-- a completely justified emotion-- love speech is otherwise destructive.

Every puckered lip sound... every partner-hair-fix... every did I ever tell you how much... is a spike driven deep into the intestines of those around the speakers. Public displays of love make the lonely guy in the next seat... lonelier. They make widows and orphans tear. They make the short... the crippled... the aged... feel their afflictions more deeply.

LOVE SPEECH is not simple sticks and stones. LOVE SPEECH is hurtful. It drives people to suicide. How many souls throw themselves off bridges because of a careless I Love You overheard on a trip back from the cemetery? How much tension, how much jealousy, how many early deaths come from careless LOVE SPEECH? Too many to count, I bet.

Religious Christians tell us GOD LOVES US: Yeah right. Typhoons, volcanoes, earthquakes, tsunamis, drought, yeah, that's LOVE all right. For the religious, that's what love is. But even if it's not...

The criminality of love is bigger than a husband killing a paramour.

Patriotism is GIANT love. Probably the most disgusting example of love. How many people have been murdered for that one? We officially honor murderers for killing because THEY LOVE THEIR COUNTRY. (Whichever country that happens to be.) Their job is murder. They carry tools of murder. They train in techniques of murder. Why? They LOVE their country. Salute that flag now.

People commit the most heinous crimes... for love of country... or religion...or race... or “the people.” Love is the excuse for the worst atrocities in human history. Excuse? No, the REASON. And that reason should be a crime.

So stop with the HATE crimes, already. Prison can't break some one out of hate. Let's go to where the real evil is. Let's get on to the LOVE crimes. Prison can certainly break someone from that affliction.

-end-

ENDNOTES: [You can contact me by email at god@mykelboard.com. Through the post office: send those... er... private DVDs..or music or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to: Mykel Board, POB 137, New York, NY 10012-0003. If you like my writing, you can be notified when anything new is available by subscribing to the MYKEL'S READERS Yahoo group readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

-->Laws I Like Dept: According to the human rights group LandMark, Tanzania is one of only five countries to grant autonomy and access to resources to all its people. Why? Because they don't allow private land ownership outside urban areas. Sounds like Mongolia (used to be?) What a great idea! Of course, I'd extend that to the cities too. How can you OWN land? You didn't make it. It was there before you were, and will be there after. It belongs to everybody!

-->Creative Dentistry Dept: A Taiwanese artist/dentist, Kuang-Yi Ku was annoyed that his dentistry textbooks did not address the mouth's value as a sex organ. He created a special dental retainer including “bumps, cones, ribs and ripples” that promises to be more pleasing to a partner than your everyday teeth and saliva.

It's not clear whether the retainer hides your teeth as well as providing the extra hills and valleys. If it doesn't, you could still feel an incisor or two... definitely a LOVE CRIME.

-->Say it and BANG! it changes dept: Before I even have this posted, I see that the locals seem to realize the idiocy of “hate crimes.” So what's the new term? Bias Crime. As if bias were an even more evil emotion than HATE.

-->Just when you thought they couldn't get any sleazier Dept: Time-Warner has changed its name to Spectrum, but that hasn't changed their dishonesty quotient.

Remember how they used to advertise? PHONE, INTERNET, CABLE 89.90 a month* with the asterisk explanation hidden in tiny print *plus fees, taxes, service charges, postage, installation and equipment?

Now, it's SPECTRUM and they advertise PHONE, INTERNET, CABLE for $29.90 a month.

And the asterisk? *for EACH SERVICE... when bundled...

So you have to take ALL the services and it's $90 a month (plus taxes, fees, tips, equipment, extortion, etc.)

Now, tell me again how THE GOVERNMENT is dishonest, and should be run like a business?

--> Keeping the Pressure on Dept: I want to thank reader George Metesky for suggesting a continuing Bring Back Mykel effort directed at Maximum Rock'n'Roll for censoring me.

As their revolving editrixes move on to commercial ventures, each blames her predecessors for my demise... as if they had no control over the business... and couldn't simply invite me back.

Send your comments to mrr@maximumrocknroll.com (or post on their facebook page) with the subject line: BRING BACK MYKEL! Let me know how they answer.

See you in hell.

-end-

NOTE: If you're interested in my travel blog, you can read it at mykelsdiary.blogspot.com. (It hasn't been updated in awhile, but you might enjoy the history.)

If you want something closer to the ENDNOTES-- bitesize tidbits-- try: http://mykelsclippings.blogspot.com/