In Praise of Deportation or Mykel's Post MRR Column no 45

Mykel's

Post MRR Column no 45

In Praise of Deportation

by Mykel Board

[NOTE: My columns got switched. What should have been this month’s column (scheduled for the end of April for May reading) was released last month. This column should have been published at the end of March for April reading. Sorry for the mix-up.]

Ah April, whose showers bring May flowers. A month of renewal, where things resurrect. Jesus rises from the grave. Matzoh rises from the Seder plate. Saplings turn into little trees. Chocolate turns into little rabbits. It’s the beginning of the new.

But April is also the time of endings. The cold weather ends. Sunshine ends as the rain begins. The fiscal year ends as millions of Americans file their income tax forms. Besides ending, April also means leaving… Winter leaves us. Animals leave their homes of hibernation. Seems like half of the Netflix programs will be leaving in April. So leaving is a fitting topic. And that's what I want to talk about this month: DEPORTATION.

Let’s make this clear. I’m the grandson of illegal immigrants. I LOVE immigrants. When I hear about “an influx of new immigrants,” I think Oh yeah! More restaurants! I’m there. I love the sounds of new languages jammering helter-skelter in the streets… in the subways… ALL of my best friends are immigrants..

BUT!

And here’s the big BUT… I love big butts... immigration and deportation are not the same. I know, you think of them as a pair. In and out. Up and down. Immigration and deportation. The old coin that has two sides often flipped on immigration and deportation. You're wrong. They are not the same.

I used to be as against deportation as I was pro-immigration. My thoughts have changed. Here’s what happened.

FLASH TO MY BEDROOM: I sit naked in front of the computer. It's 5AM. My body-- as it often does-- has awakened me with one urge or another. Piss taken, it's time to relieve myself of that special morning stiffness. But wait! My eyes burn... itch... snot fills my sinuses... sneezes: One... two...three... four... in a row... like a chain punch in kung fu. Allergy... messing up my jerk off. I rub my eyes. I rub my nose. Whoa what's that? A hair... a tiny millimeter of a hair... on the outside of my nose. NOBODY has hair on the OUTSIDE of their nose... what the fuck is that?

I try to pluck it out with my fingers... pressing it between my thumbnail and the skin of my forefinger. .. I can't get it. I try again. Shit... it's still there... I don't believe this. I fetch the tweezers... lying next to the computer... used... until now... for removing paper jammed in the printer. I go to the bathroom and lean close to the mirror. There it is... right at the tip of my nose... a hair... no bigger than a bedbug.. growing from the outside of my nose... a whisker... completely in the wrong place.

I put the sharp edge of the tweezers under the offending hair. Carefully, I clamp down... I've got it! I give a tug. A delightful burst of pain... and the offending hair is removed... deported directly to the waste basket.

FLASH TO BOWERY ELECTRIC: Being neither a Kate Bush nor a Brian Eno fan, I’m at a Kate Bush/Brian Eno tribute band festival. Why isn’t important. What is important is to tell you about the layout of the place. In the back is a mezzanine with a bar and merch corner. If you stand at the front of the raised part, you have a good view of the bands… if nobody tall stands in front of you.

The lower section is a bit like CBGBs for the hardcore shows. No tables, just a big space in front of the stage. I (all five feet three inches of me) stand downstairs on top of the only bench… along one of the walls.

I can see fine… for the first few songs. Then this oaf… a giant… if I were standing on the floor I could bite his nipple without bending my knees… I wish I had the chance… This oaf, with a beer... probably a Bud Light… pushes his way through the crowd and stands right in front of the stage.

“Tall people in back!” I yell.

He pretends he doesn’t hear. What the fuck? I stand right behind him... breathe hard on his OBEY t-shirt... press the toes of my army boots against his heels.

He turns around... looks down at me.

“You want something little man?” he says.

“I want you to die... a painful-but-quick death,” I reply.

He smiles and turns back to the stage. Then it occurs to me. Why not deport him? Him and all tall people. Tall people use up natural resources. They take oxygen before it can reach the ground. They pollute the air with their carbon dioxide... global warming the rest of us... those of us who are closer to the earth. Get rid of 'em. Now.

Who cares when or how they came into the country? They're bullies and egotists... randomly using their height privilege... their sense of entitlement... their long reach to grab things off the shelves before the rest of us can get to them. Send 'em to Holland. There're plenty of tall people there. Maybe the Zulus will welcome them... they seem to be a height-friendly people. I don't care. Off with them, I say. America will be a better place if we get rid of tall people. Where to, is not important.

FLASH TO THE WHEELTAPPER BAR: It's in midtown... a faux Irish bar with real Irish waitresses. A quiet place... no TVs... a place where you can have a beer or three... unfettered. There's only a murmur of voices from the other tables. I sit with three friends, two Japanese and one Cuban-American. We talk sex and beer.

“I donno,” says Yoshi, one of the Japanese guys in our group. “Beer and sex don't always mix. One gets in the way of the other.”

“It's like I always say,” I say like always. “It's blowing your nose and wiping your ass with the same piece of toilet paper. There's nothing wrong with it... provided you do it in the right order.”

“Eeeeeehahahahah! Oooooh!” An inhuman scream comes from someplace to the left. I look over at a table on the other side of the bar.

“And then he asked me out? He's a fisherman and he asked me out?” she's talking at the top of her lungs. Screaming... a voice precisely tuned to the pitch of maximum irritation. There's one in every bar.... one girl with THAT VOICE... who can spoil the best night out. 

“I bet she's from Long Island,” says Richard, the Cuban American.

“That's geographyism!” I answer.

“I bet she's a Jap,” whispers Richard... then he looks at Yoshi. “Sorry,” he says, “a different kind of Jap.”

But race, birthplace, or age have nothing to do with it. It is some sort of biology... or maybe an accident of having a lot of brothers. But if you're honest you know it. Every bar, every night, has a girl with that voice. What is to be done?

Of course, DEPORTATION!!! Get rid of them. Send in D.I.C.E. (Department In Charge of Expulsion). Let 'em raid every bar. Find THE GIRL WITH THAT VOICE in each one. Out! Dump 'em on Mexico or Canada... anywhere... but get 'em out NOW!! Pack 'em up and ship 'em out!

FLASH TO DELAWARE: In an effort to be more ecumenical, the Delaware state legislature allows a mosque member to give the invocation. The guy removes all Allah references from the text before he gives it. Still, one of the legislators walks out.

“How could I stay?” he asks. “The Quran tells people they should kill Americans.”

The Quran was written in 600 AD... about a millennium before there was an America. Only a total moron could say that a book he's never read (authorized Qurans are only printed in Arabic), predicted the existence of a country a century later... and then told the readers to kill the people of that country. Of course, the legislator is white.

Then I start thinking about white people. Ya know, most people don't like to admit their racism, but if you look at history, you gotta see it. Who dropped the atom bomb? White people! Who built concentration camps? White people! Who made selfishness into a philosophy (called Capitalism)? White people! Who runs Chase, Citibank, and Pfizer Pharmaceuticals? White people! Who are the presidents of Starbucks, Spirit Airlines, and Walmart? White people! White people! White people! If there is a race with NO redeeming qualities... it's WHITE PEOPLE.

America must have been a great place to live (under a different name)... before there were white people. I'm sure the Indians had their skirmishes, but there was nothing to compare to the massive trail of tears... or the Civil War... or WWI or WWII.... Yeah, I know the Japanese were involved... but it was mainly a war of WHITE PEOPLE.

The answer? DEPORTATION! Get rid of them. I don't know who's anxious for an influx of savage white dolts, but there must be someplace that will take them. Maybe England... they seem to be begging for white people. Why not give them what they ask for?

Who else? Jocks! People who stand on the walk side of the escalator! Rude clerks at fast food places! Train station cellphone talkers! The list goes on. Get them out! Deport them like an errant nose hair!

Ah, what a great place this will be when deportation is finally able to work its magic. What a beautiful place, when there's only me.

-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 joining the MYKEL'S READERS Yahoo group readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

-->Gender inequality Dept: The U.K. is trying its first case of Female Genital Mutilation. You can read reports about it all over the internet. I wonder how long before a US doctor is tried for the same crime. Of course, MALE genital mutilation continues on a daily basis in the US. No one cares...Business as usual... of course.

-->Gender inequality pt. 2 Dept: Anti-fascist^® attacks on peaceful protestors or speech-makers continue. In Australia, a politician was punched in the face on national TV because anti-fas disagreed with him. In Berkeley, during a protest which included attacks on wheelchair bound veterans and old people... A woman throwing bottles at “Nazis”(aka anybody she disagrees with)was punched by someone trying to stop her. Instant outrage? (Not at the bottle thrower, of course.) Why? He hit a woman!
Sounds like 1950s Christian morality... but if it fits, the anti-fas wear it. Sorry folks, but you gotta expect the other side will eventually fight back. That eventually is now.

--> Take that and shove it dept: The Daily Dot reports that an expensive “personal vibrator” is equipped with an internet camera so that the vibratees can record and watch the action on their personal devices. Of course, hackers found the device easily hackable, and now, somewhere, there is a site for the rest of us to watch. Oh, the default password for the vibrator is 88888888. Though I don't know why you'd need that.

-->Keeping the pressure on: I want to thank reader George Metesky for suggesting a Bring Back Mykel concerted effort directed at Maximum Rock'n'Roll. He forwarded me an answer to a letter MRR printed where the editors excuse my firing not as censorship for content, but because I “refuse to answer letters in the letters section.”

That's a lie.

In any case, please send comments to mrr@maximumrocknroll.com with the subject line: BRING BACK MYKEL. Let me know how they answer.

MRR also has a facebook page, (as does as Mariam Bastida, the girl who fired me). You might want to let them know how you feel.

-end-

If you're interested in my travel writing (not updated recently) check out http://mykelsdiary.blogspot.com/

You can read some of my classics as far back as the 70s at: http://mykelsoldies.blogspot.com/

I also have some random postings including several on how rich people spend their money. Those are at: http:/mykelsclippings.blogspot.com

See you in hell!

 

Gaydar or Mykel's Post MRR Column no 44

Mykel's

Post MRR Column no 44

Gaydar

I'm happier than an Anti-fascist^® at a book burning. I walk in the room and there she is. A foot taller than me... skin the color of a Hersey bar... tight black jeans... ripped at the knees... a natural rip... a Ramones rip...not a hoity toidy fashion rip. Tits not large, but perky... uplifting... like a gospel tune... a haircut somewhere between Morrissey and Grace Jones... an ass that'd make any whitegirl scream with envy... and yes... really... she's wearing a GG Allin t-shirt... I... er... shit you not. My four and a half inches of throbbing macaroni sprouts like a spring rose.

Mykel, you're mixing your metaphors... spring roses don't sprout.

Fuck you.

I'm not a shy person.. usually. I can even talk to a pretty girl at the bar. Not THE PRETTIEST, of course... the second prettiest, maybe... but still... I can do it. Now, here she is... in all her glory... standing by herself... surveying the crowd... just waiting for some bald little old Jew to come up to her and take her home.

I look at the ceiling... mosey toward her... controlling my eyes... trying to fill myself with a sense of nonchalance... project it. I edge closer.

She's by herself at the side of the stage.. one of those young punkbands on it... playing covers... Wow! NOFX! The song: Don't Call Me White ...She's singing along.. That's it... my entry line.

“I bet no one ever called you white,” I tell her.

She stops singing along... glares at me. I feel my face redden.

Mykel, stop this now! She's a dyke. You'd have more chance with Milo Yiannopoulos than with her.

How do you know she's a dyke?

You can just tell.... It's obvious... can't you see it?

I don't get it! It's like I'm deaf or something... or lacking a sense of smell... something's missing in my biology. What's the key? How do you know a dyke when you see one? I've barked up so many wrong trees I can't even piss on 'em!

You mixed your metaphors, Mykel.

Fuck you... but I mean it. How do y know?

It's the shoulders, Mykel. You can tell by the shoulders. When het girls walk, they sway their hips... right up, left up, right up, left up. It's like watching a double basketball bounce. Lesbos don't do hips. They do shoulders. They walk with their shoulders. First the right one forward... then the left one.. like they're squeezing through a crowd on the subway.

What happens if they're just sitting down... or standing and singing with a drink in their hand. How can you tell then?

Back to square one.

FLASH TO The Peculier Pub... my favorite bar in New York: I've been stiffed again... my usual crew of fuck offs and no shows... fucked off and didn't show.

I sit alone at one of those booths along the wall in the back. I'm nursing a HE'BREW, thinking about No FX... and that girl. In the next booth... the one I'm facing... a young man sits by himself. Late 20s, he's just about the only beardless person in the bar... except for the girls. He drinks some dark beer out of a mug. Keeping the mug in his left hand, he turns the pages of a book on the table in front of him. He's got deep-set eyes, lips like on a Rolling Stones record... and cheeks... ahhh those cheeks... he couldn't grow a beard if he wanted to.

His long neck fades into his t-shirt... where it meets the collar bones... THOSE kind of collar bones, with hollows in the right places... on either side of neck. Under that t-shirt is a chest without muscles... without flab... just... I don't know... I can only imagine... I do imagine.

I look at him... trying to use the power of my projecting mind to get him to pull his eyes up from the book... to look at me... flash me a smile... move his hand in a come over and sit at my table gesture. My brain feels like it's going to pop out of my head with the mental push of Mesmer I'm forcing on this guy.

Mykel, stop this now! He's straight. You'd have more chance with Ivanka Trump than with him.

How do you know he's straight?

You can just tell.... It's obvious... can't you see it?

No, I cannot fuckin' see it! I need a homometer.... a perfect homometer.

My homo friends call it Gaydar... a secret signal that tells you the gender preference of someone... just by looking. It's something I never understood... and something I certainly don't have.

“It's in the ears, Mykel,” explains Bradley... a homo pal of mine who I know is homo only from the fact that I've pushed my fluorescent bulb into his personal love socket. “Look ata guys' ears. If they're hairy, he's straight. Gay guys never have hairy ears. They take care of that stuff.”

“That's all?” I ask. “But what about Orientals. They never have hairy ears.”

Bradley is stumped.

So it's back to square one. 

Ilsa with my tape on her back
and an additional pair of panties
put on after leaving the cake

It's my 60th birthday party... Since my life is a series of adventures following my dreams... There will be a girl coming out of a cake tonight. It's a huge cake... constructed by a master bakestress...  hollowed out... filled by ILSA! (name changed to protect her recent family) wearing a red wig and fake pearl bikini... a 20+ barely legal girl with tattoos, brains, ass and tits... oh yeah!

And now... the cake opens... and BANG!! Out pops ILSA... scraping slightly on the side of the constructed cake. There she is... and whoa... the string on her bikini breaks... look what's coming out... a flash of nip... oh yeah!

Ever the chivalrous one, I rush in with the packing tape, and paste the top back on... taping the broken clasp directly to her back.

FLASH TO LATER THAT NIGHT: Ilsa and I sit at the bar.

“You're lucky, Mykel,” she says.

“Don't I know it?” I say. “Wanna fuck?”

She laughs, shaking her head.

She says. “I started to say you're lucky because I almost didn't make it today.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Last night,” she says, “remember that girl I told you about. The one who introduced me to The Brazilian Wax...”

“I remember,” I lie. “Best name for a punk band in a long time.”

She laughs, spitting her beer up through her nose. It's so cute... almost makes me cum.

Ilsa shakes her head and takes a breath so she can talk again.

“No,” she says finally, “I mean a REAL Brazilian wax. You know, right down here.”  She touches me on the good part.

“You mean you and her....” I start.

She nods.

“How'd you know?” I ask. “I mean how can you tell... I mean you know... if she's....”

“You mean Gaydar?” she asks.

I nod.

“I don't have Gaydar,” she says. “I have LAYdar.”

I wrinkle my forehead... even more.

“I can't tell if someone is gay, straight or in-between,” she explains. “But I can tell if they want ME! That's all I need.”

“How does LAYdar work?” I ask her. “You need to work to get people to want you. You have to know who it's worth pursuing, so you don't waste your time.”

Then I look at her again... up and down... Oh yeah!

“Ok,” I say. “I can see how it works for SOME people.”

She laughs again.

I figure it must be related to my inability to believe in gay or straight in the first place.... my insistence we all have some of every kind of sexuality and an infinity of opportunities. We can consciously or unconsciously suppress one or the other urge.  (In the case of rape... sometimes it's probably a good idea that we do it.) But there are no GAY or STRAIGHT people. There are only people who do or don't do stuff.

Starting from that, it's as hard for me to identify gay or straight people as it is for every-day adults to identify THE BOOGYMAN. Or for atheists to identify GOD... or for Anti-fascists® to identify FREE SPEECH... or for capitalists to identify COMPASSION. How can you recognize something if you don't believe in it in the first place?

Wait! I've got it! LAYdar is the clue. Hairy ears or not! The ultimate way to determine a straight guy is.... IF I LIKE HIM. If I want to plug his fudge tunnel... wet his whistle... teabag him in the mensroom... if I find him attractive in any way... HE'S STRAIGHT.

Shakey shoulders or bouncing buttocks... IF I LIKE HER... If I want to dip my noodle in her soy sauce... slip my tongue into her taco bell... nestle my nuggets between her lower limbs... SHE'S  A DYKE.

What is the perfect homometer? I am the perfect homometer! 100% accuracy. Money-back guarantee. I got it.... Now, what do I do with it?


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]

-->Can't lose business proposition dept:MYKEL BOARD'S GET RICH QUICK PLAN: (I'm looking for investors)

The problem:
1. You call the bank to check on a strange charge, or get some information. A recorded voice asks you to enter account numbers, social security numbers, zipcode, department directions, more... You do. Then you hear "your call is important to us. Due to heavy call volume, wait times are longer than usual." Then music for 20 minutes. Then: a hang-up.
2. You call the IRS to ask where you can get some forms, or if this or that is tax deductible. A recorded voice asks you to enter account numbers, social security numbers, zipcode, department directions, more... You do. Then you hear "your call is important to us. Due to heavy call volume, wait times are longer than usual." Then music for 20 minutes. Then: a hang-up.
3. You call Time-Warner aka Spectrum to complain about service or schedule a service call. A recorded voice asks you to enter account numbers, social security numbers, zipcode, department directions, more... You do. Then you hear "your call is important to us. Due to heavy call volume, wait times are longer than usual." Then music for 20 minutes. Then: a hang-up.

THE SOLUTION:
One number, let's say 1-(800) EVR-YTNG...  for everything... banks, the government, tech-support, insurance, everything.
    Just dial that number and a recorded voice asks you to enter account numbers, social security numbers, zipcode, department directions, more... You do. Then you hear "your call is important to us. Due to heavy call volume, wait times are longer than usual." Then music for 20 minutes. Then: a hang-up.
NO NEED TO CALL ANY OTHER NUMBERS. JUST A SINGLE NUMBER FOR THE SAME SERVICE YOU GET ANYWHERE ELSE!!
Waddaya think?

-->Mandatory Politics dept: So the Republicans are taking a page from the Democrats' playbook. The Pubs can't pass their Health Destruction Bill, because the ounce-of-compassion people in the party think it's too hard on poor people and the Tea Partiers think it doesn't give enough to the rich. So it fails.(Let's hope.)
    Sounds like Obamacare, where the right didn't like it because it was Socialist, and the left didn't like it because it wasn't Socialist enough. But that one didn't fail.(Too bad?)

-->Same troubles dept: I want to assure Donald Trump that he's not the only one with wiretap problems. The FBI has been wiretapping my phone for years. Not only do they listen in to my phone and record what goes on... they they play it back to me:
    Your call is important to us. Due to heavy call volume, wait times are longer than usual.
    Just awful.

-->Speaking of bisexuals dept: My pal Tony sent me an article about a British Bisexual Student Union that has voted to change the name... from Bisexual to Bi+. The latter, they say, “is more inclusive” and would include people only attracted to a gender, not actively fucking that gender.
    I say, you want inclusion? Change the name to EITWWW (Everybody in the Whole Wide World). I mean, what the fuck? Bisexual already includes everyone. Check out your window. At any given time... even during Santa Con... MOST people are actively fucking NO ONE! Bisexual is the human condition... not who you're shtupping at any particular moment.

--> 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.)

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.)