Mykel's Column for MRR 280

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board

     I sit inside a park in Green Bay Wisconsin. In a field to my right are several guys with red t-shirts, and several others with white. A bat, and a fat white ball… softball! Thud. Second pitch. Fly out. Next batter also flies out… deep to center.
     Ahead of me some really little kids play a kind of kickball. The kids wear shorts, and knee socks. They may all be girls, I can’t tell from this distance. If I get closer and stare, someone will call the cops.
     Shit presses in my large intestine. It’s travel shit. My innards always act strangely while away from home. Not the runs. Just the need-- four or five times a day-- to evacuate long thin brown tubes, occasionally perfectly straight, but more often fragile, broken, or spiraling.
     My computer battery will only last a couple hours in the park. I’ve brought a charger that works through the rental car cigarette lighter. With gas at $3.00 a gallon, I should feel reluctant driving around charging the computer, but I love doing it. Driving aimlessly. Listening to a comic detective novel on CD. Then returning to the park to write. I want to write backwards. Tell my story from the most recent to the beginning. Like remembering a dream.
     I ate lunch/dinner in a local bar. Fried perch. The waitress collects from me as soon as she brings the food. No bill at the end. Just put down the food, collect. I wonder if all the customers have to pay when served. Or is it just me? Maybe I don’t have an honest face. I’m on a Midwest booktour. Chicago and Wisconsin. 9 shows 10 days. Punkrock.
     I arrive in Green Bay from the Wisconsin Peninsula, aka Door County. I’ve left the house of Marge Grutzmacher who handed me a check for $83 for 5 of each book. She owns a bookstore in Sister Bay. After a year, she might sell all five of the Mongolia book. But there’s a hard-on-in-a-lesbo-bars’ chance of her selling even one of my books of columns, much less the five she bought. This is tourist-town Wisconsin. People come here to hunt, fish, boat. They’ll buy The DaVinci Code, not a book where someone gets her vagina stitched shut with boot laces.
     Did she buy my books out of the kindness of her heart? Yes! I’ve known her for 35 years and haven’t seen her for the last 30. In fact, I don’t remember meeting her at all. Though, when I see her this time, she immediately looks familiar.
     She was the wife of Hal Grutzmacher, Dean of Students at Beloit College, my undergraduate alma matter. Hal was a dean I had constant run-ins with. A dean in a place where I was the badguy. As often happens, my high-positioned enemies become friends when the power relation dissolves. I have a problem with authority.
     The kids are leaving now… en masse. They walk by me, oblivious, not curious about what I’m typing, or doing at all.. One little girl says hi to me, then quickens her pace as she passes. I don’t have an honest face.
     One year Hal suddenly disappeared from Beloit. I never got the whole scoop. Some say it was an alcohol-related incident. There are other rumors I neither can nor care to remember. Once a year, we kept in touch. His Xmas cards. My New Year cards.
Has it started to rain again?
     When I next heard… maybe around 1980, Hal and Marge had moved north to Ephraim, Wisconsin. They opened a bookstore, Pastime Books, and settled into a new, non-academic life. A few years ago, I heard that Hal died. It didn’t stop the cards, however. Marge and I have kept in contact. It’s been a long time.
     When I set out to book this tour, Marge offered me a reading at Passtime, in its new home in Sister Bay. A couple of weeks before the scheduled read, I was apologetically disinvited.
     “It’s a bad weekend, Mykel,” e-mailed Marge. “Memorial Day. We just don’t get customers. But you should come anyway. It’d be nice to see you.”
Come I did. Marge bought 10 books from me. “For the store.” They’re gonna sit for a long time. It was a kind of charity.
Whoops, the trouble with writing backwards is that time passes forwards. Before you can get back to it, you’ve got more to write. I now sit at O’Hare  airport, facing the last stage of this trip. The plane should take off in 7 minutes, but it’s not even in the airport yet. They project an hour and a half delay. Who knows what it’ll end up?
I sit far from the gate. The only noise is the chattering of some black-clothed Muslim woman… cellphone chattering. In my checked bags is a full bottle of Everclear, wedged carefully among my clothes. They won’t allow it in carry-on baggage. It could be an instrument of terrorism. The stuff’s illegal in New York, and I feel like a smuggler. I’ve got a 6 pack of Mickey’s Widemouth in my backpack. Plus multiply wrapped Wisconsin Cheese that is melting in the heat.
I’m really tired. I slept 4 hours last night,  after having slept a glorious 9 hours the day before that, after having  slept only 3 hours the day before.
I got a ride to the airport today from Lew Brickhate, who brought along his mother. Sid Yiddish, my poet-throat-singing host in Chicago, advised me not to get her riled up. She’s a rabid Republican, he told me. She gets upset easily. Turns out we get along well. We’re both rabid.
It’s 7:30. There’s an announcement. Passengers from flight 6465 scheduled to leave at 12:30 can now board. Passengers for my flight scheduled for 3PM, can also board this one… provided we haven’t checked bags. I’ve checked 2. One with my Everclear.  I wait.  A kid among the Muslims begins crying. I think back to Appleton Wisconsin, Home of Joseph McCarthy.
Rainbow Books’ partner, Alan Ruff, tells me that The Fugs used to come to Appleton every year on McCarthy’s birthday-- just to piss on his grave. I don’t visit the grave… no time.
I expect to be Christianed to death there. You know: those stupid little Jesus fish on the back of car, a ton of What Would Jesus Do? signs stuck into manicured front lawns. It’s not what I expect.
My reading is at a house party. A basement show, between two bands. The first band has two extremely attractive musicians, one of each gender. I don’t remember their name. The other, called Chinese Telephones, just rocks. I set my books up in the kitchen.
“We weren’t going to play this show,” the Chinese Telephone’s singer tells me. “Then we heard that you were gonna be here, so we changed our minds.”
Yeah! Stroke me! You’ll get an add on MySpace.
As usual, basement punkshows turn out to be the highpoints. I sell half a dozen books. Get plastered.
Hangin’ out at the showhouse, after the show, a long-haired guy, about 15, sits on the couch with us adults. “Come on, let’s put on some music!” he says, walking over to the record collection in the living room. I hear his voice.
“How ‘bout Damaged?” he asks.
“Yowsah!” I say. “That’s one of the ten best records ever made.”
The guy puts on the record and starts to sing along. To the whole thing. He not only knows the words, but all the TV shows in TV Party. He wasn’t even born when that record came out. Ten punk points, kid. You know your history.
Later, I sleep on the couch of a punkhouse where one of the guys is a big lug. He could have been a football player, but is soft, funny and smart instead. He spends the evening cooking pasta and complaining about not being able to get laid.
“If you were hard, stupid and a football player, it would be easy,” I tell him. “This is Wisconsin.”
In the punkhouse, a pretty Oriental girl plays with the cat and kittens. I chuck chuck koochie koo too—but it is other feline-related activities that occupy my mind. Eventually, the girl goes home, leaving me to the couch and my own ministrations.
Except for the lack of poontang, Appleton is the best show of the trip. The biggest crowd. The most merch. The coolest people. After Appleton is Sister Bay and Marge Grutzmacher. After that it’s Green Bay, home of The Packers (off-season) and Norb (also off-season—away camping.)
The show in Green Bay starts with a 50th birthday party. The bass player in BLITZKREIG ROK, a Ramones cover band, is just passing into AARP eligibility. His son plays guitar in the band… and is responsible for most of the dozen or so people at the bar tonight.
It’s an old scummy bar, in the best sense of the word. It’s a place for drunks, not book readers—but it’s friendly enough. At least the bar is friendly.  I guess there’s been trouble, though. A crotchety neighbor has posted a notice on the door leading to the building next to the bar. Actually, he has posted several notices:
MEMBER OF POLICE WATCH. 0 TOLERANCE. I CALL POLICE. says one of them.
TUESDAY, MAY 30. WHO WILL GET BEATEN UP OR ROBBED HERE TONIGHT? says another.
A third lists offences from previous months:
JANUARY 10, 2006:  SMOKING DOPE IN FRONT OF TAVERN
JANUARY 26, 2006;   DRUG SALES ACROSS FROM TAVERN
MARCH 10, 2006: FIGHT ON STREET ACROSS FROM TAVERN
MAY 16, 2006, WOMAN SCREAMING AND CRYING IN FRONT OF TAVERN
MAY 17, 2006: DRUNK WOMAN TRIED TO KICK IN MY DOOR
It could be a novel.
The bartender is also the bar owner and booker. Rev Norb said he was well-meaning, but “an airhead.”
I’m not exactly sure if air is the chemical I’d use to describe his condition. About 5’ 5”, slightly plump, in his mid-40s, he’s got long stringy hair and wears a generic band t-shirt. He works at being accommodating. He likes to talk.
“Oh, you’re the guy,” he says to me when I ask him what time we’re going to start. “I like having these old punks around. Guys still doing what they want to do after all this time. I mean like I try. But I’m sort of married. Not exactly married, but like hooked up. Taking care of my girlfriend’s kid. That means like I’m a good person right? I can’t live like I used to. No punkhouse, but I try, right? I mean like I’m a good person, right?”
“Can I set up a table to sell my books?” I ask
“Sure, I’ll get one for you.” He pulls over a table and sets a chair behind it.
“Can I go on between bands, read a bit, then go on again?”
“Sure, I’ll ask the soundman to do a check for you,” he says.
As a matter of fact, he’s always saying. He never stops. Talks about music, his girlfriend, his girlfriend’s 20 year old son that he takes care of, the business, how hard life is, how he doesn’t get out so much anymore. And more, and more.
Besides me and BLITZKRIEG ROK, there’s a band from Boston called THE COFFIN LIDS. They’re a bunch of late 30-something rockers, tattooed, rockabilly-ish looking, friendlier than the neighbor’s Saint Bernard. They set up their t-shirts and CDs next to my books. Before the night is over, they sell out of t-shirts. I sell one book. To THE FAN.
THE FAN is a large heavy-metal looking guy with a nasty-looking scab between his eyes. It’s as if someone punched him in the face and broke the top of his nose. It was a heavy spurt and only just now, scabbed over.
“Man,” he says, “it’s great meeting you. I used to read you when I was growing up. All that stuff about GG Allin and screwing in the bathroom. Is that all true?”
I nod. “It’s all true, though stretched in some spots.”
“Man,” he says, “you’ve had a life.”
“It ain’t over yet,” I tell him.
He laughs. “I live right here in Green Bay. Not much happens here.”
“This is life,” I tell him. “Something always happens.”
And this is punkrock. Something WILL always happen. Anyone who tours, learns that the night isn’t over when the bands stop playing. Then, it’s PARTY-TIME. Here I am, a 65 year old writer, and I’m off to the punkhouse to listen to CDs (actually watch DVDs) with THE COFFIN LIDS at the house of THE FAN.
The guy’s house is like a record library. CDs, DVDs, 7”, LPs. On the kitchen table lies the 7” from the CHINESE TELEPHONES.
“Hey,” I say, “I just played with these guys.”
It then occurs to me that I don’t play anymore. I read/recite-- or at best, perform.
In the living room, we watch DVDs. There are neither girls, nor attractive buttboys. The Coffin Lids’ bass player is cool though—and not ugly. At this stage, he’s lookin’ better and better every minute. Yowsah! Pull back the sheets.
“I never read,” he tells me. “Well, maybe a fanzine once-in-awhile. I like the idea of reading, but it just takes too much work.”
“You guys got Everclear up here?” I ask. “When I went to undergrad school in Wisconsin, it was illegal. We had to go to Illinois to get it. I hear it’s legal in this state these days. We still can’t get it in New York.”
“You can get it,” says THE FAN. “I just don’t have any now. There’s beer in the refrigerator though.”
On TV, Tom Sneider is interviewing The Sex Pistols.
“What’s it all about, Johnny?” he asks.
I get up to get a beer. It’s Pabst… small cans, regular cans, a giant 40 ounce can like I’ve never seen. Here we are in Wisconsin, America’s beer capital, and all they have is Pabst!
“What’s with this Pabst?” I complain. “This is Wisconsin.”
“Waddaya mean?” says THE FAN. “Pabst is FROM Wisconsin. Milwaukee, ya know? Ever hear of it?”
“Oh.” I say, sheepishly popping open the 40 ouncer and going back to the couch. OK, it ain’t Leinenkugel, but it IS Wisconsin.
Another DVD is on. This one is a compilation of the classic punk bands: Buzzcocks, Ramones, Patti Smith, The Clash. I wonder if I’ll be in the audience at some of these shows. But looking for me is not interesting enough to keep me awake. I look at the clock on my cellphone. 4AM.
“Hey,” I say, “it’s 4AM. I have to get to Sister Bay tomorrow. I don’t know where I’m staying. What do you think I should do?”
“Hold on,” says the Coffin Lids’ bass player. He rummages through his knapsack.
I wonder how that’s going to help me with my sleep problem. Is he gonna pull out a sleeping bag and suggest a quick romp in the other room? But it’s not a sleeping bag he fishes from his pack.
“Here,” he says holding up a bright orange t-shirt. On the front of the shirt, in black letters it says: WHAT WOULD GG ALLIN DO?
     Is that what my pal Sid Yiddish thought when he said, sure, Mykel, you can stay here while you’re in Chicago. Is that what he thought when he invited me to pick my way through the books, magazines, cassettes, old LPs of Jack Kerouac? You remember Sid. I’ve written about him before. He’s the rotund poet, tap dancer, throat singer, man of all interests. He’s a freak’s freak. An effortless freak. As unassumingly weird as GG Allin.
What would GG do? When Sid and his pal Mitch drove me to Madison where I promised him a chance to perform for the crowd… when “the crowd” was two people roped in from the other side of the store? Did GG Allin have a driver’s license? I can’t imagine it.
     Sid throat sings and recites poetry. I invite him to join me in every town we’re together. He wears a new fashioned yarmulke that looks like a jazz hat. In Madison, the bookstore owner wants to hook him up with a klezmer band called Yid Vicious.
“Wadda double bill,” he says. “Sid Yiddish and Yid Vicious.”
What would GG do?
     After the hell flight from Chicago, I’m back home. The front page of the Newspaper of Record— the same newspaper that said there were no bisexuals—reports that there are no humans at all. There are no independent entities with choice and free will. We’re all victims, pushed around by a genetic code that tells us whether or not we’ll be risk-takers, alcoholics or homos, as surely as it tells us if we’ll have brown hair or attached earlobes.
     I don't know which is worse. A Supreme Court that says you have no control over your life because the government can take away your property and give it to a private company-after it busts in your door without a warrant. Or a newspaper-supported culture that says you have no control over your destiny because your genes are in charge of everything.
     Humanity is free will. The choice between right and wrong, good and bad, boredom or excitement. Without that freedom, we're no longer human.
     Jeezus fuckin’ Christ! Don’t take away my Mykel Boardness. Don’t stuff the life I made for myself into my genes.
And what about them? Is Sid Yiddish a tap dancing throat singer because of his grandfather’s genes? Is that kid in Appleton cool enough to know all the words to Damaged because his dad screwed into his mom’s coolness chromosomes? Did Marge Grutzmacher treat me like a lost relative because of a tiny marker in the 273th place in some DNA? What horrible thoughts. What’s more horrible, is that they’re trying to get you to believe this shit. It’s wrong! Not only because it should  be wrong. And we should have control over our lives. But because it just is wrong. Plain ole BAD science. Basic science rules say this genetic-behavior stuff is wrong.
The key to science is predictability. If I believe in gravity, I have to predict that when I drop something it will fall. On the rare occasions it doesn’t—a helium balloon for example—I’d better have a reason. In the balloon’s case, it is lighter than air, and if I drop it in a vacuum, it will fall.
     If I believe in evolution, I have to predict that a species will change its characteristics to survive better—or it will go extinct. The ever-mutating HIV virus and the dinosaur show that’s true.
     If I believe in genetics, I have to predict that two blue-eyed people will not have brown-eyed children and that brown-eyed parents will have mostly brown-eyed kids. That is, in fact, how it works.
     You know how many predictive experiments there have been on this new gene stuff? None. Zero. Zilch. You know how many brain scans of people have been done to predict their homosexuality? Their alcoholism? Their risk-taking? None. Zero. Zilch.
     What passes for science picks a self-identified group, looks for a common genetic characteristic, doesn’t find one, but finds a tendency. Presto. That’s the cause. It’s as if voting for Bush causes stupidity, rather than results from it.
     Oh, it’s a comfortable belief. We don’t have to be responsible for anything. Our genes do it. Hitler and Alcoholics Anonymous are right. Everything’s genetic. There’s no cure—yet. Is that how you want to live?
     At times like this, you have to ask yourself What would GG Allin Do? If I know him, he’d take a shit right there on the social scientist’s floor—then throw it at ‘em.
     Find a gene for that, Motherfuckers.


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


--> It’s gotta be a bandname dept: As if medicine wasn’t loopy enough anyway. National Geographic reports: Three commercial companies are working on the use of medical maggots to treat various blood-related diseases. The maggots, when inserted into a wound, clean and disinfect the wound, preventing infection and allowing better healing. Also under investigation are worm eggs that “are swallowed by patients with inflammatory bowel disease.” Their purpose is to control internal infection.

--> Let sleeping dogs lie dept:  While waiting on my interminable flight from Chicago to NY, I happened to thumb through the SkyMall catalog stuck into every seat back. A list of such useless stuff you’ve never seen before! My favorite is: Songs to Make Dogs Happy, a $14.99 CD designed to be played for your dog. This CD is recommended by PETA who says, it’s great for stay-at-home' dogs or dogs who have separation anxiety or are fearful of thunderstorms. Yeah.

--> Benefits of being old dept: One of the benefits of being old is that you get the AARP Bulletin. There you can read lots of stuff not reported in the punkrock press.
     One of my favorites is a story about some New Zealand researchers. They discovered a formula that when taken right after strenuous exercise slows the aging process by boosting mitochondrial proteins in the body. The mysterious substance? Chocolate milk.
     The same issue (May, 2006) also reports that the German government is now training former prostitutes as geriatric nurses. Streetwalkers are good with people, says a program official, and they have absolutely no fear about touching or being touched.

-->Those d*mn poets dept: Censorship News reports that a Reno, Nevada high school barred a 14 year old from reciting W.H. Auden’s famous poem, The More Loving One. It was supposed to be part of  a local poetry contest. The reason? The poem had the words damn and hell in it. Fortunately, the local court overturned the prohibition. The kid won second place and $1,000 bucks.

-->Ah Americans dept: As if you need another reason to acknowledge American’s stupidity, the National Coalition Against Censorship reports that a recent survey says that 1 in 5 Americans believe that the first amendment to the US Constitution protects a citizen’s right to own pets.

-->How ‘bout transplants? dept: I found an old copy of the newspaper Extra. It seems to have my kind of news. One of the stories was about the Toronto Children’s Aid Society that started a program of free hairdos for mothers who beat their children. They say it “reduces aggressive urges.”
     Oh yeah, the same paper carries the story of Derek Mayhew who took a British Airways flight from Bahrain to London. He was the only passenger on the plane. He checked one bag. The airline lost it.

-->Useful information dept: Knowing when you’re going to die is useful information for planning the rest of your life. Of course, there’s a website for that. I’ve still got another 30 years. Start getting ready for the funeral! Find your own deathdate at: http://www.deathforecast.com/

Column 279

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board


     Nothing is so awkward as a demonstration of humanity by the enemy. –Kobo Abe

     It’s gonna be a short one this time. (That’s what she said.) I start this while sitting in Bryant Park behind the library. I count the gives and takes. Google gives me free internet access. G-d gives me a sunny day. Alcohol takes my powers of concentration and coherent thought.  And the day after tomorrow, Delta will take me to bring my spoken bilge to Chicago and Wisconsin.
     It’s been the usual litany of things gone wrong. My computer stops working. Sid calls to cancel my ride to Madison, then last minute, reinstates it. My body wakes up unable to sleep through the night. My brain makes senile mistakes: halting mid sentence, forgetting the word preposition. My bank account uses up the last of my printer’s red ink. That’s my life. It goes wrong, but it goes-- at least until it doesn’t.
     Flash ahead a couple days. I now write at the Marine Air Terminal at LaGuardia. I sit in a plush chair in front of an unused row of coin telephones. It would be a peaceful scene if it not for the 20-something two seats down from me. He gabs into his cellphone—non-stop—call after call. He’s on the third.
“I just wanted to tell you I’ve accepted a position in Chicago,” he says.
     He wears a t-shirt, torn jeans, and he’s accepted a position. People dressed like that don’t accept positions. They get jobs. Guys in ties and white shirts accept positions. Professors with tweed jackets and elbow patches accept positions. You don’t, future Mr. Cubicle Clerk. Everyone you’re talking to can see that. Don’t you realize what a jerk you are? Mom, the I-love-you-too girl, and your-only-friend-in-Jersey-City-who-you’ll-miss-like-a-brother. They all know what a jerk you are. How come you don’t?
     Focus, Mykel! Focus! Back to the laptop.
I had planned this to be an everything-you-know-is-wrong column, but I don’t have the time or space. I’m going to be traveling and will have to email this in from the road. You are just too wrong, and too militant in your wrongness for me to correct everything. I should write a book. I DID write a book. So here I’ll just pick on a few points. At least you’ll get a start.
     Like the Christians who say that people who don’t accept Jesus are condemned to damnation, but if you’ve never heard about Jesus, you only go to purgatory. I’m giving you your chance. Here’s THE TRUTH. If you reject it... it’s hell for you, buster.
     Flash ahead. I’m madder than a homo who gets a female doctor for his prostate exam. I’m actually sitting in the plane now. It’s parked on the runway. Delayed. Something about thunderstorms in Chicago last night.  They caused back-ups today. The airlines have to add more planes to make up for the lost flights. More flights mean more delays. Behind me there’s a crew of raucous laugher. Actually THE crew of raucous laugher. It’s the two stewardesses on this flight. It’s an ugly annoying sound when I feel so awful.
     [Aside: Robert Heinlein once wrote that laughter was a disgusting reflex. We do it when someone is in pain, falls down the stairs, or just fucks up in an embarrassing way. Look at comedy. Except for word-play jokes, we laugh at pain: dead babies, or humiliation: Polish people turning ladders to change light bulbs. I rarely laugh.]
     Besides the stewardesses’ guffaws, a baby cries, and half the passengers yak on cellphones.
Like me, the woman in the next seat taps away on her laptop. I’m not sure if I can steal a glance to find out what she’s doing. I don’t think you can check your email from a plane, and most people are ashamed to play solitaire in front of others… even Free Cell, which I’m up to a 12% winning percentage at the 4-suit level.
     So it’s exactly at this point I’m going to begin to explain the ways in which you are wrong. One of them is the way you make villains of people rather than ideas.
Newspapers report that 36% of Americans don’t like Georgie Bush. Rolling Stone writes that he’s the worst president in history. That should tell you something. The underdog. Hated in the nation. You’d expect punkrockers would be knee-jerk coming to his defense, like Republicans defending Enron. But no. There’s just a chorus of glee at his unpopularity. You cheer every failure. Ignore the few victories.
But let’s look. George proposed building a wall between the US and Mexico. BAD. He proposed allowing illegal aliens a fast track to stay in the US permanently. GOOD. As anti-Muslim fervor rises in America, Bush wants to sell US ports to the Arabs. That takes balls.  
Bush stands by his appointments, his friends, his principles. He doesn’t waver even if the public is against him. When gas prices rose and people turned against Clinton, that spineless sleazebag opened the oil reserves, depleting our safety supply to save his poll numbers ass. Bush could have, but didn’t.
The man has integrity. Just like one of my other heroes, Saddam Hussein. I may not want either of them as neighbors, but I respect that integrity… and I wouldn’t mind having them as friends.
From Bush to broccoli. It’s time to go on the veggie warpath again. I’ve seen too much spinach and tofu lately. It’s making me sick.
Most thinking people assume that vegetarians are self-righteous rich kids who jump on moral bandwagons as fast as they jump on musical ones. Most thinking people are right.
Most thinking people also assume that except for the annoyance of being told that what you eat is immoral, causing pain and suffering, vegetarians are harmless. Most thinking people are wrong.
Opening shot: a meadow. Shoot this through a blue-pink lens so everything looks peaceful and happy. Cows lazily graze, chewing their cud while happy chickens peck joyfully at corn, worms, and other natural bird food.
Mistress Mary tends to her flock of sheep, dancing along, la de da. She stops on a large rock, pulls a bottle of Snapple out of her pocket and chugs it down. Her flock lazily catches up with her, wagging their tails behind them. One of the woolly creatures nuzzles Mary. The cute animal tries to drink from the girl’s bottle. Mary laughs, tilting the Snapple so the animal can lick it down.
     Cut to the industrial orange lens. Streak it with gray or black for a grimy polluted look. A dark building holds tiny stalls, one next to the other: Wild-eyed cows, unable to move. Row upon row of chicken coops. One piled on top of the other. Shit pouring down in an ever-increasing brown rain from the top coops to the others below. Beaks painfully trimmed, the nearly paralyzed chickens peck their breakfast of offal and discarded parts of other chickens.
     Your choice of scenes? You betcha.
The way the market works is if you choose the free-range chickens, the happy cows, the tail-wagging lambs, there will be more free-range chickens, happy cows, and tail-wagging lambs. If you choose the concentration camp meat, there will be more of that. Demand and supply.
     And if you don’t choose? Then your vote goes to the concentration camp. Businesses always do what’s cheaper, more efficient, more harmful, unless the government-- or market forces-- make them do otherwise. With the vegetarians taking themselves out of the picture, the only market forces left are Wal-mart and Burger King. Which side do you think they’re on?
If people don’t buy from the good guys, then the good guys go out of business. By not buying human meat, vegetarians help create torture and disease for the animals they don’t eat. That’s how the market works. But that’s not the end of it. Vegetarians also create disease for the rest of us… the human animals.
     No one injects nasty chemicals into those happy animals in the happy meadow. Nobody feeds them bovine growth hormone. Nobody fills them with antibiotics to protect them from the shit falling on them. No shit falls on these animals in the first place.
     But the miserable animals-- the ones forced on us by the vegetarians—they’ve got more horrible substances in their bodies than I’ve had up my ass. It’s a wonder they can call a chicken leg “chicken,” it’s got so much else in it. Tenderizers, salt, drugs of all descriptions, bacteria, you name it. All put there to protect the animal from the conditions vegetarians force them to live in. That shit is in OUR food. And even if the vegetarians manage to avoid it, they’ve forced it on the rest of us.
     So we see that vegetarians force cruelty to animals, disease on non-vegetarians, and are responsible for everything bad except global warming. Wrong.
     They’re responsible for that too.
One of the greatest contributors to global warming is methane. That’s the gas you light when you light a fart. Our bodies make it from the food we eat. It comes out in farts and shit.
Until vegetarian-encouraged factory farming, methane was only unpleasant—like vegetarians themselves. A fart in an elevator might unleash a few giggles, a cough or two, but not a whole lot more. Entering a bathroom where someone has just unleashed a holy beershit—especially a holy Guinness beershit—is an unpleasant experience, but not a serious one.
     Factory farming has changed that. They’ve created incredible concentrations of animals. That means incredible concentrations of animal farts and shits. Giant continuous blasts of methane invade the atmosphere, are trapped by it. This methane, in turn, traps heat that would normally move to the upper stratosphere and dissipate. This heat is known as global warming.
     Animals return nutrients to the soil. When they are well-managed and not too packed, they fertilize what feeds them. A pig eats carrots, shits nutrients back into the ground, making fertile ground for more carrots. Eating high on the food chain allows us to cull porcine over-population and keep the cycle going. If I eat a pig, I stop the fertilization, but I also stop the consumption. If I eat a carrot, I only stop plant production, while doing nothing to reduce plant consumption. Highest on the food chain is, of course, cannibalism. Checking out the overpopulation of vegetarians, that might not be such a bad idea.
     Another way you’re wrong is your knee-jerk hatred of big corporations. You pin them with the same crooked safety pin that you pin on Dubya or meat. Like with those others, you’ve missed this one too.
     I now write sitting on a park bench by a river in Beaver Dam, Wisconsin. A few people fish from the nearby bridge. River water bubbles gently as it passes me. On the bench a few yards from me, an older colored lady rests with her feet up. A book in her hand, she lazily turns the pages. She doesn’t notice me looking at her.
I think about how her world’s been changed.
“Yeah,” I think, “I hate Barnes and Nobles and the way they’ve destroyed small bookstores. I hate Amazon-dot-Com for destroying bookstore browsing culture… and making huge contributions to the Republican Party. But if it weren’t for Amazon and Barnes and Nobles and Borders, this Negress might not have her book.
Huge corporations bring books and reading to millions of towns like Beaver Dam. People there might never see a book otherwise. Every shopping mall has a Barnes and Noble or Borders. Every computer has access to Amazon. Millions of people who might never read a book, now buy them because they can. Millions of people, who would never make the effort to step into their local libraries, pass Barnes and Noble and go in, just because it’s there. It’s a place to cool off. A place to sit and read. And for all their destructiveness in big cities, they may just be saving bookdom in towns like Beaver Dam.
     My computer is beeping at me. The battery has almost run out. I’ve got to get back on the road anyway… head for the show in Appleton.
Next month I’ll write about my adventures here. In the meantime, stand up, walk to the bathroom. Look in the mirror. Point to yourself and repeat after me: YOU’RE WRONG.

ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get live links and a place to comment]

--> Whatever happened to the stockpile? dept. According to The Progressive magazine (March 2005), a US Air Force research team in the 90s recommended developing chemical weapons consisting of aphrodisiacs. The idea was to make enemy soldiers sexually irresistible to one another as a diversion. An added benefit would be the low morale caused by the resulting homosexuality-- especially in Islamic countries. The plan was later abandoned.

-->Toronto based This Magazine has created a website where Americans who want to hightail it up North can find a mate who'll marry them out of their servitude. Want to be a Canadian? Check www.actforlove.org

-->The Japanese Solution: Unlike America, Japan does not have immigration to save it from becoming an aging country. Since there are fewer workers supporting more oldsters, the oldsters are getting less money and fewer benefits. Some of them have figured out a way to insure themselves a warm bed and 3 meals a day: CRIME!
The AARP reports that Japanese old-times have turned to a life of crime in order to get caught and put into prison. There, their accommodations and meals are taken care of. Sex too, probably.

-->Your government at work dept: that same issue of the AARP Bulletin  (April, 2006) reports on Judy Lewis, a 68-year old Texan. She survived a stroke in December of last year, but the Social Security Administration pronounced her dead and canceled her benefits. Her congressman helped get her checks restored, but the SS still counts her as deceased.

--> Man, check out that… er… where was I? dept: The Journal of Cognitive Neuroscience (Feb. 2006) reports on a Toronto research team that discovered that older peoples’ brains change in a way that make it hard to filter out distractions and stay focused.  Something about left-brain right-brain balance. I’ll give you the details right after… what was that sound?

--> My jailed pal Cassidy Wheeler was thrown in the hole again for holding his pants up with a broken plastic safety razor. He tells me he’s more persecuted for being a punk rocker than for violating rules. He needs outside contacts—and lawyers. Write to him at: Cassidy Wheeler #14282456, O.S.P., 2605 State St., Salem OR 97310.

--> Finally getting smart department: The ACLU which, until recently, contented itself with issuing boring proclamations about our eroding personal freedoms seems to have finally gotten smart. They’re making the point entertainingly. I hear they’re gonna have TV commercials and sponsor a crime show. They’ve made a good start on the internet. Check out http://www.aclu.org/pizza/ for starters.

MRR Column 278 (sent May 1, 2006)

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board


     As individuals, we Jews are like everybody else. We may be less prone to drunkenness, we may be more prominent in certain professions, and we may have produced more Nobel Prize winners than any other people; but we don’t boast about these things.
     -- Rabbi John D. Ruyner, Liberal Jewish Synagogue, London
                    

     I probe my thumb deeply into my right nostril. Forward, toward the tip. The side of the nail scrapes a crusty mass. No room. I switch fingers. The pinky. This is what it’s made for. I wiggle it inside until I manage to catch the top of that crusty mass. I pull. A sharp pain. I wince, withdraw, and try again. Tug. Tug. Uh, aaaah, got it. Loosened and free. Needing only to be withdrawn. Damn, I lost it again. Somewhere high. I don’t want it to escape into a sinus or be drawn into a lung. I hold the top of my nose on either side and blow. Hard. Fast. There it comes. Reaching back in with the thumb, I snag it. Drag it down until I can pinch the thing between my thumb and index finger and take it out completely.
     I hold it up to the light to examine it. Green, with flecks of blood red. It’s about the size of a small pea. I put my pinkie back into my nose and withdraw it. The fingertip is crimson with fresh blood.
     Shift: I’ve just returned from a 10 day tour of the Northwest. Book readings, heavy drinking. I wrote about it last month, except for the part about the strip club in Portland where this girl had the most amazing breast control I’ve ever seen.. Dancing to the music, she pretends she’s tied strings to her nipples.
     Using her fingers to pull up and down on the fake strings, her breasts jerk up and down exactly as if tied to real strings. She bounces her breasts, hands-free, one at a time, up-down. Like you might raise your fingers to type on the keyboard. Jump. Jump. Jump. Jump.
In the back of the club lies a secret passageway that leads to the burrito place around the corner. After the puppet-breast set, my hosts and I go through the passageway and order burritos. Then, we return to the strip club. Faster than a beanfart, the burritos are delivered to our seats—right in front of the stage.
     My hosts tell me that, in addition to the highest bar count per capita, Portland has the most per capita strip clubs. It’s weird that people know these things, but I guess it’s part of their identity as Portlanders. I could live there.
     Shift again. The deadline approaches for another column. My trip stories have run out. (Except for a fire hydrant running smack into the back of my rental car, but what’s to tell?) I look for inspiration for number 278.
     I find it in number 10, where I first started writing for this zine. I find it in all those early columns. I find it in the changes since that time. In what I did, but never said.
     I look back and see that 20 years ago, other columnists didn’t write about their own lives and adventures. They wrote about lofty ideas and punk purity. I wrote about anal folds. Now, others do. Other columnists didn’t write in the present tense. They wrote about things as if they were historians. Like they were telling about something that happened long ago and far away. They couldn’t grab the immediacy, the what-happens-next of the present. They were detached and impersonal. I wrote in the present. Now others do.
     Other columnists didn’t write about sex, except in passing, as jokes, or to talk about how awful and exploitative it is. I wrote about sex. Others do now. Other columnists didn’t mention their own faults, their pimples, their falling-out hair, their dribbles-not-spurts. I wrote about that. A few others do now. No one else had Endnotes in 1982. Check it out now.
     Am I saying I’m responsible for all this? Am I saying if it weren’t for me, columns would be nothing more than thoughts on how bad GW Bush is and how good CRASS was? YES! That’s exactly what I’m saying, but I don’t want to boast.
     Shift back to my booger. Like that booger pulled from my nose, I love removing things from my body. I scrape off those calloused brown skin marks that old Jews get. I pop the whitehead on my cheek, letting the white pus ooze down my fingernail. I rub the loose flesh from between my toes. I dig in my anal folds for the recalcitrant dingleberry that I just know is there.
     A young white-trash couple visit New York. They wheel their gender-ambiguous toddler in one of those new 3-wheeled strollers. The kid softly gums the ear of little teddy bear. The parents stop to read the menu in the window of The Noho Star. The toddler takes the bear from its mouth and throws it on the ground.
     I reach down and pick it up.
     “Your baby dropped this,” I say to Mom, as I hand the toy to the kid.
     “Thanks,” says Mom.
     The kid shakes the bear a couple of times and throws it on the ground again.
     Mom takes it this time and hugs it to her chest. The child screams.
     “I won’t give it to you if you’re going to throw it away,” she says.
     The kid doesn’t get it. He (or she?) screams louder, reaching up, straining against the stroller seatbelt, in a vain effort to reach the bear.
     “Don’t give it to him,” says Dad. “He’ll just throw it on the ground again. It’s probably filthy already. Remember, this is New York.”
     Mom wants to give in. She does, handing the bear back to the child. The child stops crying… and immediately throws the bear on the ground again.
     This time Dad grabs it.
     “That does it,” he says. “Let’s get out of here. This place is too expensive anyway.”
     “Don’t you know it’s healthy for kids to do that?” I don’t yell after them as they waddle off into the distance. “Don’t you know that’s how kids learn the limits of self? That child is only discovering me and not me. It’s what kids do. It’s what everyone should do.”
Centuries before me, Rene Descartes did his own bear throwing/booger pulling. He too tried to scrape everything away until he came to a center that was really him. He called it THINKING. But GW Bush, a six pack of Sparks, and most of the readers of this zine have shown me that it’s easy to exist and NOT think. So the core must be something else.
     I mean, what about you? Are you a punk? A lefty? An anarchist? How long will you stay one? What’s your core?
     People usually start as lefty idealists. As they age, they grow increasingly conservative. Punkbands bands start their musical lives as idealistic social activists and end their careers wiggling on stage in Las Vegas. Charges of hypocrite and sell-out follow every move. The band either spends time and energy lamely trying to defend itself, or it simply cuts itself off from its old world and embraces the change.
     In Anti-Flag’s UNDERGROUND album they say, Just take a look around the world and you're going to find that nearly all mass media are owned and controlled by a handful of conservative capitalists. We must devise and implement alternative methods of distributing our ideas -- People worldwide working together to make a stand, to tell the truth!
     Anti-Flag jumps to RCA-Sony, the notorious major label that infects computers with spyware—just by playing their CDs. You’d expect a chorus of “sell-outs” and rants against hypocrisy. Yet, when I google Anti-flag and RCA and Sell-out, most of the 318 sites that come up defend the band. They say their heroes are NOT sell-outs. They explain how they are getting the word out—avoiding preaching to the choir. Gaining new converts to a righteous cause.
     I dunno. It’s my guess that Anti-flag are throwing down their teddy bears. They’ve decided that smallness is not them. They’ve decided the singing to the sung-to is not them. They’ve decided that touring in a rent-a-van is not them. With each this is not me, they have to decide what is them. Or what they really want.
They want to live from their music. They want to get laid more. They want more money. They want to spread their message to more people. I don’t know. Maybe, they don’t know. They’re learning. Picking up the major label, and maybe throwing it down again, like Bad Religion did.
     I’m not writing this to criticize Anti-flag. Any band that uses the words devise and implement does not need me to criticize it. Besides, it’s YOU I want to talk about. Not them. YOU haven’t examined life without the teddy bear yet. In fact, you have such a furious grip on it; you can’t tell where YOU end and the bear begins.
     Right now, you’ve gripped your own ideas so tightly that you’ve made people believe they ARE you. When you finally throw them down, your friends are gonna point their fingers. You may not jump to SONY, but you’ll have more money—and a family. You’ll change your politics. They’ll call you a sell-out. You’ll throw your friends down too. You’ll say you’ve outgrown them.
     Where will it come from, this change? Usually, the move from left to right comes with money and family. If you have money, you want more. You want to keep it, spend it on yourself, not give it to people who don’t have money. You want to protect your money and what it’s bought. You want to build prisons, keep away foreigners, get the local beggar off the street. You lose track of where you end and where your money begins. You begin to think that because you WORKED you deserve the money. Why should you give it to someone who just sits on the street and asks? Money IS you. And you don’t want to part with it.
     And family? The pull of family is so strong Republicans win elections by appealing to it. Disney sells stock with it. When you have a family—especially kids, the family is first. Everything else be damned.
     I love my family. Sometimes they piss me off. Sometimes they annoy me, but I still am happy when I see them and am sad when one kicks the bucket. But they are not me. When I travel, I leave them behind. When I’m home, they’re a burden more than an asset. People say blood is thicker than water. Maybe. But is blood thicker than ink? I dunno.
     So what am I? What’s the closest things to me? As I type this, I think about what’s close. My boots, my jeans, my Stackers t-shirt?
     It’s clear I’m not my clothes. I can take them off—and do—more often than most people would want. But my clothes are a choice. They come from somewhere inside. They may not me, but they are OF me. I use Dick Tracy, Lemmy Caution, Mike Hammer, like other punk columnists use me. I choose what I wear because it means something I like. It is NOT be me, but it lets people know about me.
     Big Mike Loney tells this anecdote:
     Mike’s working the door at ABC NO Rio. Some tall guy with a spiked jacket comes in. Mohawk to here, leather pants, torn DISCHARGE t-shirt, old Doc Martins… the works. Following him is a rather ordinary-looking guy, California style, loose long shorts, sneakers, a backwards baseball hat. The mohawk guy looks the other guy up and down, then points toward his feet.
     “Tube socks!” he says, laughing. “Get this guy. He’s wearing tube socks!”
     It is funny to imagine the big mohawk lug putting down someone for something so minor. It’s funnier to think he even noticed the tube socks. I laughed too. But now that I think about it, I’m not so sure.
     The big punk decided what he was going to wear. He spent hours on his hair. Every aspect of his appearance was calculated. He had a self image, THIS IS ME, and dressed accordingly.
The other guy didn’t think twice about his clothes. Tube socks are cheap, so he’ll wear ‘em. I don’t think the big guy was right to laugh, but he was more conscious of himself than the littler guy.
Like Mr. Mohawk, my clothes are a reflection of what I am. They are the weirdo, the detective, the outsider, the guy who creeps around with a magnifying glass, exposing the wicked, throwing light on the hidden darkness. I am not ONLY my clothes, but they are part of me.
So what’s the point?
     It’s that you’re stuck with somethings, you copy others, and still others you create. The real you is what you choose from among those things. What you allow people to see. What you consider and what you don’t. I choose pretty carefully. I choose paths others don’t take. I make paths for others to walk on. You’re free to walk on them, take another paths or make your own. I’m pretty happy with what I’ve made, but I don’t want to boast.


ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get a few extra endnotes]

--> Real vinyl dept: In Vancouver, I discovered a cool vinyl-only record store creatively called VINYL. The owner, David Jones (no, he was NOT in The Monkees) bought at least one of everything I had. He bought two of some. He’s interested in building a punk section in his store.
Contact him at vinylrecords1@telus.net or 1-604-488-1234

--> Credit where it’s due dept: When I talked about how I changed the face of zine columns, I did not include two points:
     One is that other columnists did not simply imitate me. They used my ideas, or were influenced by those ideas and took them in a new way. Or maybe it’s that great minds flow coincidently in the same gutter. Some column writers—even in this zine—have developed a completely unique style, using the tools I brought to column makers. I’m not accusing anyone of plagiarism. The guy who built a bookcase did not plagiarize the guy who invented the hammer.
     Two is that not everyone followed my lead. The Rev. Norb (C.R.I.P.) is NOT often imitated, or copied. But he IS the most original voice in punkdom. I don’t know what his influences are, but he is the king of creativity.

--> There’s racism and then there’s racism dept: In April, The Nebraska Legislature voted to divide the Omaha school system into three districts – one black, one white and one Hispanic.
    Supporters, including the legislature's only black senator, said the plan would give minorities control over their own school board. It would ensure that their children are not "shortchanged" in favor of white youngsters. Gov. Dave Heineman, a Republican, signed the measure into law.
    Sen. Pat Bourne of Omaha condemned the bill. "We will go down in history as one of the first states in 20 years to set race relations back," the Democrat said.
    "History will not, and should not, judge us kindly," said another senator.
   "There is no intent to create segregation," said the black senator. He argued that the district is already segregated, because it no longer buses students and instead requires them to attend their neighborhood school. He said the black students he represents would receive a better education if they had more control over their district.
     I say, the whole thing is fucked up and shows that “local control” even at the state level is THE PROBLEM, not THE SOLUTION. How ‘bout if America becomes like every other country (G-d forbid!) and has one set of rules for ALL schools? Then we wouldn’t have to worry about teaching creationism in Kansas or Ebonics-as-a-second-language in San Francisco. Local control is local out of control.

-->Predicting the unpredictable dept: The US Transportation Security Administration said they were going to lighten up a bit. They’ll allow short scissors, and tools in your airplane carry ons. A return to senses? Not so fast!
      The TSA also announces, “more frequent searches of body and property at various checkpoints in the airport.” This they said will make the skies safer by “incorporating unpredictability” into the airline process.
     They want unpredictability? They should hire some terrorists. That’ll give ‘em unpredictability. Jesus fuckin’ Christ. If there’s anything airline passengers DON’T want, it’s unpredictability.

-->Tears of joy and sadness dept: It was a great show. A CD release party. 21 of New York’s best punkrock bands all on NEW YORK SHITTY PUNK ROCK 2005, put out by Attention Punk Records. I got there late, but did manage to see two of my faves: WORLD WAR IX and THE STACKERS, plus a new favorite: BLACKOUT SHOPPERS.
     It was a great night, but why all the tears? Especially on those petite and attractive Orientals? It was THE STACKERS last show in the US. Their drummer was deported when caught by a roaming border patrol in Texas. (Expired visa) I guess they were looking for Mexicans. Now, they all decided to return to the rising sun and play there for a while. I’ll miss ‘em.
     Oh yeah, I just had a thought. Motto for Calgary, where Jesus died and was… er… resurrected. Land of the Rising Son.

--> Still recruiting dept. The bisexual email list has been too quiet lately. So, it’s time to RECRUIT. If you want to participate in our discussions, send an email to: LISTSERV@LISTSERV.BROWN.EDU. The entire message should read SUBSCRIBE BISEXU-L That should do it. You never know who you’ll meet. And, yes I have, but not often enough.


-->As if you needed another reason dept: Remember when everyone had AOL? Supposedly the company is still the largest Internet provider, but how many people do YOU know with AOL addresses?
     Well, for those few, there’s another reason to quit. This edited from the LA Times:
A group of 600 organizations that includes the AFL-CIO and the Gun Owners of America has been circulating an online petition protesting AOL's plans to begin charging extra to route e-mail around its spam filters.
On Thursday, though, the world's biggest Internet service provider blocked e-mails containing links to the petition against the "CertifiedEmail" plan at DearAOL.com.
Yep, AOL reading and censoring your email again. Is it a kind of parental control?

-->Speaking of censorship dept: The entire Internet is under attack by a new law pushed by the big Telcoms. They want to charge a fee to content providers to insure fast and efficient download of their materials. This will destroy the basic equality of the internet and put more power in the hands of a few corporations. (How long before Anti-flag sings against it?)
     You can sign a petition against the thing at: www.SavetheInternet.com

ON THE CHINATOWN BUS

ON THE CHINATOWN BUS TO BOSTON

Here is a diary fragment that may well become a column. I figured I’d put it up to make a more bloggie blog.

I start writing this on the Fung Wa bus between Chinatown NY and Chinatown Boston. There is an empty seat in front of me and one behind me, but a young woman – out of breathe—has decided that the seat next to me is worth taking—at least she isn’t fat. The guy ahead of me has the system figured out. Sit in the aisle seat as people enter. They’ll be unwilling to climb over you. Then, if someone insists on sitting next to you, you shift to the window seat.
     Ahead of me, and a few seats behind me, cell phones go off like carbombs in Iraq. Makes me wonder about the idea of space. Sara often complains that I don’t respect personal space. I reach over people, climb over seated folks legs, bump and touch. Yet she’s constantly on the cellphone, no matter who’s around or being left out of the one-sided conversation. Isn’t that personal space? Aural space? Psychic space?
     Why do people download ringtones? It’s like riding with the car stereo turned up and the windows down. It’s a proclamation. LISTEN TO THIS! you tell the world, while the world is only annoyed.
     My cellphone vibrates—and not often. I like it like that.

     My thoughts have been taken over again by Julien, a former friend who got angry at me for writing a column where I called him too L.A. Even though I sent him email to apologize, wrote a whole column to apologize, and sent him my favorite truck-driving record, he refused to accept any of that. THAT pissed me off.
     Over time the piss offedness reduced—but I was never happy. When my book about Mongolia came out, I sent copies to everyone who helped me with it. Julien had made some useful suggestions so I sent him a copy. I enclosed the same any-help-you-could-give-me-promoting-the-book-would-be-appreciated letter I enclosed with everyone else. I was reluctant to send it, but if it helped patch things up, okay. If not, well it was the right thing to do. He did help me with the book.
     So what happens? I hear that he threw the book away because I didn’t write a personal letter thanking him for his help. I don’t know. This made me so furious that I recently turned down an invitation to a friend’s wedding because he’ll be there. I refused to see a move that I’m in because it was made by a friend of Julien’s. I’m losing it.
     It’s weird too, because I hear he doesn’t care—that it’s affecting me more than it’s affecting him. 20 years of friendship and he doesn’t care. Now I’m getting pissed off again.

     This trip is for a 20th wedding anniversary party. Michael Gilbreath, who I knew at Beloit and was even my roommate in Chicago for a time, He met his wife in AA—but there will be booze at the party. 36 people, 22 drinkers. That’s a good ratio if you ask me. I’ll be early—what else is new—I arrived at the bus station in time to catch an earlier bus. The rain seems to have let up, but I won’t be so free to get around. Ah well, I can write, if I find a place to plug in.
     
     I wanted to transcribe the conversations (she’s scared of it… cause… you know) that take place on the cellphones, But I can only hear the buzz of the voice, and not the words. I had a plan when the guy behind me was talking. Just put the seat back—in his lap—and then pull it forward when he gets off the phone. This I did… and found out it was the guy TWO seats back who was talking. The poor squished guy behind me was innocent. G-d, sometimes I can be such an asshole.

Several people on this bus are now talking. No one on this bus is talking to anyone else on the bus… whoops there’s one conversation, in Dutch. Lately I’ve been thinking a lo about isolation. I’ve been blaming it on technology, the internet, the cellphone, all these ways that people can interact without actually having another person present. But now I’m wondering a bit. At the last drink club, I saw gangs of college-age girls, and other groups of college-age guys. They were bar-hopping or otherwise on the town. They were talking to each other, gabbing with the bouncer, together. Yeah, they took breaks to come outside and gab some more on their cellphones. No more girls than boys. So maybe I’m wrong… nah, they came out of a bar that cranks the volume so high it’s impossible to talk. They did not come out to talk with each other. They came out to talk on a machine.

The Dadaists refused to talk on the telephone, though they would communicate by mail. Somehow they felt the phone more dehumanizing. I feel it all dehumanizing. I know, here I am typing on a bus, not talking to the person next to me, but I too am dehumanized. Besides, she’s sleeping.

Since the beginning of this year I’ve been in Boston, Providence, Baltimore, Fort Lauderdale, Miami, Portland, Seattle, Bellingham and Vancouver. In all of these cities I found a hunger for… grouping? I don’t know what else to call it. But whether it was punks, Jews, writers, readers, Chihuahua owners…

Column for MRR 277 May

You're Wrong

An Irregular Column

by Mykel Board


[Note: I don't know why the formatting in the blog is so fucked up. It looks okay in the HTML program. Suggestions would be appreciated.]

You always have to watch out when people start talking about purity,
ethnic or otherwise. It usually means someone is going to get hurt. –Elena
Glassberg

The MRR editrix suggested we write about DIY, the invasion of big
corporations into punk, the difficulty of remaining true to the vision, and of
keeping punk pure. Interesting topic, though not unusual in these pages of
punknic cleansing.

There are a few issues here.

1. Does punk mean DIY, small label, independent?

2. Is DIY, small label, independent inherently better than big
corporation? If so, better for whom? For the individual/band/writer/zine? For
the world? For rebellious teenagers living off their parents’ allowance?

3. Is punk a style or a way of life?

The answers depend on your point of view. If A, then B. If you don’t
believe A. Then B is not true.

So let’s look at the questions above. The first is easy. GG Allin was the
punkest human being in history. Or at least in the 20^th century.
Would he be any less punk if Eat My Fuck were released on Warner
Brothers? Of course not. If GG Allin continued doing what he was doing. Shitting
where he was shitting. Getting arrested the way he got arrested. Living a life
of just not caring, of having no fear, of being able to piss on the president of
his record label, GG would be just as punk. No matter who put out his records.

If GG were inhibited in some way, if he didn’t do something because he
feared being dropped by the label, or lack of promotion, then he’d be less
punk. It’s not the label that makes the punk. It’s the balls.

Question two is more difficult. I usually prefer independents over corporate
giants. I never go to Starbucks or McDonalds. I don’t buy Nike. A Sony-induced
worm does not infect my hard drive. But I make compromises.

Sometimes I feel forced into the corporate world. I use a Windows
computer because I grew up with it. All my bootlegged software is in
Windows—or MS-DOS. Is Apple better? The system sure is. But is the company? I
don’t know. I only know it’s smaller.

Sometimes, on a personal level, big corporate stuff is just better. I rent
from Hertz because when I call they don’t put me on hold. I can change my
reservations at the last minute. The guys at the rental garage know me, and will
hold my favorite car even if I’m late picking it up. They give me a free
rental for every 6 paid ones. I can get a satellite system that somewhat
makes up for my lack of directional sense. And they never complain when I bring
the car back with a flat tire, or the back seat carpet missing.

Sometimes, a product is good, but the corporation is total shit. Pfizer and
Coca -Cola are horrible companies. Pfizer’s pricing and tight patent control
kills people. Coca -Cola has overthrown leaders to get its product into
countries and cheap raw material out. But Pfizer makes Viagra, for G-d’s sake.
And Coca-Cola makes, well, Coca-Cola.

So waddaya do? You can’t be pure. Even vegans wear polyester (made from
animals—dinosaurs) and cotton (containing the helpless bodies of millions of
ground-up bol weevils). We’ve all got to draw lines—or die.

The question is not how to remain pure, but how to draw our lines.

Question three has as many answers as there are people who call themselves
punks.

[Aside: Like in the mid-eighties, when everyone was suddenly New Wave,
these days, there’s a taboo in calling yourself punk. A good taboo if you ask
me. Punk is balls. You’ve got to have balls to break taboos.]

For me, punk is an attitude. It can be music, literature, a drunk on the
street sleeping in his own vomit, a whore on the corner whispering Hey
Mister, you wanna go out?

It is not style. A $300 designer "torn look" dress is not punk. A
$3 thrift shop plaid business suit is. But other than the obvious, there’s no purity.
No arbiter. No this is, or isn’t punk. There’s no manual that lists the
criteria for true punk or not.

It’s as dangerous as hell to keep punk— or anything else, except maybe
air and water— pure. Who’s gonna be your punk cops, policing against
contamination from lesser cultures? It used to be MRR—but Tim’s dead now.

What the Supreme Court said about pornography, I say about punk. I may not
be able to define it. But I sure as fuck know it when I see it. That’s
enough.

Part Two (continued from last month)

In the US, 40% of those surveyed say they were shy. In Japan it was 57%.
The lowest percentage was in Israel with 31%. We speculate the reason was that
in Japan, an individual’s performance success is credited externally to
parents, grandparents, teachers, coaches, and others, while failure is entirely
blamed on the person.

In Israel, the situation is entirely reversed. Failure is externally
attributed to parents, teachers, coaches, friends, anti-Semitism, while all
performance success is credited to the individual enterprise. Israelis are free
to take risks, since there is nothing to lose by trying and everything to gain.

--Thomas H. Benton

 

Summary of last month’s adventure:

I’m in Fort Lauderdale on a two-pronged mission: (1)promote my books (2)go
to my pal Ms. S’s wedding. The first two nights I stay with Tom Clearman, a
Catholic Mensa Wobblie. He tells tales of things I’ve never heard of. He also
introduces me to strange people, who though brilliant, have few of what the rest
of society would call social skills.

For the wedding, I wear a tie for the first time in 10 years. With my
overcoat, tie and fedora, I think I look like a Mafia hit man. Entering the
wedding site, Uncle Charlie asks if I’m the rabbi. Instant ego deflation.

Before the ceremony, Ms. S introduces me to Fletch and Greasy. Neither of
them are wearing ties. Both, in fact, are wearing hooded sweatshirts. Ms. S
tells me they’re skaters, friends of her famous skater husband to be. They
speak in a language I don’t understand. Transcribed, this is what Fletch says:

Hey, remember that time we were on the halfpipe in back of PK’s? You
were killing it, doing narly hand plants, landing all the way on the bottom of
the tranny. So this guy wants to show he’s a hotshot. He comes to the top of
the pipe and wants to do an Ali to grind revert. He goes flying completely off
the end. Just slams onto the flat bottom. Pow! Right on his head. Cudda killed
himself. We pissed ourselves laughing so hard. He didn’t die though. Still, it
was funny.

Though I don’t understand it, I figure the word Ali has something to
do with Islam—or maybe boxing.

Greasy sticks out his hand. "Yo, Mykel Board," he says, "I
didn’t expect to see any other famous people here. It’s great meeting you. I
used to read your column when I was a kid. You still writing for Maximum? Does
it still exist?

"Yes. Yes." I answer.

"How do you know Alan?" he asks. "Are you a skater?"

"Nope," I tell him. "I can’t even stand on one of those
things without falling off. I’m not gonna ride one…. And Alan? I met him
once in New York. Cool guy. But actually I know the bride."

"Know! Know!" he says winking at me. "I get ya’ Know!"

"No," I say. "I don’t know her. But we’re
friends. We went to Europe together. I’ve known her for a long time."

"You went to Europe together and you don’t know her? I don’t
get it."

"It’s a long story," I tell him. "You can read it in a
column."

"I can read everything in a column," he says.

"Mykel," comes the voice of Ms. S, "you’ve got to come
upstairs and sign the ketubah."

For the goyim amongst you, a ketubah is a Jewish wedding contract. It’s a
document that needs two witnesses who are in neither the bride’s nor the
groom’s family. It’s a fancy piece of paper with lots of Hebrew on it.

I forgot to bring a yarmulke—I’m not supposed to sign the thing
bareheaded. They let me wear my detective hat.

After the signing, there’s a hubbub. The actual wedding is about to begin.

The ceremony takes place outside, in a space that used to be a gazebo before
the last hurricane blew it away. The real rabbi speaks with a strong Eastern
European accent. A Jewer guy, I never saw. He goes through the mystical mumbo
jumbo. Then, before he does his husband and wife pronouncing, he talks about
each of the couple-to-be.

Ms. S’s story I know—better than he does. Her hubby-to-be, I don’t know
that well, but the rabbi’s heard all about him. He’s famous. A
skate-boarder. He invented a word that’ll be in the dictionary. Some kind of
skateboard jump where the board stays attached to your feet. It’s called the
Ali—a weird name for a jump invented by a Jew. At least I know what it is now.

"… husband and wife. You can break the glass," says the rabbi as
I zone back into the ceremony.

Someone once said that you can sum up all Jewish celebrations with:

They hurt us.

We killed them.

Let’s eat.

Weddings skip the first two parts: fish, chicken, huge mounds of cheese, tons
of booze. Yowsah!! I’m sitting at the table with the skaters. I still can’t
understand more than three-quarters of what they’re saying.

"So how come he called it Ali?" I ask. "Is it like Mohammad
Ali?"

"No," says Fletch. "It’s O-L-L-I-E, not A-L-I. It was
Alan’s nickname, from where he liked to eat. That’s why it’s called the
Ollie. Dude, you can’t be that dumb."

"Of course not," I lie with a perfectly straight face. "It’s
just this way I have of putting you on. It’s a Jew thing."

After eating enough to shit for a month, and drinking enough to puke as long,
it’s time to go home. The problem is, I don’t know where home is.

I call Tom Clearman.

"Sorry Mykel," he says. "My gal from Boston is here, and well,
you know how it is. Sorry. But you left your toilet kit in my bathroom. I’ll
mail it to you."

"Shit!" I say loudly after hanging up. "I’m screwed now. A
Miami motel will cost a fortune. Besides, I’m gonna be sick."

A voice comes from behind me. "You can stay with us."

It’s Alan, the groom. He’s offering me a place to stay.

"Yo," I say. "It’s your goddamn wedding night. I’m gonna
stay with you on your goddamn wedding night?"

"What the fuck?" he says. "You’re mishpocha (family).
You’re one of us."

I stay on their couch.

Flash ahead several weeks: I’m in Portland Oregon, reading at a cool
bookstore called Reading Frenzy. It’s Northwest Book Promotion time.
I’ll be in Portland, Seattle, Bellingham, and Vancouver, BC.

[Aside: I can’t figure out why Vancouver is considered the Northwest. Look
at a map of Canada! You can’t get more Southwest than that. It’s the
Arizona of the North—but even the Canuks call it the Northwest.]

I’m surprised by the number of blonds up here. In New York, a blond is as
rare as a protestant. But here, you see ‘em all the time. Maybe half the
people. Fat ones, thin ones, cute ones, ugly ones. They just walk around on the
street, like they’re ordinary folks.

After my reading, this guy comes up to me and introduces himself. He’s got
short dark curly hair, thinning in front.

"Hi," he says, "my name’s Seth. We met about 15 years ago. I
used to write for this fanzine called Factsheet 5."

I don’t really remember the guy, though I do remember the zine. One of the
all-time greats.

"I’m not sure I remember you," I say.

"Oh sure you do," he says, "I’m the Jew."

Flash ahead 2 days: In Vancouver, after the reading, a slightly shlubby guy
with curly black hair comes up to me.

"Hey Mykel," he says, rolling up his sleeve. "Check this
out."

He’s got a blue Star of David tattooed on his upper arm.

"Cool," I say, "you’re one of us."

"Yeah," he says, "I thought you’d be offended. I mean Jews
aren’t supposed to have tattoos."

"Well," I tell him, "the rabbis recently ruled that it’s
okay to have a design tattoo. Something like a Star of David, or one of those
Celtic bands. The rule is you can’t have a graven image, like a person
or an animal."

His face drops like a Matzo-packed turd.

"What about pets?" he asks. "I mean like cats. I mean like
cartoons of cats. You can’t have one of those?"

I can see by his one unrolled sleeve that he’s got something to hide.

"No pets," I tell him. "No animals. No people. Or you can’t
be buried in a Jewish cemetery."

"And… there’s… nothing… ???" he stutters.

"Oh, sure," I tell him, "you can have the offending tattooed
limb cut off and buried separately. It’s no big deal. It’s not like you’ll
need it in the afterlife."

I can see his features soften as he begins to believe I’m putting him on.

"Funny, Mykel," he says. And there starts a conversation about
Skrewdriver, Muslims and how Noam Chomsky is a self-hating Jew. And about all
the people who are anti-Israel.

"I’m anti-Israel," I say.

"I thought you were Jewish," he says.

"I’m a Jew," I tell him. "No –ish about it. But that’s a
cultural Jew. I’m not a religious Jew. I’m not a Zionist Jew. I’m just a
plane ole’ ordinary Jew Jew."

"Oh," he answers.

And that brings me to the second theme of this bi-themed column.

What is it about Jewtude that makes me say I’m a Jew, rather than I’m
a Punk or most anything else when asked about my identity?

It’s certainly not the religion. You know Jews have a prayer where men beat
themselves on the chest and say thank G-d I wasn’t born a woman? You
know that according to Jewish law, if you see someone working on Saturday, you
should stone him to death? You know that, as a Jew, if G-d tells you to kill
your kid (Abraham) or murder a complete village of innocents (Canaan), you’ve
got to do it? It’s an awful religion.

It’s certainly not Israel, which is—next to the U.S. and maybe Russia—
the most murderous country in the post WWII world. It’s killed thousands and
tortured thousands of others in a paranoid attempt to protect its theocracy.
Even the State Department of the US—the most pro-Israel country in the
world—says that religious and racial discrimination is rampant in Israel.
Israelis are Jews, so they have some of the great Jew qualities, like not being
shy. But Israel is not a nice country.

So what is it that makes me proud of being a Jew?

It’s the Jews, that’s what. Not all of ‘em of course, but the culture,
and personality traits that make up Jews are what I love about it. The
pushiness. The self-confidence. The boldness. The balls. It’s the Chomskys,
the Lenny Bruces, the Norman Mailers, the Karl Marxes, the Joey Ramones.

It’s Deborah Libstadt a Jewish professor at Emory University who commented
on the recent jailing of a Holocaust denier in Austria. She said, "We Jews,
who have suffered from censorship should not be supporting it. Censorship
renders the censored item into forbidden fruit, making it more appealing, not
less so… The best way to counter Holocaust deniers is to teach the truth to as
many people as possible."

It’s my Arab friend Bassam, who I call right after the World Trade Center
attacks.

"Bassam!" I ask. "Are you okay? I thought that Arabs might be
targets after this thing and I just wanted to check up on you."

"Mykel," he answers, "thanks for calling. Everything is all
right here. But you should know, it’s only my Jewish friends who called me.
They’re the only ones who care."

It’s how Jews walk into a restaurant and look at food on a stranger’s
table and just ask how—and what— it is. It’s the way we are not shy.
It’s how we talk with our hands and how we refuse to be like everybody else.
It’s how we hug and kiss when we see our friends. Not a toot
toot oui Monsieur
two cheek kiss like the French. Not a Negro style chest-only hug and slap on
the back. Nope. An honest-to-G-d wow!
I-can-touch-another-human-being-and-hold-‘em-close-for-a-few-seconds hug.
It’s the way I can talk about books and art and punkrock, and the Jew I’m
talking to knows at least something about books and art and punkrock. It’s the
way Jews bring new words into the language—like mishpocha, bagel or Ollie.
That’s why I love being a Jew. Religion or nationalism has nothing to do with
it. That’s Jewish. For me, there’s no –ish about it.

ENDNOTES:

à The
editorial staff of The New York Press walked out en masse after the
publishers refused to print the Danish cartoons that sparked international
riots. Have the cartoons been printed at all in the US? I guess they’re on
the web, but are they in print? I haven’t seen ‘em. [Last minute note: I
hear a few papers printed them—none here in New York, that’s for sure.]

A weird thing about this, is the universal non-Muslim reviling of the riots.
Strange, how Americans will allow internal spying, Wal-Mart
music censorship, TV V-chips, but when someone else complains—oh
no! The other guys are anti-free speech.

Plus the news has been so distorted. Headlines like, 9 KILLED IN
ANTI-CARTOON RIOTING make it sound like the rioters killed people. It was
the police and NATO troops who killed the rioters. Not the other way around.

And, where were they rioting? In front of a US sponsored torture chamber,
that’s where. The cartoon was only the tip of the Goldberg.

Ah no, but Americans can be self-righteous and revel in our freedom of
speech, while the CIA reads our email.

à Ah the government dept: Under the
headline FDA
THREATENS TO RAID CHERRY ORCHARDS, Life Extension Magazine (March
2006) reports that the Food and Drug of Administration sent warning letters to
29 companies that market cherry products. In these letters, the FDA ordered the
companies to stop publicizing scientific data about the benefits of cherries.
According to the FDA, When cherry companies disseminate this information, the
cherries become unapproved drugs subject to seizure.

Oh yeah, the FDA doesn’t say the information is false. It only says that
making the claim makes the item a drug and subject to penalties.

à Are they gonna raid the breweries?
dept: The Bottom Line Daily Health Report says that an increasing
body of serious research backs up beer's health benefits. One of them is bone protection. According to a medical team at Tufts University in Boston, beer may help prevent bone-thinning osteoporosis.

Other findings show that beer lowers the risk of heart disease and
increases the survival rate after a heart attack. Plus, it improves levels of
"good" cholesterol and preserves mental agility into old age.

Other studies at Harvard show healthier kidneys and stronger antioxidants
in beer drinkers than in non-drinkers. Let’s drink to that!

à Twelve dollars and thirty-five cents
for your thoughts dept: The Economist magazine says that Oslo,
Norway has just passed Tokyo as the world’s most expensive city. Third
is Reykjavik. New York where no-bedroom studios go for $3000 a month, is the
highest placed American city. But it ranks only 27^th in the world.
If you live in the 26 higher ranked cities, you owe me a beer.

à Don’t pray for me Argentina dept: I’m
not an atheist, but I hate the religionists more than I hate the atheists.
That’s why it was such a joy that The
NY Times reported
on a $2.4 million study on the power of prayer to heal sick people.

The results: Prayers offered by strangers had no effect on the recovery
of people who were undergoing heart surgery. And patients who knew they were
being prayed for had a higher rate of post-operative complications. 

   Yeah! It’s not the time to be a Christian
Scientist—that’s for sure.

Back to Mykel's Homepage

Mykel's Other Blog: Mykel's Column for MRR 274

Column for MRR 276 May

Column for MRR 276 May
You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board

We shall never be at peace until everything has been said, once and for all time; then there will be silence and one will no longer be afraid of being silent. It will be all right then.
-- Celine

     Things move too fast. I wanted to write about my adventures in Florida. Then the Washington shit hits the Washington fan. By the time you read this, there’ll be two or three scandals I haven’t even imagined. I’ll talk about two of ‘em before I get to Florida.
     The first is Dick Cheney shooting his hunting buddy in the face. Of course it was fun. You only wish the guy died. But come on. Is it news? It was a fuckin’ accident for G-d’s sake. A mis-pulled trigger. Do you think Cheney wanted to shoot his pal in the face? Was it an international conspiracy of corporate face-shooters? Was it a plot hatched by the plastic surgery lobby? What’s the problem? The guy didn’t go on TV immediately and say, “Yo! I shot my best friend in the face.” What the fuck? Cheney’s a sinister asshole, but this has nothing to do with it. It was an accident.
     The second “scandal” is even more disgusting. I’ve written about how nasty it gets when people “on my side,” turn out to be as shitty, as people on the “other” side.
     So when the Democrats (I’m a party member) and the liberals (I am one, but am usually embarrassed to say so) let the racist flag fly high, I’m not shocked. But I am nauseated.
Some foreign country operates every major harbor in America. The US hasn’t been running it’s own ports since Reagan was president. So when a port-running country changes hands, it’s no big deal. Business as usual. Oh yeah? What if the new owners are ARABS? Oooo scary.
     Is there any evidence that the United Arab Emirates has something to do with dangerous people? Other than George Bush, the answer is no. Have they been investigated more than other countries to make sure they're qualified? Yep.
     One of my liberal friends says, “How could he do it? We’re in Iraq fighting Arabs and he wants to give our ports to them?”
     Huh? There are probably more Arabs in the US than in Iraq.
     “Well, they’re Muslims,” she says.
     “Mohammad Fuckin’ Ali was a Muslim,” I tell her. “The idea is not to get people hating us because they think we’re anti-Muslim. Bush hasn’t done anything right about that-- until now.”
     “Well,” she finally says, exasperated. “The only good Arab is a dead Arab.”
     Could you imagine a liberal saying that with any other group inserted in the Arab spot? But this racism is okay. It’s like the Yellow Peril of WWII and ‘Red China.’
  Maybe, It’ll elect Democrats. New York’s two Senators, the amoral, Hillary Clinton and the awful Chuck Schumer held a rally in Newark.
     Keep U.S. ports in U.S. hands. They say. What ports are in US hands now?
     Could you imagine this crew holding that rally if Israel wanted to take? Yeah, right.
     OK, that’s my political rant. Now let’s get to Florida. I’m here to do a couple of book readings and go to the wedding of Ms S, a hard-to-travel-with Goddess. You’ve read about her before.
     I pull my rental Ford Taurus into the parking lot of an ugly condo, off an ugly street in Fort Lauderdale. I wonder if I'm in a tenant-parking place. Am I gonna get towed?
     Taking my father's DISABLED tag out of my travel bag, I hang it on the mirror. Who's gonna tow a cripple's car?
     I open the trunk, pull out my suitcase full of books, and head for the elevator.
     The graffiti-ed door opens slowly on a graffiti-ed interior. I roll in my suitcase and hit the ‘4’ button. The elevator door creaks shut. With a jerk, it slowly carries me upward.
     I've never met my host before. I got his name out of a traveler’s directory. Any members can stay with any other member. We’re both members.
     When the elevator opens again, I wheel my bag out and around a corner to door 465. The inner door is open. Through the screen door I can see chaos. Desks filled with old newspapers. Books everywhere, on shelves, half opened, lying like dead birds on the table, couch, a rocking chair. An old antenna-TV is in a corner. Two pieces of aluminum foil wrap around the antenna. There are large picture windows in back. Past them, a balcony.
     I knock.
     A man about 65 answers.  I can see two hairless legs coming out of bright red shorts. He also wears a MIAMI adVICE t-shirt. His full head of gray hair, and a handsome, ironic face make me think of Leslie Nielson.
     "You must be someone," he says in a deep, almost actorly voice. Opening the screen door, he motions for me to come in. He does not offer to take my bag.
     Inside we shake hands. "I'm Tom Clearman," he says.
     "Mykel Board," I answer.
     "Have a seat," he tells me, motioning to the couch, then sitting himself in the rocker. "Everything is self-service around here. There's juice and water in the refrigerator. Take what you want."
     I get up and pour myself a glass of Pineapple-Apricot Smash.
     "The refrigerator," comes the voice from the other room, "you have to watch out for it. It doesn't always close. Sometimes you have to take a knife and poke it."
     I hear the rocker creak as he stands up and flip-flops over to me. He takes a large knife out of a drawer, three-quarter closes the refrigerator door, inserts the knife pushing a little switch that controls the light. Then he shuts the door and withdraws the knife. "Like that," he says.
     I reseat myself on the couch.
     Tom talks. He's written a bunch. Comes from a Catholic background. I tell him I'm a Jew. He's an atheist.
     "But being a Catholic is like being a Jew," he says. "You always are one. It's in the blood, the sub-conscious. You can disavow it, but it's still a part of you-like a club foot."
He doesn't 100% disavow it, though. It gave him an education-a good one. At that time, the church gave free schooling to any Catholic who wanted it. He believes the church helped a lot of people. He couldn't of gotten an education if it weren't for them. Throughout history, the church preserved learning when others wanted to destroy it.
     Now, he writes for the Industrial Worker (I.W.W. newspaper). Yep, the anarchist wobblies of the 1920s. They're still going. Sort of.
     He talks unions. Sell-outs. How the airline unions sold out the airline traffic controllers. How the trouble with unions today is that they don't support other unions. He's a non-stop talker. It's as if he so rarely gets a guest that he's got to tell me everything he's done and thought-- ever. He's got a theory about World War II, Iraq, the price of milk.
     The killer is, it's interesting. I like listening. He's had a fascinating history, filled with stories I'll use myself.
     There’s one about a famous atheist who stood in front of huge church groups calling on God to kill him NOW if he had any guts. Another story about a lone pro-Roman hold-out in France 10 years after the Roman Empire fell apart.
     He tells me he was fired as a professor for trying to organize. He's now a semi-retired full-time writer. He's published an e-book about the pro-Roman hero and some other things. He has a motorcycle and belongs to Mensa. He invites me to a Mensa dinner.
     "I think it'll be interesting for you," he says. "A lot of weird smart people. We call it a jaw wag. That's mostly what people will be doing."
     I thank him and tell him I don't want to intrude on his life.
     "Oh no," he says. "You're welcome to come. And to stay here as long as you like. The only kink could be if Alberta, my lady friend from Boston, comes. Then I'd, well you know.... but you could stay here. She'd be in the back with me. She wouldn't take up the couch... you know."
     By this time, I've graduated from juice to tea. I've just finished my second cup and am taking the teabag into the kitchen to throw it out. I look around for the garbage. Then I ask.
     "Garbage?" says Tom. "No garbage. My mother taught me: never waste anything. Space. Especially space. People ask me, `Where's the garbage?' Why, there is no garbage. See here? It's a cereal box. But look inside."
     I look inside. There's a pop tart wrapper and a banana peel.
     "See," he continues, "everything is it's own garbage bag. I never use plastic bags. I don't waste landfill."
     "I use the plastic bags from the supermarket," I tell him. "I never buy garbage bags. It's stupid to buy something just to throw it out."
     "You don't go far enough," he tells me. "I shop with a canvas bag. I just reuse it. Bring it everywhere. I never take a shopping bag in the first place."
     It doesn't occur to me to ask him how he gets his cereal boxes filled with banana peels, and margarine tubs of cherry pits to the garbage cans. Maybe he carries them, one by one to the waiting bins.
     I awaken the next day to the tap tap tap of a keyboard in the other room. Not loud, but enough. I got a good 7 hours sleep, I think. Bad 8 hours. The last hour taken by a dream about two girls-- both wanting me-- one with bright red hair. I agree to both but have to avoid one when I’m with the other. I don't remember much more. Also there's gas.
     Most folks have morning gas. A horizontal buildup of methane, carbon dioxide, and hydrogen, trapped in the large intestine while you sleep.
     Usually morning farts are huge noisy blasts. As if they started somewhere chest high and forced themselves through your body. BLLLLAAAAAAAATTTTTT. But this morning, it's Pop. Pop. Pop. Almost dainty farts. Pfit. Pfit. Weird.
     Weirder still, when I evacuate the farts, the related fecality is a giant brown spiral on the bottom of my host's toilet. A huge single curl, like skin peeled from an apple in one line.
     When I flush the toilet, I hear Tom's voice from the other room. "I guess you're up," he says. "Like I said, everything is self-service here. Help yourself to coffee and some breakfast."
     I go to the kitchen and pull the can of coffee from the cabinet shelf. I open it. Inside is a gum wrapper, an Almond Joy wrapper, and a very ripe apple core. The smell hits me before I can close the plastic lid. I check the other cabinets. A second can of coffee is even lighter than the first, and it feels warm. Mmmm compost! I think I'll do coffee at the 7-11.
     Flash ahead to the MENSA JAW WAG. It's at a Chinese restaurant. I see a long table in the back with a few octogenarians, and a few slightly younger people.
     "Is this Mensa?" I ask.
     "Sure is," says a woman at the end, her walker parked behind her.
     "I'm a friend of Tom's," I say. "He suggested I join you guys tonight."
     "A friend of Tom's, huh?" says a hefty guy wearing a HARVARD t-shirt. "We won't hold it against you. He's not here yet, so have a seat."
     I sit down and people say hello and then return to the conversation in progress before I arrived.
     "You know, the biggest problem for intelligent people is snobbery. Too much, we look down on average people. We think we're better than they are."
The speaker is Mitch. Maybe my age with grayer hair, though more of it. He sits several inches away from the table, making room for his copious middle.
     "I disagree," says a 30 something. He's the youngest person in the room, other than the busboys. Skinny, with light brown hair, his face is Mork-era Robin Williams. His accent is pure hillbilly. A dialect I cannot reproduce in print, so I won't.
     "We really are better than those people," he says. "Our biggest problem is that the world is made for them. Not for us. I can't take classes anymore because things move so slow. For example, I'm in this computer networking class. The problems are binary, so there are only 7 possibilities. By the time the professor finishes writing the problem on the board, I have the answer. It takes everyone else ages."
     Next to me is an attractive Oriental woman with gray streaks through her jet black hair. She has a perfect American accent. A.B.O., I guess. She asks Robin Williams, "Where are you from? Not from around here, I'd guess from the accent.."
"I'm originally from Arkansas," he says. "And where are you from?"
"I was shipped from Korea when I was very young," she answers. "A mail-order baby."
     "Did you come in a box?" I ask and immediately remember the joke about what has to do with film and comes in a little yellow box: Woody Allen. I hope she hasn't heard it.
     I fear she has. "No," she answers. "Did you?"
     By this time Tom has come in and taken a seat next to me. The table is filling up fast. The waitress comes over to take our order.
     "Hi Tom," says the fat guy.
     "Hi, Jim," says Tom, "either of these two seats taken."
     "Two," says the Jim. "Don't get me started with two. You know there are really very few two-punchline jokes. Ya, know what I mean. You get a punchline, then BLAM! another one.”
     “A man has his last fight with his wife,” he continues. “She's on her deathbed. It's the day before she dies, both of them know it. She says, 'Sammy, it's my last request. I want to you to promise me you'll let my mother ride in the same car with you during the funeral procession to the cemetery. Will you promise me that? My last request.'
     “'Well,' says Sammy, 'I'd rather she was riding in the same car with YOU.'
     “'Sammy, please!' says the wife.
     “'Okay,' he says, 'but it'll spoil my day.'"
     "Very funny," says the Korean mail-order woman sitting on my right. "But this is a restaurant, and we have to order. The waitress is standing right there."
     "Waitress? Restaurant?" says Jim. "Don't get me started on restaurant jokes. A man at a restaurant sits down and orders soup. The waiter brings it, but the man raises his hand to stop him.
     'It's too cold,' he says, 'take it back.'
     The waiter is a little surprised, but returns with a fresh bowl of soup. Again the man complains, without tasting it. 'It's too cold. Take it back!'
     This time the waiter speaks up. 'But you haven't even tasted it.'
     'I know,' says the patron. 'Take it back.'
     After several times, the waiter is finally exasperated. 'Why are you complaining that the soup is too cold when you've never tasted one bowl?'
     The man answers, 'It won't be too cold when you need a tray to carry it instead of dipping your thumb in it.'"
     "Jerry please," says the Oriental. "The waitress is here. You have a soup joke. You want soup?"
     "Soup? Don't get me started on soup jokes. A man complains to the waiter about the soup.
     'Waiter,' he says, 'taste this soup.'
     The waiter walks over to him.
     'I'm sorry sir. Whatever the problem is we can fix it. If it's too bland we can spice it up. If it's too salty, we can…'
     The patron interrupts. 'Taste it!' he orders.
'Sir, if you'd just explain the problem, I'd be happy to ask the chef.'
'Taste it!' orders the customer. The waiter shrugs and decides that he'd better accommodate. 'Ok,' he says. 'Where's the spoon?'
'Aaahh,' says the customer, 'you got it. That’s the problem. Now bring me a goddamn spoon!'
I could go on about Tom and Mensa, but don’t get me started.
     Flash ahead: It’s the wedding day and it’s cold.
This is Florida, but it’s cold. That’s okay. I can keep my trenchcoat and hat on I’ll look cooler. Less like a bald old New York Jew.
     So I arrive at the wedding wearing the first tie I’ve worn in a decade—a wide blue thing I found on the bottom of my closet. I’m looking cool. I got my trenchcoat, my Mafia hat, my army boots. Ho ho, I’ll be the toughest looking guy there. They’ll smell the importance of my presence.
     I get out of the rented car, hand the keys to valet, and stride into the restaurant by the river.
     As I enter, I spot older man with gray hair, a thick red-veined nose, and large gravity-inflated ears. He spots me too.
     “Are you the rabbi?” he asks.
     “Huh? I’m a friend of the bride’s.” I answer, crestfallen.
     “You look like a rabbi,” he says. “Are you sure you’re not a rabbi?”
     “I’m sure,” I tell him.
     “Mykel,” comes a familiar voice off to the side. It’s Ms S, in her white gown, with a veil. I’ll tell ya. I don’t know much about wedding gowns, but this one is a beaut. Not puffy. Not looking like the top of a cake. But more like a collection of carefully preserved doilies. Beautiful in a melancholic 19th century way. And Ms S herself, is easy on the eyes. The two of them (Ms S and her dress) carry me out of my-are-you-the-rabbi depression.
     We cheek peck.
     “I’ll get you away from Uncle Charlie,” she whispers in my ear.
     She brings me to a couple of guys named Fletch and Greasy. They are not wearing ties. They’re wearing hooded sweatshirts.
     They’re talking as I come up to them. Fletch is saying, “Hey, remember that time we were on the halfpipe in back of PK’s? You were killing it, doing narly hand plants, landing all the way on the bottom of the tranny. So this guy wants to show he’s a hotshot. He comes to the top of the pipe and wants to do an Ali to grind revert. He goes flying completely off the end. Just slams onto the flat bottom. Pow! Right on his head. Cudda killed himself. We pissed ourselves laughing so hard. He didn’t die though. Still, it was funny.”
     I don’t get any of it. I’m not even sure they’re talking English. What the hell is a halfpipe? What’s a handplant? What’s an Ali? Like Mohammad Ali? Is this Muslim talk?
     I’ve come to the end of my allotted space. Looks like this is gonna have to finish in Part Two. More next month.

ENDNOTES: [Visitors to my website: mykelboard.com or subscribers (email to: god@mykelboard.com) will receive hot links to some of the topics here. Visitors to my blog (you can get it through the website) can comment on the column... or anything else.]


-->Just in case you missed it department: I'm not going to have a sex change operation. That was my yearly April Fool column.

-->The Wall Street Journal says that gynecologists who prescribe long-term birth control pills may be helping prevent more diseases than K-I-D-S infection. These pills suppress menstrual periods for months or years at a time.
The article quotes Patricia Sulak, a Texas obstetrician: "Having monthly periods are a modern phenomenon anyway," she says. I don't get that. Menses? Period? Those words mean MONTHLY. We didn't invent them in the 20th century.
     According to Sulak, however, because of frequent childbirth and breast feeding, the average aboriginal woman in Australia as 150 periods during her lifetime. The average North American woman has 400. Each of those extra ones could increase the risk of cancer, says the doctor. Unlike those birth control pills that really prevent cancer. Yeah, right.


-->No wonder those people who talk on cellphones in restaurants are so dumb dept: Scientists at the Radiation and Nuclear Safety Authority in Finland have found that cell phone radiation can damage the blood-brain barrier, a membrane that prevents harmful substances in the body from entering the brain. In their tests, as little as one hour of cell phone radiation caused blood-vessel cells to shrink.

-->Do deer use cellphones? dept. Mad deer disease has been reported in eight US states and Canada. The rate of infection may be as high as 3%. It looks like the disease can jump species too. Five young people in the infected areas died from Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease-- the human equivalent of Mad Cow/Deer. Three of the five were regular venison eaters.

-->What's in a Word? dept: Utne Reader reports that COUGAR is Canadian slang for an older woman who seduces younger male "prey." It used to be a put-down, but, like "queer," it's now worn proudly. There are cougar dating services, cougar cruises and www.urbancougars.com that promote the idea. Could you imagine a similar thing for GUYS who like younger women. NOW and The Christians would be up in arms!

-->I'll Write One dept: AdAge.com reports that McDonalds is looking for hip-hop artists to mention it in rap songs. Of course, the artists would be compensated for the product placement. As of January, McDonald's says they have not yet found a hip hop song they can use "to positively reflect our brand."

-->The Truth So Nobody Believes It dept: I told you there’d be a scandal a minute. Here in New York, a female day care worker is arrested for having sex with a 4-year old boy. The city is shocked. The woman talks to the press.
     “The boy enjoyed it,” she says. “He was enthusiastic.”
     People are even more outraged. How could a four-year-old enjoy sex? (I guess they’ve never seen kids play doctor.) And what’s more? Even if the kid did enjoy himself, he’s too young!
     Of course, at 4 years old, you’re too young for pleasure. You should be miserable. You’ll need the practice for later in life.

-->So what's the problem? dept: BNI (great no-pix sex review newsletter! Info from BNI@aol.com) reports that a Sacramento court arraigned a California highschool teacher for having sex with a student in a car. Her two-year-old was strapped into the back seat. The boy was 16. So what? The baby was strapped in, safe. What more do they want?

-->This is the problem! dept: The same issue of BNI reports that in South Africa Ann-Marie Engelbrecht was convicted of killing her husband. Her sentence was 5 minutes of detention. Supposedly, the husband was unkind to her. The judge, a woman (surprise!) said that Engelbrecht already served her sentence by being married to the guy.

-->Diet? What Color? Dept: AARP Magazine reports that an 8 year study by the University of Texas in San Antonio found that 54.5 percent of adults who drank diet soda became overweight. This compares with 32.8 percent of those who drank sugared soda.

-->Smell This Baby dept: You know that "new car smell" that everybody likes? It reminds me of sniffing a packet of Lipton's soup. Well, that lovely smell comes from volatile organic compounds. The fumes from these compounds can cause nausea, headaches, throat irritation and more. Japanese carmakers have already begun to cut back. They say by 2007, their vehicle interiors will meet air quality guidelines set for residential buildings.
     In the US, I expect laws to require a similar parity. But rather than decrease the chemicals in cars, the US will take the more business-like approach and INCREASE the pollutants in buildings.

-->Inadequate Thanks dept: I wanted to list names and addresses, but I don’t have time or space. But MUCHO THANKS to the folks who helped me out with readings in Ft. Lauderdale, Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, The Bowery, and especially Providence Rhode Island. You guys ROCK… or at least walk unsteadily. Thanks for everything.