Mykel's Column for MRR 295

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board

So the prophet went into Gomorrah and preached to the people. He screamed to warn them that they have to repent and stop their evil ways or they'd be destroyed. The people didn't listen, but the man continued to walk through town screaming his warnings.
           After several days, a little boy came up to the man.
           “Why are you still shouting?” he asked. “Don't you see that you can't change anyone?”
           “I used to scream to try to change humanity,” said the man. “Now I realize that's impossible. So now, I scream to keep humanity from changing me.
--Ellie Weisel

I'm madder than a pedophile at a nursing home. It's my stop. I struggle up from subway seat, putting my RAZORCAKE in my bag and wiping the bagel crumbs from my pocket. I reach the door, and there's this massive hunk of blubber trying to force his way in.

'What the fuck? Dija go ta retard school? Let people OUT first, you fuckin' ape.”

I don't say any of that, of course. This guy is 6 foot tall and weighs three of me. He could crush me with a flick of his index finger. But I think it. And I think it hard. I hate people who block the subway doors. Kill 'em.

It bothers me until I get to work. It keeps coming back. The I shudda saids and What could he have done to me?s. I spend much more time on this guy's stupidity than its worth. But that's what pet peeves are all about. Getting worked up over stuff that isn't worth getting so worked up about.

They're weird, these pet peeves. It's logical to get mad at George Bush for the murder of so many people in Iraq. It's not logical to get mad at the old lady who stands blocking up the walk side of the escalator. But logic is not part of pet peeve. It's a deep emotional immediate feeling. Fuck logic.

On the way back home, I'm trying to walk up Lexington Avenue to get to Grand Central. Ahead of me is some tourist family, lazily walking down the sidewalk. Asses like twin watermelons. This is probably the first time they've walked since they got into their new pick-up truck in Omaha.

Shoulder to shoulder. Taking up the whole sidewalk. Not letting a single person pass this way or that. Jeezus fuck! Go back to Nebraska! I hate people who take up the whole sidewalk. Kill 'em!

And then there're people with sandals. At a punk show? If I want to see your toes, I'll ask if I can suck them. This is punkrock. This is army boots or Docs or cop shoes or most anything not Nike or so hippie it inspires that foot I want to shove up their asses.

Sandals? Unless you're an Arab belly dancer with a jewel in your naval, you should not be wearing sandals. Fuck sandal wearers. I wanna kill 'em!

So I walk back from ABC NO RIO and I see this guy in a black leather jacket. Between him and a mailbox is this ugly girl. White skin, little white blouse, tied in a bow under her tits. She's leaned back against the mailbox. He's pressing her into the blue, his entire body leaned against her, like she's a piece of dough being flattened for a pizza. His lips press against hers. Her arms feebly wrap around his back. His hips press tightly into her. Grinding.

Dammit, jerk. I'm the first in favor of screwing, but this isn't screwing. This is a show. You wanna prove to the world you're getting laid? Ok, hand out cards. Wear an I'm getting laid button. Write a letter to MRR. This guy's worse that those jerks who talk about their private life on a cellphone in the bus.

Listen Buster, keep your public displays of affection to yourself. I'm not impressed. You disgust me. You're so insecure about your sexlife that you need to show it to the world. Wassamatter? Afraid we'll think you're a homo? Need to prove yourself? You're only proving how pitiful you are. I should kill you.

Every time I heard U.S. troops are mowed down in Iraqi, a little shiver of joy went up my spine.

“Yeah!” I would say to myself. “The bastards are getting what they deserve. I wanna see more. Georgie Bush is getting his ass kicked... and here's another one.”

It was like pro-wrestling. The good guys score a point! The bad guy's down! He's out.

Rarely has there been a war where the division between the good guys and the bad guys is so clear. There are the invaders and the invaded. The attackers and those defending. It's as clear as a chancre.

Every day, I'd check the NY Times report. Watch the rising graph of American Troops Killed, and cheer on Iraqi victories. I hate those fucking American murderers. Kill 'em!

Saddam Hussein was my hero. He was the Abraham Lincoln of Iraq, the only man who could bring together the waring sides and actually rule. While he was president, the Sunnis and the Shiites lived, and worked together. Iraqi women were freed from the burqa and gained more power than in nearly any other Islamic country. I admired Saddam for these things. But mostly, I admired him for having the balls to stand up to the U.S. His murder was a great loss.

Except for that, the war went well for me. Although U.S. newspapers never showed war dead, the statistics were enough. As the numbers crawled to (and eventually passed) 3000, I cheered the power of David's slingshot against the techno-weapons of Goliath. Go David! Kill 'em.

So I'm visiting my pal Stephie in Connecticut. I've known her for years. We used to work at The Scribner Bookstore in New York. In the 1970s, that was the bookshop for the hoity toidy. Norman Mailer shopped there. Lillian Helman too. I was impressed by the clientèle. I lusted after Stephie.

As usual, things don't work out. Stephie got hitched, rehitched, dropped some puppies, became a poet of some note, and moved to Connecticut. I macheted a different path through life's jungle. As happens, we got in contact again and I visited her in West Hartford.

It's a modest suburban home. Stone foundation, pale blue siding. A shed sits off to the side, and a large driveway sweeps up to the 2 car garage. I pull my rental into the driveway, get out and ring the doorbell. In a few seconds, the door opens.

“Yeah?” he asks... not aggressively, but just surprised.

“I'm an old friend of... er... your... er... Mom?” I say, figuring that's the most likely relationship.

The kid is big. Six foot something, with shoulders wider than most doorways. He's built like a football player, but his face shows an intelligence not usually associated with the NFL.

“Are you Mykel Board?” he asks.

I nod.

“My mom told me all about you. I'm Tristan.” he says.

We shake hands.

Suddenly, I remember. Tristan took off for the army. Despite Stephie's wishes, he said he loved helicopters, wanted to be a pilot... or a teacher... and needed a boost from the military. He enlisted and they shipped him to Iraq.

“What are you doing home?” I ask him. “Did you get out?”

He laughs.

“I'm on leave,” he says. “I go back next week. They keep extending and extending. Tour after tour. You can never get out... Wanna Coke?”

“Got any beer?” I ask him.

He laughs, disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a pair of Coronas.

“Mom's out with the husband and the dog,” he says. “They like to take long walks in the summer. Ya know. Mom's a poet. They do things with dogs and trees.”

I nod, unconsciously staring at the guy. His perfect features. His wide forehead, like a scholar's. His nose, strong, yet not hooked or over-bearing. His blond crewcut.

“So, what's it like over there.” I ask him.

“It's like hell,” he says, using like like a 1960s teenager. “You read the reports, but the stuff you read about isn't the awful stuff. The awful stuff isn't big. It's like little. It's like we're not allowed into town. We can't talk to the local people. The base is like a jail. We have like a little radio station. We can download stuff on our iPods, but like our internet connection is really bad. And it's censored. We're like prisoners.”

As he talks, I have to force my attention back to his words. I keep staring at his face. I see the left side of that wide forehead splatter onto the window behind him. His brain leaks out over the exposed skull. An eye dangles from the optic nerve. His lips, blown away, expose teeth fragments in what looks like a bubbling pit of red tar. His shattered mandible wags up and down as his strained breathing pushes out words.

“... and I just want to sit and like listen to my music and read a book. But you can never do that. You're always like on edge. Waiting to fly, waiting for... for... are you all right?” he asks me. “You don't look too good.”

“No,” I tell him, “I'm fine. I'm just spacing out a bit.”

“OK,” he says. “I'll leave you then. Mom should be home like soon.”

“No,” I say. “I want to hear more.”

But I'm, like, not feeling too good.


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

-->Junkmail from hell dept: I got in the mail what I thought was an offer to subscribe to a history magazine. On the front of the card, it says "Become a Part of History"
       Then I thought it was a science museum. Inside in big green letters: Come for A Visit. Stay for An Eternity. Wrong again.
        The card is from Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn.

-->Get a loadda that finger dept: Bottom Line Health magazine reports that children's scores on math and literacy tests are "linked" to the length of their index finger in relation to the ring finger. I did some research, and here's the scoop.

DISEASE: Longer ring finger: Heart disease. Autism and ADHD are also common.
SEXUAL ACTIVITY: Longer ring finger: Researchers at the University of Cheminitz, Germany, found men with long ring fingers had more sexual partners in the previous year and during their sexual careers
MUSIC: Long ring finger: There was a University of Liverpool study of 54 members of a symphony orchestra. The study found almost all the members had "exceptionally long" ring fingers.
DEPRESSION: Equal Length: A study at the University of Alberta found men with ring and index fingers of similar length - more like women - were more prone to depression.
HOMOSEXUALITY: Equal Length: Scientists at the University of California found men and women with index and ring fingers of the same length were more likely to be homosexual
INTELLIGENCE: Equal Length: Research at Milan University showed men with index and ring fingers of similar length had better verbal skills and were more likely to get good grades.

--> There had to be a word for it dept: Sexsomnia. That is the word for sleep fuckers... well almost. The actual definition is "People who exhibit sexual behavior during sleep-- fondling another person, masturbation, etc." I'm up for some etc. How bout you?

-->Vegetarians get smart(er) dept: A recent booklet put out by vegans urges members to tone down the shrillness in order to recruit more people to the cause. The booklet "Guide to Cruelty-Free Eating" says, among other things:
            "It's important to remember that equating meat with honey will make the vegan case seem absurd to the average person."
        They also urge members to lay off abortion and "other political or ethical issues" to avoid conflict with the potential convert.

-->Americans like it big dept: According to the SMITHSONIAN MAGAZINE, in the 1960s, the average chicken weighted about 3 1/2 pounds at slaughter. Today it's 4 1/2 pounds. The average cow was 1,011 pounds. Today it's 1,275 pounds.
            Oh yeah, people: in 1980 the average male was 168 lbs. Today 180. (I'm 130.) The average female was 142. Today she's 152.
        My favorite statistic is about the International Journal of Obesity. It had 509 pages in 1993, its first year of publication. The latest issue has 2,322 pages. My guess is that the increase is mostly from ads for diet pills.

-->Invention of the year department: Mitch Altman, a San Fransisco man, has invented a key-chain accessory called TV-B-Gone. You can use it switch off any TV in a public place. It's small, discrete, and $25 including shipping. Order from tvbgone.com. Maybe I can get a free one for the publicity.

--> Oh yeah, I hate Ellie Weisel. I think he's lost any integrity he might have had when he started. Now he's a cog in the holocaust exploitation machine. Throwing in holocaust, and Hitler, and anti-Semite when anyone criticizes Israel or any Jewish organization.
         That said, I have to give the man credit. That quote at the beginning is not an exact one. It's from memory. It was in the prayer book at the local homogogue where I went for Yom Kippur. But even if I didn't remember it exactly, it's a good one.

-->What's for dinner, Mom? dept: In Belleville Missouri, K. Vickers was charged for “criminal neglect.” Someone called the cops about “an injured woman.” They came, and found that Ms Vickers was falling down drunk... not injured. They helped her to her apartment. Inside they found her mom. Dead. Her leg had been partially eaten by the family's poodle.
             I wonder if the neglect charge was because of mom, or the pooch.

-->Just the caption dept: Here's the caption of a photo published by The Getty News Service.

“At a new rehabilitation facility at Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Army Spc. Marco Robledo, aims an M4 rifle at a firearm training simulator as instructor Ross Colquhoun helps adjust Robledo's prosthetic arm.”

'Nuff said?

-->Kyle Nonneman sent me clippings about Mom Eaten By Dog, and Walter Reed Hospital. I used them for these endnotes.
         Kyle's a jailbird in Missouri. He could use some letters, old fanzines, whatever you got. Write to him! He's: Kyle Nonneman, 68528_065, Medical Center for Federal Prisoners, POB 4000, Springfield MO 65801
               Plus, you'll get tidbits from him like “Cannibalism is DIY as fuck, isn't it?”

Mykel's Column for MRR #294

to Mykel's homepage:

You're Wrong

An Irregular Column

For Maximum Rock'n'Roll Number 294

by Mykel Board

old pond--
frogs jumping in
the sound of water
--Basho (revised version)

You slowly insert your vaselined finger into your asshole. You push it around, massaging a bit. You twist the digit, lubricating 360 degrees. Then you squat over the Crisco-greased butt plug. 5 inches around at the widest point. Can you accommodate it? It’ll be snug. Just right.

Its pointy end up, the flat side rests against the wood on the floor. You lower yourself on to it, feeling the tip pry open the resistant sphincter and slowly slip inside.

Ow! You’re not going to… yes… ah, there it is. You feel like you’ve gotta take the world’s heaviest beershit, but there it is. That hole plugged and ready to go.

You’ve already used a hoseclamp to chock off your few inches of manliness. Or, you’ve wadded an old sock into your girlhole. Now, you can dress and continue the operation.

Underpants on, then jeans, t-shirt, socks and shoes. You pull your earplugs out of the desk drawer and insert them in your ears. You rap on the desktop. You can still hear a faint thud, like a body falling from a building far in the distance.

The bandage will take care of that.

You take two fresh gauze pads and put them over your closed eyes. Then you wrap a bandage… like the ones they use in mummy movies… over the gauze. The same bandage further covers the earplugs.

Again you hit the desk. Nothing. Absolute silence.

Feeling around, your hands strike the cool leather of the ball gag. You feel from the buckle to the center. Picking it up, you open your mouth as wide as you can. It’s not wide enough. You’re afraid of knocking your teeth out. You lick the ball, getting it salivatorily greased enough to try again.

Now you open your mouth so wide you feel cracking on the side of your head. You push. Yes! The ball pops into your mouth. It holds down your tongue, making you gag. When the reflex stops, you buckle the device behind your head.

Touch, you can’t block. You need to navigate. You’ve taken care of sight, sound, taste. You’ve closed all openings below the waist. You have to breathe, so you can’t close your nose completely, but you can protect yourself from any odor that might invade from the local garbage or bakery.

First,you stuff some extra gauze into one nostril. Feeling your way around to the kitchen, you find the refrigerator. It’s easy to open. Finding the vegetable bin is a little trickier. In your quest, you knock something over. Something warm and sticky drips against the back of your hand.

Further down. Bottom shelf. You recognize the onion by the thin loose skin. You peel the skin, until you reach the slightly wet juicy part in the center. Pressing your thumb against it, you allow the finger to soak up some juice. Then, you run your thumb against your mustache under the open schnozhole. Your eyes tear beneath the bandages.

Closing the refrigerator door, you’re ready to face the world.

Slowly, you feel your way to your apartment door. Go out. Navigate the hall with your hands against the walls. You come to the elevator, feel for the call button. Rest your hand against the closed door. You wait for it to open… for the elevator to carry you downstairs, to walk outside in the city air. Ready to face the city.

FLASH TO PRESENT: I'm in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Here on a book tour and haiku conference. I've been interested in haiku since I lived in Japan 20 years ago. That's when I learned that haiku is not the idiotic anything-that's-5-7-5 drivel that clogs the internet. Haiku in English has changed from a lame imitation of the Japanese. In some ways, it’s more conservative, more Zen, than modern Japanese haiku. In other ways, it’s more modern. One of greatnesses is the spirit of awareness. Knowing what’s going on right now. Feeling the wood of the chair slats as it presses into your back. Being able to trace that fart as it slides up the right side of the large intestine, across the top-- like toothpaste squeezed from a tube-- down the left side, where the pressure pain comes in huge bubbles, until finally where it blasts out in a triumphal trumpet. The sound of flatulence.

One of the conference seminars is on a new translation of the famous Basho haiku that you would have learned in highschool, if you weren’t too busy listening to your iPod.

In the old translation, there was just one frog, probably a big ole bullfrog, that jumped into the water. Basho heard the frog and, to surprise his readers, talked about the sound of the water, rather than the croaking sound of the frog.

The Japanese language doesn’t use plurals. The same word means frog and frogs. In the new translation there are lots of frogs. They’re jumping in the water all the time, creating a more or less constant sound, like someone typing on an old fashioned typewriter.

The genius of the poem is that Basho noticed the water’s sound in one moment of inspiration. The frogs were there all the time, splashing around, fucking, farting, jumping, doing whatever it is that frogs do in water. This is so common, so taken for granted, that nobody is even aware of it.

POW! Basho has a great moment of awareness. He hears the water because of the frogs. In one instance, he celebrates his immediate awareness of what’s always around him. This water, NOW. If punkrock means NO FUTURE, you can’t get more punkrock than that.

****************

The opening paragraphs of this column come to me while sitting on the subway. I’m reading the latest copy of VIZ. I look up at the people sitting across from me. There they are. A row of dead people waiting their turn at the taxidermist. Sitting silently as their life fluids drain from their body and are replaced by embalming fluid, via the ears, through thin white wires.

At each stop, I hear the scratch of the opening doors. People shuffling in and out. Snatches of banter, “… and her momma’s gonna be pissed when she finds out…”

The people across from me, don’t hear it at all. They hear Kenny Logins, or Destiny’s Child or Buju Banton. They sit aurally cocooned. If you asked them, they probably couldn’t tell you the race, gender or age of the person rubbing their arm. They don’t care. In an isolated city, these people, taken over, like by iPods of iBody Snatchers, isolate themselves further.

They’ve tried to wipe away their world. Cut out the real universe next to them. Not DEAL with the rest of humanity. Huddle in their opaque bubbles.

Am I better, nose buried in the latest VIZ? Aren’t I trying to shut out the world?

I don’t think so. I can—and do-- look up. I hear the fuss. I see the crotch of the woman in short shorts standing over me hoping I’ll give her my seat. The pod people are aware of nothing. They’re zombies, sleep walking in a self-contained world.

I don’t block my perceptitory input. I do, however, have a history of psychic iPodism.

I complained about the richness of my world. Horns honk the second a light turns green. Trashmen bang dumpsters at 3AM. Ambulance sirens, one after the other down Broadway. I complained! You know the way girls scream when they meet after a long absence? You know the way they hold their hands in front of their chests like squirrels sniffing for peanuts? You know the way they act like complete morons, shrieking at the top of their lungs at the most sensitive point on the human auditory spectrum? That used to bother me.

You know the way homos yell at each other on the street? Stand with their hands on their hips? Bat the word BITCH back and forth like tennis players bat a tennis ball? The way they stand and scream on the sidewalk, at all hours of the night? The way they throw you a What-are-you-looking-at,-Mary look, before they tell you what you’re not good enough to do to them? I used to be annoyed at that.

You know the way freshmen college jocks drink one beer and suddenly feel drunk? You know how they immediately show their suppressed homosexuality, hug each other, sing their frat song at full off-key volume? Sometimes twist each other’s nipples? You know how they shout some unintelligible sports chant or Greek letter drivel? Something that sounds like BUG-UBBA BUG-UBBA BUG-WANNA-BUG-BUG-BUG? There was a time I didn’t like that.

Can you imagine? The richness of this input. The most chaotic punkish of the punk and I complain? The universe is playing itself for me, like water for Basho, and I’m annoyed? What’s wrong with me?

The world is a chorale. Car alarms, screeching subway wheels, twirking pigeons, your grandmother’s farts. The smell of old bums on the street. The sight of plastic bags blowing in the wind from light poles. They’re all part of it. Each instrument is there, playing for me. The world’s biggest concert is THE WORLD.

It hits me like a feminist thrown brick. I smile. Throw my arms back like a diver just before he jumps. I scream at the top of my lungs, adding to the cheerful cacophony. YES! YES! YES!

I run down Broadway. Down to Chinatown. To the fish market. I inhale the scent of the rotting entrails, thrown to the ground in the mass filet. I breathe the durian, the old sock fragrance of the Thai stinkfruit.

I can’t believe what I’ve been missing. Not missing, but experiencing as bad… as something to be stopped, shut out. All this! This great loud, smelly world. What an idiot I’ve been for being annoyed. What an idiot you are for wanting to shut it out. Am I saying that anyone who uses an iPod or a cellphone is a social cripple? Am I saying that wearing deodorant is like walking around with a buttplug up your ass? Am I saying that not enjoying a car alarm is like walking around with your head covered in bandages? Yes! That’s exactly what I’m saying. More than that. Using an iPod on the subway, playing video games on the back of an airline seat, chatting on a cellphone while waiting on line at the bank… all these things are fascist. Okay Jeff Bale, they’re not exactly fascist. But they are totalitarian.

You are trying to play god. You’re not accepting the cinematic symphony that is the world. You want to control it. To bend it to your will. You want to rule over it like a tyrant. Eyes, ears, tongue, nose. You are the master of input. Fuck the world, you say. You want to control it all. To plug your holes. Stop yourself up. Control the input. Humanity and all that’s outside shouldn’t have a chance. And, oh yeah, you probably call yourself an anarchist.

ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com), blog viewer (mykelboard.blogspot.com), podcast listeners or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get a chance to comment directly to me on the content of this column]

-->Thanks dept: I want to thank my pal Brian Cornforth for putting up with me, chauffeuring me around, and letting his dog, Frank Zappa, hump my leg and bite my ass. I was on a booktour in North Carolina just before I went to the haiku conference.
I also want to thank the guys at Internationalist Books in Chapel Hill. Great bookstore, great reading… I thought I lost the check they gave me… and complained. Turns out they paid me in cash. Sometimes I’m an idiot!

-->That’s the way it is with everyone in the world dept: Krzyfztof Wroblewski pounded on a woman’s door from 1AM to 5AM. When the knocking stopped, the woman opened the door and Wroblewski stormed inside. He shoved her to the ground and grabbed her cellphone when she tried to call 911. According to The New York Post, “he believed that he and the woman were romantically involved, while she considered themselves merely acquaintances.”

-->Small victories dept: New York City has publicly apologized and paid $750 to each of 8 artists who were banned by the parks department. The display was part of a Brooklyn College MFA program final. The city said the display was “not appropriate for families” and shut it down… damaging some of the artwork in the process.
Among the displays was an illustrated story that included a Dick Cheney blowjob. Supposedly, there was other sexual content. My question: if sexual content is not appropriate for families, how do families get there in the first place?

The rest of this month’s endnotes all come from Gay City News, August 23, 2007.

-->Queers for Bush dept: Ryan J. Davis posted a video on You Tube called “Gays for Giuliani.” It’s supposed to be a pro-Giuliani video thanking little Benito for “supporting civil unions,” and being pro-gay in general.
Those whose IQ is larger than my dick have already figured out this is a genius attack ad. Created by lefty gays, they’ve aimed it at Republicans who wouldn’t touch homos with a 10 foot dildo. They plan to show it on TV in the Southern States, where it’ll hurt most. I give ‘em 20 points.

-->But I take 20 points away from the Queer Justice League. Somebody famous (me?) once said anytime people talk about justice someone’s gonna get hurt. I was right, of course.
This group is demonstrating against anti-gay reggae acts. Their bogeymen are Buju Banton and Bounty Killa. They want the pair banned from public performances and censored everywhere else. A local state senator is trying to help get the acts banned. Fortunately there’s a voice of reason. Gay activist Bill Dobbs writes, The effort to use the government to interfere with a message, however offensive, is despicable.
Now, is Giuliani gonna have to hire Banton and Killa to boost his sagging conservative image?

-->Talk about irony dept: A New York jury has awarded $1.5 million to a cop and 2 co-cops. The cop was prohibited from becoming a Youth Liaison Officer because his superior thought he was gay. Two other cops came to his aid, and they were immediately moved off the fast-advancement track to desk jobs.
The city fought hard against the verdict, and is now appealing it. The city argues that none of the officers “suffered enough” to warrant so much money.
OK, that’s not so weird. City governments pay lawyers to be assholes. BUT, on page 7 of the same gay newspaper that ran the story, is a police recruitment ad, paid for by the city of New York. The ad features a picture of a female cop (presumably a lesbo) with the quote: I can’t think of another profession that would make me prouder—being a role model for children. Yowsah!

-->If it says OUCH, spits, and deflates it’s real dept: In California, a plaintiff known only as Joy H is suing her “husband” under California’s community property law. That law says that legally married people own half of all of each other’s property. In a divorce, that property is split.
-->The hitch is that Joy’s husband is a woman and gay marriage is not legal in California. Joy claims that she didn’t know the sex of her spouse. Though they often had sex, “he” used a dildo under the covers. Joy thought it was real.
The judge tossed out the case. I wonder if hubby has since tossed out the dildo.

-->Reuters knows who butters its bread dept: A Reuters Hollywood reporter filed a story about Merv Griffin. Its title: Merv Griffin Died a Closeted Homosexual. When the story appeared, the title was changed to Griffin Never Revealed the Man Behind the Curtain. A number of content changes also suddenly appeared in the final publication.
No comment from Reuters.

Mykel's Column for MRR #293

Tired of the WORDS? You can see pix and comment on them right here.

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board

MYKEL'S COLUMN FOR MRR #293

"How can any piece of art claim to have cutting edge integrity unless it features at least one act of anal intercourse?” --John Fardell

I don't know who John Fardell is, or where I picked up the quote. But the guy's right in a bigger way than he guessed. It's not only art, but life, that one way or another involves getting it in the rear.

This month, I want to write about two topics: normalcy and, the theme of this issue: immigration. Can I relate both these to anal intercourse? Of course I can. I can relate anything to anal intercourse. Bend over and I'll show you how.

PART ONE: So I'm watching New York 1 to see what the weather's gonna be. They have the world's least accurate forecast. But it's on every ten minutes. And they usually get it right when talking about conditions outside right now.

While I wait, they run a feature called On Stage. It's a review show. Newspaper and magazine writers discuss Broadway and its stars. It's Tony award time. They're discussing which plays are going to win. Which actors will clutch the golden statue, while thanking people nobody's ever heard of.

I can't afford to go to Broadway, so I don't have a clue what they're talking about anyway. The show's a buzz in the background while I struggle to lace up my army boots.

“My boyfriend saw that play,” says one of the writers. “He was just not moved.”

Huh? He said that on TV? My boyfriend? I mean the guy is as fem as a pink sweater, but to actually say it??? Speaking of anal intercourse!! Yowsah! That takes more balls than a glass box at Chucky Cheese!

This is great. I'm thinking. It's gonna make waves. A regular network guy. Time-Warner. And he says my boyfriend! Hooey! Give that guy ten points.

Without waiting for the weather report, I run to the subway, anxious to spread the news. I get into work, breathless. I gotta tell my fellow English teachers what the guy said.

“He said my boyfriend,” I say. “On TV! On like the real news. You know, what everybody watches? This is gonna be big. An explosion. Like the World Trade Center. Like Janet Jackson's tit.”

“Oh please,” comes the voice from Martin, a homo himself. I figure he'd love the info. I figure wrong.

“He's theater. Of course he's gay. No one will care.”

“But, on TV???” I beg.

“Mykel,” says May. (Teaching's her day job. Her real job's a stage actress. She watches this stuff all the time.) “I can't believe you're shocked. It's just so... so... normal.”

“Aaargh,” I scream, hiding my face in my hands. “Don't tell me that. Please don't tell me that!”

Flash ahead: The next week. I'm on the subway, reading an interesting article in BNI, a great porno review zine I occasionally write for.

I'm up to 1998 in my unread zine pile. It's the Clinton scandal era. Always good for some cigar and Lewinsky jokes. In this issue, David Steinberg writes about how Mike Wallace is asking Clinton associates about a remark. He quotes a Newsweek report that has Clinton saying to an aid, “Let's talk pussy.”

Steinberg reports that Wallace seems fascinated by the word pussy. More than the word, he's fascinated by his ability to use it on TV. To have a context for it. Out in the open. The famous newsman uses it at every opportunity, like a little boy who just learned the word FUCK.

Although the word is bleeped each time, it's obviously pussy.

“It was amazing,” says David. “The joy he showed in repeating that word.”

I think back to that Broadway critic on TV. My boyfriend. He said. Joyless. Casual. The thrill gone. Ah, it's sad.

America has all the freedom of an Islamic Republic... maybe one step up. They can't have alcohol. We need ID to buy it-- and have the highest legal drinking age in the world. They have Allah in their daily life. We have God in the Pledge of Allegiance. Their government and religious extremists censor TV news. Our government, religious extremists and advertisers censor our TV news.

In America, the morality cops are on duty 24 hours a day. If George Bush doesn't get you, then Al Sharpton will.

When I was in Australia, I did half a dozen radio interviews. I said shit, fuck, piss, and she pulled the hair from my balls with her teeth. No one blinked a labia. I was like Mike Wallace with my new found joy... until I realized it didn't matter. In Australia, no one cares.

What does it mean? Glad you asked. There are two things here: danger and an opportunity.

The danger is that the odd and challenging will become commonplace. Homos have destroyed their power to shock by dressing up in white shirts and ties and predicting Tony award winners. Is it any wonder they want to get married?

“Oh please, we're just like everybody else,” they say. “Faithful, conservative, hard-working, Republican.”

Why bother being a homo if you're gonna be just like everybody else? The strange has become normal. And homos will continue to become just another market segment, another tax deduction.

The opportunity? There's still enough pussy to get bleeped on the air. There's still Al Sharpton saying get the bitch and the hoe out of hiphop. In a country as Muslim as this one, we can use this conservatism to shock.

My fantasy is to call up Rush Limbaugh or another of those idiots who proclaim how terrorists hate us because of our freedom.

“You want to see how free we are?” I'll shout in the phone. “FUCK! Did you hear that word? Was that broadcast to all your listeners? Your broadcast has a ten second censor delay. That's how free we are. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck a nappy-headed hoe! Did you get that out there in radioland? How much of that got to your radio speaker? That's how fuckin' free we are.”

PART TWO: Okay, so I'm supposed to write about immigration. I will. But first I'll confess, I don't get it. I mean, why anyone would want to immigrate to this hellhole is beyond me. No healthcare. 24 hours surveillance, ID checks to get into a bar. You can't see a breast on TV. Immigrate? How come? With all the countries in the world, why come to a pukepot like this one?

Step off the boat... get fingerprinted, eye-scanned and fucked. It's not the type of anal sex I'd move halfway around the world for. America is xenophobic, sex negative, totalitarian, jingoistic. Why the fuck would you want to live here?

Of course, America is not the only place people are moving to. My London pals tell me that when asking directions on the street, you first have to ask Do you speak English?

Much of the world is moving to Europe, Japan, and other formerly-called “First World” countries. They're filling up with new immigrants. Old residents complain. Elect right-wingers who promise to DO something about the “problem.”

The first world is responsible for the problems third worlders are immigrating to get away from. The Europeans planted the poison ivy and now they're going to itch. Serves 'em right. But I'm an American, so I want to talk about things here.

According to the instant research conducted on my behalf by the Google company, the number one reason for immigration to the U.S. is economic opportunity. That means the right to work a 60 hour week, with no health benefits, for $5.25 an hour... or worse.

Huh?

Well, since most immigrants are uneducated, unable to get a job in their home countries, and with no connections to anywhere else in the world, it makes sense.

American companies like Wal-Mart and Nike pay $1.49 a day to workers in China. Of course those Chinese workers want to come here to earn $5.25 an hour. What an increase! Yeah! They have to live 6 to a one-room apartment. But, they can make a fortune. Put $10 in the bank. Wowee!

American companies keep wages low in other countries. They dictate working conditions, and pay off government officials to prevent improvement.

In some countries, the U.S. has so skewed the economy, that it has doubled or tripled the poverty. African countries, for example, have land with good enough soil to feed the entire population. But the U.S. buys coffee, or rubber... and that's what they plant. No rice. No carrots. Nothing of any use to the locals. The farmers get a pittance. The local population goes hungry-- no beats or potatoes for them. Uniroyal needs its rubber.

These conditions are so awful that people have to leave. They move to where working conditions are only very bad... not awful. A big improvement.

Like in Europe-- only more so, the U.S. creates the conditions people flee from. Where do they flee? You guessed it, to the U.S.

It wasn't always this way. Who knows why that first wave of immigrants, the Mongols, came to this land? I guess they just wanted to see what was far away. That was 5000 years ago.

The Europeans, 4500 years after them, came for political freedom, or the right to religiously persecute people who didn't agree with them.

After the first wave, came others. For reasons from being kidnapped and sold into slavery to escaping a potato famine. Wave after wave they came... the poorest, the lowest level of each society. Wanting something here they couldn't get at home.

Every few years, the old immigrant groups get scared of the new immigrants. Each group begins to think of itself as normal/native. The others are “outsiders.”

Like homos, who've moved from THEM to US (Can you believe there are homo groups against intergenerational sex, prostitution, S&M and other sexual minorities?), each immigrant group calls for bans on the following ones.

In 1882, Congress passes the Chinese Exclusion Act. That's AFTER most of the railroads had been built with Chinese labor. These were not immigrants with college degrees.

That same year, Congress expands its list of “unacceptable immigrants.” These include “beggars, contract laborers, the insane, and unaccompanied minors.” Already excluded: “criminals and prostitutes.”

A 1917 law requires adult immigrants to show they can read and write. It's the first of many to bring a classier breed of immigrants to the country. The law also excludes people from most of Asia and the Pacific Islands. Not classy enough, I guess.

In 1921, Congress sets a ceiling on the number of people allowed to enter America. This quota limits immigrants from any one country to 3 percent of those of that nationality living the United States in 1910.

The Immigration Act of 1924 limits the number of immigrants from outside the Western Hemisphere to about 154,000 a year. The distribution is again based on percentages of nationalities making up the current population. That formula insures that 90% of the new immigrants will be from northern and western Europe.

It's 2007 and idiots in Washington once more want to put the breaks on immigration. Slow it down to a few nuclear scientists, terrorist experts, and pharmaceutical engineers. The Democratic supported (shame on you Teddy Kennedy) and fortunately defeated, bill would have set up a points system for immigrants. Not based on country, but on “expertise.”

If you know about computers, or you have a college degree. You get points. As if George Washington, the Chinese coolies who built the railroads, or the Irish immigrants who worked the shipyards had college degrees.

Wake up assholes! America is a place where you develop points, not where you bring them with you. Immigrants are supposed to be from the bottom. They're supposed to be the ones who can't read or write. They're supposed to be the exploited, the lowest rungs on the ladder. That's why they're here. We shouldn't fuck 'em up the ass.

On second thought, maybe those Congressional representatives are right after all. They're looking for special immigrant qualities to improve America, not cheapen it. Okay. I propose a point system already created: the original one. Emma Lazarus made it poetry. It's pasted on the Statue of Liberty. I've just added the points:

Give me your tired: 10 points
Your poor: 10 points
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free: 20 points
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore: 20 points
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost: 20 points
to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

That point system has served America well for 200 years. Let's keep it.

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

-->Get dirty be happy dept: Bottom Line Health reports that mycobacterium vaccae, a bacterium that lives in DIRT, may increase brain levels of serotonin. That's the brain chemical that causes happiness and a general feeling of well-being.
No wonder Congress is so grumpy about immigrants. They're too clean! I say give 'em some more dirt!

-->If you can't beat 'em, use 'em dept: The website MightyBids.com is a free-to-list Auction site created by two guys who were annoyed with eBay's listing fees.
Now, AP reports that the creators are tired of maintaining the site and want to sell it. Where are they listing the site for sale? You guessed it: eBay.

-->What's wrong with this story dept: In a small article in my local paper an AP reporter writes "police in Ontario, Canada are looking for a man who approached women and asked them to kick him in the groin." According the the report, this happened three times with three different women. Police Sgt. Cate Welsh said "the man's request is not a crime." So what's wrong?
You got it. If the man's request is not a crime, then why are police looking for him?

-->Let's see 'em make this mainstream dept: I'm not sure if it was Ted who sent it to me. I found it in an old file on my computer: http://www.richsalter.btinternet.co.uk/cks2/index.html is the link. It's for “Shooting Clay Kittens.” They bounce and make a lot of blood!

-->Test of faith dept: I love it when Christians' belief in God is so great they go all out for it... and it kills 'em.
In August 2006, in Libreville, Gabon, a 35-year old pastor insisted he could walk on water. He only needed to have the faith.
So the pastor set out to walk across a major estuary, the path of a 20-minute ferry ride. The man could not swim. He drowned and was posthumously given the Darwin Award.
For those who are unfamiliar with these, the Darwins are named after the discoverer of evolution and are given to those who help keep the gene pool chlorinated, by eliminating their own stupid selves.

-->Don't click that link dept: PC Magazine reports that Google has fixed its Sponsored Links with a special cookie. If you click on one of those links, the cookie rests in your computer and follows you from site to site. Forever.
Say you're looking for KY Jelly. Google will show you some responses. You click on a sponsor, a cookie goes on to your computer. Now you check out HillaryClinton.com. That cookie is still in your computer, and the odds are you'll see KY ads on her site as well as on moralmajority.com and redsoxsuck.org.
Yep, you'll carry around your KY search until mom asks you about it in the morning.
Late note: Due to recent exposure of this plot, Google has promised to remove the cookies... after 2 years... provided you don't use Google again in the meantime. Each time you use the site, they renew the cookie. Now that's an improvement! Yeah, right.

to Mykel Board's homepage

Mykel's Column for MRR # 292

Tired of the WORDS? You can see pix and comment on them right here.

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
for MRR #292

by Mykel Board

"Nothing exists between the penis and mathematics. Nothing at all! It's a vacuum.” --Celine

I feel the soft gluteals rest on my cheeks. My head lifts. My nose presses against the cleft.

“Rim me! Rim me!” comes the voice somewhere above me.

“What do you think I'm doing?” I think, but-- due to other lingual duties-- can't say.

I lick downward. Blinded by the anal flesh, I use my tongue as my only sense organ-- like a snake. I lick forward, following the cleft path to the tight brown sphincter. Here it is.

I press up with my chin, thrusting my tongue as far out of my mouth as I can. Frantically, I pump myself with my free hand. The other hand I use to open the folds to reach deeper into my goal.

Ah, my tongue is an anal dildo. I press onwards, upwards. Suddenly taste mingles with texture.

“Fhus ashel shasts hais haik fhit!” I shout through the flesh.

“What?” comes the voice from above. “I can't hear you... But don't stop! This is great!”

“FHUS ASHEL SHASTS HAIS HAIK FHIT!” I shout. “HAT CHU HEEN EAFIN?”

“I still can't hear you,” comes the voice. I feel a wiggle above me as the sit bones press deeper into my face.

I turn my head, breaking the contact. It's the only way to make myself understood.

“YOUR ASSHOLE TASTES LIKE SHIT!” I yell. “WHAT'VE YOU BEEN EATING?”

SCENE SHIFT: I'm in Australia-- Melbourne... where my last column left off... a little after. I perform at Exile on Smith Street. The bar managed by my host, Rich. I'm a flop.

I read after a PUNKROCK TRIVIA contest hosted by a light-skinned, but Negroid Egyptian punkrocker. A funny guy, with a mile a minute patter. He claims The Bangles were racist.

“If they wrote a song, Walk Like A Negro or Walk Like A Jew, they wouldn't last a minute. But Egyptians are okay targets. Egyptians walk funny, huh?” Funny guy.

He hands out sheets of GUESS THE BAND paper with funny pictures on them. One of them is a nailed-up Christ with an iguana head instead of the usual bearded/crown of thorns image.

“JESUS LIZARD!” I shout.

“Shhh,” he says. “This is a contest.”

I go for a drink.

At the bar, Rich introduces me to a sexy young woman who dresses pure 1950s. I forget her name, but since she reminds me of Betty Paige, I'll call her Betty.

“Mykel,” says Rich, “this is Betty. You met her on Couch Surfing. Remember?”

I don't, but hoping for a little crotch surfing, I lie.

“Sure. How's it going?” I say, grabbing her hand, shaking what feels like a dead iguana.

She pulls her lips back in a smile-by-the-numbers smile, more forced than Chinese labor.

Later, I look for her when I read the dirty parts of my books, but I can't see her. After the reading, a couple people applaud politely. Then the Egyptian returns with more trivia.

I keep drinking. I don't make any money that night, but the beer's free.

Later, back in Rich's apartment: We do what drunk guys do the world over. Discuss the meaning of life.

“There's got to be some underlying principle,” I tell him. “One criterion where you know if something is right or wrong. Good or bad. In physics, scientists look for a unifying theory. The one principle that will put all of Newton, Einstein and George Lucas into a neat little package. Like a math equation.”

“That's science,” says Rich. “Why does life have to be like science? Besides, even if they find the one special principle, it won't change our lives. You know what I mean?”

“A basic principle of right and wrong will change our lives,” I say. “It will make it possible-- and easy-- to judge what to do any time. It will tell us: yeah, this is the right thing. And that isn't.”

“So what's your principle?” he asks.

“I'm not sure,” I say. “I used to think that freedom was the answer. Anything that made you freer was good. Anything that made you less free was bad. But I've changed my mind.”

“Sounds okay to me,” he says. “freedom is a pretty good thing. If something makes you free it's good. If it doesn't, it isn't.”

“I'm not so sure any more,” I say. “Freedom is the ability to do what you want. Conservatives twist the meaning. They spout offal like with freedom comes responsibility or even, like over the entrance to Auschwitz, Work Makes You Free. That's bullshit.”

“If that's bullshit,” he says, “then freedom is just chaos.”

“Bingo!” I say. “Freedom lets you do what you want. When you want. Period. That's it. Working for someone isn't freedom. Jails are not freedom. Drivers' licenses... licenses of any kind... aren't freedom. GG Allin was the freest person I've ever met. Had absolutely no restraints... except the big one. He kicked the bucket at 33.”

“So we should have a world full of GG Allins?” he asks.

“That's the point,” I yell, struggling to my feet, holding the wall for support. “Society couldn't function if there were 7 billion GG Allins. That's why freedom is not the answer. Freedom needs to be blocked, reigned in. For individuals that should be minimal, but it still has to be.”

I gesture with a raised finger, stabbing the space above my head.

“If we live free, we die!” I intone before slumping to the couch.

“The freedom to swing my fist needs to end at the tip of your nose,” he quotes.

I nod.

“Yep, I say. “The point is that the freedom ends. It has to end. Otherwise we can't survive.”

“If freedom isn't the basis of morality,” says Rich, “what is?”

“That,” I tell him, “is the big question.”

Then I run into the bathroom and throw up in his toilet.

I stay with Rich for the next couple of days. I do a reading at Missing Link Records, a great local records shop.

I'm setting up, checking the microphone, displaying my product, the usual. This guy in his late 20s bursts into the store. His shirt is soaked with sweat as if he's been running. He's a few inches taller than me, and much beefier. In his hand is something yellow.

“Are you Mykel Board?” he asks.

I check to make sure he's not packing heat, then nod.

“Look at this!” He shows me what's in his hand. A 7-inch record, released more than 25 years ago in a limited edition of 1000. The Only Record in The World, my first project for public consumption. Out of print. Unavailable. And here it is in Melbourne fuckin' Australia.

“Where'd you get that?” I say.

He just smiles.

“Could you sign this?” he says. “Autograph it to the only fan in the world.”

Yowsah! That makes my day!

“Did you get that when it came out?” I ask. “You must've been 5 years old.”

“I cannot tell a lie,” he says. “I bought it on eBay.”

BOING!!! An inspiration. Maybe TRUTH-- not freedom-- is the key to morality. Telling lies is bad. Telling the truth is good. Yeah!

I sell a bunch of stuff at (and to) Missing Link. Then I go back to Rich's place. It's fixed up. Boxes of dialysis equipment out of the living room. Underwear off the floor. Dishes washed and put away.

That can mean only one thing: NOOKIE ON THE WAY.

“Look Mykel,” says Rich. “There's this girl that's gonna be in town tonight. I don't know if I'll be lucky or not. You know what I mean? If her life is going well, she stays in town. But if she's having trouble with her boyfriend, she stays with me. Ya know what I mean?”

“Sure,” I tell him, wondering if he cleans his blood with the kidney machine plugged into his belly while this naked girl lies on the bed next to him, giving him a blowjob. Yowsah! I wanna see that movie.

“Anyway,” he continues, “that girl Betty will let you stay with her for a night. I hope you don't mind. You understand.”

“Of course,” I tell him. “Respect the nook. I always do.”

“Thanks,” he says.

Rich tells me a taxi will arrive in ten minutes. The taxi will take me to Betty's place. She'll be waiting. She'll jump in the cab, go off to Rich's bar and pay for the cab ride.

“Should I just go to sleep on the couch?” I ask.

“Make yourself at home,” he says. “Who knows where you'll end up.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Yowsah!” I think.

I check the condoms in my wallet, take a copy of my CD and each of my books and head downstairs. Sure enough, a cab comes in half an hour. That's 10 minutes Australia time.

I arrive at Betty's address. No Betty. She's supposed to grab the cab and head off to the bar. She's supposed to pay the driver. No she.

I pay the driver and ring the doorbell. Then again.

In awhile I hear footsteps. Here's Betty. Looking hotter than I remember. I smile at her and shake my shoulders in the most masculinely sensual way I know how.

“I gotta run,” she says. “I moved a mattress into the back room where you're gonna sleep. It should be peaceful in there. Here's a key. I hope I can find a taxi. They're tough to get this time of night.”

And she's off.

I've got nothing to do for the rest of the night. I walk around. Before long, I wander into a bar a block down from Betty's empty apartment. I order a Melbourne beer and sit listening to a conversation at the bar.

A woman about my age is talking with the bartender. Tall, blonde, with cheeks and tits just starting to lose the battle with gravity. She's saying what a tough day she's had. One of her clients insulted an aborigine.

“It was awful,” she says. “He asked if it was true that aborigines have larger genitalia. Right in the middle of the meeting he asks this?”

“What was the answer?” I break in. “Sorry. My name's Mykel.”

“I'm Marilyn,” she says, “and that's not funny. The poor guy has ass-burger syndrome.”

“Ass-burger?” I say. “Are you serious? Ass-burger? I had an ass-burger in New York. Just before I left for Australia. I almost threw up.”

“Not Ass-burger, Mykel,” she says. “Asperger. A-s-p-e-r-g-e-r. It's this kind of mental disease. One of the conditions is that people with Asperger's Syndrome always tell the truth. They can't read body language or empathize with other people's feelings. They just say what they think.”

“Sounds punkrock,” I tell her.

“Not quite,” she continues. “People with Asperger's Syndrome always correct others. If they see an error, they just say, YOU'RE WRONG! It doesn't matter if it's Dad, the teacher or the boss. It doesn't matter where or what the circumstances are.”

“It IS punkrock,” I say.

“No Mykel,” she says. “It's autism. Everything is literal. The truth isn't tempered by reality. The classic example is

a girl with Asperger's who answers the telephone. Someone asks her, 'Is your father there?' Although her father is in the house, he's not in the room with her. The girl looks around. Then she simply says 'no' and hangs up. The person on the other end has to call back and explain that he wants her to find her father and get him to pick up the telephone.”

“So the truth is a disease?” I ask.

“It can be,” says Marilyn. “For Asperger's people it's a disability they have to overcome.”

Uh oh, TRUTH is not the answer either. It can even be a disease. Truth sometimes hurts people. You're ugly. Your band sucks. You're not getting laid tonight. And now I learn that chronic truth-telling is a syndrome!

There's got to be something that is the basis of morality. Something that decides good and evil.

Now, back in New York, writing this column, I consider LIFE. Can we say that something that preserves life is good and something that destroys life is bad? Maybe, if we don't want to fall into the vegan trap, we can say human life. Pollution, work, murder are bad. Doctoring, UNICEFing, protecting others is good. How 'bout that as a guiding principle?

I've written before about my pal Karen Spaink. She's a Dutch goddess who has muscular dystrophy (or is it cerebral palsy-- I get 'em confused... maybe it's multiple sclerosis. That's what Wikipedia says.) She's been instrumental in getting the Dutch government to change its policy on assisted suicide.

“When I can't help pissing in my pants, why should I hang around?” she asks. “Suicide is DIY: nobody else can do it for you, nobody else can decide for you.”

With more smarts than my cheeks after an S&M session, Karen explains that if you believe a mother should have the freedom to abort, then you need to believe that people should have the freedom to commit suicide. It's the same right to control your own body.

Having already decided that freedom is not the most important life principle, the freedom argument doesn't wash. But my experience seeing drooling, partially conscious people... seeing people in constant pain... hearing my friends agonize over parents begging for their own death... convinces me that there are worse things than death. Karen is right. We should be able to choose our death. Not have life thrust upon us. LIFE is not the underlying criterion. It must be something else.

Before I went to Australia, I joined this great internet site called couchsurfers. I “met” Betty that way. CS is a crew of folks who hate hotels, and travel to meet people, not see buildings. I used it when I first went to Australia. I stayed with a woman who just loved entertaining internationals. There was a guy there from some island I never heard of... and a young couple from France. I met a whole lot of amazing people.

Living on Bleecker Street in New York, I get a ton of requests to stay on my couch. Once they see my set up, they often suddenly have other accommodations. Still, I host at least one surfer a month. I like talking to people from other countries. Going out for drinks with 'em. Finding out how they think.

Staying with me now is Nadav. He's from Tel Aviv. Interesting guy, he just got his MD. Most people who travel tour museums. This guy tours hospitals. L.A., Boston, now New York. He hangs out in hospitals, takes part time work, wants to check things out.

I figure we'll hit The Peculier tonight. I'll show him how New Yorkers satisfy their malten needs. I'll buy him a He'brew Beer. Nothing like a new drinking partner-- except a new nookie partner. He's not my type for that.

It's the last days of Nadav's trip. He's got a couple suitcases bigger than my kitchen. Dumping them on the couch he's going to sleep in (so I think at the time), he tells me there's a Couch-surfer picnic in Riverside Park. The local hosts and their surfers are going to meet.

His couch surfer contact is, Indira, an attractive Indian girl (turban, not feather) who is spending her last days in New York. I go with him to the picnic where he meets her for the first time. They embrace like old friends. Then, she shakes my hand like I'm a used car salesman.

The picnic is a mix of people. Mostly younger than me, with a healthy dose of hippy and new age. One guy has painted his fingernails green. Everyone except me has taken off their shoes... or sandals. I join the barefoot crew on the picnic blanket, keeping my army boots off the edge, on the grass.

“And how did you find out about couch surfing?” asks a blond woman my age. She was probably pretty once. So was I. Now she's ... er... filled out. Her triceps wiggle in the heavy breeze.

“I travel a lot,” I tell her. “I found CS when I was looking for places to stay in Australia. I was promoting my books there.”

“That's nice,” she says, turning her attention to a teenage girl, also a bit chubby, running toward our group.

“That's Melissa, my daughter,” says the woman. “She's fifteen.”

I reach for the girl's hand and shake it.

“Hi,” I say, “my name's Mykel. What are you doing after the picnic?”

The girl smiles, revealing a mouthful of bright metal braces. I didn't think they made those anymore.

Mom doesn't smile. Instead, using her chin as a pointer, she motions to daughter.

“Over there,” she says, “Jack Condrescu, that nice man from Romania. Why don't you go over there and say hello to him?”

Meanwhile, Nadav is in deep conversation with Indira. I see her rest her hand on his naked forearm. It stays there as the afternoon ages into evening.

When dusk wipes its black hand across the sky I can feel the picnic draw to an end. I'm not enjoying the company so much. Besides, I want to take Nadav out for a couple thick brown ones.

“Nadav,” I say. “I'm leaving.”

I expect him to join me.

“I'll meet you back at your apartment,” he tells me. “I want to stay just a bit longer.”

“Sure,” I tell him. “It's your last few days in America.”

I head home and wait for him. First, I do some stupid waiting things: wash the dishes, empty the mousetraps. No Nadav. Then, I have nothing more to do but watch a horrible dubbed version of NINJA AVENGER that I picked up for a dollar. I look at the clock when it's over. 11PM. No Nadav.

I'm pissed. I had the evening planned for him, and here I am stuck waiting. He's using me like a free hotel. I'm nothing but a bed to the guy. He's probably off screwing that Indian girl, rather than drinking a beer with me. Which is more important?

Okay, Nadav. You're getting laid. I guess I'd do the same. Can't really blame you.

Then it hits me. The moment. The apple on Newton's head. Archimedes' legs floating in the bathtub. Ron Jeremy's lips touching his own cock. The EUREKA point. Life's one guiding principle. Nadav, Betty, Rich. The foundation under it all. The basis of good and evil... right and wrong. It's not “maximum freedom” or “tell the truth” or “reverence for human life.” It's RESPECT THE NOOK! That's it. If you do that, everything that follows will be moral.

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

-->Protection racket dept: The government of the Chinese province of Zhejiang has instituted a fine for hotels and bars that do not provide condoms to their clients. The law says (in Chinese of course)
"Condoms or condom vending machines must be placed in hotels, bars and designated public places or the managers will be fined." I'm waiting for the law that says the hotels and bars must provide people to use the condoms with. Then, I'll plan my trip to Shanghai.

-->They asked for it! Look how they were dressed! dept: Gay.com reports that cops in Dublin Ireland have arrested 14 people in three months. The sting? Dress up like butch homos and hang out in the park. Unlike American cops who dress the same, the Irish cops are not trying to entice homos and then arrest them. They're trying to entice HOMO BASHERS and arrest them.
You can sympathize, but entrapment is entrapment. Let's see if American homos suddenly switch sides on the issue. They used to be against it.

-->Further on the homo front dept: I didn't expect it would be Melbourne... I didn't think they could get up the energy. But Sign of Peel Hotel, in that city is the country's first pub to ban heterosexuals.
On May 28, 2007, The Victorian state court ruled that the Peel Hotel could ban patrons based on their sexual orientation.
The pub's management said the move would stop groups of heterosexual men and women abusing gay people. Civil liberties groups have supported the decision.
Civil liberties indeed!

-->Don't inhale that Helium dept: I heard that helium.com wanted writers to upload provocative articles. They then pay the authors based on how many people read the material. Fair enough. I'll try a column. That should be provocative, right?
Not so fast, buster. I get an email from the helium honchos asking me to revise my writing.
The reason: Helium™ maintains a very high standard for appropriate language and content, which is consistent with our User Agreement. Children as young as 13 can join the site and participate fully. Your article may contain a single offensive word. Or, you may have used obviously offensive or adult language, promoted hate speech, or advised readers to engage in destructive or illegal behaviors. Please consider revising this by removing the offensive content, and resubmitting to our knowledge treasury.
I have to write for a 13 year old?? Jeezus fucking Christ! If 13 year olds want to read me, GREAT. But I am NOT going to change my language because a kid might stumble upon it.
I wrote back to them: NO! I HATE CENSORSHIP. I expected your website to be a place of free discussion. I can abide by editorial decisions about length or structure, but not about censorship in the name of "protecting 13 year olds." A single offensive word? Free speech is all about the right to be offensive.
Then I quit the site.
Do me a couple favors. First, go to Helium and tell 'em you read about the censorship of my column and you object to it. Next, go to gather.com read my column there, and start a discussion. I won't get paid, but at least the folks at gather can see what helium is missing.

-->I love drug companies dept: Animal rights people protest drug testing on animals. They believe it's too cruel. Drugs should be tested on people, they say. Huh?
Still, every oyster has its pearl and this gem comes from an Animal Rights website. They talk about a drug called Celexa. The side effects include diarrhea, insomnia, and problems with sexual arousal. But what's it for? CSD... compulsive shopping disorder. Yowsah!

-->This Appeared on Yahoo dept: A privacy watchdog group, Privacy International, reports that GOOGLE has the worst privacy policies of all the major websites.
P.I. assigned Google its lowest possible grade. The category is for companies with "comprehensive consumer surveillance and entrenched hostility to privacy."
None of the 22 other surveyed companies — a group that included Yahoo, Microsoft and AOL — sunk to that level.
Privacy International slammed Google's ability to match data gathered by its search engine with information from other services such as e-mail, instant messaging and maps.
Seven of the internet companies and websites included in the report received the second lowest grade of "substantial and comprehensive privacy threats." This group included: Time Warner's AOL, Apple Inc., Facebook.com, Hi5.com, Reunion.com, Microsoft's Windows Live Space and Yahoo.

-->Steal first, drink later dept: Associated Press reports that a woman in Wasilla Alaska called police to report a stolen handgun, clothing, food and alcohol. The police found the suspect, wearing the woman's sweatshirt. Where? In the woman's garage, in a neighbor's car. The guy was sleeping and cops say that when they tried to wake him up, he was "unresponsive."