Mykel's Column for MRR 303 August

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Mykel's Column for MRR #302, July

YOU'RE WRONG
Mykel's column for MRR #302,
July 2008

"Without question, the greatest invention in the history of mankind is beer. Oh, I grant you that the wheel was also a fine invention, but the wheel does not go nearly as well with pizza.” --Dave Barry

When I was younger, I used to use my index finger. Maybe we all do. I see little babies, index fingers plugged knuckle-deep into a tiny nostril, fishing out a morsel. From nose to mouth. Dessert. A snack.

About 30 years ago, I switched. I discovered my thumb. Maybe it's a Jew thing. We've got more room. Can push that thumb right in there. Much more satisfying. I do that now, scouring the inside, the part away from the cartridge. Supporting the skin with my forefinger against the outside, hooking what's left of big-city soot, nose-haired filtered out of my lungs, now under the nail, scraping it downward. Out, examining it. Hard, part black, part translucent, like a gallon milk jug.

Re-insert.

I pick at the exquisite scab in the V where the nostril attaches to the rest of my face. I rip at it. A beautiful pain, like a tongue pressing a sore tooth. I tear the scab from inside my nose. This time my nail is black-- and red with fresh blood. A real chunk, built up through a day of slow bloody leakage. My reward for breathing the frozen New Hampshire air.

I'm here on a short trip to Fredericton, New Brunswick. Not in New Jersey. In Canada. Where nobody goes. Where I just happened to see on a map when I'm showing my students New England. Where I decide to drive, and stop along the way. Libraries to write. Micro-breweries to beer.

Right now, I'm in Quiznos in Manchester NH, trying to contact Jason. I have 40 minutes before they close. Soon, I'll be out in the cold. Manchester is VERY cold.

Jason's my couch-surfing host for the day. I called a couple times on the way from Boston, but just got voicemail.

Now there's some kind of electronic tornado. The vortex of the e-storm is Quiznos in Manchester, New Hampshire. Telecommunications is nigh on impossible. Maybe it's terrorists. Ssssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr. Ssssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr. All cellphone communication blocked. I walk outside Quiznos to try again. I pushed the JASON button.
“Ssssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr. Ssssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr. Hello youSsssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr. ...nally.”

“Hello Jason? It's Mykel. I don't know if you can hear me. But I'm in town, at Quiznos on Elm Street. They're going to close soon. You know where Quiznos is?”

“Ssssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr, I do,” he says. “I'll see ySsssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr.”

“Yeah,” I say. “See you.”

Then I return to type these words. During the next 20 minutes, three people enter the sandwich store. One is a very street-looking kid: big, black, in baggy jeans, baseball hat with a perfectly flat brim tilted up and slightly to the right. Something about the guy isn't authentic. Like he's a dean's-list student from the local university, trying to look ghetto. I don't know what it is. His lack of swagger. Some deep intelligence that shows through his walk. The way he doesn't swing his shoulders. I donno.

As I puzzle this out, two blond really dumb-looking white girls walk in, almost as if choreographed. They are authentic. Simultaneously, the two of them shift their weight. One skinny leg at a time. Step. Swing hip. Step. Swing hip. Step. Swing hip. Like sex soldiers, marching in tandem with puffed out chests.

Both chew gum. Both wear skirts much too short for the freezing weather. (Did I mention there's snow on the ground? And it's colder than a witch's twat... and twice as windy.)

“What can I get you?” asks the vaguely Hispanic girl behind the counter.

“We'd like an application,” says the girl with the higher hair. “We want to work here.”

The Hispanic worker looks pleadingly at her boss. He's also behind the counter, a mop in his hands. He shakes his head.

“I'm sorry,” says the counter-worker. “We're not hiring at the moment.”

“That's okay,” says the other girl. They shrug in tandem and walk out of the store.

Passing them on his way in, is a guy wearing jeans, a pink shirt, a maroon tie, with the best chin since Ai... the Drink Club goddess. I don't know what it is, but there's something about chins. Everyone I know with a really strong chin has a really strong personality. It's a good sign.
And yeah it is. It's Jason. He takes me from Quiznos to a great brewpub.

It's called MILLY'S TAVERN, and, like everything else in Manchester, is in an old mill. (Well, a few things are in old factories.) Before the bar, Jason wants to take me to the river, like Al Green. But it's just too cold.

Inside, I check out the beer menu. Neither of us has eaten dinner, so we also check out the food menu. Nothing special. Burgers, quesadillas, bar food. But the beer menu well....

Usually a good name suckers me in. But for some reason I order the boringly named John Stark Porter. The best name is Hopnoxious IPA, but I'm not a big IPA fan.

An IPA is supposed to have: high hop bitterness, high hop aroma, and high alcohol content. At least according to the internet. But mostly, you get the bitterness, and not much else. Sometimes IPAs taste spoiled... rotten. I usually avoid them.

The porter is excellent. Dark, not quite as thick as Guinness, but still filling enough to ensure I can't finish my quesadilla! I have two of 'em. Porters, that is, not quesadillas. It's the best new beer of this trip.

Over dinner we talk. Jason has just come back from four years of teaching in Egypt. He loved Egypt and the Egyptian people. Quite a different point of view from my recent guests from Lebanon! But that's how I like it! And why I like traveling. A few days confirms that everybody is wrong about everything.

After Milly's, we go back to Jason's place... a condo that used to be a shoe factory. They kept the girders, boiler oven door and smokestack. A cool place to live.

Jason introduces me to his roommate whose name I forget. I'll call him Shasta. He's a tall thin guy, about 20. Now, he bends over a computer looking intently at a photo of what looks like himself.

“Admiring yourself?” I ask.

The guy turns to me with a face splitting smile. The kind people fall in love over.

“No,” he says. “It's my brother.”

I hear a faint twinge of an accent. Like he's from Africa, but an English speaking part. Later, Jason tells me that he's from The Gambia.

Yes! Now I'll have a chance to solve one of my life's great mysteries. Why is the Gambia THE Gambia? I know why The Bronx is The Bronx. It used to be plural. Broncks. Plural places use THE: like The Bahamas, The United States, The Philippines. But Gambia??? That's not a plural.

By the time I think to ask him about THE, Shasta is off to bed. Me too, Then it hits me. NO! NO! NO! I am in New Hampshire. I MUST go to GG Allin's grave. I cannot leave the state without a visit.

I quickly check the internet. It's 103 miles away--- in the wrong direction. From there, it's seven more hours to Canada. Fuck-it, I'm going anyway. I'll pay for a motel one night-—in Maine. I saw an ad for one in a free magazine. Around $60 a night. In a town with a brewpub. Orono, Maine.
Right now, it's off to get rid of the day's beer, and then hit the sack.

I dream about visiting GG's grave. There'll be one person-- a beautiful skinny punk girl. She wears a used white wedding dress-- just starting to fall apart. The white dress is in strong contrast to her jet-black hair. She'll have flowers in her hand, white roses, laying them on GG's grave. I'll walk up to her. She'll be startled.

“He.. hello,” she'll say shyly. “Are you here to visit GG?”

I'll nod.

“I'm Mykel Board,” I'll tell her, “I was a pal of GG's. I produced his two ROIR CDs. I played with him in New York. I wrote...”

“Mykel Board!” she'll say. “Of course I know you. You're famous. Let's pay our respects, then go back to my apartment and have wild anal intercourse.”

Jason wakes me at 8AM. He offers me some fruit, breakfast cereal, tea. But he DOESN'T HAVE COFFEE. Oh no. It could be deadly. When I wake up, I NEED COFFEE. I'm a caffe-betic. My body is incapable of producing the coffee enzyme on its own. If I don't get it from the outside, I will DIE! I don't mention this to my host, but I strain against the pain and have a banana.
Jason's got to go to work, and his roommate has early classes. Same university. They ask if I'd mind driving them.

“It's on the way to GG Allin,” says Jason.

Of course, I don't mind, though I'd rather someone else takes the wheel. I haven't had my coffee yet.

I hand Jason the keys. He'll drive. Bags packed, the three of us navigate the factory condo corridors to the car. As we walk, I talk to Shasta.

“I hear you're from The Gambia,” I tell him.

“That's right,” he says.

“Could I ask you kind of a weird question?” I ask.

He looks at me warily, as if I'm going to violate some kind of taboo. Ask him about strange tribal rituals. The length of his body parts.

“Why is The Gambia, THE Gambia? I mean I know why The Bronx is THE Bronx, but Gambia. I don't get it.”

He smiles.

“Well, it's hard to know exactly. There are rumors... stories,” he says. “But what I heard is that there are other African countries. Like Ghana, and Zambia. The English colonialists put THE in so people wouldn't be confused. Gambia, Zambia, it's almost the same. You know the British. They love the word THE.”

Is he pulling my leg?

After we hit the university and say our good-byes, it's off to Littleton: the birth and final resting place of GG Allin. Then, an afternoon of wild sex with a goth punk in a wedding dress. Then back on the road to the special Brewery in Orono and the discount motel. Finally, on to NEW BRUNSWICK, which, according to my guidebook, is home to a soap museum. Something I sure don't want to miss.

Up until today, I thought GG was born and buried in Hooksett, New Hampshire. When we pen-palled in the 1980s, all his mail came from there. Too bad. Hooksett is just north of Manchester. Littleton is a hundred miles away. And I need some coffee!

Ah, here's a place. A little country Inn. Rustic with a capital R. Nice, but it could be Mr. Donut... as long as they have COFFEE!

I'm the only person in the place. The waitress hands me a menu and turns to leave.

“Er...” I say. “Could you bring me some coffee? Right away? Please?”

I guess it's the look of severe need imprinted on my face. In a few minutes, she's back with the coffee. I inhale it. What would the world be like without coffee? On this trip, I've been doing coffee more than usual, plus a Monster Energy Drink every day. Someday, they'll combine the two and heaven will lose its appeal. Why die, when you can drink heaven right here on earth?

This little roadside place doesn't serve breakfast. Lunch starts at 11:30. I'm here for openers. I order a salad. To drink? Just water. And more coffee! On the table, I notice a beer list. Wow!
A little place in the middle of who-knows-where, with an every day beer list like this? Guinness, Sam Adams White Ale, Woodstock Station Red Rack Ale, Stella Artois, Old Thumper...

Woodstock Station Red Rack Ale? Old Thumper? Holy He-Brew, Batman. These folks got something here we don't get down south where I come from. Yowsah!

I don't sample the Old Thumper or any other brew. But it's nice to know that folks around here care! A roadside place in New York would have, Bud, Bud Light and maybe a Coors. I pay the bill and head back toward Littleton.

My Neverlost(tm) GPS doesn't have directions inside the town. I guess it's too small. I'll have to find GG myself.

I pull into the first gas station inside the town limits. I know GG's in the Saint Rose Cemetery. I ask the guys in the gas station office. The Indian guy doesn't know.

The other guy tells me, “There are two cemeteries in town. One just up the hill here. The other down the road about two miles. That's the big one. Down the road.”

I thank him and walk out. Then... I'm really pissed at myself. Why didn't I ask? Why didn't I just say, “Which one has GG Allin?” Wadda wimp! I should be ashamed. I am ashamed.

I head toward the big cemetery, still annoyed at myself for not having the balls to ask. What would they have done to me? Called the sheriff? Yo sheriff., There's another one of those creeps looking for GG Allin. I think you better throw him in the clink where he can get gang raped by unemployed lumberjacks.

I don't think so.

The cemetery is right where the non-Indian gas station guy said it would be. There's a large statue at the entrance. Something to do with some war.

Then, there's a small driveway. At the end of driveway is a shed with a few gardening trucks parked around it. I get out of the car. Is this the right place? There are no signs anywhere... Saint Rose or not. And there are no people. There's snow, a ton of gravestones, some recently planted American flags. But no people. No mourners. No punkette in a white dress.

I wander around, looking at random tombstones. No GG Allin. Wait! There are a couple people over there. They look like gardeners. I WILL ASK!

I trudge across the remains of dozens of locals until I reach the guys. One is about my age, blond and husky. The other is in his twenties, lanky, kinda handsome. As I get closer, I realize they're not gardening. They're digging a grave. I've never talked to gravediggers before. They're a little scary. But I will NOT wimp out.

“Excuse me,” I ask.

They stop their digging and stand up, looking at me. Not sardonic, exactly, but not Laurel and Hardy either.

“Is this the Saint Rose cemetery?” I ask.

“Nope,” says the older one.

“Do you know where it is?” I ask.

“Yep,” says the younger one.

That's all he says.

“Umm...” I say.

“We were just jokin' with ya,” says the older guy, suddenly breaking into a smile. “It's right over there, next to this one.”

“Do you know where GG Allin is?” I ask.

“Oh sure,” says the young guy. He gives me directions to the tombstone, making a little map in the snow. It's weird he knows, I think.

“I guess people come here and ask you all the time,” I say.

“Yep,” he says.

“Has a punk rock girl in a white dress...” I don't ask.

GG's grave is a couple rows in from the street. It's a good size stone, easy to find. Who could miss ROCK'N'ROLL TERRORIST among the YOU'RE IN A BETTER PLACE NOWs? Next to the tombstone is a huge EMPTY bottle. The label is mostly gone. I'm guessing Jim Beam, GG's favorite. There's also a full airline-size bottle of JB, and an empty can of MONSTER! Hubba hubba!

There is, however, no goth girl in a white dress. There's no nobody.

I take out my camera, put it on the headstone across from GG, set the auto-timer and run around for the picture of me and GG. Then I notice that the tombstone is double duty. I've never seen anything like it before. It must be a discount brand. Half as expensive for half as much tombstone. Usually one side is blank anyway, right? Why not make a few bucks and sell the back to someone else?

On the front of the headstone is: GG ALLIN Live Fast Die! On the back is a picture of a praying Jesus and the name GUNTHER with the inscription Till We Meet and Never Part.

Poor Gunther. Little did he know who he was gonna never part with. Meet? I doubt it. Unless Gunther was a nasty guy, GG and he are in very different places.

I spend about half an hour with GG and Gunther, then head back northeast. Somewhere between Littleton and Orono, I stop for gas. There, in the window of the gas station office is an advertisement.

JAVA MONSTER ENERGY DRINK. NEW COFFEE FLAVORS: Loca Moca, Mean Bean, Russian, Irish Blend, Nut Up, Chai Hai, Lo Ball

Wowee!! GG was listening to me. Reaching up from hell, he manipulated the minds at Monster and they followed my bidding. Coffee Monster!

Thanks, GG. But why couldn't you have done it with the girl in the wedding dress?

Next stop: University Inn. My only motel of the trip.

They want to let me know they participate in this new environmental program. A co-op of mid-priced hotels is the sponsor.

It's promoted with laminated brochures with pictures of pandas and parrots. And the great way the motel is saving the world? They don't wash their linens.

That's right. In order to save the world's resources of soap and water, they use less of it. Of course, you can decline to participate. It's right there on the brochure. But if you don't participate, you're personally responsible for the destruction of the Amazon rainforest. You're personally wasting hundreds of gallons of water and fouling thousands of acres of wetland with the soap used to wash YOUR bedclothes. Yeah, right.

Look Mr. Hotel, if you want to save money on water and soap. That's okay. It's a business. If you want me to help, pay me for it. Give me a discount. But PUL-EASE, don't ask me to sleep in my own filth and then YOU go take credit for a hotel program to save the environment. Maybe the environment around your bank account.

The girls at the front desk are helpful, but lack some kind of spark. They don't joke around. They don't offer to change my sheets. I donno. I guess at a hotel you see everything, so nothing is funny anymore. All those spy cams behind the mirrors in the rooms. Not much left to joke about, is there?

“You a beer drinker?” I ask the chubbier of the two young deskgirls. “I'm looking for a famous brewpub around here. They make their own beer, and I wanna try it.”

“Oh,” she replies. “You're talking about the Bearmarket Pub. You can walk there from here. It's just over the bridge.”

“What's good there?” I ask.

“Oh, I don't like dark beer. But they make a great Peach Ale.”

“Thanks,” I say and head out the door, across the bridge to the pub.

It's cold, so a nice thick stout (pleonasm?) will do perfectly. Maybe I'll be adventurous and try the peach ale.

The place could be any country bar in any country college town. Lots of 20-somethings... kids saying hi to their friends, ignoring strangers. Especially strange guys who look like Inspector Gadget sitting by themselves at a table for four, writing on tiny cards. There are more beards and wool caps than you'd see in New York. In New York, they'd make you take off your hat.

As I enter, I hear the attractive waitress speaking with some guys at a table.

“We're out of stout,” she says.

The waitress brings me the menu.

The beer list is impressive: Chocolate Stout, Tuff End Porter, Crow Valley Pale Ale, Bearbrew Blueberry Weiss, Sacred Peach Ale, Pumpkin Stout, India Pale Ale...

“I overheard that you were out of stout,” I tell her. “So I'll take your Tuff End.” (I love saying “I'll take your Tuff End” to an attractive waitress.)

“Sorry,” she says. “We're out. We're out of all our Bearbrew Beers... except the IPA.”

One drink later, I'm back at the hotel. I climb into one of the two twin beds... with my boots on. Then I take a shower and use every towel in the bathroom to dry myself. Next, I take care of my ... er... personal night-time needs, cleaning up with the same sheet I wiped my boots on.

Then, since I'm only staying for one night, I hang the I will participate in the Hotel Conservation Program. Do not change linen. sign on my door, and go to bed. In the other bed. I sleep through the night... best sleep so far this trip.

In the morning, I use my thumb to pick the night's refuse from my nose, rubbing the bloody boogers on the sheet.

Eco this, baby!


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

-->My kinda protest dept: Utne Reader reports that American Indian students at the University of Northern Colorado are protesting a local high school's Indian mascot. Instead of stupidly asking that the name be banned, they've answered in kind.
The Indians call their own intramural basketball team THE FIGHTING WHITIES. The team's jerseys have the name of the team and the phrase, Everythangs gonna be all white.

-->Not Exactly Living, but Better dept: New Orleans voters approved a 'living-wage' referendum that raises the minimum wage for “private-sector workers” to $6.15 an hour. That's a buck more than the federal minimum wage. It's about time that corporations had someone to answer to besides the fuckin' marketplace! Eco that, motherfuckers.

-->Pay Because You Want To Dept: Radiohead made news when it allowed fans to pay whatever they wanted to download the band's album. Now, several restaurants are doing the same thing--letting their patrons decide how much their meal is worth.
At Terra Bite Lounge in Kirkland, WA, most diners slip cash into a donation slot by the bar. A few walk away without bothering to pay.
"If I forget to bring enough money, I can just give more next time," says a patron.
At Salt Lake City's One World Everybody Eats, you can deposit cash into a "treasure box" or use the customer-operated credit card machine. The 50-seat restaurant, decorated with Buddha statues, serves organic dishes from a buffet. There's also an edible herb and flower garden with outdoor seating.
"All we ask is that you put a fair price on the food you eat, based on your income," says founder Denise Cerreta.
At the Lentil as Anything chain in Melbourne, Australia, you drop money into a box by the kitchen. The first restaurant opened in 2000, and now owner Shanaka Fernando is working on his sixth location. The cuisine is a mix of Sri Lankan and Tibetan, but eggs and veggie burgers are also on the menu.
"When it comes down to it, we just want to promote the very underutilized concept of trust," says Shanaka.

-->The other side of the grave dept: I got a message from GG lover and guitar play, Justion Melkmann. He visited GG's grave as well as GG's mother. He was making a comic book about his obsession with the scum meister. It hit him after seeing what I posted in my blog.
Gunther, he says, is GG's mom's maiden name. So the tombstone must be a place-holder for her to be buried by her son.
Too touching for my taste. I've got the better story. Justin has THE TRUTH. Which do you want?

Mykel Board's Column for MRR #301 (June)

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column #301
by Mykel Board

"No solutions are proposed. On the other hand, would it be reasonable to berate someone who tells you there's a fire in the building because they don't lead you to the exits?" --Howard Andrew

“I see your point. But I still think you're full of shit.” --The Improper Newspaper

“Stop! Stop! It's killing me! It hurts.”

“You can take a little more. Just a little,” I say.

“No! You're killing me! I'm going to explode!”

“Just a bit... damn. The bag is empty! Fuck,”

I remove the tube from her tight brown hole.

“Hold it!” I say.

But holding is not to be done. An explosion. Brown and thick as Guinness. A massive squirt. Chunky. Filled with turds the size of golfballs. Of peas. Of baseballs. Brown snakes. Garter snakes. Pythons. Little brown worms with touches of gray fluff on the sides, wiggling in the soup, like something alive. Soft and mushy, over everything. Covering the back of her legs. A smell. Her smell. The fecal fragrance only hinted in a fart. Expressed full volume in this offal avalanche.

The brownness drips over my naked body. Paints my thighs. Out it pours. Splashing on my belly, my chest, into my mouth, up my nose. Furiously, I pump myself.

“Spray!” I gasp. “Spray some more.”

“I can't,” she says. “It's all gone. I'm empty. That's all there is.”

Damn! I knew it. Enema bags are for wimps. Wussies who say, “Of course I could have taken more. It's just the bag was empty. The water ran out.”

Yeah right.

If you had any balls, you'd go to the source. Plug that hose right into the faucet. One end in the pipe. One end embedded deep in that crinkled chocolate crater. Turn on the tap. Let 'er rip. Don't turn it off until YOU can't take any more. Until YOU give up. Feel the pain. From the pain to the pleasure back to the pain again. To the bursting point. Just before your guts split open to spew onto the bathroom floor. YOU decide. Don't blame an empty enema bag. Blame yourself. YOU can't take it. Not “the bag is empty.”

My attitude toward enemas is American. In America, I am in control... or should be. I make your own decisions, or should make them. I am captain of my own shit. Sink or swim in it. I'm an individual... the basis of power. More important than the group. THEY do not control me. I control me.

My attitude toward the rest of life is NOT American. In fact, it's that very illusion of each of us as individuals, controlling our own destiny that I want to rail against in this column.

It's 10:30 A.M. My first class is finished. I have 15 minutes to take a piss and get ready for the next class. In the bathroom, a new sign decorates the wall. A picture of a faucet. A single drip hangs off the end. Like that last drop that hangs off another end and goes down your pants after you zip up.

The sign says, “TURN OFF THE FAUCET. SAVE WATER. A DRIPPING FAUCET CAN COST OVER A HUNDRED GALLONS A DAY.”

Gee, a hundred gallons.

A single cornfield uses 40 MILLION gallons a year to produce its crop. That's more than 200,000 gallons a day during the 6 months from planting to harvest. Oh, but your 100 gallons a day. That'll do a lot!

200,000 gallons a day to turn food into fuel so obese mid-westerners can drive to the mall. 200,000 gallons a day, so electric-powered machines can change genetically-engineered corn to gas delivered by oil burning diesel trucks. 200,000 gallons a day to grow crops never eaten by hungry people, but stuffed into the hungry cars of the rich.

What can you do?

Buy Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream. Don't eat meat. Bike instead of using a car. Recycle your newspapers. Wash out that condom and use it again. Every little bit helps.

NO IT DOESN'T!

The world isn't going to change if you shut off the faucet, recycle your Sunday New York Times, bike to work, or stand on the street corner holding an anti-war sign printed by union labor on recycled paper. Your effort is like a grape-sized turd in an avalanche of enema-induced crap. It don't mean shit.

New York's billionaire mayor, Mike Bloomberg, tells us he unplugs his Blackberry charger every morning. It uses electricity even when it's plugged in, he says. Save a kilowatt here... a kilowatt there. It adds up.

NO IT DOESN'T!

Bloomberg Radio, broadcasting across America uses more electricity in 30 seconds than a plugged-in Blackberry charger uses in 30 years. Your Blackberry charger doesn't mean shit.

Can one person make a difference? Sure. Ask Lee Harvey Oswald, Mark David Chapman, John Hinkley or John Wilkes Booth.

I'm not advocating such action. See Mr. CIA-Man, FBI man? Homeland-security? I'm NOT advocating. I'm just pointing out. Okay? I'd never advocate such actions. Oh no, not me. It's illegal to do that. Terrorism. I don't do illegal or terrorist. I'm just a nice guy who enjoys a brown shower every once-in-awhile. Okay?

Who knows? Maybe brown showers are illegal. The governor of New York quit because of simple sex. Not even a brown shower. He just paid a shitload of cash to a pretty girl. If it were free... no problem. But to pay for it. Well, you gotta quit for that.

Of course, I enjoyed seeing him squirm. This was the same guy who fought for anti-John legislation. For tougher penalties for people who pay for prostitutes. Serves him right. BUT, morally, it's wrong. He got screwed for screwing. A victimless crime... except that the law makes victims.

Okay, back to the topic. One person making a difference:

It's the if everybody thinking that gets to me. If everybody turned off their faucet. If everybody stopped eating meat. If everybody was nice to colored people. Jeezus fuckin' Christ.

Everybody is not a nice person. Everybody does not read this column. This zine. This blog. Everybody does not subscribe to THE NATION or MRR. Everybody does not exist. People are individuals. They have no power.

Governments and corporations are NOT individuals. THEY do NOT act independently. THEY act for their own benefit. THEY have the power.

YOU are not responsible for the state of the world, the country, the environment. THEY are. You have no say in the matter. You have no power. Or rather, you do have power, but to use it is illegal and will have huge consequences. It'd probably cost you your life. At least, it'd cost you your freedom.

So don't try to assuage your conscience by donating that coat to Warm The Homeless Inc. Don't think your vote or your knocking on doors or your standing on the street with a clipboard will do anything more than annoy people. Your not flushing after every piss will do nothing more than stink up your bathroom.

So Mykel, what do we do? It is WE who are reading your column. It's not corporations that hang on every pubic hair caught in the effluvia of Mykel Board. It is individuals. World governments do not subscribe to MRR. It's people. We're the ones who have to act. We are all we have.

Answer: The first step in Individuals Anonymous is to admit that you're helpless. You can't do a thing. You have NO power. If you had it, you'd switch sides. After that, I DON'T KNOW.

The rain of shit that pours from the anus of the corporatocracy is browner, with greater chunks than anything you can clean up. And they don't stop when the bag runs dry.

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]

-->Hubba hubba dept: You know how sometimes you see a girl who's so overwhelmingly captivating that you feel like running out and buying a dildo so she can fuck you on the spot?
Kissy Kamikaze is a band of such girls. They are so sexy. And so powerfully punkrock that you can't help but want 'em up your ass. Go see 'em next time they're in town. Take one up the tube for me.

-->Bully for you dept: Kyle N sent me a scary article from USA Today. It reports that schools are pushing for internet BULLY laws. That is, law punishing people who "harass" others over the internet. Right now, those laws are aimed at kids... but they involve the cops. Who knows where it could lead?
Seems inevitable, though. I mean, China has all those censorship laws. Yahoo! and Google help them by sending copies of citizen search records. Watch what you put in that search window... it may come back to haunt you!

-->Toying with reality dept: Also from Kyle is a report of a new Japanese toy: Gloomy Bear. The cute little bear has massive claws. In its cartoon ads, you can see it attack and bloody little kids. Claw them to pieces. A dose of reality for the tots who think life is gonna be a bowl of Tickle Me Elmos.

-->The real power of gas (companies) dept: You might know the Prius car. It's a "hybrid" that runs on electricity and gas. You can push a button and switch it to "electric only"... if you live in Japan or Europe. That button is not included on models made for the North American market. I wonder why. Yeah right I do.

-->What's this thing about feet? dept: The February 2008 issue of CHURCH AND STATE magazine talks about two incidents that go weirdly together.
The first is in South Carolina. There, the First Baptist Church of North Augusta provides shoes for the local children. Not so bad, right? Well, before giving the children shoes (on public school property), church members "wash the children's feet like Jesus did his disciples."
Says the Rev. Mark Owens, "We just feel like God's called us to reach as many children as we can with the Gospel of Christ and a pair of shoes."
I bet there's a line of priests from here to next week volunteering for that job.
But wait! There's more:
Officials at the University of Michigan at Dearborn plan to install special foot-washing stations for Muslim students. University officials said they started the program because some Muslim students say their religious beliefs "require them to wash their feet numerous times during the day." The university says it was moved to create the stations because of student injuries when trying to wash their feet in normal restroom sinks.

-->What color is green? dept: In their rush to green up their living rooms, Americans are running out and buying expensive curlicue fluorescent lightbulbs. These wonderful inventions give half the light for 10 times the money of a normal lightbulb. Yeah! And now, the greater catch.
Those florescent bulbs have mercury in them! Yep, like nuclear energy, they're real ecological... until they're used up. Then the mercury goes into a landfill where it leaches into the soil and enters your food-- or maybe the corn in your engine.

-->Another kind of prisoner dept: This girl's fiancè is in the clink. Someone with a psychiatrist license forced her into a “rehab” center. He didn't like her social behavior. They can do that, you know? THEY have power.
Anyway she's lonely, and mixed up and needs help. So if you can write to her, it would be much appreciated: Angela Myers, PO Box 1358, Spokane WA 99210. Tell 'em Kyle sent ya. Yeah, THAT Kyle.

-End-

go to Mykel's Homepage here

Mykel's Column for MRR 300 May 2008

YOU'RE WRONG
An Irregular Column

by Mykel Board

I am profoundly troubled that any candidate would chart the course of American history as follows (and I'm rearranging Obama's history here to make it more chronological):
American Revolutionaries -> Manifest Destiny -> Slaves/Abolitionists -> Suffragettes -> the Labor Movement -> the Greatest Generation -> the Civil Rights Movement -> Himself. --Mother Jones Magazine

Rather than focusing on any specific issue or cause — other than an amorphous desire for change — the message is becoming dangerously self-referential. The Obama campaign all too often is about how wonderful the Obama campaign is... --TalkLeft Internet Site

ALTERNATE UNIVERSE ONE: It's November 4, 2008. There's an early arctic chill in the air. I walk the 100 yards down Bleecker Street from my apartment to the voting booths. Faced with the depressing task of staring at the names HILLARY CLINTON and JOHN MCCAIN, I'm gonna pull the lever for Ralph Nader or some other sure-to-lose candidate.

I enter the curtained booth. Something presses against the back of my head.

“Don't turn around,” says a voice. “I've got a gun. If you don't vote for Clinton or McCain, I will kill you.”

Reluctantly, I pull the lever next to: McCain.

ALTERNATE UNIVERSE TWO: It's November 4, 2008. There's an early arctic chill in the air. I walk the 100 yards down Bleecker Street from my apartment to the voting booths. Faced with the depressing task of staring at the names HILLARY CLINTON and MIKE HUCKABEE, I'm gonna pull the lever for Ralph Nader or some other sure-to-lose candidate.

I enter the curtained booth. Something presses against the back of my head.

“Don't turn around,” says a voice. “I've got a gun. If you don't vote for Clinton or Huckabee, I will kill you.”

“Pull the trigger,” I say.

******

Yes, it's MRR #300. The May issue. I write this, however, in February. The theme is supposed to be The California Scene, the Bay Area and politics-- just like the first MRR.

I don't give a shit about the California scene. I don't know anything about Bay Area music. I haven't cared since Op Ivy broke up. But politics? Oh yeah, now is the time to write about politcs.

For the last 25 years of Grandma MRR, every 4 years I wrote my VOTE-THIRD-PARTY or DON'T-VOTE-IT-ONLY-ENCOURAGES-THEM column. But this year, I've got a surprise.

(“You're so predictable Mykel,” she says.

“I hate being predictable,” I tell her. “That's the worst insult you can give me.”

“I knew you'd say that,” she answers.)

February 2008, America has a chance. The sliver of a chance. An infinitesimal chance. A corn-kernel-in-a-beershit chance. A semen-stain-on-an-evening-gown chance. The United States might become the first Western nation with a Negro leader.

Korea, Vietnam, Dominican Republic, Granada, Desert Storm I, Afghanistan, Desert Storm II. 50 years of being the planet's badguy. 200 years of white guy presidents-- all but one Protestant. America NOW has a chance to lead the world in something different.

For once we can be the good guy again. The world hates America. I can't travel without being gringo-ized by a humanity that America fucked up. The election of a Negro could change all that.

How bad could America be if a majority white nation votes for a Negro? How could that country of arrogant racists be so arrogantly racist if it elects a colored guy as president?

Barak Obama could be the first Democrat I'll vote for since George McGovern (who?). I don't give a shit about Obama's politics. I don't give a shit about his flip flopping. I don't give a shit about his church appearances. He is a Negro. He was against the war in Iraq from the start. That's enough for me.

I don't care that Obama's campaign is about Obama. That his platform is Obama. That his promises are Obama and more Obama. Presidents don't do anything except stand up and make speeches. Their advisors rule. Presidents exist for the TV cameras. Things in America are not going to get better with Obama, but they'll LOOK better with Obama.

I can't imagine this really happening. Americans are too goonish, too war-loving, too nasty to allow it. But in February 2008, there is a sliver of hope.

Eager to help make that sliver into an entire... er... board, I call M, a pal of mine with a button-making machine. I find a picture of the Illinois senator. A nice one. In front of the Capitol. Smiling. Arms folded. No American flags. No religious symbols. I scan it into Photoshop.

I lay out the words in a circle around the picture. VOTE OBAMA-- AMERICA NEEDS A NEGRO. Proudly, I walk outside and go up Broadway to the closest Obama campaign office.

I pass my local street bum, a scruffy white guy who still has some of his teeth. He's been on my corner for almost 10 years. We're friends.

I dig in my pocket for a quarter. Throwing the coin into his oversize cup—really more like a pail—I tell him my plan to work for the Illinois senator.

“Good luck,” he says, “but it ain't gonna make much difference to me. No matter who's president, I'll be right here on the corner with my little bucket. You'll see.”

A bit further up the street, an attractive colored girl walks toward me. I thrust out my chest to make sure she can see who I'm supporting. It's working. She gives me a big smile. Then she freezes. Her smile turns into a frown, then a sneer. She huffs past me. I don't get it.

Shrugging, I continue my walk the half dozen blocks to the downtown Obama campaign headquarters. It's about 4 blocks east of NYU. In a storefront. If I remember correctly, it used to be a Radio Shack.

There's a huge picture of the colored man in the window. Not a full-body shot. Just his face. His hands together, prayer style. But they're not in praying position. Instead, they're at an angle supporting his head. Like Shirley Temple on The Good Ship Lollipop. (Who? On what?)

Inside the office, there are Obama bumper stickers, Obama badges, Obama campaign literature. Most of it has no words on the front except OBAMA. A few brochures have a white-on-blue logo that says CHANGE WE CAN BELIEVE IN.

In front of one table, a vaguely punk-looking young man (black leather jacket, tight black jeans, hair in a collegiate fauxhawk) pokes at the literature. He speaks with the black woman behind the table.

“And what about vegetarianism?” he asks. “What's Obama's stand on that issue?”

“Issue shmissue,” says the woman. “We don't do issues. We are issues.”

An expensive haircut, smelling of Eau d'NYU Freshman, comes up to me.

“Hi,” he says, eagerly extending his hand. “Can I help you?”

“You bet,” I tell him. “I wanna work for Obama.”

I see him look down at my home-made button.

“I can get more,” I tell him. “I made it myself. You can have the rights. No royalties. I don't believe in royalties.”

“You can't wear that,” he says. “That's racist.”

“You bet,” I answer. “But it's racist in the best way. It's PRO-colored people. It's a short form of from slavery to president! I know Obama doesn't have slaves in the woodpile, but it's the image that counts. Don't you think?”

“Look,” he says. “I don't know what you're trying to do, but would you please do it elsewhere? We have a campaign to run.”

“And I want to help,” I say, beginning to lose my enthusiasm in the cold reception. Like an erection that droops at the sight of an anal wart.

As we speak, a tall dark guy with dreadlocks comes in the door. Despite the dreadlocks, he wears a business suit, white shirt, and dark blue tie. His lapel sports a large button with a picture of Obama. Just the senator's face-- and one hand in a thumbs up gesture.

“Is there a problem here?” he asks in a deep resonant voice, sounding more British than Jamaican.

The whiteguy nods at my button. The tall guy looks at it and frowns like that girl on Broadway did.

“I think you'd better leave,” he says.

I take a few campaign leaflets and go out.

Looks like organized politics, like organized religion, does not get along with me. I'm gonna have to do this myself. My way. Bring on the scanner and color printer!

Obama needs publicity. People everywhere need to be reminded. I scan the cover of one of Obama's campaign brochures. Click. Cut. Paste. I'll photoshop a new set of stickers that'll wake New York up to my new hero.

I cut the stickers into large squares and go back out to the street. I see my bum friend again.

“Hey,” I ask him. “Can I put one of these on your coin bucket?”

He looks at the white-on-blue sticker.

“Sure,” he says, “but I don't get it.”

I read the sticker I've slightly doctored.

OBAMA, SPARE CHANGE WE CAN BELIEVE IN.

I'm gonna distribute them to beggars all over the city. That should wake people up. Every sympathetic bum donor will get it. They'll all become aware of the historical poverty of American slaves. They'll realize the way the world sees us. And they'll understand the chance for a symbol to reverse that image.

It's not far to the next bum. He sits on a milk crate at the corner of Mercer and Houston. Instead of a bucket, he shakes a more standard cardboard coffee cup. This guy is black. The sticker should have even more impact here.

“Hey,” I ask. “Can I put one of these on your coin cup?”

I show him the sticker.

“Er...” he starts. “Would you mind telling me what it says? I left my reading glasses at home.”

Wiseguy.

I read the sticker to him.

“Sorry,” he says. “I don't get this political stuff. Anyone gets elected, I'm on the same street corner... 'cept of course, Giuliani. With him, I'm in jail.”

This guy is only the first in a string of refusals. For some reason, the average homeless guy has no faith in the government or the electoral system. He doesn't want to spend even an inch of begging cup to support a candidate.

One guy I try to talk to could be Hispanic, or just a white guy who needs a bath. From his speech I figure he's black. In any case, he's savvy enough to have an actual marketing reason for rejecting my request.

“See,” he says, “most folks that give me money are brothers, white ladies or old people. Now, the brothers are gonna give me money anyway. Obama, Osama or whatever. The white ladies all like that white lady...”

“Hillary Clinton,” I say.

He nods.

“And old people,” he continues, “like that old guy.”

“John McCain,” I say.

He shrugs.

“So your sticker ain't gonna do me no good... got a quarter?”

I give the guy a quarter for his astute political analysis and, discouraged, I head home.

So what's left? My campaign work was a failure. My bum crusade never got more than one bum. All I have left is this column. So here it is:

If Obama doesn't get the nomination, you should vote 3^rd party or not at all. America does not need 20 years of 2 families. Didn't we fight King George to get rid of dynasties?

McCain is a worse horror. Sure as shit, he won't allow 4 years to go by without his own war.

If Obama gets the nomination, you should vote for him. I will. He really is the chance for Americans to feel better about themselves and the world. There's not much more we can hope for.

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]

-->Yeah it was April Fools dept: I guess most of you figured out that my column about A YEAR WITHOUT KIDS was a fake. There is no such group.
The man who started the movement was also a complete invention-- sprung from my brow like Aphrodite from the brow of Uranus.
The concept's not bad though. Anyone interested can have full rights to the name.

-->Get me one dept: Daryl Hill of Cookeville Tennessee bought his 10 year old daughter an MP3 player from Wal-Mart.
Surprise! The player was "preloaded with pornography and explicit songs." Evidently, someone bought the thing, downloaded the good stuff, then sealed it up and returned it. Now that's my kind of sabotage!

-->Embarrassing being a Jew dept. part 1: City University of New York and The Chicago Council on Global Affairs, among others, canceled presentations about a book called THE ISRAEL LOBBY. They said they needed critics to balance out the presentation. All critics, however, were "unavailable or unwilling to participate.” This call for "balance" is the new censorship.
Where is the balance for Rush Limbaugh or Anne Coulter? Where is the balance for an entire night of Fox News? Certainly not on CNN!

-->Embarrassing being a Jew dept. part 2: The school administration in Old Saybrook Connecticut canceled a performance by the Al-Ghad Folklore Dancing Troupe of Palestine. Why? Because parents claimed it was "offensive to Israeli and Jewish sensibilities." Maybe they couldn't find a Kill-the-Palestinians-Now Dance group to balance it out.

-->Speaking of predictable dept: A new book called, Predictably Irrational, talks about variations in the famous PLACEBO effect. Not only do people get better when doctors prescribe a sugar pill placebo... but the effect is increased if patients pay a lot for it. In other words, a worthless drug gives more relief when priced at $2.50, than when priced at 10 cents.
And what have the drug companies done for you lately? You sure?

-->Saving by intimidation dept: No, I'm not talking about Christianity. I'm talking about a BOMB BANK made by the Japanese toy company, Tomy.
The bomb-shaped bank begins to shudder and beep if not fed regularly. Longer starvation makes it explode and send coins and bank-shards flying. Sounds more American than Japanese, doesn't it?

-->If thy left hand offend thee dept: Kyle N sent me a clipping about an Idaho man who believed he saw THE MARK OF THE BEAST on his hand. Using a circular saw, he cut off the hand and microwaved it. A hospital spokewoman declined to say if any effort was made to reattach the offending hand.

-->What exactly does OVERWEIGHT mean? dept: The November 7, 2007 Journal of the American Medical Association reported, "Overweight people have lower mortality rates than those in all other weight categories (underweight, normal, and obese) and are less likely to die from certain illnesses, including Alzheimer's, Parkinson's and respiratory disease."
That begs the question... who decides what is and isn't overweight? Over WHAT weight?

-->Glad I'm not a Christian dept: Southern Baptist Pastor Wiley Drake has again urged his followers to pray for the deaths of staff members at Americans United for Separation of Church and State.
Last August, Americans United filed an IRS complaint about Drake’s use of church letterhead and a church-based radio program to endorse Mike Huckabee. Federal tax law forbids tax-exempt groups from endorsing or opposing candidates for public office. The IRS later notified Drake that his church was being investigated.
In response, Drake sent e-mails to followers urging them to engage in “imprecatory prayers” (curses) against Americans United and three of its staff members.
Wrote Drake, “In light of the recent attack from the enemies of God, I ask the children of God to go into action with Imprecatory Prayer. Especially against Americans United for Separation of Church and State…. Specifically target Joe Conn or Jeremy Learing [sic] and their leader, Rev. Barry Lynn. They are those who lead the attack.”
Drake directed his followers to Psalms 109 (as well as Psalms 55, 58, 68, 69 and 83) for examples of imprecatory prayers. Verses from those texts ask God to bring death and destruction to those targeted.
“Let his days be few; and let another take his office,” says one passage.
“Let his children be fatherless, and his wife a widow. Let his children be continually vagabonds, and beg,” says another.

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