Deep Meanings! or Mykel Board's Post MRR Column no. 35

Deep Meaning/ No Meaning

Mykel's

Post MRR Column no 35

I don't want to be a tree, I want to be its meaning.” --Orhan Pamuk

"The more we know about the universe, the more meaningless it appears.” --Steven Weinberg, Nobel Physicist

"What is useful to us generally conflicts with what is true.” --Julian Barnes

Meaning

by Mykel Board


1970-something: If she had a few more teeth, she'd be almost pretty. I forget if it's crack or speed that does it... If I close my eyes... those gums... stroking up and down on my five inches of throbbing flesh... they aren't so bad. When I look at her... that view from the top of her head with the greasy black hair... just-this-side-of-intentional dreadlocks... her nose... light blue veins under translucent skin.. moves back and forth to the beat of her lips

In an objective way... me detached from my body... there... behind CBGBs where the bands load-in... under the faint glow of a spotlight... I watch myself, leaned up against the filthy brick... my own blue veins appearing and disappearing under the nose of the young woman on her knees in the tar in front of me. The veins of her nose are a counterpoint to the veins of my tumescent baby carrot. I can feel her lips... dry... chapped... wet and rewet by her dripping tongue.

My body calls to me... a pulsing seminal call. I answer:

“Yes! Yes! Yes!”

A thin white dribble falls from the side of her mouth.

Five dollars later, I'm around the corner and back inside CBGBs. It's the DEAD BOYS tonight. Just those two intro chords to Sonic Reducer... DAHN DAHAN... send a thrill up my spine that matches anything a crack whore can do.

“Yo Mykel,” comes the voice.

If there's one thing I hate, it's THE READER injecting himself in what I'm writing. I'm not even writing and already THE READER is butting in like a radical at a political rally.

“I'm trying to watch the band,” I tell THE READER. “Can you at least wait until they're done? It's the fuckin' DEAD BOYS!”

“Yo Mykel,” comes the voice again. “You just told a story about a crack whore blow job behind CBGBs. You did it for some reason. It MEANS something...”

“What do you think it means?” I ask.

“You're saying that we're all whores, and that a crackhead blowjob is no more exploitation than a California grape harvest.”

“Nope,” I answer. “That's not what I'm saying at all.”

“Well then,” comes the reply, “you're saying that sex is just a matter of friction, and it's ridiculous to romanticize it with soft music or poppunk love songs pretending LOVE when all anything is... is sex.”

“I might think that,” I say. “But it's not why I wrote this.”

“Then what does it mean?” comes the rather whiny reply.

Listen asshole, sometimes a crack whore blow job is just a crack whore blow job. It doesn't MEAN anything. It's not happy or sad or a metaphor. It's not a sign of society's this or that. It's not a signal to do this or that. It is itself! Chapped lips on a penis. Five inches of depth... nothing deeper than that.

Flash to Now: I begin to write this a few days after some guy in Orlando blasts a hundred homosexuals with a semi-automatic machine gun.

Kerpow! Kerpow! He's holed up in the bathroom. Semi-automatic, semi-automaticing the panicked homotude. People down... bleeding... dying... The cops take hours to get there. Kerpow! Kerpow! Blood... rivers of it greasing the dancefloor. The cops break in through the wall. Kerpow! Kerpow! Kill the guy.

News comes dribbing and drabbing. He's a white Christian, on an anti-gay rampage. He's a Muslim. He's a security guard for a company with secret government contracts. He's a soldier for ISIS. He only pledged himself to ISIS minutes before he started firing. He's a homo himself.

On and on. Speculation, pronouncements, false news, half truths... political statements... a circus.

Months before, the FBI's investigated him. They found nothing. There were no charges... an investigation... that's all! But, they investigated him! That's enough for people who want guns banned for “the accused,” whether guilty or not. Forget the idea of innocent until proven guilty. In American in 2016, accused is guilty enough.

He was a Muslim. Forget the fact he was on Grindr. Forget that he was a regular at the club. Forget that he tried to set up dates with other guys. Forget the fact that a Chassid on a rampage murdered a fellow Jew at a gay pride parade in Israel. This guy was a Muslim. That's enough.

He was gay. Forget the fact he had a kid. Forget that he was married. Forget that there are more choices than being gay or being straight. He was gay. That's enough.

He had a gun. Forget the fact that if others had had guns he could have been stopped. Forget the fact that most people who have guns don't shoot anyone. Forget the fact that Americans celebrate people with guns... from cowboys to soldiers. He had a gun. That's enough.

People talking shit.... shit... shit... shit and more shit.

What does it mean? That we need to ban guns? Ban Muslims? That homosexuals kill each other? That homosexuals have to protect each other. That trannies should be allowed to use women's bathrooms? No! No! No!

Sometimes a blowjob from a crack whore is just a blowjob from a crack whore. It doesn't have to MEAN anything. A nut with a gun... a club with some homosexuals... BANG! BANG! BANG! Dead people. That's what it is.

Donald Trump and Bill Maher say: IT'S MUSLIM! Look at the Muslims. Evangelicals say IT'S MUSLIM. IT'S GAY... look at GAY MUSLIMS. There's even a preacher who praises the gunman.

“Are you sad that 50 pedophiles were killed today?” sermonizes the pastor of Verity Baptist Church. “Um no, I think that’s great! I think that helps society. I think Orlando, Florida is a little safer tonight.”

Anti-gun liberals say, “It's guns! Take guns away and this can't happen.” Pro-gun gays say if others are armed, this can't happen.

Whatever your agenda, there's always a tragedy to prove your point. Except that YOU'RE WRONG! Sometimes a crack whore blowjob is just a crack whore blowjob. The five bucks stops there.

Sure, it's pain and horror for those involved, but that's not a reason why it has to MEAN something. More Muslims DON'T kill people than DO kill people. More homosexuals die in car accidents than in nightclubs.

Death and pain are there... part of life. They make us sad... or angry... or fearful... but they don't MEAN anything. Get it? Sometimes a crack whore blowjob is just a crack whore blowjob.

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

-->Didn't you read the contract dept: In May of this year, the Norwegian Consumer Council staged a live, 32-hour TV broadcast marathon -- a word-for-word reading of the "terms of service" for internet applications Instagram, Spotify and more than two dozen others. This totaled 900 pages and 250,000 words of legal restrictions and conditions. Millions of users "voluntarily" agree to them when they sign up-- usually through a mouse click. A local government official called such terms "bordering on the absurd, as consumers could not possibly understand everything they were legally binding themselves to."

     I say, isn't that the idea?

-->Good thing he wasn't a Muslim dept: Convicted murderer Charles Flores was on Texas' death row for more than 16 years (until June 2 of this year) before the state's highest criminal appeals court ruled that the execution might not be justified. Why? The most important evidence was provided by a witness whom the police had hypnotized. The trial judge, and the jury, had accepted that "hypnosis" could lead to "recovered" memory. This was a popular theory in the 1980s and 1990s. It was often used in pedophile and satanism cases. These days, the idea is recognized as bullshit.

There was no physical evidence against Flores. So, for some reason, they didn't kill him... yet. We'll see what happens.

-->She passes on balls dept: Melissa Meija complained that (get this) she was allowed to graduate from High School despite the fact she had failing grades and didn't do her homework. Her teacher said she (the teacher) was put under tremendous pressure by the school to pass the student to boost the school's graduation rate.

     If I were the principal, I'd say PASS THAT GIRL, just on honesty.

     This whole thing is one of the evil legacies of Billionaire Mayor Michael Bloomberg. He's the one who brought the whole “failing schools” concept to NY education. He should not be given a passing grade.

-->And a touch of good news Dept: I'd guess from the boxing gloves that the Yippies who now run an “underground boxing bar” on Bleecker St. are responsible for this. I also guess they they don't have permission from CBGB to use the logo, so

that's why the last B is missing. But I like the mural, and I'm glad to see wall painting praised instead of Giuliani-ed to a prison cell-- with or without hypnosis.

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

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

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

-end-

Bully! or Mykel Board's Post MRR Column no. 34

Mykel's

Post MRR Column no 34

“A young outcast will often feel that there is something wrong with himself, but as he gets older, grows more confident in who he is, he will adapt, he will begin to feel that there is something wrong with everyone else.” --Criss Jami

Bully

by Mykel Board

It's 1958. The school yard at Lee Avenue Elementary School... in Hicksville. I'm off in a corner, as usual... trying to avoid being dragged into some sport, like baseball (I like watching, but hate playing)... or football,... (I detest on all counts).

Harvey McConnell... who, in my 8-year old mind is Harvey O'Jerk... has cornered me in the playground. Harvey probably isn't very tall, but he looks tall to me... tall and wide as a house... with a blond crewcut and the kind of square face only the goyim have.

“Okay, you little faggot,” he says.

I have no idea what faggot means, except that it's not something nice.

“Your mommy gives you money for lunch,” he continues. “I watch you sometimes. You hardly eat anything... just suck up that milk and have a slice of bologna... I eat lunch. I need your lunch money. You don't.”

“Fuck you! If you want it, you're gonna have to take it from me,” I don't say.

Instead, I reach into my pocket and pull out three crumpled dollar bills. I hold them out to Harvey. He laughs, takes them from my hand, turns around and heads toward the guys playing baseball.

FLASH TO NOW: I sit here at the Toshiba thinking about bullying and how fashionable it is to complain about it. In liberal circles, The only way you can establish street cred is to talk about being bullied. You're nobody unless you've been bullied. The more, the better.

If you played football in school... you're a loser. If you had kind parents, were never bothered by your classmates, had a smooth childhood... you're an unfeeling robot who can never understand what it's like. It makes no difference what IT is... you can still never understand it.

So me and my flip-fone and my barely-this-century computer with my MS-DOS database, need to establish ourselves before I continue with my story. I did. Okay? Do I have my cred?

Yeah, I want to talk about bullying? It's all the rage and people are right to be concerned... but not in the way you think.

Let's review:

I've written about the verbal war I have with the lefty no free speech to those who would deny it to others people. They believe it's not censorship if the government isn't the censor. As if getting fired for saying something is less damaging in America than getting fined for the same thing. Can you say Imus and Curt Schilling? That's not censorship... that's the market place, they say.

On the right, people say it's not censorship, if iTunes, Amazon and Walmart-- the only source for music for many Americans.... require changes in cover art, or lyrics before they sell something... as if that's less intimidating than a visit from the Sheriff of Mayville.

Lately, I've been in facebook debates with progressives^® who say that slavery is where people are forced to work and the benefits of that work go to someone else. Yet these same progressives^® think some good ole boy Southern landowner with a whip is more of a slave master than hunger... that Southern Negroes were slaves because they had to work to live... but modern McDonald's workers are NOT slaves, even though if THEY don't work, they die. Raise your hand if you hate your job! If you work only because you need to have food and shelter, tell me you're not a slave.

It occurs to me that slavery is the ultimate bullying. Legal, as well as physical threats. You work or you're whipped. Or maybe I'll whip you for the hell of it. All depends on whose history of slavery you read... or believe. But bullying didn't end with slavery. Even slavery didn't end with slavery.

When I was robbed in that playground... my lunch money ripped from my hands back in 1958, of course, that was bullying. These days people worry about more. We hear about microaggression (aka microbullying). A snicker, an elbow nudge, a raised eyebrow. In New York... according to a recent law... the use of a wrong gender pronoun is bullying. Bullying is something white hets do that makes others feel uncomfortable. Anything they do.

FLASH TO MIAMI: I'm with my friends in Wynwood... a fashionable part of Miami, gentrified through graffiti. Instead of building ugly new buildings and keeping them

pristine through jail for artists (like Guiliani did in NY) or with graffiti-rejecting paint (like in San Francisco)... Wynwood has embraced graffiti artists, turned 'em loose, turned the town into a sea of color... a river of big eyes, sexy ladies and sexy men... funny aliens... slogans... a feast for the eyes. It's a joy to be here.

The only problem is parking. Richard is driving. He's a Cuban-American pal who knows Miami better than I do.

He drives around the block... another block... back to the first. We're trying to get to Wynwood Brewery, fine makers of one of my favorite American Porters.

Ah here's a parking space... Richard slides in.

I know the tricks. They charge for parking, sometimes hide the meters. You gotta go to a machine someplace, get a receipt, put it in the window. The city makes a ton of cash by towing cars whose owners thought they got free parking. Richard pulls out his smart phone. 

“Who're you gonna call?” I ask. “Can't it wait? Let's get some beer!”

“Mykel,” he says. “I gotta pay for parking.”

“I got quarters,” I tell him.

“Mykel, Mykel, Mykel,” he says, shaking his head like a parent wiping the face of a chocolate-guzzling toddler. “You can only pay by phone. You need to download the app, register a credit card, then put in your location and pay.”

Richard points overhead. I look up. A sign: To pay for parking, please use PARKPAY. If you don't have the app, download it to your smartphone at parkpay.com.

What if you don't have a smartphone, motherfucker? This is bullying! I can't park here if I don't own a smartphone. I'm being bullied into buying something I don't want. How much longer before I won't be able to get into a movie theater... or board an airplane without a smartphone?

This extortion... several hundred dollars if you include the contracts, the accessories and the other shit... is worse than any innocent white guy calling his wimpy classmate “a faggot.” It's certainly more expensive.

“What?” I say. “The city bullies you into having a credit card, a smartphone, and downloading an app that knows where you are every second?”

“BINGO!” he says.

“I have no smartphone,” I say. “Does that mean I can't park in Miami?”

He nods, pointing his finger at me in a YOU GOT IT gesture.

BINGO! is right.

THAT is the kind of bullying people should be complaining about. I got over my lunch-money theft decades ago, but technological bullying never ends.

Is this the first time?

You bet your walkman it's not. You're too young to remember when we were bullied into buying CD players because companies stopped making vinyl... or into buying DVD players because of the end of videotape.

The bullying never ends.

FLASH TO THE SCHOOL I TEACH IN: It's my first class of the day. I stumble through a hangover haze from last night at BAR BACON.

My brain feels like it's trying to escape my skull. My stomach is so churned it doesn't know which end is up... and doesn't care as long as it can spill something. I can feel my eyebags dragging on the floor. Kiko, the receptionist, squints as I enter.

“What are you doing here?” she asks. “Your first class was canceled.”

“What???”I say, trying to both speak and hold down the vomit at the same time.

“I sent you an email,” she says.

I should be glued to my email ... my computer, my smartphone, my brain-implanted chip? I should check my email, or respond or be ON 24 hours with a PING if something new comes to gmail or if someone LIKES my vasectomy photo on facebook.

I'm being bullied into NOT using email as a convenience... sent, like a letter, when I'm able to... responding in time. They're making me a slave to email.

Other people say DON'T SEND EMAIL AT NIGHT, don't text me after 10. Why? Because they don't shut off their smartphones! They're already slaves... slaves to the technology. On the plantation, THOSE slaves could sleep at night. They could stop and eat, the slavemaster had to keep them in good shape... they were expensive. They had plenty of time to sleep to get ready for the next day of cotton picking.

Slaves of today are as disposable as videotape players. Use it up, hire a new one... there are more where they came from. Today's slaves are on call 24 hours. They don't have to be cared for. Waddaya mean you want to sleep? I sent you an email.

This is the bullying you need to worry about. You'll get over your boss frowning when you say my partner. You'll get over someone complementing your ass when you walk up Fourth Avenue. You'll get over someone using the “wrong” pronoun when you ask directions.

But you WON'T get over technological bullying. You won't get over being forced to BUY BUY BUY and then throw out what you just bought. You'll get over having your lunch money stolen on the playground. You won't get over the extortion from Apple, Amazon, facebook, Microsoft or Google.

Don't talk to me about how my “privilege” (penis, roundish eyes, easily-sunburned skin) protects me from being bullied. Bullying is the name of the game, and if you live in the modern world... you have to play the game.

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

-->Who needs Trump dept: The Pew Research Center reports that more Mexicans are leaving the US than entering.

Says the report: From 2009 to 2014, 1 million Mexicans and their families (including U.S.-born children) left the U.S. for Mexico. This according to data from the 2014 Mexican National Survey of Demographic Dynamics (ENADID). U.S. census data for the same period show an estimated 870,000 Mexicans left Mexico to come to the U.S., a couple hundred thousand fewer than went the other way.

-->Special Congrats Dept: My very long-time friend, performance artist, and half of my blog proof-reading staff, has finally graduated from Columbia College in Chicago. I was there, and Sid's fish-hat/mortarboard was the hit of the show! Sid Yiddish, (who it's looking more and more like I'll be voting for for president) got his Masters in Interdisciplinary Art... while the bachelors looked on. Omedeto, Sid!

-->Right again dept: I'm often wrong in my predictions. Can you say, “America will never have a colored president?” So when something comes out right, it brings an ear-wiggling smile to my face.

Several months ago I wrote a piece about the left's tendency not to binge and purge, but to purge and purge. All lefties better get used to watching their backs, because being a lefty requires a tattoo of a target there.

Now I hear that Gilman Street, the totalitarian club started by Tim Yohannon at Maximum Rock'n'Roll (bands have to submit their lyrics for approval before they can play there), is the victim of a boycott.

The boycott organizers didn't like that some bands were offensive. This is PUNK ROCK! It's SUPPOSED to be offensive. But these humorless overlords don't get it.
I'm glad to be right this time.

-->Speaking of Bar Bacon dept:

I had a great Drink Club a Bar Bacon. Great crowd and great irony that there were two Jews and two Muslims (among others) together in a Bacon Bar.

     One of the Muslims was the great Joe Kidd. In case you don't know, Joe Kidd is the Malaysian Luk Haas. Mr. Punk Encyclopedia, Joe is the hero of everyone in Asia. He's written about them all. He's lived on more islands than I have, and taken the obscure and let everybody know about it. He writes (used to write? I don't keep up with the purges anymore) the Malaysian scene reports in MRR. You can contact him on facebook... and you should.

---->Your cheatin' heart dept: A Spanish mattress maker called "Smartress" has invented a mattress that "detects rhythmic patterns."

Any... er... extra curricular rhythmic activity will be reported by smartphone. In order to avoid "false positives," the mattress also reports the number of people on the mattress at the time of the rhythm.

Yet another reason to keep smartphones out of the hands of spouses, lovers, and other jealous people.

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

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

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

-end-

Privilege and Stripping or Mykel Board's Post MRR Column no. 33

Mykel's

Post MRR Column no 33

America has Race Fever. It's not an actual race war, but a sort of racial Cold War. A grinding war of nerves. And it's impossible to escape. A race war would be anticlimactic at this point... Let's cool down just a tad. We don't need MORE sensitivity. If we got any more sensitive, we'd all break out in a rash. --Jim Goad (copped from another of my columns)

Privilege and Stripping

or

Stripping the Privilege

by Mykel Board

Part 1: Privilege

It's the circus... an arena for kids and adults to be amazed by some performances... amused by others.

A small car comes from the tent-wing and drives toward the center. Smaller than a smart car, it's somewhere between a kiddie pedal car and a remote controlled drone car. The door opens... out comes a man... tall... a red fringe of hair around a bald head... face and head painted white. Then comes another... bright colored clothes... big shoes. Then another... and another... all faces painted white. So many people from such a small space. How do they do it?

One of the men whacks the other on the ass. It's a slap stick... makes a loud sound and the kids laugh. A mother next to me talks about the slapper.

“What a clown!” she says, casually as scratching her ass.

I cringe.

I think of the make-up... the caricatures... faces painted white in a parody of European-Americans. Whiteface... people playing the fool... the victims of violence from a slapboard to a rug pulled out from underfoot.

Happy clowns, mean clowns, evil clowns, every cliché of the dumb, malicious, whiteguy book...there... accepted by the world.

In never ending parades of whitefolk clichés, clowns tell the world that European-Americans aren't like other people. They're either scary or funny-- evil or stupid-- but not like the rest.

Google “white guys” and you'll see Donald Trump in an open-mouthed harangue... or Clint Eastwood... with a gun.

Watch any TV program... cop show... major movie. Unless it's a Jackie Chan film, most of the dead guys will be white. White lives don't matter. They're as disposable as tissue paper: bleached white to show that you should throw it away.

Half of the murder victims in the US are European-Americans. We don't hear about that.

What do we hear?

Flash to a blond girl... long Prell hair, blue sweater tied loosely around her neck.. She looks directly in the camera. “Fresh is a walk through the woods on an early spring morning.” Cut to a more housewifey lady in a white gossamer gown. Her skin just this side of pink. “Fresh is a gentle breeze, that takes you by surprise.”

 

And what exactly is so fresh? Their twats! They're pushing SUMMER'S EVE, “feminine deodorant” now available in “doctor recommended vinegar and water.”

After five minutes of Walking Dead or some other show I'll never see, comes commercial two:

Cut to an elevator. A young guy-- whiter than Justin Bieber-- shares an elevator with an older crewcut European-American... the latter very boss looking.

“Sam,” says the boss, “glad you got the memo.”

Sam looks at his phone. Sees MEETING CHANGED TO 8AM... in red... on the screen. He puts his briefcase on the elevator ledge, opens it, pulls out the Gillette Deodorant, runs it under his shirt... no sweat!

What do these commercials tell the world? WHITE PEOPLE STINK.

Google PRUDE and you have to scroll down mighty far before you see the first person who isn't white. Clowns, prudes, nerds... these are the images that the world has of white people. These are the images in the brains of people who look at you as you shop for cereal or scratch your balls on the street. Those are the glasses coloring the vision of everyone you meet... or don't meet because they're afraid of you... or you disgust them... because of your race.

What's written in history books? What do we see? WHITE Vikings slicing through the bodies of their helpless victims. Invading flotillas of WHITE people, conquering the peaceful Redman in America. European-American pilots dropping atomic bombs on helpless Asians.

Check out mass murderers for entry after entry of white people. Charles Manson, Timothy McVeigh, The Columbine Killers. Their white faces are splashed across every paper in America. Think: Who are the killers? Answer: WHITE PEOPLE.

When the world thinks of BLACK, they think NELSON MANDELA, MUHAMMAD ALI, or HILLARY CLINTON. Who do you think has an easier time entering the Knicks' lockerroom, Jesse Jackson or Noam Chomsky? It's BLACK-PRIVILEGE.

The prude-clown-murderer... that's what the world thinks of EUROPEAN-AMERICANS. Selective history, stereotypes, non-stop bombardment with disparaging images... this has got to stop! I have a plan.

Put it in a museum. A single place... a monument to European-American stereotypes and cliches. The Betty Boops, the Bozo the Clowns, the John Wayne Gacys, the Elmer Gantrys. The statues of naked whiteboys with granite preserved genitalia. White boys as nutty professors and white boys nailed to a cross. WHITE HINDRANCE. Most European-Americans don't even know they've got it.

When people ask why European-Americans need their own safe spaces... point to that museum.

When they ask why white people can't associate with everyone else... or act in a human way... point to that museum. When people call that white kid THE CLASS CLOWN or say HE GOT AWAY WITH MURDER, it's time to call them out... to bring 'em to that museum.

Part 2 Stripping:

BOOM chaka BOOM chaka BOOM BOOM. The speakers blast at the usual levels. An inch and a half from my nose is a coffee colored ass. I can see every pimple... every spot of rippled flesh... every raised bump, looking like an unpeeled orange at nose level. Here in Miami, it's all the way. No pasties, no bikini bottoms, you got it all... the whole kit... the whole caboodle. I reach forward to put a bill on that little shelf where the beautiful brown buttocks wiggling in front of me attaches itself to her body.

I pucker my lips and place a smackeroo on the right cheek. Her face turns to me. She smiles. I put another dollar up there as I kiss the other cheek. She turns around, showing me her shaved taco... looking tight as a Florida parking space.

I look up at her. Her perfectly styled hair, curled to flow just past her shoulders. I look at her face... her smile. I look into her eyes... I see it... a negative it... something missing. Her smile is there, but something about those eyes. Like I'm a vampire looking into a mirror. No refection....blank... like the light behind those eyes dimmed... flickered... went out.

Something is dead in there. Something that her life... this display... this parody of love... has hurt. Every night... how many different lips on those ass cheeks. How many rides on how many laps? How much has what should be so close, become so mundane... so ordinary? Going beyond sadness... this enters the realm of something closer to death... to murder.

I feel my body begin to drip with sweat. I look around the room at the sad old men... the just post teens... the jocks out for a night of beer... at whose expense? This girl... looking at me...smiling... dead smiling.

What a load of bullshit! From the red I to the red g in smiling. What I wrote above is what feminists and Christians want to hear. And it's a lie.

I love strippers. I know strippers. I know the NYU students who would rather strip than waitress tables for a bunch of hipsters. I know the Thai strippers who would rather shoot an egg out of their twat than serve one au benedict to some farang tourist lady with no chin.

Human trafficking? You want human trafficking? Check the nail salons. That's where you'll find it. Check the maids, the au pairs, the people catering to the rich. More strippers like their jobs than do Walmart associates.... MANY more.

The only reason liberals and Christians get on their high horses about strippers (or prostitutes, for that matter), is SEX. Get it? Sex is bad! MEN are bad. These girls service men with sex... no one would do that willingly, right? It MUST be human trafficking.

Yeah, right.

No matter who has control, the PRUDES win. Liberal or conservative, the prudes, yeah the WHITE prudes, win.

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

→Thanks dept: I want to thank my pal Tony “Anonymous Boy” Arena for telling me about the Jim Crow Museum that inspired the White Cliché Museum I wrote about in this blog. Tony also told me that Betty Boop was originally black! Hollywood whitened her up to make her more acceptable to the general population. It doesn't change anything in what I wrote, but it is an interesting bit of history.

-->Deep in the Heart Dept pt 1: California Republican Shannon Grove said that the first rain after a Texas drought was God thanking the legislature for the passage of a strict anti-abortion bill. Grove talks about the night of the passage:

“It rained that night,” she said. “God's hand is in the affairs of man.”

-->Deep in the Heart Dept pt 2: Texas police forced 7 and 8 year old sisters to shut down their lemonade stand because they didn't have a permit. They reportedly were raising money to buy a Father's Day gift, but the police said they needed to apply for a permit “because of bacteria that can grow in lemonade.”

--> Deep in the Heart Dept pt 3: Rick Allgeyer was the Director of research in the Texas Health and Human Services Commission. He co-authored an article for the New England Journal of Medicine on how state cuts to Planned Parenthood have reduced the ability of women to get health care.

        He was fired when the article appeared.

-->Nice new suit dept: Chicago cop Robert Rialmo murdered a 19 year old colored guy who had no weapon. He also killed a neighbor "by accident." Now the cop is... get this... suing the estate of the kid he killed for 10 million dollars. Why? He suffered "extreme emotional trauma" because of the deaths and he blames the kid for "forcing him to shoot."

--->Where exactly are you putting that pen dept: The BIC company has announced a new line of pens called "For Her." They come in pastel colors and are thinner than normal bic pens. They're also about 70% more expensive. Predictably, reaction has been cynical.

-->Going to your head dept: Massachusetts' law prohibits wearing hats or head covering in driver's license pictures unless, "they're worn for religious purposes."

So Lindsay Miller shows up wearing a pasta strainer on her head and demands a picture. Why? She's a PASTAFARIAN. After a threat of a court case, the Massachusetts DMV relented and she got her picture.

The actual name of the sect is "Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster."

Wait for MY picture with a nylon stocking over my head. "Robin Hood Church of Bank Robbery."

Got any other ideas?

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

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

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

-end-

Another Boring Election Year Supplemental Post:

Stardate 1984+ Captain's Log Supplemental:

by Mykel Board

I shudda known. The worst thing about being an idealist is that those ideals inevitably crash around you, scattering flaming fragments on your clothes, your balding head, your naked eyeballs. The corrupt NY primary is over. The winner was the corrupt presidential candidate. Could it be anything else?

It's been almost half a century since there HASN'T been a Clintonbush somewhere among the top three “elected” officials. President, Vice President, Secretary of State... SOMETHING. I didn't think it would be any different this time. I just DREAMED it would be different. The NY primary awakened me from that dream.

The Banana Republic of America with its 2-family rule is not going to change. Not in my lifetime, nor in Chelsea Clinton's nor in whatever Bush-spawns'. Rosencrantz and Gilderstern, Mutt and Jeff, Tweedledum and Tweedledee. It's over. Three hundred million serfs and two sovereigns.

The outcome is predictable. Those who sit out the next election, stay home, jerk off, finish that six pack... I understand you completely. Voting's in my blood.. like eating matzoh on Passover...So I'm gonna do it. Probably a write in... Sid Yiddish or Bernie Sanders himself. I urge those who do not live in swing states to make sure you don't vote for Clintonbush. Your vote won't mean much in the presidential election, (NO ONE'S vote will mean much in the presidential election) but it'll give you a moral right to say: DON'T BLAME ME. When she drops the drones on Syria or Ukraine.

If you live in a swing state you have to make your own decision. Vote for Clintonbush or take away from her votes. I will not tell you how to vote... you have to make the tough choice. I can tell you that I would NOT vote for her-- even if I lived in Florida. I would not vote for either ruling family in any election... any place... anywhere. In this election, the Republican candidate cannot win, no matter who it is. And even if he did win, it wouldn't be a Clintonbush-- so you get a bonus right there. (Although one of the evil spawn would likely be appointed to some high position.)

For me, it's most important that Clintonbush knows we're not behind her. We see through the tricks... we're victims of those tricks, but we're AWARE victims... not WILLING victims. Writing in Sanders or Sid sends that message. If you're in a swing state and feel you don't want to be responsible for a Trump or a Cruz, I respect your decision, but it wouldn't be mine.

Here in New York (or in Mississippi, or in Oregon, or in Massachusetts or any other “solid red” or “solid blue” state), there's no excuse for voting for Clintonbush. Those of you unlucky enough to be in one of the swing states... you gotta do what you think is right. I don't envy you.

--Mykel

The End of Homosexuality As We Know It or Mykel Board's Post MRR Column no. 31

Mykel's

Post MRR Column no 32

Why is it socially acceptable - as a form of entertainment - for men to put on dresses, make up and high heels and act out every offensive stereotype of women (bitchy, catty, dumb, slutty, etc.) -- but it is not socially acceptable -- as a form of entertainment - for a white person to put on blackface and act out offensive stereotypes of African Americans? --Mary Cheney, lesbian daughter of former Vice President Dick Cheney.

The End of Homosexuality As We Know It

by Mykel Board

It was a new LOH point... Late Onset Hangover... you know: you wake up. Everything's hunky dory... you la-dee-da through morning coffee, jerk off to old videos of yourself with the one who didn't get away, then POW! Headache... a feeling in your stomach like a greasy pork chop... every cough turns into a multicolored splotch on your sheets... Yesterday's dinner... dripping through your nose... gagging... groaning. You just know a neighbor is going to be pounding on the door... “Are you alright?”

Fuck! I promised myself I'd go to the gym today. I'm old. If I don't dance on some treadmill, I'll get a heart attack. If I don't pump some cables and chains, I'll get waddles. Ok, one last trip to the porcelain goddess. Then I go! It'll feel so good. Yeah, right.

I stumble into the locker room and head for a corner... a little cranny far from the main lockerfolks. I'm in no condition to put up with the sideways glances and smug chuckles that usually accompany my undressing. When I have my pants down to my knees, I notice someone standing just two lockers down. A chisel chinned young man with a smooth-- yet six-packless-- abdomen. Trying to keep my eyes front, I fail. Jeezus, this guy is smaller than me. His rutabaga doesn't even make it out of the pubes. Nothing.....

Then I see it. The crack, the folded skin, the elongated Y. Yes! This guy has a TWAT! You heard that right: a cunt, a pussy. Yes, I'm talking a hairy taco, a snatch, a beaver, a muff. 

 

Here, in the men's locker room. Next to me. I'm talking a slit, a box, a pud. I'm talking the first results of a citywide law prohibiting discrimination on “gender identification.” Hoooey!

FLASH TO THEORY: America is a homosexual society. Not the most homosexual of societies, but a lot homo-er than many. In Finland, for example, you're invited to the home of a casual acquaintance... WOMP! There you are, naked with the whole family... in the sauna... beating your new friend's naked parents with birch branches. Dangly parts shaking to each thwack.

“Have a drink?” asks your hostess, her pert breasts, breast-like in the soft sauna light.

In Finnish, they use the same pronoun, Hän, for both sexes. Talk about gender equality! Maybe it's related to Sauna culture... the ease of nudity. (Interestingly enough, in Japan, they hardly ever use pronouns at all-- Just the verb, thank you. And, until the Americans forced a separation after WWII, the Japanese traditionally bathed gender mixed in outdoor hot springs.)

In America, we have separate pronouns for men and women... and separate restrooms. At gyms, at public pools, in schools, we have different locker rooms: MEN and WOMEN each sex homo-ed with itself.

Go to a bowling alley, a bar, a football game... you see homotude up the wazoo. Boys’ night out or the girls just getting together. Guys hanging with each other, har-har-ing at talk about girls, but not actually mixing with girls. Girls chat or engage in screamfests-- with each other-- a homosexual world. The only time people spend in each other's company is either some part of the mating ritual... or the actual mating itself. Otherwise, it's homo, homo, homo.

Wait a minute, Mykel!

Who the fuck are you? And why are you using that font? You think you're God or something?

Stop playing games, Mykel. You know me. I AM God.

God? What the fuck are you doing in my column? Can't you leave me alone for once?

Mykel, Mykel, Mykel. I'm am GOD! Remember? I don't leave anyone alone.

I concede.

“Okay,” I say. “What do you want this time?”

I'm just butting in to remind you. You're forgetting someone... some ones actually.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

Gay men, says God, I'm talking about gay men. Their best friends are girls. They go shopping with girls. They talk about cooking with girls. They hang out with girls. The only time they hang out with guys is in the mating ritual... or in the actual mating itself.

“Hey,” I say, “you're stealing my lines.”

God laughs... a terrifyingly awful... dare I say satanic... laugh.

But when God's right, God's right.

“When you're right, you're right,” I say. “The only people in American who are not homosexual are gay men.”

But the trannie laws could change all that. They could destroy homosexual society as we know it.

FLASH TO THE CARMINE ST. PUBLIC POOL, WOMEN'S LOCKER ROOM 2016: Little Ashley Goldstein is there for the first time. Her mom, Bethany, took a floor tier locker so she could be right next to her daughter. Ashley, ever the curious kindergartner, can't take her eyes off all the naked people.

“Mommy,” she asks, pointing, “when I grow up will I have hair down there like that lady?”

“Shhhhh,” says Bethany, grabbing her daughter's finger, and curling it from a point to a fist. “It isn't polite to point.”

“But will I mommy... will I?”

“Keep your voice down,” says Bethany. “You'll embarrass people... And yes, you'll have hair down there too.”

“And will I have big breasts, like that woman?” asks little Ashley... again pointing.

“Don't point!” says Mom. “And it's different for every girl, but you will develop. We talked about that. That's what happens to girls. When you get to the right age we'll talk about it some more.”

“And will I have those round, hanging things... and a floppy?” ask Ashley. “Like that lady?”

Bethany looks up, startled. A scream catches in her throat.

“That's a man,” she whispers.

No it's not and... Welcome to 2016!

What's a man anyway? Who decides?

I say, it's like buying a car.

“I only buy Ford products,” you say. “I buy American.”

“Stuff your Mexican-made Ford up your chocolate starfish,” I reply. “My Honda comes from Alabama.”

An American Car has no meaning-- no relationship to its place of origin or the nationality of those who put on its fenders. An American Car is anything it wants to be.

The word MAN will lose itself the same way. No relation to the glands between your legs or the glans that covers them. WOMAN will be a label pasted on whoever wants to wear it. Why have Men's or Women's locker rooms? Why enforce homosexuality in a world that's quickly losing it?

FLASH TO A LOCKER ROOM 2025. In 2025, there's only ONE locker room-- for everybody.

Same scenario up to:

“And will I have big breasts, like that woman?” asks little Ashley... again pointing.

“Don't point!” says Mom. “And it's different for every girl, but you will develop.... We talked about that. That's what happens to girls. When you get to the right age we'll talk about it some more.”

“And will I have those round, hanging things... and a floppy?” ask Ashley. “Like that lady?”

“It's up to you,” says Mom. “If you're grown up and decide you want them... you can have them. Some girls do and some girls don't.”

“How will I know?” asks Ashley.

“You'll know,” explains Mom. “When it's time, you'll know.”

Get it? It'll be the end of homosexuality. No more men's or lady's restrooms. No more men's or lady's locker rooms. At the beach, toplessness... for everybody. Who knows? Maybe the whole shebang... for everyone!

People will chose their friends, social partners and their sex partners on types, characteristics, personality, hair color. Homosexuality will disappear because homo will disappear. Too bad I won't be around to see it. Sounds like fun.

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

-->It was in the cards dept: Livingston Parish (county) in Louisiana has repealed a law prohibiting "fortunetelling and soothsaying." The ordinance was challenged by local resident Cliff Eakin, a Wiccan who believed the ban violated his religious freedom. Talking about the future... and foretelling the future are an integral part of the Wiccan religion.

A Louisiana district judge agreed, saying the law was “unconstitutionally vague.”

I predict we haven't seen the end of this case.

-->Another prediction dept: I write this the day after the Brussels attack. And here's my soothsaying:

Prediction: After Brussels, instead of learning a lesson... NATO will harden its line, kill more people, make more terrorists and this will happen again and again. This is NOT a war where you can go to a country and just drop drones on people. Those people are living next door. Are you going to drone yourself? The proper response to killing people is to STOP killing people. The only ones who benefit from all this are the drone-makers. We never learn.

-->Two for the price of truth dept: The Cincinnati Municipal Zoo cut ties with a "creationist museum" in nearby Kentucky. The original plan was to offer two-for-the-price-of-one tickets to special Christmas shows at each venue. The deal was stopped in response to a boycott and facebook campaign against the zoo. The two-ticket plan lasted for exactly three days.

Of course, the creationist president was pissed off.

“It’s a pity that intolerant people have pushed for our expulsion simply because of our Christian faith,” he said.

No word if the museum will now seek ties with the Louisiana Wiccans.

-->Y tu madre tambien dept: According to TheGuardian.com, the US now has the second-highest number of Spanish speakers in the world, nearly 53 million of 'em. Spain, by the way, has a population of 46 million. So we've got 'em beat.

Colombia is third with 48 million. Mexico, of course, is first with 121 million gente... all of whom are welcome to sleep on my floor... and many of whom have already done so.

-->God finally gets some dept: The credit rating company Equifax is finally recognizing God. God Gazarov of Brooklyn, that is. The guy fought with the company for five years, but it refused to include his name in its database. They probably thought it was religiously offensive.

Finally, the money giant relented and now God can take out a loan and get a credit card like everybody else. Mazel Tov!

-->Too Political dept: Zazzle.com, an internet retailer, sells, among other things "custom postage." It's a service that allows customers to design their own stamps-- usable in the U.S. mail.

"Cruz for President 2016," has been, unfortunately, a popular one. But we gotta respect them. After all, free speech is free speech, right?

Yeah, right.

An anti-corporate stamp was designed by artist Anatol Zukerman. It said, "Democracy Is Not for Sale." It was rejected by Zazzle.
The reason? "It's too political.”

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

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

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

-end-