Hate! or Mykel's Post MRR Column no 48

Mykel's

Post MRR Column no 48

or

Hate

The MOST important type of speech to protect is hate speech, because it often contains desperate truths that would lose their urgency if expressed calmly. --Jim Goad

It's my last night in Grenomia... second smallest country in Africa... and one of the many where English is the first language. The natives know half a dozen others. The local tribal language sounds more Slovic than African. I'll do my best to transcribe it. It's been 30 days of wild times with half a dozen citizens who may be the only punk rockers in the country. I have a hangover the size of Lithuania, and a smile on my face the size of Wyoming. Great times!

My farewell party is in a squat on the outskirts of Juancasas.. the country's capital. The locals have squatted the entire house, and when they drive me here they tell me they had a special farewell gift for me.

I'm game.

The car pulls over in front of a dilapidated house that wouldn't look out of place in a Psycho remake... Africa version... left over from colonial times and just allowed to rot. It's a tall stone structure with a balcony over the door. The windows are either boarded up or naked and glassless. There is a recently-built front door of sorts... a piece of plywood on hinges.

The lockless front door creaks open, but instead of the theme to The Munsters, Black Flag's Six Pack blasts out from a boombox with fresh batteries. It's the Grenomian Punk House! Oh yeah!

Inside is a self-remodeled house... almost completely plywood. Punk posters on plywood walls... The lower floors have makeshift plywood ceilings while the upper floors are left open to the sky. Clothes hang on wood racks... wood wood wood.

Stratos... nothing like a black guy with a Mohawk!

The house is lit with candles. Yep, wood wood wood illuminated with burning tapers... an open invitation to a future skin graft. Fearless me proceeds inward... up a winding staircase... to a closed door that Stratos... my mohawked host... punk and punster supreme... opens with a flourish.   >

“Her name is Ovoje Laž,” Stratos tells me. “You can just call her Ovo. She's your farewell present.”

“Oh yeah!” I say to him.

“Pleased to meet you,” I tell the girl on the floor, now looking over her shoulder at me.

“Ez îngilîzî nizanim,” she answers.

I figure inglizi is English. And she's telling me she doesn't speak it. I figure wrong.

“Just kidding,” she says. “But I got paid. My body is your body. Should we start doggie style?”

“In front of this guy?” I ask, motioning to Stratos.

He laughs. “It's part of the deal,” he says. “I get to watch.”

“I donno,” I say. “I'm not sure I can... er... perform in front of someone else.”

He laughs again. “Mykel, you've spent your whole life performing in front of other people.”

Wiseguy.

Faster than a feminist can be offended, I take my clothes off. I'm limper than limp... positively shriveled... how is this gonna work?

When I'm naked, I stand in front of Ovo and she looks at my stub and asks simply, “And?...”

“You know,” I say. “Maybe if you warm me up a little... you know from the front... get the blood circulating... don't forget to do my balls.”

“Yo!” shouts Stratos from the sidelines. “Don't look a gift whore in the mouth.”

Wiseguy again.

She takes my hors d’oeuvre pickle in her mouth. Blood flows to the nether regions. Slowly I perk up. In less than a minute, she releases me.

“Should I keep going?” she asks.

“Have a ball!” shouts Stratos from the sideline.

My feelings exactly.

She takes one, then the other into her mouth. Then both... sucking with just the right degree of gentleness... like a pro.

From the corner of my eye I see Stratos... his pants unzipped... his ample amplitude filling his fist... It's like he's watching a porno movie.

That makes me harder.

“Okay! Okay!” I breathe. “Let's get this show on the road.”

She lets me loose and I go around in back.

I stand behind her. Lower myself slightly... I hear Stratos shift his position... to either get a better view or a better grip.

I bend my knees a bit, reach for the good part and press myself in. I start pumping, but feel very little.

Then she says it... the four most awful words in English:

Is it in yet?It falls out.

I lift... reinsert. Press.... It falls out.

I bend my knees more... try again... pffffft... air... I'm fucking air. Insert again... a laughing sound comes from behind me. It's Stratos.

“Mykel, Mykel, Mykel,” he says, “think outside the box.”

Oh yeah! I salivate and stick my middle finger in my mouth. Then instead of aiming for the i, I am for the DOT on the i. BINGO!

I grab the reigns and buck for the bunghole. Oh yeah! Friction up the wazoo. I watch her ass cheeks wave in punkrock rhythm to the music of my thrusts.

I draw ever closer to that magical moment. All I can do is concentrate on the tightness around my little linguine. Yes! Yes!

I hear a female voice. It is NOT the voice of the girl I'm shtupping.

“OK, MYKEL...” it says, “I THINK WE'VE HAD ENOUGH!”

“Who the fuck are you?” I ask.

“YOU KNOW ME, MYKEL,” she says. “I'VE BEEN ABUSED BY YOU FOR DECADES. I'M A LITERARY DEVICE.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask. “Go away!”

If there were a transcription for the sound eyes make when they roll heavenward, I'd insert it here.

“YOU KNOW, MYKEL. (eye-rolling sound) I'M JUST DOING MY JOB... I'M HERE TO CALL YOU OUT... WHERE SHOULD I START?”

“I donno,” I say, “at the beginning?”

“FINE,” she says, “LET'S START WITH FAKE NEWS. GRENOMIA? THERE'S NO COUNTRY IN AFRICA-- OR IN THE WORLD-- CALLED GRENOMIA. YOU JUST MADE THAT UP.”

“Of course I did,” I answer. “I'm a writer. That's a writer's job... to make stuff up. It's what I'm supposed to do. Is Moby Dick FAKE NEWS because there was no real Captain Ahab?”

“MOBY DICK WAS A NOVEL,” she says. “YOU'RE NOT WRITING A NOVEL. AND BESIDES, THAT'S ONLY THE FIRST OFFENSE.”

“Okay,” I answer. “What's next?”

“YOU PUT THE WHOLE THING IN AFRICA. YOU'RE APPROPRIATING A FOREIGN CULTURE. YOU'RE INSERTING YOURSELF SOMEWHERE TO CREATE THE IMPRESSION OF THE EXOTIC... THE MYSTERIOUS... YOU'RE MAKING AFRICANS AS SOME SORT OF FREAKS... COMPLETE ALIENS.”

You're wrong! I'm making the Africans punk-cool-sophisticated. That great punster is African. The squat... could have been Ave C in the 80s... is African.

OK, THEN WHAT ABOUT THE HET-ITUDE? THAT WOMAN ON THE FLOOR... IT HAD TO BE A WOMAN? WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO PROVE, MYKEL? YOUR HETERO MANLINESS?

What the fuck? Are you accusing me of homophobia? Me??? I'm not gay, but MOST of the guys I've fucked are gay. That's as public as my hair transplant.

SEE? YOU'RE EQUATING GAY WITH HAIR TRANSPLANT... AS IF THEY BOTH WERE FAILED SOLUTIONS TO SOME PROBLEM OR OTHER.

(Insert the sound of Mykel's eye-rolling here.)

DON'T GIVE ME THAT! AND WHAT ABOUT THAT POOR WOMAN?... ON ALL FOURS... IN A SLUM... FOR YOUR PLEASURE. GIVEN LIKE A BIRTHDAY BLOW-UP DOLL FOR YOU TO JERK OFF IN.

It's a service... a job... have you ever given anyone a haircut for his birthday... or paid for someone's cab ride? In a post-work society there will be no prostitutes. No barbers or cab drivers either. Until we get there people work... they have jobs... You think being a whore is somehow more demeaning than being a rich woman's schwarze? I know dozens of people who love whores for what they do. (I'm one of them.) I've yet to meet one who respects the toilet cleaner.

MYKEL! MYKEL! MYKEL! (Literary Device shakes her head.) YOU'RE JUST SO FULL OF HATE! YOU MIGHT AS WELL JUST YELL “FUCK YOU!” AT EVERYONE AND LEAVE IT ALONE.

You're a just literary device... you wouldn't know hate if it came up and bit you on the ass.

BINGO! I WOULD KNOW HATE IF IT BIT ME ON THE ASS. WHAT BETTER WAY TO TELL?

Double bingo! I say. THAT's what hate's all about. A word isn't hate... a cliché... a joke... that isn't hate. Hate is HATE. If I say colored girl... that is not hate. It's just a pair of words with historical meaning. I'll tell you about hate.

I hate mosquitoes. I'd like to kill every one of 'em. I'd like them out... gone... deader than American free speech. That's hate. I hate public displays of possession. Johnny's got Mary (or Jim) pressed up against a lamppost. Their arms are around each other... he grinds his crotch into hers... she sticks her tongue down his throat... one eye on the passers-by... telling 'em Hey look... I'm getting laid. I own this girl... or guy. I hate that! I'd like to strangle them both... bury them as far apart from one another as geography allows.

Want me to tell you what else I hate?

I HAVE THE FEELING YOU WILL ANYWAY.

I hate self-righteous bike riders who think that-- because they don't use gas-- they have the right to go the wrong way on a one-way street, travel at night without a light, and ride on the sidewalk. I hate jock-itch that comes every summer no matter how much I spray beforehand. I hate banks that tell me I need 25-letter passwords and besides they'll block my credit card if I go to Africa... and then say it's for my own protection.

I hate excessive nosehair that-- besides being aesthetically hideous-- tickles when I smile. I hate people who cringe in disgust when I squeeze those nosehairs between my thumb and middle finger and one-by-one yank them out.

ANYTHING ELSE?

Yes. I hate a literary device that doesn't know its place. Literary devices are tricks to illustrate a point... to foreshadow... provide background or diversion. Literary devices aren't supposed to be uppity, contradict the writer, talk back. Get it?

FUCK YOU!

ENDNOTES:

> [You can contact me on facebook or 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]

-->What's Wayne Newton's First Name? Dept: Chuck Shepherd has collected the names of murderers... or accused murderers-- in the US from 1970 to 2008. Not all of them, though... just the ones whose middle name is WAYNE. You can see the list here. But be prepared... I count six pages of names... from Michael Wayne Adams to Robert Wayne Wyant.

I'm waiting for the Social Justice Warriors to accuse me of Waynophobia. It's not true... there are some good ones out there somewhere. It's just that I can't find any.

-->Jewish Nazis Dept: The totalitarians of the German Antifa Fa squad have shut down a bookstore in Berlin. The reason? The bookstore, located in an immigrant neighborhood, had organized a forum about a thinker than some say is “fascist.” The forum wasn't a promotion, it was a discussion... but discussion is furthest from the “minds” of Antifa-Fas. They called the owner a Nazi and put so much pressure on the store, it had to close. The owners, by the way, were Jews, grandchildren of holocaust survivors.

In their farewell letter they wrote:
when you want a free society you have to except the whole package: the madmen and the pedophiles and the sociopath and the radicals and the dandy and the nerds and the black and the whites and the whiter and the rich jews and the poor christians and also- yourself, this is actually always the right place to start, and it is always best to start now, because tomorrow we might lose these rights and freedoms.

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

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

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

See you in hell.

-end-

NOTE: If you're interested in my travel blog, you can read it at mykelsdiary.blogspot.com.

War! or Mykel's Post MRR Column no 47a

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Chill! or Mykel's Post MRR Column no 47

YOU'RE STILL WRONG

POST MRR COLUMNS

POST MRR COLUMN NUMBER 47

CHILL!

by Mykel Board

No great theater director ever said to an actor, “Okay, this scene calls for some real emotion, now go out there and give me lots of offendedness.”...If I'm sad, I cry. If I'm happy, I laugh. If I'm offended, what do I do, state in a clear and sober voice that I am offended, then walk away in a huff so that I can write a letter to the mayor?

We take offense at chewing with one's mouth open as well as, say, using an ethnic slur. While I like to think that it takes a lot to offend me, I don't personally believe people that people shouldn't feel offended. I just wonder what the context is. Can one be equally offended by someone's elbows being on the dinner table, senseless police shootings and the fact that Seahawks threw the ball on second and one?

– Paul Beatty

SCENE ONE: Central Park, NYC August 15, 2004. Dawn S is walking through the park with her seeing-eye dog. It's a hot day in August... New York Summer. One of the few ways of getting out of the heat... without the electrical expense of air conditioning... a walk in the park. The trees... the reservoir... the lack of concrete... The park is a respite from the city heat.

Dennis, the seeing-eye dog, is a yellow lab. A big lumbering beast... half-dog half-yeti... bold... but friendly to those who know him. Dawn and Dennis are on that diagonal path that leads from the 59^th street fountain north to the lake. Dawn sits on a bench just where the path begins. Dennis sits on the path itself. After a few minutes, Dawn stands to walk on.

Sensing the general direction, Dawn tells Dennis, “Go!”

The dog guides her north.

In less than 100 yards, Dawn feels a tap on her should. She looks up... into space, as she doesn't know where the tap came from.

“Excuse me?” she says.

“You should take your dog inside,” comes a very austere-- animal-rights-sounding female voice... somewhere to her left. “Your dog should not be outside in this weather.”

“I'm just enjoying the fresh air and vegetation,” answers Dawn.

“But you can't tell how hot it is,” returns the voice. “You're blind.”

SCENE TWO: Los Angeles sometime last year: The local Chinese community is becoming so used to the stereotype Chinese driver that they made stickers... like those caution signs you see on scary looking metal boxes.

As you might guess, it isn't long before the complaints come. That sign is racist, offensive. It should be banned... and the first and main complainers? Offended White people.

SCENE THREE: Bill Maher answers a call to work in the field in Nebraska. “Work in the fields? Senator, I’m a house nigger.”

There are outraged calls for his firing. Bang! He apologizes for offending. Meanwhile, Paul Beatty, the guy I quoted at the beginning of this column, wins the Man Booker Prize (like a British Pulitzer) for a book with more mentions of nigger than a Klan rally... or a Hip Hop concert.

SCENE FOUR: Gyu-Kaku Japanese Barbecue May 18, 2017. It's my friend Mei's birthday. We're seated at a long table with two grills built in. While grilling... I talk to my friends about RAPEMAN, the notorious Japanese comic that is actually a hilarious parody of superheroes.

By day, Rapeman is a Junior Highschool teacher-- his Clark Kent identity. By night, he's a caped crusader (from the waist up)... raping the bad girls to turn them good. Rapeman is for hire, and the money is used in local charities... especially an orphanage.

“Good deeds through penetration,” is his motto.

I have a copy of the manga with me. I pass it around to the curious Japanese who have never seen one before. (I pride myself in knowing more about Japanese culture-- traditional and popular-- than most Japanese know.)

Both Americans and Japanese look at it with curiosity... except Sadako (name changed to protect the guilty). She glances at the book and throws it across the table. “How many times have you been afraid you were going to be raped?” she asks me.

I'm shocked. This is a satire... a parody making fun of superheroes. It isn't about rape. I'm so taken aback I bullshit... Well, that's not true... It doesn't take a whole lot to get me to bullshit.

“When I was in the Cub Scouts,” I lie, “there was this patrol leader... and in Albania... when I was kidnapped.”

“Well, women have to face this every day,” she says. “It's not a joke to us. You're saying it's okay to rape people. You're giving permission to rape.”

“It's a comic book!” I plead. “Just a comic book. I'm not giving permission for anything. It's just a wild Japanese comic book unimaginable in the Christian west.”

“And I'm offended,” she continues, “I'm offended for two reasons. I'm offended because you joke about rape... and I'm offended because you look at Japanese people as little jokes. Oh how cute, that wacky culture. You look down on us.”

“What?” I'm too shocked to say, “I LOVE Japanese culture. I LOVE Japanese things. I love Japanese movies, manga, haiku, screen painting. I have more Japanese friends than I have American friends.”

People who know me know I believe Japanese culture is one of the greatest cultures in the world. Certainly greater than anything American culture has to offer (except maybe rock'n'roll).

Yes, part of the reason I love the culture is that they're free of the burdens of Christian (or Jewish) guilt and can explore a kind of wild side that would be completely out-of-bounds for Americans... It's American culture I look down on... not Japanese culture. Actually, I'm 5” 3” tall. I don't look down on ANYONE!

But she's offended... she throws $10 on the table (not in the barbecue pit)... and walks out.

Ok, Mykel. We know the routine. You take some shit from your life... or someone else's life and then tie it all together with some wacky philosophy that connects completely unrelated events as if there were some cosmic order... where things are constructed just to PROVE YOUR POINT. So, what's the point?

The point is CHILL!!!

CHILL!... a wonderful command asking for calm in the midst of self-created hysteria... CHILL... Relax in the midst of offendeditude... CHILL.. Breathe deep instead of getting huffy.

CHILL!

I'm a Jew. I laugh at holocaust jokes.

I'm 5' 3” tall... I sing, Short People Got No Reason to Live.

I'm 72 years old: I smile when people ask me why I'm not dead yet.

Old people texting:

BFF: Best Friend Fainted

BYOT: Bring Your Own Teeth

CBM: Covered by Medicare

FWB: Friend with Beta-blockers

LMDO: Laughing My Dentures Out

GGPBL: Gotta Go, Pacemaker Battery Low!

Even punks are offended... How can that be? Punk was CREATED to be offensive. It's essense is being offensive from Beat on the Brat With a Baseball Bat to Let's Lynch the Landlord.

Nowadays, punks are the most easily offended. Call someone a Pussy and that punk rock girl will throw a Bikini Kill record at your head.

NOT ONLY ARE THEY “sensitive” but they think they know YOUR sensitivity... what you feel and don't feel. What's in your mind... what's behind your motives. They think, with religious fervor... though most are not religious... if only you could realize THE TRUTH... you'd be sensitive in the same way.

That wacky animal rightist thought she knew that a blind person wouldn't realize the day was hot. Their overriding concern with the poor dog, made them completely unaware that there was someone attached to that dog. They were offended by the dog in the heat (though they themselves were comfortable in it), and that huffitude took over all sense of reason.

That sensitive white girl who complained about the Chinese Driver stickers, thought she knew what was in the mind of the Chinaman on the street. Her overriding concern with race and nationality, made her completely unaware that the Chinese themselves were absorbing-- and negating-- a stereotype.

That Japanese girl who accused me of promoting rape and denigrating Japanese culture thought she knew my motives for being so fascinated with Rapeman. Her over-riding concern with nationality and gender made her completely unaware that the point was satire and inventiveness... nothing to do with nationality or gender. She was offended by the comic book (a comic book, for God's sake!), and that huffitude took over all sense of reason.

Sometimes the old cliches are right. Most obviously sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me. If they DO hurt... the hurt is minor, not permanent, and necessary for life in a free world. It's even better to take the words, give 'em a twist in meaning... then claim 'em for yourself. That's what homosexuals did with queer. What the punk band, New York Niggers did with Nigger. What The Hip Nips did with Nip!. If you take a word and make it cool, the word loses its power to hurt you. 

Short? Old? Jew? Egomaniac? Oh yeah. Those words are MINE! I own them. Now let's see you use them against me.

You too (and the world) can learn how to destroy the effects of words with other words... or by taking them in and turning them around.

That takes time... In the meanwhile, calm down! Laugh at yourself. Relax. Learn that making fun is FUN. Give it. Take it.

CHILL!

(What does Nazi Santa give naughty kids for Christmas?

Jews.)

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]

-->Is that a panel in your pocket or are you marginalizing me dept: The University of Michigan was seeking student input about redesigning their hundred year old building.
Anna Wibbelman, former president of Building a Better Michigan, an organization that voices student concerns about university development, stated that “ minority students felt marginalized by the quiet, imposing masculine paneling” found throughout the 100-year-old building.

        Oppressed by quiet... and wood paneling. Pretty sensitive, huh?

-->Meanwhile in Maryland dept: A group of Maryland teachers displayed posters showing white, black, yellow and other colored women working together... and just being friends. School administrators ordered them removed. Why?

       Said the administrators, “They express a negative view of Donald Trump.”

-->Speaking of a crank call of sensitivity dept: Jordan Haskins, a Republican state councilor was sentenced to probation and sex counseling in May after pleading guilty to eight charges arising from two auto accidents in Saginaw, Michigan. Prosecutors said Haskins described "cranking," in which he would remove a vehicle's spark-plug wires to make it "run rough," which supposedly improves his chances for a self-service happy ending. Haskins's lawyer added, "(Cranking) is something I don't think we understand as attorneys."

Wanna bet?

-->Now's your chance dept: The new wiki Censorpedia is looking for input on censorship from all fronts. By government, by school, by crowd, by boycott... any way. Just go and report it... this is something that has been a long time coming. I just hope it doesn't get censored.

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

         That's a lie.

       In any case, please send comments to mrr@maximumrocknroll.com with the subject line: BRING BACK MYKEL. Let me know how they answer. MRR also has a facebook p age. You might want to let them know how you feel.

-end-

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

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

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

See you in hell!