REVENGE! or Mykel's Post MRR Column no 55

Mykel's

Post MRR Column no 55

or

Vengeance is Mine!

Don't get mad. Get even. --Old Saying

    Q. How many Israelis does it take to change a lightbulb?

    A. Three. One to change the bulb. Two to kill my entire family because I made the joke.

                           --New Saying

Ah… ah… ah… AAAARG! It’s 11:30 am!

The talking alarm clock e-crow crows its wake-up call. I want to kill it. It lies. All the clocks in my apartment are set 40 minutes ahead. Since traveling times in Manhattan rarely exceed 40 minutes, this system lets me teleport anyplace on the island. If I have to be someplace at noon, I leave at noon (my time). I arrive on time. So it’s NOT 11:30AM. It's 10:50. And I hate getting up in the morning no matter what time it is.

This morning, like many other mornings, I’m in a foul mood. Pissed off... hung over... full of shit that my morning coffee will soon cause to explode into the toilet like a Sunni explodes in a Shiite mosque. (Or is it the other way around?)

Without opening my eyes, I slap the clock off and roll out of bed… holding on to the night table to steady myself… knocking over a 2/3 empty bottle of Brooklyn Lager… spilling the remaining third on the bed. I pick up the bottle… and for a second am tempted to hurl it through a closed window… teaching it a lesson it’ll never forget. Amazingly, the hoarse voice of reason gets to me before I do it. I set it down.

I waddle through the beer puddle... around the two bends in my single room apartment... wondering if I’m going to make it to the toilet. I make it… and stand there weakly pissing-- dribbling out the already consumed 2/3s of that Brooklyn beer.

Then to the stove where I make Turkish Coffee^®… actually Cafe Bustelo... brewed in the Turkish style… coffee thrown into a pot, boiled with a couple cups of water… poured through a strainer. Oh yeah.

In less than ten minutes, the coffee does its work. Back to the toilet… to my explosive beer shit... a massive semi-liquid relief... a blast that refreshes… a wondershit that’s the best argument I know for the existence of a truly loving God. Why don’t those Jehovah’s Witnesses who wake me up on Saturday morning ever talk about that? Do you want proof God loves you? Look in the toilet?

After I wipe up, I leave for work.

Downstairs, the street is filled with tourists. If you live on Bleecker Street you expect that… but why do they all have to walk in front of me... stopping suddenly to look at the mannequins in store windows… or worse: looking down at their iPhones... following an i-map because they can’t figure out that the street that comes after Fourth Street is Fifth Street.

Right now, a family of pasty white Americans strolls in front of me: a fat man wearing a wool tuke and a blue Canadian Goose down-filled jacket. With him is a fat woman, dark hair, doughboy face, in a matching coat. With them are two kids: a fat boy and fat girl. The woman and the fat boy are looking down at cellphones. The man is speaking to the girl. Together they form a slow-moving phalanx across the sidewalk. I want to kill them… spray them with a high-school style AR-15. Shower the sidewalk with fat body parts. Smash the Canadian Goose that lays no eggs. I hate them. I want revenge for the pain their lassitude is causing me. They must PAY!

I step into the street to go around them. WZZZZZ. An asshole cyclist (a pleonasm?) going the wrong way down the one way street misses me by THIS MUCH!

“Fuck you!” I don’t yell… but I do hope some car hits... him mixing his pizza-- or whatever he’s delivering-- with the muscle tendons and blood in his torn flesh.

Generic Woman-spread Photo

FLASH TO THE SUBWAY: As I enter, some woman… fresh from a shopping spree… spreads her bags on the subway seats… Woman Spread^®. I stand over her, glaring down at her bags, picturing how her intestines would look stretched and battered beside those of the fat tourists and the cyclist on the sidewalk above. I wonder if the thirst for revenge (sometimes called avenge,

sometimes called justice) is a biological urge... or if it’s a Western relic from the old testament eye-for-an-eye command.

It sure seems an integral part of our culture from the death penalty to the Hollywood classics of Death Wish, Make Them Die Slowly, Kill Bill, and Fatal Attraction…. as American as a heart attack.

After the World Trade Center barrage, president Bush destroyed the country of Iraq-- even though they had nothing to do with the attack. What did he say?

"Ours is a nation that does not seek revenge, but we do seek justice." That line brought down the house. It also brought down Iraq… and brought us ISIS.

But revenge is NOT only Western… Christian-Jew. It is world-wide. Can you say Voodoo Doll? Can you say Hindu revenge killings?

An interesting article called The Case for Revenge claims revenge is biological… an evolutionary leap...like the orgasm. The author says it evolved as a way for humans to survive: Human survival depended greatly on convincing neighboring clans, tribes, and states that no attack or moral injury would go unanswered. Payback was nonnegotiable and self-regulating.

But is the threat of retaliation the same as revenge? I don't think so.

FLASH TO THE SUBWAY... THE F TRAIN: An attractive young woman, dark with white features... maybe Indian, maybe Caribbean... sits across from me-- right next to the door. She wears jeans so tight they could be danskins. I can make out the camel toe between her legs. And it's easy.. she sits with her knees apart... like manspread... but on her it looks good. She is, of course, engrossed in a cellphone.

Next to her, a white child bounces on its mothers knee. . . At 23^rd Street the doors open and an old colored guy... with a cane... enters the car. I motion to him... while standing up.

“Here,” I say, patting my seat, “you can sit over here.”

He looks at me, smiles, and says, “Much obliged, Mister.”

I smile back and nod to him as I move to let him sit down. Then, I position myself in front of the Caribbean girl, trying to get her attention... maybe she'll talk to me... tell me how nice I am for giving up my seat to the old cripple.

I walk across the aisle and stand in front of her. She doesn't look up as I station myself. I clear my throat.

FLASH TO THE SUBWAY IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE: An attractive young woman, dark with white features... maybe Indian, maybe Caribbean sits across from me-- right next to the door. She wears jeans so tight they could be danskins. I swear I can make out the camel toe between her legs. And it's easy.. she sits with her knees apart... like manspread... but on her it looks good. She is, of course, engrossed in a cellphone.

Next to her is a huge guy... same skin color as the girl, but with shoulders wider than my apartment. He wears a flashy jacket... and black jeans... perfectly pressed. He sits with one arm around the goddess-like girl... and he glares at me.

At 23^rd Street the doors open and an old colored guy with a cane... enters the car. I motion to him... while standing up.

“Here,” I say, “you can sit over here.”

Then I stand up, walk to the end of the car... and enter the next one.

Get it? That's not revenge, that's fear. And there is a difference. Revenge is PAYBACK for some wrong... real or imagined. Threat of retaliation discourages action by promising violence.

REALITY CHECK: Will some school kid killer be discouraged from a rampage by a threat of violence? Most of them kill themselves anyway. They LIVE (and die) for violence. They commit their crimes to avenge some real or perceived injustice in school…. In other words… for revenge. The ONLY reason to execute school killers-- or most anyone else-- is REVENGE. BUT, the motive for the original crime was also revenge. Like the Hatfields and McCoys… revenge is a never-ending cycle.

Israel is the current practitioner supreme of REVENGE ideology. Flash to: the early days of the intifada. Palestinian kids throw rocks at the Israeli occupying troops. What about that eye-for-an-eye thing? Do Israelis throw rocks back? You bet your Talmud they don't. They bulldoze the kids’ entire house. KERPOW! Throw a rock and become homeless... in a fell swoop. That is revenge.

FLASH TO THE GAZA WAR 2014. Here are the stats on that one:

• Palestinians killed: 2,139 Palestinian children killed: 490

• Israeli soldiers killed: 64 Israeli civilians killed: 6 Israeli children killed: 1

That's what revenge looks like when one side has all the fire power. But wait... let's get more recent:

Syria shoots down an Israeli jet that was invading that country. The pilots bailed. No one was injured. The revenge?

Israel attacks twelve bases in Syria. There are several deaths. Here again it's REVENGE in action. The Israelis are masters of the art.

It's tempting to say the revenge thing all started with the Jews. They're so good at it. We talked about Hindus. We talked about voodoo.

And the history of Goyitude is filled with non-Jew revenge seekers. (This from an article on Voodoo of all things:)

In A.D. 64, a great fire broke out in Rome for six days, and devastated much of the city. According to the writer Tacitus, “Nero fastened the guilt and inflicted the most exquisite tortures on a class hated for their abominations, called Christians by the populace.” The “abominations” committed by the early Christians were said to be cannibalism and incest, based on rumors circulating in Rome at that time which stemmed from a misunderstanding of the Eucharist.

REVENGE! And for fake news at that.

Behind revenge is a kind of karmic belief that things in the universe should balance. Yin and Yang. Aggression and payback. Compassion pays no part... neither does time nor forgiveness. When southerners complained about Judge Roy Moore's indiscretions 40 years ago, the answer was It's not WHEN it happened. It's THAT it happened. Forgiveness and revenge are the warring parties. Neither has a time limit. You have to choose your side.

Revenge is called Justice by those seeking it. But there’s a difference. If the city doesn’t repair a street pothole, and I break my ankle stepping in it… the two hundred grand I get for pain, lost work, hospital bills, is justice… but it’s not revenge.

My daily fantasies about what to do with people who annoy me are REVENGE fantasies. They have nothing to do with justice. The death penalty… the Iraqi war… the loss of jobs… loss of status… loss of face of Harvey Weinstein and Kevin Spacy… these are revenge… nothing to do with justice… no matter what it’s called.

As long as we can’t separate justice from revenge we’ll have never-ending revenge. As long as we have a criminal revenge system masquerading as a criminal justice system… we will have ever escalating crime and punishment.

So step back… take a breath… check your motives. If you don’t… I will kill you.

--end--

NOTE: If you're interested in my travel blog, you can read it at mykelsdiary.blogspot.com. I have another blog of short interesting things at: http://mykelsclippings.blogspot.com. And finally, my oldies from last century are slowly being scanned and uploaded to: http://mykelsoldies.blogspot.com/

==============

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. Subscribe to the MYKEL'S READERS Yahoo group readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

-→Unintentional revenge dept: A hunter in Easton Maryland shot a flying Canada goose on Feb. 1 of this year. When it fell, it hit the hunter, Robert Meilhammer, landing on his head and knocking him out. It also dislodged two of his teeth. As of now, Meilhammer is in stable condition after being airlifted to a hospital.

-->Right again dept: A few blogs ago I wrote about how the only solution to the Harassment^® problem was gender apartheid. Now I read that one of Hillary Clinton's aide stands accused of harassing a co-worker, “he rubbed her shoulders inappropriately, kissed her on the forehead” Rubbed her shoulders?

I accuse the entire nation of France of harassment! Fire 'em all! Whenever I meet one, they hug MY WHOLE BODY!! And worse than that, they give me an inappropriate kiss... two of them... one on each cheek! Harassment if I've ever seen it! Fire the lot!

-->Speaking of shoulder rubs dept: I wonder if German Chancellor Angela Merkel is going to demand that GWB be fired... whoops, he already WAS fired.

-->Intentional Revenge Dept: I wrote about how those who planned the downfall of Alabama judge Roy Moore used accusations 30 years old to attack him. The revengers seem, in typical revenge fashion, to have gotten even more than they hoped for. The judge is broke and destitute... appealing for funds. I'll probably throw the guy ten bucks. 


LINK TRADE DEPARTMENT:

I read that the search engines like lots of links... and it's also nice to support my friends and enemies in their blogs. So facebook me or email me if you have a blog, webpage or something else to connect to. I add you. You add me.

Here's a start: 

• David Goldberg's Busy Microbes Blog

• And another Goldberg: goldberg.wordpress.com

• Poetry and humor fans will like Justin Martin in The Latency

• Sometimes I contribute to an interesting multi-talented blog called OgFomK Arts see me there!

• And my friend Mike R has a nice site with recipe hits from the past! (He cooked for me once... great stuff.) Check out Yesterday's Recipes.

• And here's one by a member of ANTI-SEEN... a tour diary of sorts.

Chickens Come Home to Roost or Mykel's Post MRR Column no 54

Mykel's

Post MRR Column no 54

or

Chickens Come Home to Roost

I remember when all I thought about was sex... when the most important thing in my life was getting laid... when everything was just a means to that end? I remember it like it was yesterday. It WAS yesterday.

I was happier than an AntiFa at a book burning. I've written before about my complete lack of Gaydar. I hit on “lesbians” and “straight” guys with equal lack of success. These days, the response to the former is likely to be more violent than the latter.

The problem comes from my agnosticism about lesbian and straight in the first place. Since I believe homotude is something you DO rather than something you ARE... it's difficult to identify someone without them actually DOING anything. I feel like like an atheist trying to tell a Baptist from a Methodist.

The answer came in the form of a small packet from Thailand:

They're cough drops... small... spherical. You take three at a time... hold them in your mouth. On the front of the packet, there's a picture of a guy in an jacket and tie... between two centipedes. The drops look like tiny brown eggs.... centipede eggs. They have a sour taste and melt into a viscous fluid in your mouth.

Flash to the butch colored girl. Grace Jones shaved hair... a swagger like a basketball player... tattoos... just designs, no images... shoulder to wrist... with the kind of bulgish black butt that makes the world's best case for African immigration.

Just looking at her straightens up every limp part of my 70 year old body.

We're at a show... punk rock... The Sonic Reducers... a Dead Boys cover band. I stand as close to her as I can as the band starts its set. Son of Sam

She coughs... a light dry throat cough... like when you come into an overheated room on a cold day.

She coughs again.

I reach into my pocket and get the Thai cough drops.

“Here,” I say, pouring out three into her hand. “They're made from centipede eggs. And they taste like semen. But just keep them in your mouth and the cough will stop.”

She's punk rock, so she takes them and pops them into her mouth. Her cough stops.

“Thanks,” she says. “They work fine... but they don't taste like semen.”

BOOOOOING! She knows the taste of semen! That means...

“What's your name?” I ask her.

FLASH TO NEW ZEALAND: 

Those of you who are older than the iPhone will remember an all-girl band from the 90s called SPITBOY.

I've written about them before... and have had a long-term friendship with Adrienne, the singer. We've kept in touch over the years as the band itself has spread out over the world.

I told Adrienne that I planned to be in New Zealand at the end of the year.

[The actual plan: TWO NEW YEARS in two days! Since New Zealand is one of the first countries in the world to celebrate New Years. The plan was to go there... celebrate New Year... then fly to Tahiti on the other side of the international dateline... one of the LAST countries to have New Year. Celebrate New Year AGAIN. I did it.]

Adrienne tells me that Karin, Spitboy's guitar player, is living in New Zealand and I should contact her. Well, what's facebook for?

In New Zealand Karin treats me like an old friend. Invites me to stay at their (her, hubby Aleister, 2 kids) house on a hill in Nelson. As if New Zealand weren't nowhere enough, Nelson is nowhere IN New Zealand. And Karin's family lives high on a hill on the outskirts of the “city.” You wanna know how rural this place is? They have chickens!

Honest-to-Goddess clucking, waddling, feathered chickens. It's wonderful! In the morning, Kael, the youngest kid, and I walked barefoot from the house down the gravel path to the coop to scoop out eggs for breakfast.

Now I have ridden a camel in Mongolia, fucked a guy in country where homo-relations bring the death penalty, had a jealous lesbian pour a whiskey over my head, eaten rice seasoned with locust, crossed the arctic circle, wiped my ass on poison oak, lived in Mongolia... but I had never in my life walked barefoot to gather my own breakfast eggs. Let me tell you... there's nothing in the world quite like reaching under a chicken.

[Note: This barefoot thing is endemic to the Pacific. Both in New Zealand and Tahiti, locals walk on the street... on pebble strewn beaches... on gravel roads... barefoot. In New York... white pants and a Hawaiian shirt are hallmarks of a tourist. In the Pacific... it's shoes.]

The eggs are delicious... the best. It could be that they actually tasted better because they were super fresh, free range and organic... or it could be that I THOUGHT they tasted better because they were super fresh, free range and organic. It doesn't matter. They were super eggs... the eggiest eggs I've ever breakfasted on.

During the day, Kael was my tourguide. Having earned his stone in the category of hard-work, hard-study, his assignment was to take me to the Center of New Zealand^®. You can read about that trip in my travel blog. On the way back home, we pass a pasture on the side of the hill where cows graze lazily... or just lie in the sun chewing the cud with their fellow bovines.

Back at the house, mom and the two boys rocked out in the practice room before dinner... then dinner. Steak and vegetables.

And what a steak. Tender as an eighteen year old... with perfect sauce and not boiled/not frozen vegetables on the side.

“Yowsah!” I said to Aleister, Karin's other half. “This is great. Where did that meat come from? It was...”

“Isn't it good?” asked Aleister. “It comes from our neighbors... they raise cows... give us the meat... fresh from the slaughter... couldn't be better.”

Booooing! It hits me.

Not only are vegetarians losing out on the deliciousness of animal flesh... they're actually hurting animals. Here's why:

Few people will argue in favor of factory farming. Cows or chickens raised like plants... unable to move... living their whole lives in a space smaller than my NYC apartment. Fed antibiotics that make them sick... Killed cruelly on an assembly line that actually may be better than the horrible lives they've led in captivity. Just wrong...

Now, humans have eaten meat for nearly as long as they've eaten plants. Asking humans to go without meat makes as much sense as asking a dog to go without meat. Of course, we can debate that... but there is something more important.

Humans have factory farmed for only the last hundred years or so... maybe less. If I just say, “don't eat meat... it's cruel.” You'll accept the argument or reject it. If you reject it, you can reject it with a slew of reasons, starting with “asking humans to go without meat makes as much sense as asking a dog to go without meat.” But in any case you'll see me as a VEGETARIAN. It's a kind of identity politics. Jews don't eat pork. Vegetarians don't eat meat. QED.

It's not a reasoning person who is suggesting I give up meat. It's a VEGETARIAN. I can and will write it off as irrelevant to the world as a colored person asking me to call him AFRICAN AMERICAN... even though he speaks French and lives in Tahiti. (That didn't happen.)

On the other hand, if a person says, “Eating meat is neither right nor wrong... good nor bad. I am NOT a vegetarian, but factory farming is cruel to animals, it's unhealthy for individuals and the world, and it slowly destroys the environment... here's why....”

In other words, the discussion is based on REASON not on identity. As long as vegetarians insist that all MEAT IS MURDER... those who eat meat can dismiss them as THE OTHER... that is AS VEGETARIANS. No need to listen to the reasons. No need to discuss at all. They're vegetarians. I am not. End of discussion. Animals suffer the horrors of factory farming.

But once some guy or gal just like me presents these reasoned arguments, I cannot dismiss them. Once I see people raising animals compassionately... or hunting and eating their own food without the cruelty, antibiotics, or the massive methane of factory farming. Omnivores... just like me... Then I have to think about things in a new way.

Get it? VEGETARIANS, by assuming that identity, make it easy to dismiss all animal-eating... and thus hurt the animals most in pain.

Besides, let a vegetarian try the argument “cruelty-free organic meat TASTES better than cows that are factory farmed.” That's a point they cannot make.

After dinner, I want to hit the bars in town. I've already been to the Center of New Zealand^®... now it's time to drink.

Back in town, I hit the bars. There's one called MOON that has very nice WHISPERING SISTER IPA. Beside the beautiful name, it's a great tasting local brew... in a pub featuring local musicians.

I sit at one of the back tables... drinking my Whispering Sister... watching as the bar fills up. A young man... thin... maybe a Maori mix sits at my table. Cheeks as smooth as a waxed head... thick red lips. He smiles at me when he sits down. Then he clears his throat.

“You know the band?” he asks with the kind of New Zealand accent that gives me a hard-on.

I shake my head.

“I'm not from around here,” I say.

“You from New York?” he asks.

“Fuckin' A, I am,” I answer.

He laughs.

“Well, they're called Kiwi Pie... used to be in a punk band... now they play drunk pub music.”

“My favorite,” I tell him.

He laughs. The laugh turns into a cough.

I reach into my pocket for the Thai cough drops.

“Here,” I tell him, “take three of these. Just hold them in your mouth. They always work.

I shake three tablets into his hand.

“I should warn you,” I add, “they taste like semen.”

He pops them into his mouth and holds them there a bit.

Shaking his head, he says, “They work, but they don't taste like semen.”

BOOOING!

-end-

==============

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. Subscribe to the MYKEL'S READERS Yahoo group readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

-->Conflation dept: As in most of what I write, I mix facts, adventures, places and people... truth and fiction. The New Zealand adventures described above were actually in TWO cities... or two places. One was the home of Karin G and family near Nelson. The other was from Mr. Sterile Assembly near Wellington. I thank both of them for taking care of me in New Zealand. You are Gods and Goddesses!  

-->Wenn der kunstler scheisst dept: Chicago's West Loop gallery featured a blank wall with the artist living in a 10-foot space behind the wall. The actual ART was a sign put up by the artist, Alejandro Figueredo Diaz-Perera, that said, “I am here, but you will not see me.” The artwork was called InThe Absence of a Body. I have no idea if it was sold or not... and if sold... did it include the artist?

-->Stan-the-land dept: A likely, but still unsure goal for my next trip will be to visit three STANS. I've never been to any of them. I think I'll skip Afghanistan and Pakistan... too many bullets and too much politics. Right now I'm thinking, Kazakhstan Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan. Luk Haas has given me some contacts... but if you have any... or any STAN advice contact me on facebook. Or email me at:god@mykelboard.com

-->Fake news dept: An Australian beach sign supposedly supporting multiculturalism suddenly appeared on facebook:

It was followed by the usual outrage... though it doesn't seem to me to be that much different from most American beaches at least in the prohibitions of dogs and alcohol.

It turned out to be a fake. A shit-stirrer posted by anti-Muslimists who can't find anything REAL to complain about. I can find something real to complain about...

In New Orleans 8 strip clubs have been closed in one month. Shut down by the cops. My suspicions are that CHRISTIANITY rather than ISLAM is to blame for that one. In many ways, the US is almost a Muslim country from the get-go. World's highest drinking age. World's highest sexual age of consent. Among the world's strictest controls over public (and increasingly private) alcohol and tobacco use. I think we could use MORE multiculturalism.

-->Chickenshit dept: Marlene Wicherski has informed me that it has lately become fashionable to have Rooftop Chickencoops in big cities. She lives in Boston. Here in New York --at least in most places in Manhattan south of 96 Street-- landlords don't allow tenants rooftop access at all. Liability insurance... people might through themselves off! So I didn't know about the trend. If you're lucky enough to be able to go upstairs for your just-laid morning eggs... do it barefoot. It's an important part of the experience.

See you in hell.

-end-

NOTE: If you're interested in my travel blog, you can read it at mykelsdiary.blogspot.com. I have another blog of short interesting things at: http://mykelsclippings.blogspot.com. And finally, my oldies from last century are slowly being scanned and uploaded to: http://mykelsoldies.blogspot.com/

LINK TRADE:

I read that the search engines like lots of links... and it's also nice to support my friends and enemies in their blogs. So facebook me or email me if you have a blog, webpage or something else to connect to.

Here's a start:

• David Goldberg's Busy Microbes Blog
  
• And another Goldberg: goldberg.wordpress.com
  
• Poetry and humor fans will like Justin Martin in The Latency
  
• Sometimes I contribute to an interesting multi-talented blog called OgFomK Arts see me there!
  
• And my friend Mike R has a nice site with recipe hits from the past! (He cooked for me once... great stuff.) Check out Yesterday's Recipes.
  
• And here's one by a member of ANTI-SEEN... a tour diary of sorts.

 

In Praise of Apartheid.. Mykel's Post MRR #53

In Praise of Apartheid

Mykel's Post MRR Column #53

by Mykel Board

I write this sitting at a table in a library in Wellington New Zealand.. There are three chairs at the table: The one I sit in, one holding my coat and hat.,the other empty. Two tables away, a young man with blond hair and sunburned cheeks pecks at his cellphone.

It's the day after Roy Moore lost his senate bid. Why? A pre-election accusation of touching a 14 year old... Forty years ago. Meanwhile, a congressman resigns for, among other things... hugging and “bumping hips” with his secretary. Elsewhere, Danny Ray Johnson, a Kentucky legislator puts a bullet through his brain in response to harassment accusations.

I'm happy to be away from the lunacy as actors, legislators and TV personalities are targeted by (mostly) women... coming out of the woodwork like ants from a log tossed onto the fire. Like a bout of beer-induced diarrhea, I know it will pass. But like that same bout, I'm glad not to be in the middle of it.

In a take-no-prisoners assault... everyone from Roy Moore, to Al Franken to that most banal of characters, Charlie Rose, are thrown into the vaginally charged meat-grinder and spit out as landfill. From a distance of 12,000 miles, this finger pointing assault looks more terrorist than any NY Bangladeshi with a pipe bomb strapped to his chest. I have that to go home to? Maybe I should stay here and milk Kiwibirds.

What's the way out? There's got to be some insurance that will guarantee that this can't happen again. That the smudged finger of harassment can never again touch the pristine white robes of womenhood. The answer hits me like a beershit stomach cramp: APARTHEID.

I know. Apartheid has gotten a bad name over the last 70 years or so. The word comes from Dutch.. and is clearly related to the word APART or separate. It originated in South Africa and legislated in two parts: Petty Apartheid and Grand Apartheid.

Petty Apartheid was day to day separation of the races. Separate drinking fountains. White and Colored restrooms... Different sides of the bus station waiting room. Grand Apartheid was more sweeping. It defined neighborhoods and employment opportunities by race. It required a special pass for when low status groups (“natives” and “coloured”) entered areas designated as high status (white) areas.

Apartheid in South Africa kicked the bucket in 1990. But the word's bad rep struck again in 2006 with Jimmy Carter's book, Palestine: Peace Not Apartheid. Here, Carter argued against the growing power of Israel in separating conquered lands into Jewish and Muslim Areas, with the Israelis building a wall to create Palestinian ghettos. Like in South Africa, low status groups (Muslims) needed a pass to enter the territory of the high-status group (Jews).

Israeli apartheid continues today. Most of the world condemns it. Again, the world uses the word apartheid in a negative way. As if it were synonymous with “discrimination” or “exploitation.”

But Apartheid is like a hammer. It can be used to break a window or build a house... to mug an old woman or to save her bare feet from a protruding nail. Here's my vision of how apartheid can stop the scourge of sexual harassment.

FLASH TO New York City 2020 in Apartheid America: I walk down fifth avenue. The depressing grayness of the city is gone. Everywhere is a splash of color. Two colors especially: Pink and Blue.

First a bit of orientation. If you stand at the southern end of Fifth Avenue, you'll be at Washington Square Park. Famous in movies and literature for Avant Garde, hippies, and small drug deals.

Looking North, I can see the avenue divided. On the right, the sidewalk is as pink as a cherub cheek. The buildings too are pink... at least the sides facing the street. Women and girls walk on this side. On the left, the sidewalk is as blue as the sky on a clear spring day. It's the men and boys side.

I'm on my way to the sperm bank. The deposit section is in the BLUE ZONE... the withdrawal in the PINK ZONE. Ready to make my deposit, I step into the ASM (Automatic Semen Machine), and flick the lock from green to red. I insert my Jismcard^® into the slot and wait for the screen to react.
When the screen comes on I press the SHORT button and the variable height wallhole opens up. It's about an inch too high for me, but I can reach it standing on tip-toe. The vacuum pump whirs. In a second or two I feel its pull on my hardening flesh. Deposit made, I zip up and return to the street.

Across the street, on the pink side, I spot a young girl with her mother. They wear matching yellow dresses... pink ribbons tied around the waist. Everyone on that side of the street wears a pink ribbon. It's the law.

The ribbon can be tied around the waist... worn in the hair... as a bracelet... even daintily bowed on top of a shoe. The only requirement is that it's easily visible. No question... no reason to be pulled over by the gendercops. Men and boys, or course, wear blue ribbons.

It's 3PM. The sun is in the west. That means the blue side of the street is sunny. In front of each of the crowded cafes and bars is a big bouncer checking ribbon colors on entrance. I stop into Knickerbockers for a Kingfisher. Luckily this old bar landed on the blue side after the division.

Sitting outside, I watch the street traffic. Since this place is near a gender-crossing, there's always a chance to see an attractive newbie making the transition from one side of the street to the other.

On the pink side, I watch an “office lady” looking woman enter the SEPARATE-BUT-EQUAL Employment Agency. I've seen their ads on late-night TV and know they specialize in executive head-hunting for pink-oriented companies. And on my side, I can just see the avant-garde entrance to The Museum of Degenerate Sex Mixing. With old photos and videos of mixed-sex couples... and trios... doing everything from hand-holding to kissing to The DEED itself.

On the walls hang pictures of politicians, actors, directors, all those early twenty-first century-ites felled by the horrors of misexgyny. One popular gasp-inducing display shows a video of children... some as young as five or six-- forced to hold hands with any gender... forming a big circle... chanting about “pockets full of posies” and... ALL FALL DOWN. Yes! They fall in a heap... child on child... before they were old enough to shave or protest the patriarchy. That was the old days where the perils of sex-mixing were long known... but unacknowledged... when people were afraid to propose the obvious solution.

Things are better now-- both petty and grand. There is peace in the once-troubled land. People are happy. Not like in the old days.

-end-

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