YOU'RE WRONG 

An Irregular Column

by Mykel Board

GIRLS ARE POOP!

I first heard words about eight years ago when I went to see BLACK MARKET BABY in DC. The DC hardcore crew used it as their motto at that time, although now they probably wouldn't admit it. In any case, eight years later, I found out how true these words are.

Girls! I've just about had it with 'em. You already know how they twice tried to rape me-- once in Amsterdam and once in Toronto. Now they've got a different tactic. One that's a whole lot worse.

A nubile female invited me to Cleveland.

"My granma's away," she said, "so we can have her suburban apartment to ourselves. We can do anything we want." My underpants tightened at the wink I heard in her voice.

"Ah, enough even to go to Cleveland for," I thought.

The first night was great, with promises of better things to come. The second night she suggests we go to the local disco. Mmmm boy, nothing like a taste of British New Wave to spice up an industrial wasteland vacation. At the disco, Granma's girl met this sleazy drug dealing pal of hers, who tried to move to New York three times. After each time he came back to Cleveland.

"In New York it's either sink or swim," he said, "I sank-- three times." Obviously the guy was a real winner.

He did have his qualities, though. They were white, finely ground and wrapped in nice little envelopes in his pocket. They were qualities Ms. Cleveland admired so much that she invited him back to granma's house with us.

She must've sensed in my grimacing face a hint of objection. "Don't blow this drug deal!" she whispered. Well, that was it. I'd force a showdown right there on the disco floor.

"If he comes, I'll stay in town, tonight." I said, forcing her to choose between the drugs and me. It worked. She made the choice.

"Fine," said she, "I'll call you tomorrow."

Crushed, I moved out to stay with my pals Pennie and Mark in downtown Cleveland. I did get to see the Indians win ('course they were playing Baltimore, so what do ya' expect). I also got to see D.O.A. play the best show I've seen 'em do.

They seem to be going back to punk rock, playing their old stuff (even from the "Bloody. . ." LP), and still keeping up the energy despite the heat and my continued print slagging.

After the show I had a long talk with the guitar player.

"You're from Maximum Rock'n'Roll," he said, "those guys are friends of ours, but sometimes I don't get 'em. Their review of our last LP said it was too Rock'n'Roll. Jesus Christ! I mean what the fuck is the name of that mag."

I assured him I was not representative of the publication. I also told him I thought D.O.A. was a great band with bad politics. "You guys are nuts to fight against free trade. How can lefties like you be anti-freedom nationalists?"

"Nationalism in Canada is different from nationalism in the U.S.," he said. I won't report the whole argument, but its just that I found it weird for anti-nationalists to say "My nationalism is better than your nationalism." That's what the U.S. has been saying to South American countries for 150 years!

OK, I was telling you about my girl problems. So follow me back to New York for the second tragedy.

This one came from California. She's pretty, smart and has terminal politics on the brain. She's the kind of person who'll turn a discussion about the heat wave into an argument about international economics. She wanted to stay with me for a week while she found a cheap flight to Europe.

Before I go on, I should explain the logistics of my mini-apartment. It's one room. I sleep in a double size loft bed built into the wall, about six feet off the floor. There's a small uncomfortable couch underneath.

You know how some people are considerate about the starving folks in Ethiopia, but will humiliate their best friends? You know how some people will have the sensibility to demonstrate to stop the nuclear arms race, yet not have the sensibility to know they are stepping on your foot? Well meet one of them. From the time she entered to the time she left, my West Coast visitor complained about how horney she was. It was more intense than anything she'd ever felt before.

"I'd fuck anything with brains and a dick," she said.

She chose to sleep on the small uncomfortable couch. What does that make me? Tofu? Which one of those was I missing? [What makes you think it's only one, Mykel? --TY] My ego was snorted away like a line of coke.

I guess you figured by now, that I'm not in a very good mood. Besides this girl, New York welcomed me back with a riot. That's what I really want to write about.

He was as irritating as hemorrhoids on a mounted cop. I'm talking about HARRIS YOU-KNOW-WHO, singer from YOU-KNOW-WHAT PATROL. He had worked for weeks to start a riot in Tompkins Square Park, just so he could get his name in the papers. It worked! He's been in the New York Times, Newsday, and on network TV. He's been quoted so much people might begin to think he knows what he's talking about.

In case you haven't heard, the boy set himself up between two police horses and had cops pull him from both sides. They slugged him with clubs. If you've ever been hit in the head, you know that no matter how superficial the wound, it bleeds like hell. I got a bottle in the head once, when ARTLESS opened for GG Allin. It hardly hurt, but my face was covered in nice red rivulets.

So here's bleeding Harris, posing for the cameras, describing police brutality and plugging his band. The press just ate it up. I guess all you have to do is get a few cameramen and photographers slugged by cops and they come around real quick.

A week later, there was another rally/concert in the park. The cops were nowhere to be seen. They learned their lesson. Harris, on the other hand, was everywhere to be seen. He too learned his lesson. He still wore a nice bandage above his eye, just in case you missed him on the first go-around and didn't know who he was.

Nah, I can't carry this any further. I was just annoyed at the shameless way people took advantage of the situation for their own ends. Of course, Mr. H. didn't start the riot-- but he sure-as-shit wasn't sorry it happened.

And what did happen? Yep, that's what I want to tell you about. You see, New York City, like most other major American cities is yuppifying. The new young business successes have discovered that their own boring presence has made the suburbs a stupefying place to live. They are moving into the cities now hoping they'll be more interesting. If not more interesting, at least closer to their source of cocaine.

Here in New York, the Lower East Side has been traditionally a place for people to move to. Early in this century, Middle European immigrants moved there. Later Negroes and Puerto Ricans took over the cheap housing. In the sixties, it became hippie heaven. In the seventies and eighties, artists being yuppified out of Soho, and new members of the blossoming punk rock scene moved into the neighborhood.

Every time the neighborhood changed, there was resentment. Most of the time there was violence. This riot was ostensibly over a new curfew in Tompkins Square park.

For the last few years, the park has been a hangout for punks, druggies, skinheads and bums. . . er. . . I mean the homeless. Close to the city operated Men's shelter, the relatively cool green area serves to sleep those who would rather not face the un-air conditioned puke and excrement filled city facility. Neighbors-- lots of them recently-moved-in yuppies-- complained that there were too many drugs and too much noise in the park at night.

Responding to these complaints, the mayor ordered the park shut at one o'clock. The punks, druggies, skinheads and bums. . .> er. . . I mean the homeless vowed to keep it open. There hasn't been a decent riot in New York for a long time. Lots of folks on both side wanted to see a little aggro. The cops made their stand at one P.M. sharp, forcing everybody out of the park.

The folks on the other side made their stand by climbing over the fences back into the park. There was a clash. The police responded to the invading crowd with chaos. They used horses and clubs. They covered their badge numbers or took their badges off completely. This was pieced together from stuff I heard by people who were there. I think it's true.

I got to the area at about one A.M. I was with Ms. Brains-and-dick at a "Rotten To The Core" show at Downtown Beirut. ISM had already played. We decided to go to the Pyramid club to take a break before BUTCH LUST & THE HYPOCRITES went on. When I walked out of the club, I saw a helicopter with bright lights underneath hovering around the park.

"There's no helicopter landing place around here," I told the girl. "I bet the cops got a new toy to play with and they're showing it off." As usual, I was right.

We walked up Avenue A. Right by the Pyramid, a line of cops-- mostly in riot helmets with plastic shields-- spread across the street. About 50 yards south of them, a group of park people sat down parallel to the cops.

The helicopter hovered so close that you could feel the breeze of the propeller. The mood was as tense as a virgin bride, but it was quiet. The two groups faced each other.

Then a punky looking guy and his girlfriend got up from the sitting crowd. They walked directly up to the helmeted blue ocean and stood a few inches away from them. They said something, apparently not too complimentary. The cops stood their ground. Then another punky-looking guy stood up and started goose stepping and sieg heiling the cops. Still they stood there.

Then came a bottle. I couldn't tell if it was from the back of the seated crowd or from a roof top. Then came another bottle. Then the cops went wild.

They charged. Their nightsticks flying in all directions. They were obviously after some specific individuals, but that didn't stop them from smashing anyone else in their way. The girl and I ran down a side street, cops still in pursuit.

One cop tackled this guy in front of us, smashing him over the head with a club. He yelled, "Where's your big mouth now? Huh, wiseguy? You don't talk so loud now," as he pounded the guy in the head.

Meanwhile another cop chased us swinging his club. The girl tried to walk calmly. "Run, you bastards, run!" yelled the cop.

"I'm walking! Don't I have a right to walk on the street?" asked the girl.

"I said run!" yelled the cop.

"Jesus Christ!" I thought as loudly as I could, "He's a cop with a billy club. If he says run, then don't make it a political discussion, just fucking RUN!"

So much for my participation in the melee. The weird thing was that the riot worked. The next day the mayor lifted the curfew in the park, letting it stay open all night. They did keep a noise curfew at 11 PM. Quite a reasonable solution for a group generally so unreasonable as city hall.

Fortunately for the protesters, a few reporters got beat up, so people actually believed the police got out of control. So they did, but keep it clear that there were people ON BOTH SIDES who wanted a riot. Rioting is fun. It's exhilarating. The more chaos the more fun.

So we've got a truth not so simply divided between us and them. Even the issues are not so simply divided. It's NOT simply the gentrifiers against "the people." (Did you ever notice how when lefties refer to their side they always call it the people?) many of those demonstrating were relative newcomers to the neighborhood. Many of those who wanted the park closed were older, long-term residents who were afraid of punks and drugs and who really did want to sleep at night.

The punks and artists on the lower east side were not the natives. As a matter of fact, they themselves were the vanguard of the yuppie influx. They were like the pioneers in the old west, opening up the forbidden, unexplored Indian territory so the Eastern gentry could move in behind them. I saw very few non-white faces in the riot. I saw no old people or any representatives of the first wave of residents. Not too many homeless folks either.

The papers printed how the rioters said they wanted to keep the park open so the homeless could have a place to sleep at night. The park belonged to everyone, they said.

The Saturday after the riot there was a victory celebration in the park. A bunch of bands played, and lot's of groups set up little literature tables. There was an Anarchist table, a "New York Greens" table, an anti-AIDS table, and a Revolutionary Communist Party table.

[Here's a political joke you probably won't get: Q. How many anarchists does it take to change a lightbulb.? A. Twenty-- one to change the bulb and nineteen to criticize the Revolutionary Communist Party.]

Mr. Depperman, world-famous wall posterer, handed out leaflets criticizing the Yippies for mixing drugs and politics. He also said that they organized to deliberately prevent organization.

The cops were nowhere to be seen-- at least not during the day. They learned their lesson and were going to avoid another riot if they could. There were others, however, who were less interested in avoiding a riot.

As the eleven PM quiet time rolled around, somehow a lot of people popped up with whistles. A few radios came along. Obviously, they wanted to force the hand of the cops against the curfew. In doing so, they gave the lie to the story that they wanted to let the poor homeless have a nice quiet place to sleep. Fuck the homeless. They were in this for the fun, the excitement, the riot.

Despite the whistle blowing and some mighty loud ghetto blaster blasting, the cops refused to be baited back into action. This called for some greater provocation.

A new luxury condo was nearly finished on the East side of the park. Suddenly there was a crowd there, throwing eggs at the place. There are those who say this was a spontaneous show of anger at gentrification. I find it hard to believe that people spontaneously carry eggs with them to concerts in the park. Even if YOU-KNOW-WHAT PATROL is playing. In any case, it worked.

A busload of riot cops came out of nowhere and surrounded the luxury building. It made a nice picture, cops defending the deluxe housing from the rabble in the street. Someday, some lefty band will use it on the cover of their album. In the meantime, eggs aimed at the building, naturally fell on the cops. The cops attacked. This time it was measured and just enough to back people off. I left the park then.

From what I heard, no one was beaten up. The police arrested a few people in a rather civilized manner. George from the I-WON'T-MENTION-WHICH PROPHETS told me that one was Stephan, lead singer of that band. It seems he was in a jealous rage over all the publicity the YOU-KNOW-WHAT PATROL got. He decided to take matters in hand. He dressed up complete with a cop's hat and pig nose. I heard he also wore a huge sign that said "ARREST ME! YOU SCUMMY PIGS! I DARE YOU!" but I don't know if that's true. He did get himself halled off to the pokey. Unfortunately, he didn't get himself bloodied enough to make the papers.

So, what were the riots? They were some people really annoyed that the neighborhood was being gentrified. They were also the vanguard of the gentry itself, protesting their natural successors. They were the cops, looking for a fight and wanting to spill a little punk blood in the streets. They were the wild kids, wanting to give the cops a run for their blood money. They were the self-serving riotmakers, willing to spill other people's blood for the publicity. They were the politicos, wanting to use this to inspire a new sixties-type radicalism with themselves in charge. Despite this all, they had a point.

The poor are being pushed out of the neighborhood. The free park was> being taken away from the people who used it and given to no one. Luxury housing is replacing soup kitchens on the Lower East Side. Finally, the riots worked. The park curfew was lifted. So, with this in mind, were the riots wrong?

I guess the answer is basically that the riots were not wrong, but many of the rioters were. (Of course, I'm including the police among the rioters.) At times, sleazy motives bring good ends-- but those times are rare. More often it's a combination of good and bad motives with good and bad goals that bring good and bad results. Just because one side has your friends on it and the other has the cops, doesn't mean that one side is all good and the other side is all bad. There is no all good-- or all bad, except maybe, for girls.

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