YOU'RE WRONG
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board
I was sitting in the Dugout bar looking at her breasts. Usually, well-endowed females thrill me even less than well-endowed males. I didn't call my second album "Boy With a Cunt" because I like boobs. But these were. . . well. . . it's hard to describe without using your cupped hands and pushing them upward against your chest. They were perfect breasts, those two. Big, yet strong, upward lifting, like a good Negro spiritual. They were the kind of breasts that scream, "Look at me now! You can't miss me-- and you love it." I couldn't keep my eyes off them.
Yep, this is going to be another column about girls. I know I promised a crossword puzzle for this month. Sorry, I have other things to say first. Let the critics complain that I can never think of anything new to write about. I'll stand by the famous writer who said that all great novelists do nothing more than retell the same story in a better and better way. As to the homo complaints: I have nothing against homos. Some of my best friends are homos. Most of the boys I've had sex with, have been homos. In B.A. (Before AIDS) times, sacking out the new boy was as fun and easy as asking, Do you come here often? But as times get rougher and there are fewer and fewer heres to come to, girls turn out to be as available as-- if quite a bit weirder than-- boys.
Also, during the last year or so, my life's spin the bottle has most often stopped with its head pointing to a member of the vaginated class. That's just the way it's been. Sorry, boys. Make me an offer.
Back at The Dugout I can't remember who sat on the other side of me. It was either Jesse from THE THING or Mike Edison from SHARKY'S MACHINE. In any case, one of them introduced me to the girl.
"This is Mykel Board," he said, "He likes your breasts." Immediately the room stank from the burnt smell of my skin turning red.
"So you're Mykel Board," said the girl, "I always thought you were taller."
As it turns out, this gal plays bass player for an all-girl scummetalpunk band called THE LUNACHICKS. Although she wasn't particularly friendly at The Dugout, she put me on the guest list for their show at a little blues club around the corner. They were great! Lots of young highschool girls with breasts of their own stood right in front of the stage. They bent forward loose-necked and twirled their hair to the beat of their idols. In the audience, pornstar Annie Sprinkle (I'll mention her again latter) nearly popped out of her corset with enjoyment. I have to admit to a little popping myself. It was girls' night out and I was happy as a bull in the milking pen.
See that band, if you can. Besides the girl with the breasts, the drummer is only the tiniest fraction less of a superwoman than the Bar B-Que Killers' singer. (Yes! I know the BBQs are from Georgia. Okay I made one mistake in the last 5 years! Their singer's still a goddess and I hope she writes to me.) LUNACHICKS are pure sex, power and rock and roll. All girl and proud to be it. I was inspired. Girls can provide a never-ending source of inspiration. Sometimes they can be pretty nasty too. Even in that nastiness, however, there is a lesson to be learned.
"What makes an artist great is his ability to turn his life's most horrible disasters into art."
--Some college professor I had
The human body is smart. It can take the experiences of the outer world and turn them into metaphors. When you're speaking with someone who is a pain in the neck, you might find yourself rubbing the back of that organ as if confirming the fact. A schoolteacher who's a real headache-- might actually cause one. I want to talk about throwing up.
A few days before I started writing this column I had another girl misadventure;, one of life's mini-tragedies that pile one on top of the other until you feel like sucking on a gun barrel. I'll tell you what happened.
We'll call her Ms. S. A Southern girl with northern roots, she was more like a human being than a girl. She had a quality of instant compassion. Completely without pretense, she was like the pal you grew up with, discovering only post-pubescently that her gender was different from yours. It was crush at first sight. I visited her at work, called her at home, not a day passed where I wasn't soothed by her voice. She could stand next to me and not say or do a thing and I would feel good. Oh yeah, I was hooked.
My birthday closed in. Me, born on the same day as Johnny Rotten and Norman Mailer-- a mutant combination of the two. I joked about having a surprise party for myself. Ms. S suggested that I give her a list of folks to call and invite. I took her up on it.
A short time before, at the beginning of my heady crushiness, I had introduced Ms. S to my best friend, Mr. M. Shortly after that introduction, she asked me if the guy was "a smoothy." I assured her he was not. He was just friendly, I said. Nothing to worry about.
Mr. M volunteered to help Ms. S with the party. She agreed. Two days before P-time, S and I went to a Greek restaurant for dinner. Over a shish kabob for me and a fallafel for her; she sprang the ultimate party killer: she had fallen in love with my best friend.
"Mykel," she said looking into my lamb-fat dripping face, "I have to tell you this. I really like M."
I couldn't talk with my mouth. I was choking on the pita. My eyes asked, That way?"
Here eyes answered, "Yes, that way."
Yep, there they were together, S and M, the host and hostess of my birthday party. Yep, he smoothied his way into her. . . er. . . heart. And I still had to go to the party! Not only had she rejected me for my best friend-- she also had the world's worst timing! Couldn't she have waited until AFTER the party?
Sure it's funny. Comedians are artists too. But what's important for this month's lesson is what happened after I got home from that dinner. I was so depressed I could hardly more. I crawled over to the couch and laid myself down. I couldn't fall asleep. Those "how-could-they-do-that-to-me" and "I-should've-never. . . " and "I've-had-it-with-kids,. . . no-one-under-the-age-of-forty" and dozens of other cliches cliched through my mind swirling and churning like a stomach full of rotten meat. As a matter of fact, I found myself with a swirling and churning stomach full of meat. My freshly eaten dinner pitched and plunged in my stomach in a physical metaphor for what was going on in my mind. I threw up.
It didn't come easy. I had to stick my fingers down my throat and push on the back of my tongue. The first surge of lamb pieces and partially digested lettuce just missed my hand. The second surge did not. I didn't care. I was feeling better. I was throwing up the hate, stupidity, fantasy relation, false dreams, the whole slop and slaboodle that lay undigested in my head, came out my mouth, splashing into the toilet bowl to be flushed away.
My head resting on the toilet seat, I looked down at those brown chunks of self-pity and green slivers of self-deception. I could smell the love-lost-that-was-never-there. A taste of bereavement-- like two friends had died (in my mind they had)-- clung to the back of my throat. I couldn't eat the entire next day. I knew that anything I tried to force into my stomach would fight it's way back up.
Still, I felt better for it. I know myself well enough to realize that these pains don't last forever. In another few months, I won't hate the new couple very much. (They might not even BE a couple by then.) By the end of the year, I might even be able to say hello. I've tried to hold grudges before, but I was never able to do it. Now I realize why-- or at least part of the reason. I throw up.
Am I a special case? I don't think so. Just a few days ago, I saw my buddy, Nicole, a really pretty girl who works at the same place as S. That day, she wasn't looking so pretty.
"I'm sick, she said, "I can't keep any food down."
"Maybe you should take something," I suggested.
"Nope," she replied, "it's not that kind of sick." I knew what she meant.
"Find a new one," I suggested, "he was probably a creep anyway."
She smiled.
I remember when another one of my pals was so upset at loosing his girlfriend that he threw up blood. His stomach was so anxious to expel the horrors of his life that it squeezed part of itself out through his throat. Bright red gobs of real love lost splashed up through his gullet into my toilet. He cried too. (What the fuck are tears, if not another kind of throw up?)
In Rome, the vomitorium was the place where orgiers went to puke up their massive feasts or stomachfuls of cum and cuntjuice. Usually they would start again on the same thing, although I have a suspicion some of them changed their minds.
With that, I'd like to propose a vomitorium for thirteen years of punk rock and how many years of black-haired death rockers and how many heroin cynics and how many blind politicos. Throw up. Yep, stick your fingers down your throats and let your stomach contract. Spew up your black leather jackets, your Doc Martins, your vegetarianism. Revel as those chunks of anarchy, racism, anti-Klanism, and straight edge come through your esophagus and over the backs of your hands. Let mohawks, Reagan/Bush, skinheads, stage diving and all the other trappings pour out of you; leaving a bad taste maybe, but making you feel so much better.
You haven't given them up; my friend who threw up blood is back with the same girl. But you've given yourself a break. You've taken all that partially digested bilge and dumped it into the toilet. There's more where it came from, but at least wash your face before eating again. Catch my phlegm ball? It's time to take that oral enema and start fresh.
For me, my fresh start came with NEW AGE. Until then, I hadn't been a much of a fan of the stuff. My past lives seem to have all been slugs or spirochetes. Quartz crystals don't pop my umbrella and meditation gives me a headache. Even though a lot of porn folks are getting involved with it (Annie Sprinkle just directed the first New Age porn video), it still left me colder than an Arctic Healing Circle.
Despite all this, I have to credit New Age with coming to the rescue in the midst of my depression over Ms. S and Mr. M. New Age bestowed upon me a lucky break. Something that God, in her infinite evilness, generally keeps away from me.
Here's what happened: an artist pal of mine from Denmark was in town showing her works to the galleries. With her came a young male photographer and Annette, a younger Swedish girl.
The photographer was a New Ager. He wouldn't shut up about "wellness," "the healing power of the psyche," and "souls choosing this time to come to earth to experience the great awakening." For me, it sure as angelshit was a great put to sleepening. The Swedish girl thought so too.
"If I hear any more of that New-Age-flying-through-the-air- stuff," she said with her oh-so-cute accent, "I'll make him fly through the air from a very tall building."
"Well, you can always stay with me, if he bores you." I suggested.
"That's a good idea." she said, "I'll move in tomorrow."
I was so happy I couldn't stand up without it hurting. Not only was there going to be some fine blond nookie, but she had smarts, a sense of humor and came at the depths of my romantic depression. Yep, buckaroos, she was just what I needed! And she was just what I got. Saved my New Age-ism!
But God-- that bitch goddess-- had to throw in a kicker. She'll let things get good, but she won't let them be perfect. It's like fulfilling your wish to be transported back in time to see THE VELVET UNDERGROUND. Then all they do is play "Lonesome Cowboy Bill" over and over again.
The first problem, in fact, had to do with that band and again-- NEW AGE. You know the song from the LOADED album? It's called New Age. Annette said it was her favorite and kept playing it over and over. It's got an obvious line in it about "you're over the hill right now, looking for love." There I was, pushing hard at 40, not exactly hung like Guy Fawkes, slarfing a barely 20 year old. You bet your condom I didn't need that on the turntable while I was putting cream on the cherries.
The other thing was even worse. On the sixth night of our. . . er. . . encounter, right in the middle of IT, she says, "Did you ever think about having a baby?"
Let me tell you, girls. No question is more immediately deflating of the erectile tissues than that one. It's like stuffing that taco. Between the oohs and the harders! you hear, "Do you think herpes is as catching as they say?" Whoops! Something happens.
"Sorry, I don't know what happened. . . It just fell out and doesn't seem to want to go back in again." Still, Annette was a god(dess)send from the New Age. I'll miss her now that she's back in the land of socialist hell.
Hold your pity for a moment. Things are perking up for me again. Fellow columnist, creative organizer, and fine person Jennifer Blowdrier, has been setting up "smut readings" at a local burlesque house. A week from now, I'll be participating for the second time. At the last one, Annie Sprinkle and a three foot dwarf read the bible. Both of them made stimulating erotic noises while Annie took off her clothes to "And thou shalt not commit adultery."
There's nothing like hanging around porn stars, and porn writers to make you love life again. For those of you who don't read PENTHOUSE FORUM-- I finally had an article printed there. It was a "celebrity sex fantasy": me and Tammy Fae Bakker. For the time being, it's easier to park my penis than it is to park my car. Of course, that could change at the chomp of a fallafel, but when it does-- I can always just throw up.} @CENTER<@B{-END-}> @B{----------------------
ENDNOTES:
1. Lately there've been a whole bunch of anti-black/African riots in China. African students have had to be shut up in their university dorms for their own protection. So much for the argument that racism is a child of capitalism, or "inherently white." No capitalists or white folks involved in that one.
2. Steven Charles wrote to remind me that I promised to tell about the GG ALLIN show here at the Lismar Lounge. (He also told me that GG speaks PERSONALLY to him through his records, just like The Beatles spoke to Charlie Manson. Really!)
Anyway, here's the story: GG was awful. When the show was scheduled to start, GG slumped over a table upstairs, his nose pressed against someone's name carved in the wood. I asked why he wasn't on stage.
"He's waiting for one more bag." someone told me. I went back downstairs. The club was crowed. Dozens of adolescent fans who had just read about the man, came to see the fire and the fury for themselves.
A crashing came across the banister. GG rolled down the spiral stairs. A fan picked him up and dragged him across the floor. He collapsed at the foot of the stage. Two more of his fans grabbed him under each shoulder bringing him-- temporarily-- to his feet. Someone stuck a microphone in his mouth. GG moaned a couple of songs and collapsed again. The show was over. Admission had been ten dollars. At first I thought, "GG's really fucked up this time." I was disappointed-- and mad.
Later though, my pal Jane changed the metaphorical lighting hue. "You always told me that GG sincerely wants to be hated." she said, "He complained about being liked too much. Right?" I agreed with her.
"Well then," she continued, "just like he missed his big break by wrecking a hotel room and going to jail rather than being on the Morton Downey TV Show. . . he disappointed and pissed off his fans by not giving them the shit throwing violent exhibition they expected." She was right.
GG ALLIN was being GG ALLIN rather than pandering to the expectations of a newly adoring audience. He gave the folks what they DIDN'T want. I heard his show in San Francisco was more typical, but in any case, there seems to be no one in music with more integrity than this guy. Sure the show was awful, but it was GG.
4. The folks at ROIR Cassettes passed me the name and address of this Pole who's interested in American punk stuff (and Johnny Thunders--- so he has good taste). I've got too much to do to start up another correspondence, so write to the guy and send him tapes and records. Make him happy!
Pawez Czekata, 9-Maja 11B/4, 70-136 Szechzin, POLAND
5. I got a playlist from Spain (I guess-- or someplace Spanish). It's called Arraio Irratia and the subtitle is Lejos De Las Estrellas. Does anyone know anything about this? There's no name, radio station call numbers or address on the sheet. What's up with you foreigners anyway?
6. Speaking of Foreigners. I'm going to Japan this summer. I plan to stay for a year if I can figure out a hustle-- even if that means (ugh!) work. I already interviewed for a teaching job there, with a suit and tie and real shoes-- yeech! I didn't get it. Do any readers out there-- especially in Japan-- know of a place I could work? (I've got an MA in Linguistics, if that'll help.) I'll do most anything that pays; journalism, studio production, music distribution (I've got lots of international contacts) or the old stand-by, teaching English. I'd rather not work in a place where I have to wear a monkey suit, but I'll consider anything. I want to get paid the big Yen and hang around with folks my own size. If you have any suggestions, please write me at the address at the end of this column. At least, send me the classifieds from the Japan Times? Oh, sorry to disappoint you, buckaroos, but I'll continue writing this column from where ever I happen to be eating my sushi.
7. I got and lost Roger's (Agnostic Front) jail address. Maybe Tim's got it. In any case the UNITED BLOOD ep has been repressed in a limited edition. All proceeds will got to help Roger (the checks, MO's etc should be made out to "Roger Miret"). The blue or red (no white???) record costs $11.00 including shipping. You can order it from A.F., PO Box 20114, New York NY 10009.
8. Finally, belated thanks to Ron Mather who sent me the Akutt Innleggelse address. Now I need one for Mikael Larsson of a Swedish band called E.A.T.E.R. Anybody know? (Send everything and more to the same address: Mykel Board, PO Box 138, Prince St. Station, New York NY 10012).
So long buckaroos. Next time you're on your knees in front of the great white bowl-- think of me, okay?
-end-
