YOU'RE WRONG
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board
Remember when you really got mad at someone? There you were, all important and earnest. They treated you like dirt. Blew you off. Acted like they didn't know you. Fuck, were you pissed. You'd show them. Just wait. When you're on David Letterman and they ask for a favor. They'll see.
"Who's calling?" you'll ask. "I'm afraid you have the wrong number. I never heard of you."
Boy, that'll teach them.
Then something happens. Suddenly, you understand that person. Their actions make sense. You regret being stupid in the first place. And carrying a grudge in the second. Keep that in mind before you condemn me. Okay?
I want to tell you two stories this month. The first is about Camille Paglia. For the few who don't know her, she's a post-feminist writer. She makes the amazing claim that women should be responsible for their own lives. They should not blame, incest, harassment or THE PATRIARCHY for their misery. Instead, they should take responsibility for their own lives.
She's one of my idols. An anti-feminist with the brains and balls to take 'em all on. A fast talker who refuses to buy into the "we're all victims" or "sex is bad" line of mainstream feminism. She's a smart tough woman who takes shit from all sides and flings it back.
I get a postcard. A picture of Glenn-- in his blond wig and housewife dress-- with Camille Paglia at his side. A film he made about her will open next week. She'll be there. I can meet her! In person!
I'm invited to the opening party because I've been in a previous video called CAT FIGHTS. Glenn co-directed that one with Christine Martin, a Master of Fine Arts and Mistress of Domination. They interviewed me as "a punk provocateur." ARTLESS's single, Harass, was the theme song.
The party will be upstairs at a Times Square disco called USA. During the next week, I rehearse the line I'll use when I meet the famous woman.
"Hi," I'll say, "My name is Mykel Board. I've always wanted to meet you because I've been compared to you more than any other person except Rush Limbaugh." I picture her laughing, then sitting down with me at a little table, and discussing date rape.
When the big night finally comes, I put on my Beer Is Better Than Girls Are t-shirt and take the subway to the disco. I push through the teens behind the ropes. They wave twenty dollar bills. I flash my invitation. The male model type doorman unclips the velvet rope and lets me pass. I exchange my invitation for a ticket and go into the club. On the first floor, girls with long red fingernails slide down a spiral slide onto the dancefloor. They scream in disco delight.
I hike upwards to the second most appealing aspect of the night: an open bar.
At the end of the long staircase, is a room. After my eyes adjust to the non-light, I see that I'm the oldest one there (except for Camille, herself). Most of the boys wear blue Levis and t-shirts designed to show their breasts. The girls mostly wear blue Levis, and t-shirts less designed to show their breasts. Some of either gender wear dresses.
Camille is surrounded by people of all genders. She leans back against the bar, her eyes half closed. She smiles and nods as people come up to her. Even though I rehearsed my line, I don't have the guts to just walk up and introduce myself. First, I claw through the crowd to have a beer.
Next to the bar stands Christine.
The MFA aspect of her personality loses itself in her loosely tied trenchcoat. There's not much else; just a white pushup bra and panties. White stockings too, held up with black garters-- of course.
"Mykel" she screams, stumbling towards me. "Let me buy you a drink."
"I thought it was an open bar." I say.
"It is! It is!" she answers. Then she turns to the bartender. "Champaign for Mykel-- and Cheryl!"
Christine gestures toward the beautiful Afro-Philadelphian to her right. She's a goddess. Skinny as a teenage Michael Jackson, and twenty times as sexy. Lesbo-- of course. The blood rushes between my legs.
Cheryl, it turns out, is a film director who's also curating a The Other Side of Feminism festival for the Alternative Museum on Broadway. I ask her about it. "Is it anti-feminist?"
"It's gonna be funny movies, satire, slapstick, stuff to laugh at." she says. "Of course, it's anti-feminist."
I slug down my champaign and set down the plastic glass, fascinated by the Negress.
"More champaign for Mykel and Cheryl!" yells Christine.
The bartender, obviously a friend of hers, trots right over and refills our glasses.
Glenn now stands next to Camille. His blond wig tilts slightly forward as he gestures about something. Camille braces herself with both arms behind her against the bar. Her feet push out in front of her, gradually sliding farther and farther away.
Cheryl sees me watching and asks, "Have you met Camille yet?"
"No," I answer, "I want to. I've been rehearsing this line for a week. She's one of my idols!"
"But first another drink!" shouts Christine. "More champaign for Mykel and Cheryl!"
As we drink, Christine talks about Ms. Paglia.
"She hates me." she says. "She thinks I only want her body. Annie Sprinkle wrote that she should sleep with me. Now she just thinks I just want to fuck her. It's not true! I love her mind!"
I look toward the topic of our conversation. Camille now sits directly on the bar, propping herself on one elbow. In one hand she has a glass filled with yellow liquid. The other drapes over the shoulder of a young woman wearing a long black dress.
"Hey isn't that Sandra?" asks the film curator.
"Who's....?" I don't have time to complete the question. Cheryl run through the crowd around Camille. I follow.
"Sandra!" shouts Cheryl.
"Cheryl!" shouts Sandra.
The woman who has been under the arm of Ms. Paglia breaks away and embraces the directress. Camille nearly slides off the bartop reaching for her parting partner.
After a few minutes of discussion, Cheryl comes over to me. "That was Sandra." she says, "She was in my first movie. I made it when we were both in college. She was a lot butcher then. Now she's Camille Paglia's girlfriend! Imagine that!"
I look over and see that Camille has regained a bit of composure. She still sits on the bar, but now she's more vertical. The mostly empty drink remains in her right hand, and the other again drapes over Sandra's shoulder.
"I don't think Camille likes me very much, either," says Cheryl. "She wasn't very friendly."
Considering the rising state of unfriendliness, I decide to make my move before there is even more tension. Christine gets me another glass of champaign to fortify myself before the introduction.
I squeeze my way up to Glenn, who is now surrounded by a little crowd himself. I tug on the side of his housedress.
"Introduce me," I whisper.
"Sure Mykel," he says.
Then, as he makes the introduction, Cheryl walks up behind me.
"Camille," says Glenn, "this is Mykel Board. He was in the Cat Fights video."
Camille extends a limp hand, looking over my head at the approaching Cheryl.
"I've always wanted to meet you," I tell her, "because I've been compared to you more than any other living person except Rush Limbaugh."
My delivery is flawless.
"That's nice," she says addressing the top of my head. "How do you really know her?" she yells to Cheryl over my head. "And what kind of film was that anyway?"
Cheryl freezes. "It was a student film." she yells, "Just an arty...."
I'm disappointed. Crushed. Here is someone I've wanted to speak to someone I've raved about. Idolized. And she cares more about her stupid girlfriend. I came to her in good faith and got treated like a used Kotex. She'll see. Just wait till my column comes out. See how much respect she'll get in the punk community after that. Hah!
The disco music suddenly loudens. The TV screens over the bar come alive. It's the video. Glenn, in the same dress, wearing the same wig, interviews Camille in front of a fountain. The video sound is off. Instead, RuPaul's Super Model discos through the speakers.
There is a scream. It's not a scream of horror or joy, but one of complete frustration. It's the same kind of scream I feel inside, but it isn't me who's screaming. It's Christine.
Her trenchcoat is undone. The skin between her bra and panties glistens with sweat. She stomps her high heels up and down. Pow! Pow! Pow! She barely keeps her balance between stomps.
"I'm getting out of here!" she yells. "I can't take it."
She points to Glenn.
"That boy was practically a Communist. I taught him everything he knows about anti-Feminism and the evils of PC-ness. Now, he's the star and they're ignoring me. Just 'cause I'm a woman!"
She pushes through the stunned crowd toward the exit. Cheryl follows Christine. I follow Cheryl. We end up at The Boy Bar, a homopalace on St. Marks Place.
Christine knows the boy at the door. He lets us in without question or covercharge. She also knows the bartender.
"Champaign for Mykel and Cheryl!" she says. It's getting difficult to stand.
We go downstairs to the dancefloor. There's a big stage, half lit, as if expecting a performer to appear. One does. It's not who they expect.
It's Christine. She jumps on stage and starts shaking her hips. The trenchcoat slips from her shoulders. The boys on the dance floor quit what they're doing and watch.
Christine moves those special parts that girls move. Dollar bills soon flap greenily from the sides of her underpants. The champaign caches up with me. I crumple against a wall. The next thing I know, I'm home, in bed, not feeling too well.
In the morning, I call Cheryl.
"I talked to Sandra," she tells me, "I called her this morning, but Camille answered the phone. It wasn't easy to get through to her."
"That's ok," I say. "I wasn't interested in talking about Camille anyway. She was rude to me. What are YOU doing tonight?"
That's the end of the Camille part. I haven't seen Cheryl again. I'm still trying. But there's more to the story. See, last weekend was The Philadelphia Anarchist Convention. Oy vey!
I leave from New York for Philly with Donny The Punk and Eric, Donny's young skinhead friend.
"I'm going 'cause I wanna get laid," Eric tells me as we wait for the train. Ahh, a true anarchist if I ever heard one.
When we arrive, Donny says he would've never guessed it was an anarchist meeting. It looks like a punkrock show. The crowd is all colored hair and dirt, as crusty as my knee scab,
"Where are the necktie anarchists?" asked Donny.
"At home, writing leaflets," I tell him.
The first day's festivities are in a church. I hang out with a bearded guy who insists that I call him Joey Homicide. Since he's got the beer, I do. Anarchist security guards soon kick Joey and I out of the church-- for drinking. Few things are as ego boosting as being kicked out of an anarchy convention for unruly behavior.
I lose track of Donny and Eric as I make the rounds of the locals trying to scam some more beer and find a place to drink it.
That night, there's a punk show at a punk frat (I'm not making this up) at the local university. Greeting the folks at the frat door, are two attractive Mormons. Black suits, white shirts and ties. I can't see what they're holding. I suspect it's The Watchtower or whatever Mormons use to spread the word.
As I approach one of them looks up.
"Mykel Board!" he shouts, "I can't believe you're here."
Just what I need: to be recognized by Mormons. Fortunately, they're not real Mormons, but in a band that would play later that night. By that time, I've managed to scam forty ounces of Olde English 800. I'm 2/3 of the way through it-- and feeling kinda good. I walk into where the bands are playing and sit down against a wall. The punkarchists slam to the Mormon beat.
This big guy sits next to me. He's got a gap between his two front teeth and he's really friendly. Once seated, he fiddles around in his backpack.
"I've got something for you, Mykel." He tells me, "something you'll really like."
He pulls out one of those porno letters magazines and gives it to me. "Here, this is just for you." He says.
I thank him. He moves closer.
"Now you've got to do something for me." He tells me, pulling out a pen. "You've got to autograph this for my best friend."
I forgot what he gives me to sign, but I sign it. He continues talking, edging two inches toward me for every inch I pull away.
I decide it's time to leave.
"Don't forget me," he says as I stand up. "Remember to write me. I'll kill you if you don't write me. Remember, I think you're great."
I leave the punkfest and go looking for another party at the Ramada Inn. I meet this drunk who just got out of jail-- after eight years. He says he'll go anywhere for a party. Anxious to take my leave from the too friendly guy with the porno mag, I
get in the drunk's car.
We don't find the party, though we spend at least five hours looking. God must be a drunk, because she takes such good care of fellow drunks. Somehow she gets me back to the house of my pal Joseph G. (Thanks Joseph!) I sleep off the booze, waking up with only a headache.
The next day, we head back to the convention-- this time in a parochial school. Donny's cancels his workshop because nobody can find the room. Instead, I go to one on "Queer Direct Action."
Julie, the former bassist of THE MORE FIENZ and current white lesbian goddess, leads the meeting. At first it sounds good. Julie even says 'bisexual.' She also talks about how bad those military and family values homos are.
But the rest of the folks are creepazoids from Mars.
A collegiate looking guy wears one of those shirts with wide strips. He tells the workshoppers. "We shouldn't fight those big gay groups. It looks bad in the press. They'll use it as a 'Divide and Conquer' tactic. We have to support the mainstreamers as well as our own ideas. If they want military, we should help 'em get it."
Imagine telling a roomful of anarchists that they should support the military and family values. Bound to raise a ruckus, right? There is another side.
"I hate Catholics."
The speaker is a twenty something crusty queer with dreds tied up directly on top of his head. He reminds me of a Shitstu that rich old ladies walk in the park.
"I've had enough." He says, "They oppress me. Now it's time to oppress them. I want to go into a church and punch somebody. That's direct action and the best tactics."
So you've got half the folks wanting to support the military and the other half wanting to destroy religious freedom by punching people in churches. A debate begins as to which tactic is better. Isn't there a voice of reason?
A big effeminate Negro stands to speak, "Now look," he says, "some folks are good at one thing. Some are good at something else. There is no RIGHT way or WRONG way. If you're good at organizing for the military, that's what you do. If you want to go and confront the church, then THAT's what you do. All ways are valid. It's like brother Malcolm said, 'By any means necessary.'"
Before this I had a headache-- now nausea creeps up. JEEZUS! I don't want to punch Catholics OR join the army. Brother Malcolm was WRONG!
"Gee, you're good at mass murdering, so that's what you should do. You, you're good at making swastikas so that's what YOU should do!"
NO NO NO! The ends do NOT justify the means. (In other words "by any means necessary" is WRONG!) The means CREATE the ends. If you go into a church and punch somebody, then you justify punching people as a tactic FOR BOTH SIDES! How can you complain about fag bashing if you bash other people who have made no move against you???
As to working to join the military or have domestic partnership???? State sanctioned two people relationships are as far from anarchy as Berkeley is from Libertarianism-- the military is worse! Those aren't ends I want. Working for them is NOT what I want to spend my time doing.
Is this the future of queer politics? "By any means necessary," along with "don't criticize the mainstream, it'll look bad in the press." Yuch!! Despite my crush on the smart lesbo who tries to lead the meeting, I leave, feeling sick.
Outside, I pass skinhead Eric, ferociously pacing the halls. He's wearing a t-shirt that says Suck My Dick.
"This is supposed to be anarchy." He says to either me or the empty hallway. "I thought that in anarchy everybody gets laid. I wanna go home."
I do too. I leave the whole convention. But before I finish this column, I should tell you the end of the story about the guy with the gap between his teeth.
When I'm leaving the punk party he comes over to me again. He gives me a piece of paper with his address and phone number on it.
"I really want to be famous, Mykel." He tells me, looking deep into my eyes. "I'll blow my way to the top. Really, I'll do anything."
"Don't forget to call me." He says, "promise you won't forget."
I'd promise to lay on railroad tracks if he'd leave me alone.
"Sure," I tell him, "I'll call you. First thing."
He walks up to me and kisses me. Luckily, I turn my head or I would've gotten it full on the lips.
"I've always wanted to meet you, Mykel." He says, "Did you know that I've been compared to you more than anyone else in the world?"
"Except who?!" I yell at him. "You forgot the EXCEPT part!!! Didn't you practice that line?"
He doesn't get it.
ENDNOTES:
--> Twisted values dept. The April 93 issue of IMPS MUSIC JOURNAL (70 Route 202N, Peterborough NH 03458) reports about a band called Deicide and a run-in they had with Animal Militia, a militant British animal rights group. They sent the band death threats and called in an airport bomb scare. That wasn't all. At the club they played in Stockholm, a bomb actually did explode. It injured several people-- but none of the band. Typical animal rights, huh? Blow the arms of innocent audience members, but don't each chicken!
--> Riot Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrls redeem themselves dept: My pal Donna sent me a Riot Grrrl leaflet from DC. I quote Please join riot grrrrl for an afternoon of ladies' topless croquet.... this is not a joke, this is serious fun and completely legal!!! but don't forget your sunscreen. Yowee Zoweee!! Couldn't they have done that while I was in DC? There's a protest I could really get behind!!
--> Zine kudos to Teen Fag (PO Box 20204, Seattle WA 98102) for being the first homocore zine to love GG Allin. In this issue there is a complete transcript of the GG interview on the Jerry Springer TV show. Much better stuff than Geraldo. GG says, "If you get raped at my show, you're probably better off for it."
--> Speaking of 'Suck My Dick' dept: The stripper goddess who sent me the blood-soaked nude pix (remember her?) wrote to me again. She said she was too poor to publicize her change of address (and that of her zine "Sneezing Jesus." She asked me to do it here. Queen Itchie Von Shtupp has moved to 1816 E. Helen St (A214) Tucson AZ 85719. Now that I've done her the favor-- it's her turn.
--> Best ad for heterosexuality dept: I just got the premier issue of the Made In Gay America Catalog (2122 Salem Avenue, Roanoke VA 24016). There are hundreds of homo models inside including an oriental girl and two Negroes. And oh, what you can buy! It's soooooooooooooooo fabulous! On the top of page twelve is an ad for Honor Bound a book by a Gay Navel Officer on how he couldn't kill and be openly homo at the same time. On the bottom of the same page is The Official GOAL Tee (shirt). What does GOAL stand for? Why the Gay Officers Action League, of course. You got it. Gay cops! Enough? Well, for those nights off in the punk clubs, you can get a leather jacket that's "lavishly embellished with gleaming silver studs, its impact is further enhanced with a powerful crested eagle motif in front and back." The price for this piece of punk pride: $900.
--> Baseball as metaphor dept. Looks like there's a chance for a San Francisco vs. New York World's Series this year. It's about time! Sometimes the Yankees, like Boston, fade at season's end. Right now they're two behind. They just beat those hankie wavers from Minnesota.
Baseball is a test of the obvious. You've got two coasts with a blankspot in between. Yankees vs. Giants. The Velvet Underground vs. The Grateful Dead. The Ramones vs. The Knack. Matzo Ball Soup vs. Tofu. Real Anarchy vs. No Smoking Fascism. Fuck you vs. Groovy Man. Ho ho, a dream series. May the best city win.
-end-
