YOU'RE WRONG 

An Irregular Column

by Mykel Board

"We are members of a strange species that devotes its energies to climbing the ladder of success in order to make money to buy things we don't need to impress people we don't like."

--Dr. Lawrence J. Peter

THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE LADDER: Point One: She's in the middle of the room, naked. Her hands stretch above her head. THWACK! The leather belt comes down hard across her back. A welt rises on the skin. We're in New Jersey. Let's back up a bit.

I've just had my paid spoken word debut. In Philly. In a church. Not as much heckling as I would've liked-- as a matter of fact no heckling at all. Still, it's not bad. B plus, I'd say. I was on the bill with Jennifer Blowdrier, who's much cooler and more experienced at this. Also playing was Bugout Society's Bill Florio. Bill earns his living videotaping weddings and bar mitzvahs. Jews and Italians. Those're his clients. Oy marron!

"Are they different?" I ask him.

"Yeah," says Bill, "after you give them the tape, the Jews wanna sue ya and the Italians wanna kill ya."

That night, Bill brings the bloopers with him-- outtakes from his project. Unfortunately, the TV doesn't work.

Jennifer and I plan to stay overnight. She's never been to Philly before and wants to eat cheesesteak and shop for noserings. I wanna stay for the SLOPPY SECONDS show.

Joseph Gervasi, who set us up at the spoken word event, has arranged for a place to stay-- in nearby New Jersey. His friends, Dave and Claudia will put us up. Bill joins us for awhile. We want to see those bloopers!

Claudia and Dave're watching Living Color when we get there. They're on the couch. One cat lies catlike on the arm of an armchair. Another drinks from a bowl in the kitchen. There's also a blond girl in a sleeping bag on the floor.

After introductions, we ask Bill to show the vid. A bride throws the bouquet, a very sophisticated woman reaches for it. Plop! She lands smack on her face on the floor. At another wedding, the best man is so soused he crumbles to the ground in the middle of the ceremony. A groom jumps, fully tuxedoed, into the country club pool. A drunken mother, hair done up pure Long Island, hangs over her bar mitzvah boy's shoulder. She runs her hand under his jacket and slurs "What a good boy! What a marvelous boy!" The boy grimaces, trying to back away. At yet another wedding, the groom and his entire entourage unzip their pants, turn around and moon the camera.

The video's hilarious. Funniest thing I've seen since Oral Roberts threatened suicide! No wonder they want to sue/kill him!

(By the way, Bill says he'll offer MRR readers a copy for $5. Contact him at PO Box 1014, Yonkers NY 10704-1014. Buy two!! He promised me a free one if I also mentioned the Bugout Society CD available from him for $6. So I did.)

After the vid, Bill has to go. Joseph goes with him. That leaves me, Jennifer, Claudia, Dave and the girl on the floor. Dave offers us our choice of mint or herb tea. After he makes it, he returns to his spot on the couch, next to Claudia.

"Wanna watch another video?" he asks. "We rented one last night, but didn't get to watch it."

"Sure," I say, somewhat disappointed that's the most exciting activity he could think of.

The video's called Battleship Dominatrica. These tightly dressed women come to earth in a spaceship made from a coke bottle and batwings. With zappers that look like telephone beepers, they zap a scientist, a government official and a gym teacher (all women). The zapping transports them to their ship.

They plan to make these women slaves for the queen of their planet. The kidnappers' job, besides the actual kidnapping, is to break the slaves so they will be pliant in the hands of the queen.

This breaking procedure consists of undressing the victims, tying them up, then whipping them and performing other acts to insure their obedience. The girls are often rebellious so they must be strictly disciplined.

THWACK! goes the space paddle on the gym teacher's naked buttocks. Creeeeeek goes the hand cranked space rack as it stretches the joints of the nude scientist.

"You'll never break me!" she yells.

"We'll see about that," cackles the space kidnapper as she cracks the cosmic cat o'nine tails over the scientist's breasts.

"It doesn't look real," I say. "There are no bruises. No red marks. I think it's a fake."

Claudia and Dave contemplate the screen. The girl on the floor looks puzzled. Jennifer yawns.

"I'm gonna have cheesesteak," she says. "What do I need space S&M for?"

She excuses herself and goes into the other room to sleep. The rest of us watch a bit more of the movie.

"Ya know," says Dave, "I think you're right about that being fake. Let's check it out." He turns to Claudia, "You wanna do this?" he asks.

Claudia nods.

"You wanna do this with just the top off, or all the way?" he asks.

She smiles and looks at him. "But first..." she whispers something in his ear. He nods. She runs to the bathroom. Shuffling sounds come from behind the bathroom door. We can just hear them above the squeals of the spacegirls.

Dave looks at the ceiling. Four or five ceiling tiles are missing. The ones around the hole sag toward the floor. It's as if someone hung a great weight and the tiles just gave way.

On the exposed rafters is a small metal eye, screwed deeply into the wood.

Claudia comes back barefoot, with her top off. Her flesh is solid-- unwrinkled. Her perky breasts point out and up as if they're happy to be there.

Dave kneels in front of Claudia. He reaches up and opens the front of her pants. He unzips them and reaches over the waistband. I glance at the girl on the floor. She smiles sweetly tilting her head to get a better view. I turn back to our hosts.

Dave pulls Claudia's pants off.

"This is completely spontaneous," says Dave. he gets up and goes to the closet. He comes out with a pair of leather handcuffs. "If I would've planned this, I would've already had the handcuffs out."

"Sure," I say, somewhat at a loss for words, "it's important that people be spontaneous."

Dave puts the leather handcuffs on Claudia. He takes a short length of rope and runs it through the connecting links. The other end, he pushes through the metal eye attached to the rafter in the ceiling. He pulls on this end until Claudia's arms stretch directly above her head.

"Does anyone in the audience have a belt?" he asks.

"What is this?" I wonder, "A magic act?"

Since the "audience" is me, the cats and the girl on the floor, the odd aren't very good. But there is a belt in the closet.

Meanwhile, on television, one of the kidnapped earthgirls is tied face-down into a horizontal space hammock. The evil kidnapper works hard at breaking her spirit using a leather paddle with little studs on the hitting side. Thwack! goes the leather paddle.

THWACK! Goes Dave's belt against Claudia's back. A little red welt rises on the skin. THWACK! Goes the belt across Claudia's buttocks-- as tight and perky as her breasts.

On the floor, I fix my face in a relaxed pose-- as if this happens to me all the time. Most natural thing in the world-- to have one of your hosts undress the other, tie her to the ceiling and whip her with a belt. It's cultural variety, you know? Some people offer you a beer. Some people whip each other.

With each thwack, Claudia squeals and twitches. She never says stop. She never complains at all. Soon deep red bruises cover her back, butt and bits of her thighs. Then Dave moves to the front. He thwacks her in the stomach. And again. Then he reaches between her legs to do a bit of clit diddling. Claudia twitches for both the thwacks and the diddles.

A voice comes from next to me. It's the girl on the floor.

"Which do you feel more?" She asks like a student in psych class. "When he does something good to you or when he does something bad?"

Dave answers with another question, "What is good and what is bad?" He asks philosophically. Claudia nods her approval of the question.

By this time, nodding's all she can do. Dave has stuffed an old sock in her mouth with the instruction. "If it gets to be too much, just spit out the sock to let me know." Claudia never spits out the sock.

In the meantime, the space video has ended. I lost track of what happened to the kidnappers. Now, the TV shows toy commercials.

Rock 'em Sock 'em robots. Pow! Kerpow! Off pops his head. Meanwhile, hanging from the ceiling is Claudia.

"I don't have a paddle," says Dave, "but this usually does the trick."

From the closet, he fetches a red plastic spatula. It's broken along the left edge, but still in good enough shape to flip a nice pancake, or lay down a hearty THWACK!

The various shades of redness melt one into the other, as beautiful as fall foliage. Dave offers the spatula to the girl on the floor.

"Want to take a whack?" he asks.

She shakes her head. He doesn't ask me.

After the spatula comes the ice cubes. Then it's over. Claudia puts on a nightshirt. Dave asks if there's anything he can do for me before I go to sleep. I tell him no and turn in for the night.

The next day, Jennifer and I meet Joseph again. I thank him for putting us up with such interesting people. He doesn't seem to understand.

"You know," I say, "the way they entertain the guests."

"What are you talking about?" he asks.

I explain.

Joseph is bug-eyed. "They never did that when I was around." He tells me. "It must've been just for you."

Point Two: I get this letter. No return address. The postmark is "Oxnard California." In unfamiliar handwriting, the letter says: I gave you head once. Mention this letter in your column and I'll blow you again. It's unsigned. I don't know if the letter writer is lying.

THE LEFT SIDE OF THE LADDER: I'm on the computer, checking my e-mail. I get a letter from this guy. I don't remember it word for word. The gist is that he used to read my columns when he "was little." Now he wonders if I'm just a loser.

"Where is that novel, Mykel?" he asks. "Where is that major label deal, that David Letterman appearance, that country home in The Berkshires? What happened to the promise?"

"After all this time, you're still writing a column for Maximum Rock'n'Roll? Still being a punk-rocker, a balding, old punkrocker. Wouldn't you rather be selling insurance? What are you gonna be doing when you're sixty."

This made me consider. I'm nearly as old as Larry or Tim. I've already started speaking Spoken Word. That's what all old folks do after punk rock. So, by this time, I should have a monument or two, shouldn't I? I should at least have my own radio talk show-- or a book signing party at Daltons.

How come I'm forty-three and still carry around a buncha records to sell to the local stores? Forty three years. What do I have to show for it?

PUTTING THE LADDER TOGETHER: It hit me like a studded space paddle. I have my monuments. I've got my riches and my fame. I don't need a swimming pool. I hate water. I don't even need money. I have credit cards. And who wants to have David Letterman make fun of them.

My monuments are a girl getting thwacked in a New Jersey apartment. They're a letter about a blowjob I can't remember. They're a Texas girl asking me what I like to do in bed. A guy in Philly, with space between his teeth, saying he wants to be just like me.

My monuments are two years in Japan, twenty-nine other countries and forty nine out of fifty states. They're a rimjob at a New York homobar and night at the Clit Club. They're a dozen porno tapes from my readers/listeners/fans/friends screwing each other-- or just jerking off.

What am I gonna do with a marble slab? Put it over my grave? My monument is my life. My adventures. My thoughts. This column. Everything I do that could only be done by me.

That's the promise. It's coming true all the time.

Am I satisfied? Nope. There's always something more I could've done. Something just a bit different I could've said. Was it worth it? You becha! It still is!

What am I gonna be doing when I'm sixty? What I did when I was twenty, thirty, and forty! No nine-to-five neckties for me. No white picket fence houses with brown paper bag lunches and sex with the same person three times a week. No strings-- or ropes to tie me down, make me a regular member of society. Those guys are the losers.

ENDNOTES:

-->Bad sign dept: More and more indy labels put "parental advisory" warnings on their records. Even the new GG Allin record has a warning label. It's getting pretty scary.

--> Remember when I asked for names that are also sentences, Like Jennifer Flowers or Dave Diktor? I've been getting a slew of responses, mostly over the computer. There are a lot of "s" names like: George Burns, Red Buttons, Johnny Thunders, Dick Smothers. An anonymous person suggested Charlie Rose.

Some of the best, take some work to figure out: Bill Macy (Q. Who may see the parade. A. Bill may see.) or Wilson Pickett (Speaker A. Hey Wilson, that's some scab you got there. Wilson: I know. What should I do with it? Speaker B: Wilson, pick it!) or (from Jack Jansen) Mykel Board (My mom is on the train and it's just about ready to pull out. She yells at me, "Mykel, board!") A few others, like Annie Sprinkle, also work as commands. My favorite so far, though is William Shakespeare. (Q. I drink wine, what does William do? A. William shakes beer.)

-->New contest: The first person who deciphers this will get a free ARTLESS single: MR DUCKS, MR NOT, OSAR, CM WANGS, LIB MR WANGS. (courtesy the Elvis impersonator) Send your answers: (and more porno vids, please!) to me at: PO Box 137, Prince Street Station, New York NY 10012, e-mail: Mykel@wps.com.

-->Badguys of the Month: An organization called BOLD provides database listings for "community activists." Ecology? Housing for the homeless? Not exactly. See, they look for "120 trouble signs" to tell you that your neighborhood is in danger. Among these signs are "homeless shelters and senior citizen homes." Mmmm yes, nothing like a buncha ruthless octogenarians stirring up trouble.

What they say about themselves: "If a [co-op] wants to galvanize its shareholders for some political cause, like preventing the construction of a homeless shelter, we could be very helpful."

You can write these clowns at 194 First Ave., 16th floor, NYC 10010-6801-- or give 'em a call (212) 673-7700. Tell 'em you've got AIDS and you're moving next door!

--> Hustle of the month dept: You're familiar with the "postage and handling" scam that's part of most "free" offers you get in the mail. FREE CAMERA, worth $50, just enclose $5.75 for postage and handling. You get back a camera worth about $5.75. BUT, I've just got an offer of that tops any of those.

You know those food coupons that you get in the mail once a month? 50 cents off on Campbells Chicken with Semen-- stuff like that? Well imagine writing to various food manufacturers offering to distribute their coupons. Then mailing out flyers offering Free Grocery Coupons worth $220! The catch? $15 for postage/handling! $15! Ho ho! If this works, the brains behind the scam (Jeffrey Lant, 50 Follen St (507), Cambridge MA 02138) deserves to get rich. That $15 is a stupidity tax!

-->Child abuse dept: The federal government has announced a recall of children's zipper pull bags licensed to carry the Barney, the pederastic dinosaur. No, it's not the taste police. The company that made the bags (Jaclyn Inc, of West New York, New Jersey) used lead paint in painting on the Barnies. The paint is toxic.

-->Seeing through walls dept: JW from Hampshire College (who did NOT send a masturbating video) asks about carrying cassettes and videos through airport x-ray machines. I don't. One x-ray won't fuck 'em up. But if you're travelling, you'll probably go through more than one x-ray machine.

The best solution, especially if you've got NASTY videos or cassettes, that might embarrass you-- is to mail 'em ahead.

-->Dept. of Corrections: Two columns ago I wrote that ARTLESS's show in Reno was great because we played in Bob C's basement. It was great, but it was in Zack's basement. (Zack is the guitar player/vocalist for ZOINKS.) Bob just set it up. I heard that Zack felt slighted by my error. I apologize. He was the perfect host! He even let us use his VCR to show the goat-fucking movie.

-->Erotic appreciation dept: Special thanks to Jasper (PO Box 401055, San Francisco CA 94140) for sending me her Orgasm. Maybe if you send her a dollar she'll send you one, too.

-->Helpful hint dept: You guys with labels. I know it's expensive to send out promos, but if your gonna do it, DO IT! I get at least a dozen letters a week from labels asking me if I'd like them to send me a record. I get 50 records a week! I'm not gonna ASK for more. I'm especially not gonna pay for postage to answer a letter from you asking if you can send me a record! Send it! Or don't. But asking is only annoying.

--> More fine things about being me dept: People send me information that is available to few others. This time it's about a group of Serbians who're fed up with the shit that's happening in their country. They've decided to declare their own republic, Zitzer. Their capital is a bar in Vojvodina, Serbia-- a town of about 2000 people. This new republic has a coat of arms: "billiard balls on each angle of a regular triangle." Their national anthem is Ravel's Balero. (No lyrics!) All taxation is voluntary.

If you're interested in the group, you can get further information and a copy of their constitution. Write to their American Embassy: Zitzer Embassy, c/o NENW-NYC, 528 Fifth St., Brooklyn NY 11215. Further information also is available through e-mail at h6551far@huella.bitnet.

-->Conspiracy of the month dept: I got this letter from Lew Brickhate, formerly of the pornrock band: POOTLY NAUTCH. Seven years ago he wrote a song called Tourettes on Utero. The band played it in Chicago dozens of times and sent it out to lots of radio stations.

Now, on Nirvana's latest album, comes a song called Tourettes on Utero. Is Seattle too far from Chicago to make this more than a coincidence? Not according to Lew. That album was produced by Steve Albini who is from Chicago, same place as POOTLY NAUTCH. I'm just reporting this-- not taking sides. If you want a copy of the original song, to compare with the Nirvana number, write to Lew at 72 Van Reipen (111), Jersey City, NJ 07306-2806.

-->Results are fixed or what dept: Along with postage and handling scams, one common way for companies to get your money is by using the phoney survey. They ask questions worded so you're bound to agree with their point of view. Then, after you fill out the survey, they'll say, Ah hah! You agree with us, so give us money!

Among the most stupid surveys I've received lately, comes one from The Founders Society (1030 15th St NW (700), Washington DC 20005). This survey is about statehood for D.C.

Some choices, huh? Agree with them or you don't believe the Constitution. Unfortunately,these guys are getting smarter. You have to put a stamp on the envelope to return the survey.

--> Dubious progress dept: Homos have hit the mainstream-- with a splash. First, The NY Times hires a reporter with AIDS-- who promptly dies. Then, Bill Clinton appoints a lesbo to an important post. Now comes a notice from Sam Ciccone & Associates,(314 East 5th St 2C, NYC 10003). They're "the first and only openly gay operated private investigation and security firm serving the Lesbian and Gay Community."

Yep, homo-private eyes! Now, what will they investigate?

-end-

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