YOU'RE WRONG
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board
SELF-ESTEEM: An erroneous appraisement.
--Ambrose Bierce in The Devil's Dictionary
It was weirder than constipation for a tourist in Mexico. My self-image, destroyed in a second. Not a word said. No overt action. The lifting of an eyebrow. The squint of an eye. The asymmetry of an Oriental smile. You'll read about it in a few minutes. But first I've got to set the stage. Give you some background.
About five years ago, The Village Voice ran a story suggesting that the world can be divided into two groups: CREEPS and ASSHOLES. I never read that story. My pal Lori told me about it. My not reading it leaves me free to make up what the author said. Actually, I don't care what the author said. I'll take the second hand theory and use it myself.
In my theory, the world is not JUST CREEPS and ASSHOLES. Some are neither. There are bland people like Senator Paul Simon and the bass players of dozens of college rock bands. There are also really good people, like Albert Sweitzer, Noam Chomsky and Jonathan Richman. These people have value in their own right, but I don't want to talk about them. I want to talk about the rest. What's left: the CREEPS and ASSHOLES.
I guess it's easiest to start with some examples. (Thanks to the Internet punk list and some MRR readers for these suggestions).
Assholes:
George Bush
Bob Weir
Mick Jagger
MTV
Margaret Thatcher
Jesse Jackson
Gym Teachers
New Jersey
People with Ulcers
Sports fans
Lawyers
Madonna
Rod Dangerfield
Norman Mailer
Howard Stern
Pat Buchannon
sXe kids
frat guys
your dad
army
astronomers
news anchors
Nixon
Rush Limbaugh
Green Day
Bon Jovi
Big Al in high school
Bikers
FCC
Presidents
FM radio stations
Rush Limbaugh fans
Country music fans
Drunkards
Homophobes
William Buckley
William Shattner
Ralph Kramden
Harpo
Cheech
sex
fame
Conservatives
Americans
Creeps:
Ronald Reagan
Jerry Garcia
Keith Richards
The 700 Club
John Major
Michael Jackson
English Teachers
Colorado
People with Cancer
Comic book/sci fi fans
Computer programmers
Barbara Walters
Rod Serling
Norman Bates
Rush Limbagh
Pat Robertson
crusty punks
trendy clubber guys
your mom
navy
astrologers
game show hosts
Nixon
Custodians
CrucialxYouth
New Kids on the Block
Big Al in college
Hippies
CIA
First Ladies
AM radio stations
Monty Python fans
"Alternative" fans
Stoners
Agoraphobes
Tim Buckley
Leonard Nimoy
Ed Norton
Chico
Chong
love
fortune
Liberals
Brits
That should give you an idea. Assholes are loud, bold, obnoxious. You dislike them because of what they do. You wish they would act differently.
Creeps, on the other hand are quiet. They're shy, and sneaky. You dislike them because of who they are. You wish they would go away.
As an American, the concept of self-made man is part of my culture. (The concept of self-made woman, however, is another story.) That idea of self-invention is one I'm close to. Except for biological limitations, we choose our identities. We are not victims of an inner kernel that is our "true selves." Instead, we create our true selves through the force of our own will.
I choose to be an asshole. Not only an asshole, of course, there are other aspects of my personality. But in a world divided between creeps, assholes and niceguys, I work to fit in with the assholes. That's my public persona. That's what I see looking back at me from the mirror.
"Mykel," once said Jeff Bale, "your biggest fear in life is that someone will find out that you're not this asshole pervert, but a nice little Jewish guy from the suburbs."
He was wrong. On a personal, human basis, I treat people well. My friends and complete strangers have cared for me in my travels around the world. I try to act the same way towards others.
That's private life. That's life among humans. I'm not on a real or psychological stage. Not in print. Not before a bunch of people who I want to impress. Not in my own mind. In these places, I'm an asshole.
My basic views are so different from that of BOTH mainstream American and mainstream counter-culture, that simply to HAVE those views makes me an asshole. Expressing them in a confrontational and sometimes belligerent way, is an even stronger force in the creation of assholitude. I do, however, have a bigger fear.
Keeping that in mind, let's shift gears.
I belong to a group called Asians and Friends (PO Box 361, New York NY 10163-6023). Though I hate the fad-word 'Asians' and I hate the limitations of the group (homo only), I still enjoy the company and the aesthetic quality of the membership.
It is a social group. Most of the Oriental members are in their twenties. The Occidentals rage in age from early 20s to early 70s with the median around 45. Once a month, we have a general meeting at The Center, a city-supported homo hangout in NYC. Usually, these meetings have a theme: a talent show, costume party or something else rather innocent. Tonight's theme is "getting to know each other."
David Chin, the young muscular president of the group, dressed in a tanktop and gym shorts, introduces every member. One by one we stand up and say something about ourselves. David seems to know most of the people in the group, so those who refuse to speak about themselves are introduced by him.
"This is Tommy Cheung. Tommy is from Hong Kong and has been studying at NYU for the past year."
The well-dressed young man, stands up, waves shyly at the crowd and sits. Down.
"Tommy is shy. Aren't you Tommy?" He smiles and nods his head to much laughter.
Next to Tommy is an grey-haired man. His paunch hangs over the edge of the table in front of him. His nose pores are slightly inflamed.
"Next is Bill," continues David, "Bill has just retired from twenty years as a market research analyst."
There's a smattering of applause.
"Well Bill," asks David, "now that you're retired, what are you going to do with your life."
"Well David," answers the older man, "I don't wanna lose it, and I can still use it, so I think I will."
There is much laughter and louder applause.
One by one David goes around the room. Occasionally there is a new member or someone David does not know. But this is rare.
As he speaks, I try to think of something clever to say when he gets to me. Maybe I should talk about my time in the Orient. Maybe I should tell folks I sing in a punkrock band. Finally he gets to me. He hesitates.
"This isn't your first time here, is it?" he asks.
"No," I say, "I've been a member for a year. I just renewed tonight so I could get in for free."
The crowd laughs a bit. David goes on to the next person. That's it? How're these people gonna know what I'm like? What tricks can I pull out of my fedora to dazzle 'em and make 'em realize I'm an asshole with integrity. Someone uniquely obnoxious.
It bothers me that David didn't remember me from one meeting to another. But there are a lot of people here, and I don't make a lot of noise at these meetings. There are no punks. No rock'n'rollers. No weirdos. There are only "Asians and the men who like them." Guys like me.(?????)
The introductions continue. David doesn't seem to know one attractive rather dark young man, dressed in a bright white shirt and white pants.
"My name is John," says the guy, "I'm from Thailand. I just come to New York a couple of weeks ago and only now settle in."
He smiled the typically wonderful Thai smile.
When the last man finishes his introduction, I walk over to talk with the Thai guy.
"Sawasdee," I say, using one of the half dozen Thai words in my vocabulary. "my name is Mykel. I spent a lot of time in Thailand. Welcome to New York."
I hold out my hand.
"Hi, I'm John," says the Thai.
I begin to think that John isn't a very Thai name when my thoughts freeze. I look into the eyes of this attractive dark-skinned guy. I see CREEP reflected back by them. That's me, the guy in his eyes. Same too-high hairline, wrinkled t-shirt, whiskers. The same image I thought I was used to from my bathroom mirror. The same face that's said ASSHOLE for the past who-knows-how-many years. This time my reflection says CREEP.
I could construct details of the rest of the evening. I could tell you about other people there, what they looked like, what they said, what they were doing. I won't. I don't remember that stuff.
I only remember how numb I became. How shaken. I was no different, in this guy's eyes, from those other white guys looking to get laid by a beautiful dark-skinned oriental. Just another CREEP.
It was a hard lesson, but it was a lesson. I haven't changed my mind about people's ability to create themselves. I still think we can control who we are and that there is no kernel of being that is our essence. But now I also think that creation may not be as secure as we think it is.
Just because we see ourselves a particular way does not mean we have created ourselves in that way. Just because we have become a particular person in one context does not mean we are that person in all contexts.
There is no magic aura that everyone notices. No metaphysical neon sign says, "this guy wants to be an asshole." There is no security that the message you send will be the message received-- no matter how hard you work on it.
When I decided to tell this story, I spent a lot of time thinking about the moral. Painful memories are fun to share (the true artist makes art from his pain), but I like things to have a point.
I sit at the bar downstairs from my apartment. There's me, Jeff Bale, Sharon (the Jewess/Goddess bartendress), a Sam Adams and a Jagermeister. We discuss where to meet for the NO FX show.
On my right sits a chubby guy, in his late 50s. He wears new blue jeans, a button down shirt, and a Boston (yuck! of all teams!) baseball hat.
"What's NO EFFECTS?" He asks, butting in on our conversation.
I turn and look at him, thinking to myself "Who is this CR...."
"Mykel! What'd you hit yourself in the face for?" asks Jeff. "You look like you wanted to really hurt yourself."
"I did." I tell him. "I deserve it."
ENDNOTES:
-->Press Release (and Mystery) of the Month Dept: This from We Bite America about the band NEGLECT.
It has been brought to our attention that WE BITE has received an anonymous letter from somewhere on the Northwest Coast sating that instead of NEGLECT singing about suicide, why don't they just do it. Since we have limited service to that particular region, it's not too difficult to figure out who did not have the balls to own their statement!! NEGLECT's lead singer did indeed attempt to live their words on stage Friday, October 28 at the Long Island Show. He began breaking bottles over his head until he passed out and began convulsing in a pool of his own blood. Other band members began beating away the crowds of gawking fans and rushed him to the hospital. After pulling bottle fragments from his head and countless stitches--Brian survived.
Now, who the hell sent that anonymous letter from the Northwest? The remains of NIRVANA?
-->More on majors dept. The Fall Winter '94 issue of JERSEY BEAT (418 Gregory Ave., Weehawkin NJ 07087) has some nice transcripts of an internet discussion between Steve Albini and the band POSTER CHILDREN who recently signed to a major. They seem happy with their deal, but according to Albini (who gives lots of examples), their case is rare and might not last. It's worth a look if this sort of stuff interests you. Send $2 for the issue.
-> In a related article, the Nov./Dec issue of PUNK PLANET (POB 1711, Hoboken NJ 07030-9998) has a great interview with Brett Guerwitz, the exec and sole owner of Epitaph records. It only strengthens my support of the label and gets me madder at those jerks who think that success is the same as selling out. Epitaph gets the punk label award as far as I'm concerned. (Read how Brett turned down a $20,000,000 offer to buy the label. Now THAT'S punk.)
Also in that issue is a weird column about Cuban punks who intentionally infect themselves with AIDS blood because they can't stand the life in that country. Now that's REALLY punk.
-->Chris Baldwin! You wrote to me awhile back. I answered, but the letter came back. Did you move?
--> Symbiosis dept: Well, this seems to work very well. Evidently a buncha punk rockers got together to have an orgy involving most every kind of bodily fluid I can think of. The purpose was to make me a videotape. That they did.
Wowie zowie! I'm not sure what I think about that hefty guy driving industrial staples into his arm, but at that buzzcut blonde girl with those two punk rock guys on the bed was pretty spectacular. You obviously had your fun, and so (I say as I wipe my hands) have I.
Further videos are welcome. It's the perfect excuse to have an orgy with your attractive friends: Hey, lets make a video tape for Mykel Board. As usual I'm at POB 137, Prince St. Station NYC 10012 USA.
-end-
