YOU'RE WRONG 

An Irregular Column

by Mykel Board

It was weirder than a hard-on in an old age home. Jeff Bale and I have been driving across the country. We're on our way to Berkeley/SF. Jeff is coming to get away from the New York summer heat. I'm coming to meet some old friends before my trip to Mongolia. I'm also meeting K., my galpal from New York. She's flying out to meet me. We've never gone on a trip together, so this'll be an adventure in longterm sex and companionship.

Because of my parent's tendency to ask for a wedding date whenever I become involved with a female, I never told them about K. Also, because she's a shiksa-- twenty-five years younger than me, I figured there might be some friction. Someday, I'll arrange a meeting under careful, peaceful circumstances.

Anyway, the day before Jeff and I get to California, I call Uncle Timmy to ask if we can stay there for a night.

"Mykel!" says Tim, "You're supposed to be dead."

"Huh?" I answer creatively.

"You'd better call your parents and Donny The Punk right away. They're planning your funeral."

"Huh?" I say again.

"You don't know?" asks Tim.

I shake my head into the phone.

"Somebody posted on the internet that you and Jeff had been killed in a car crash. Donny read it, called your parents, and all hell broke loose. The cops are looking for you in a dozen counties and your family is divvying up your estate."

"Yow!" I answer. "OK, I'll try to fix things up. But it's late in New York."

"Late shmate," says Tim. "You better call everybody. They're plenty upset. Us too!"

"Okay Tim," I tell him, "so can me and Jeff stay there tonight?"

"Sure," he says, "I'll have the coffins ready."

After I hang up, I call my folks. It's 3AM in New York. My father answers the phone, sounding like he hasn't slept.

"Hi Dad, it's me." I say. "I heard that there've been some rumors going around about me."

"Mykel!" he says. (Actually, he says "Michael!", because that's how he knows me.) "We heard you were dead!"

"Well," I replied, "Jeff and I are fine. He wouldn't let me drive very much."

"It's Mykel." I could hear my father whisper aside. "Can you talk to him?"

Mom gets on the phone. She sounds like she's been dragged down the street from the back of a jeep.

"Wh....wh.... wh.... what happened?" she asks.

"Nothing happened, Mom." I say, "Some jerk just posted something on the internet that got taken way too seriously."

"But... but.." then she starts to cry. I hear the phone drop. Dad picks it up.

"I don't think she can talk anymore." he says. "You know, she's due to go into the hospital for an operation on Thursday. I'm not sure she can now. She's in too rough a state."

"Wanna tell me what happened?" I ask.

"Well, we got this call from Stephen Donaldson (aka Donny The Punk --mb). He said he read a note on the internet that you and Jeff were killed on the highway and the 'OHP' was investigating. We figured HP was Highway Patrol. Stephen started calling all of 'em from states that start with an 'O'. Nobody knew anything about it." [In reality, it was Tim who did the calling. More on that, later.]

"Didn't it occur to anyone it might be a prank?" I ask.

"Well, Steven said it might be a prank. They said something about notifying 'next of kin.' Nobody told us anything. You don't have any next of kin we don't know about, do you?"

That Dad, always the joker.

"We also talked to K." He says.

"You talked to K.????"

"Yeah," said Dad, "We didn't want her to make the trip for nothing. You know, why should she go all the way to California if you're just gonna be lying in some morgue. So we figured she should know."

"I haven't gotten laid in two weeks!" I don't say, "I'm so horny I'm groping Jeff Bale-- and you were gonna tell my girlfriend not to visit!"

"So, you've met." I do say.

"Only over the telephone," says Dad. "She seems like a great girl. I hope we get to meet her in person."

Thus begins the adventure, the phone calls, the leaving of messages, the hearing of news about my death.

Thirsty for the whole story, I use the internet to trace the original posting back to this guy nicknamed Flesh. More than that, I find a message from the guy inviting me to his house in SF. He leaves his phone number.

Bang! That phone number is on every mailing list, usenet group and bathroom wall from here to Ulan Batur. Flesh is really gonna hear it.

That's my first reaction. My second reaction is to find out what happened; how the story spread.

Here's how: Donny, reads the fake posting on the punk list. He calls my parents, Timmy Y, and the Smithsonian Institute. He posts my death notice to the Bisexual list.

Timmy calls the police/highway patrol. Because the original notice said OHP, he tries Oklahoma, Ohio and Oregon. He forgets about Oshkosh. My parents call my friends to see if they've heard from me. My friends call my other friends. The circle grows ever wider. All of this happens at the amazing speed available only through the information superhighway, and the telephone.

While this goes on, I'm completely oblivious. Most of the time I've been asleep in the car. Jeff, terrified at the prospect of my driving, diddles down the highways at barely 60 mph. By the time we find out about it, the rest of the world is celebrating our demise.

Fortunately, no one is hurt by the prank. My sick mom quickly gets over her son's death. My friends, ready to divvy up my vast pornography collection have to reconcile themselves to their old issues of Hustler. K. DOES come to visit-- and besides screwing a lot, we go to a lot of places, hang out, have only one fight (I want to videotape, she didn't) and get to be better pals.

Those hoodwinked by the whole thing are righteously indignant. When I post Flesh's email address and phone number, he's duly besieged by the torch carriers.

At first he refuses to say he's sorry. He says he had higher motives. He wanted to explore death and it's meaning. Someone asks him why he didn't try reporting his own death. He doesn't answer, but further philosophizes about taking death too seriously.

His refusal to apologize pisses off me-- and others-- more than the actual prank. Apologies are useful. They are often the only way we can fix a fuck up. By apologizing, you say, "You are right to feel bad. I screwed up. It was my fault and I'm sorry." This doesn't change the events. It does change feelings by transferring the anger of the offended party to the guilt of the perpetrator.

[Aside: I learned the value of apology.

He doesn't.]

When Flesh spouts this 'philosophy' instead of an apology I'm ready for war. I jerk off to thoughts of revenge. I just got my first kung fu stripe. A few blows and he'll be down. Then, I'll lean over his prostrate body, one hand around his throat. I'll press hard on his Adam's apple until it breaks, filling his mouth with blood. I'll dip my fingers into that bloody pool, grabbing his tongue, ripping it out of his mouth. Before he dies, I'll get to his hands breaking the fingers one by one, relishing the CRACK of the bones as I do it. The last thing he'll see will be his balls cut off with a very blunt letter opener. Then comes the apology.

Basically, Flesh says, "I was drunk. It was a dumb prank. I regret having caused so much trouble. I'm sorry."

Pow! My hard-on for vengeance droops like my hard-on for sex would if I discovered a chancre. It's over. Time to pick up the pieces and learn the lessons.

Lesson's learned: What good are adventures and experience if you can't learn lessons? You can go around in circle making the same mistakes over and over, or you can learn so you can make new mistakes.

Lesson one: BE SKEPTICAL. DOUBT WHAT YOU HEAR.

It's ironic that all this happens right after I've written a column about "how to lie." Even more ironic is the gullibility of people who should know better. These same people made fun of the suckers who believed my MTV prank. There's one born every minute.

In fact, it was the gullibility of people of good intention (like Donny The Punk, and Timmy Y) that blew this up from a small punk-list prank to a national incident involving the police. If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, then the road to panic is paved with the good intentions of suckers.

Conspiracy theories, Richard Gere's gerbil, the alligators in the NY sewers, six million fried in ovens, Hitler's single testicle; doubt 'em! Don't believe 'em. Assume they're lies until proven true. Don't spread 'em around until you've seen the proof. Check on your own, if you want, but don't risk hurting others until you've checked.

Lesson two: APOLOGIZE. If you've fucked up, say it. Stand at the top of the hill. Strip. Put on sack cloth and ashes. Beat yourself with a thorny branch until you bleed. Take a punch to the jaw.

Don't apologize out of comfort. If it's not your fault, don't shoulder the blame like a pussy-whipped husband who'll say anything so his wife will give him blowjobs again. But if you DID do it. Stand up and take the consequences.

Lesson three: LET GO. If someone fucks you over and they apologize, that's it. Especially, if no one is permanently hurt. End it. Lawsuits, further revenge, plots and plain ole hatred only extend the problem. There comes a point when, if you refuse to accept an apology, YOU become the asshole. It happened. It was fucked. There was an apology. It's over. Learn to accept it. The refusal to let go is one of the many evils of the current "domestic violence" furor. People get angry. They hit. They apologize. Let it drop.

The current campaign to turn 'em in. Make 'em go to counselling, jail 'em, Fuck 'em over, looses track of the very simple concept of forgiveness. Of course, there's a difference between a simple punch and a broken arm, but the current 'anti-violence' stuff ignores that difference.

In fact, our whole system of revenge/punishment ignores that. If we're offended, wronged, called a bad name` we want REVENGE. Your girlfriend gives you a black eye. You call the cops.

We want to hurt, to punish the person who wronged you. We don't take 'I'm sorry.' and let it go. We should.

Of course, if the same person fucks you over, apologizes and then does it again-- well, then it's time to stop accepting apologies. But a mistake-- we all make 'em-- let 'em drop.

Lesson four: IT'S INTERESTING BEING DEAD. Like Huck Finn, who went to his own funeral to hear people who hated him, eulogize him, I had an opportunity to listen to people who thought I was dead talk about me.

"He was an asshole, but I wouldn't want him dead."

"He often made me angry, but he always made me think."

"I feel sorry I never got a chance to tell him how much I liked him."

There were a couple proclamations of love, and my favorite: "Mykel, okay, no big loss. But Jeff!!! That guy was smart!"

Finally, it's over. No harm done. It's a good story, a so-so column. Like that black eye from your girlfriend, put a steak on it, let her say she's sorry and drop it. That's what I'm gonna do.

ENDNOTES:

--> Roadtrip thanks to Ben for putting me up and taking care of MOST of my needs in Chi-town. Also to Matt and his pals in Boulder who put up me AND Jeff, and took us to a fine burger place. They also were kind enough to ignore my faux pas about Cubans (after I made a Cuban joke, I found out Matt was Cuban) and Green Day (after I made a Green Day joke, I found out Matt's roommate was a Green Day fan.) Oy vey.

--> Future job possibilities dept: I've written about a career in het-boy/lesbo making. It's happened to me at least half a dozen times. After I share an...er... intimate relationship with someone, they start liking girls. Girls turn into lesbos. Boys turn het.

I suggested to Jeff that it must be these folks are thinking "Wow! After Mykel no man can ever live up to that again."

"Yeah right," he said.

Anyway, I can always hire myself out to parents who wanna straighten their young homo sons out-- or to lesbo moms who wanna turn their daughters towards the tribe.

To that, I can now add the job of rainmaker. I'm gonna hire myself out to the drought-ridden countries of Africa. During our cross-country trip, we didn't have ONE DAY without rain-- even in the desert. Some places had their first rains in MONTHS, just because Jeff and I drove by.

--> Character of the trip dept: Maybe it's the altitude, but the guys in Denver...

Jeff and I follow with this guy's to deliver the driveaway we're using. He misses the turnoff, even though we honk at him from our car. Later we meet up with him.

"Sorry, about that, guys," he says, "but I got so involved in listening to Rush Limbaugh that I missed the turn."

Then he goes on to regale us about Washington. Jeff and I tell him that we hate all politicians. Now, he figures we're on his side so it's safe to talk. His eyes widen. He makes a choking gesture with his hands.

"If I could ever get my hands on that supreme court..." he shrieks, "I'd take 'em and wring their necks."

Then he goes on about the rest of congress and Negroes on welfare.

"They're Negroes!" he says, "I'm gonna call 'em that. People have been calling them Negroes for thousands of years and there's no reason to stop now."

It's folks like this that make you realize all this talk about punk, vegetarianism, and wimmin vs. women doesn't mean very much in the larger picture. The larger picture is guys like this missing turn-offs because they're listening to Rush Limbaugh.

--> Kung Fu dept: Well, I tried. Having lost the desire to use my new Kung Fu moves on Flesh, I figured my next best bet would be to try 'em on some Gilman Street self-righteous wimp. So I put on my SKREWDRIVER t-shirt and head down to the grindcore fest. I get a lot of nice dirty looks, but nobody seemed ready to fight. Once folks find out who I am, it further deflates their fighting spirit. Ah well, I brought my NAMBLA t-shirt and I'm gonna try wearing that to a "Mothers for Peace" demonstration. That should start some violence.

-end-

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