YOU'RE WRONG
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board
I was happier than a coprophiliac during the tourist season in Mexico. My first stripe. Not a high honor, but it means I accomplished something. Something tangible. The first step in the long Kung Fu road ahead. Pak Sau, Chun Keun, shifting, simultaneous hand movements: punch and block.
Like nuclear warheads, martial arts are nothing if you don't use them. Berkeley is ground zero. I dress for the occasion. Not my black pants and single striped sash, but my SKREWDRIVER t-shirt. I'm going to Gilman Street. If that doesn't get me into a fight, nothing will.
It's $7 at the door. (Gilman Street has a membership policy that discriminates against non-locals, typical of the Bay-area xenophobia. Everyone has to buy a year's membership-- even if you're in town for a day.) $2 extra at the door. Not much if you'll use it again and again. For one day, however, it adds almost 50% to the ticket price. What a scam!
At the gate, a scraggly haired young man gawks at my shirt. I gawk back. His associate, a tall guy wearing very big shorts, whispers something to him.
"Ok," I think, "this is it."
But the hand stamper's frown turns to a smile.
"Hi Mykel," he says, "what brings you to the West Coast."
"I came to pick a fight," I tell him.
He laughs and takes my money. The hand-stamper stamps my hand. I go in.
It's mostly like I remember it: a big ugly room with a small kitchen off to the side. In the kitchen, is an ugly refrigerator, painted some hippy color. They sell Jolt out of it. There's something new, though. A thick soft material covers the walls like a row of pillows. I guess they're to protect mad dancers from the concrete beneath. The pillows stretch from floor to ceiling. They're connected at the tops and bottoms. A dark vertical gap, wider at the middle, forms between each pillow.
The band on stage sings "Blaargh!"
Then they say, "Ok, the next song is called Life is Pain." Then they sing Blaargh!... Ok, the next song is called People are Evil: Blaargh!"
I pull my arms back, thrusting out my chest. Like a skinhead on steroids, I stomp from room to room, turning this way and that. People get a gander at my t-shirt. They scowl. Not one comment.
I order a beer from the tattooed guy at the painted refrigerator.
"We don't sell alcohol." he says.
"I don't want alcohol," I tell him. "I want a beer."
He hands me a Jolt Cola. Unfortunately, he doesn't try to throw a punch. This is gonna be tougher than I thought.
As I walk into the bandroom, I pass this skinhead, built like a six foot firehydrant. He wears a green flight jacket, oxblood Doc Martins, the whole kit and caboodle. He's with a girl. Wearing green army pants, she's almost as tall as he is. She's skinnier, though and would look pretty if she didn't have one of those hasidic hardcore haircuts with the curly sideburns. As I pass, the guy shouts at me. I can't make out the words above the Blaarghs. He doesn't take a swing.
Half an hour and three more Jolts pass. Feeling the pressure in my bladder, I go to the men's room. It's also a welcome aural break from the deafening music outside. Fortunately, the mensroom is empty. (You know my problem.)
I stand at the stall, unzip and fish out my limpness. My eyes close, waiting for the relief. A hand comes down hard on my left shoulder. It shakes me. I piss over my leg. The hand turns me around. I piss on the floor.
Jumping back to avoid the spray is the monster. The skinhead who shouted at me before. He must weigh close to 200 lbs. His skullbone comes down over his too-close-together eyes. His nose bends at a funny angle. On the right sleeve of his flight jacket is a Smash Racism patch.
The guy makes an OK sign with the fingers of his right hand and flicks it against my dangling dork.
"That's how they build racists these days?" he asks.
"Who's a racist?" I ask back.
"You got that t-shirt." he says.
"You got that haircut." I answer.
He swings. Just what I've been waiting for. Pak Sau! I block the fist. Chun Keun! I strike. Simultaneously. Perfectly. Landing square in the solar plexus. He buckles. His head comes very close to my right hand. Palm strike! Pow! Against his jaw. The force of my palm drives his upper jawbone into his temple. He's out. Collapsed on the floor.
I look down at myself. My formerly dangling little friend enjoys a fresh surge of blood. My anger mixes with lust.
I step over to the guy, admiring my handiwork. His hand shoots out. Grabs my leg. He pulls hard. I'm down, banging the back of my head on the urinal as I fall. I kick free of his grip and stand up. A warm trickle drips down the back of my head.
That fuckin' shithead!
He tries to get up. Before he can, I abandon all that kung fu stuff and go for the knee drop on the chest. Bang! I jump on him. The bones of his chest give beneath me. While he's out of breath, I drive a fist hard between his legs. He screams.
I slam the blade of my hand against his throat. Something crumbles under the force of the blow. A gurgling sound comes from his throat. A wave of emotion washes over me. It's like nothing I've ever felt before. It's a frenzy. Hatred and sex pureed into something new and evil.
I fumble for his belt. Opening it, I unsnap the waistband of his pants and pull them down. Boxer shorts, just like I figured, conforming to the ugliness inherent in an ugly culture. I pull down the shorts.
I try to get his pants over those Doc Martins. They won't come off. He's still gurgling. His mouth slowly fills with blood, like a pot left under a roof drip. His head turns weakly right to left. Otherwise, he's not moving very much.
I pull off his boots and slip the pants and shorts down past his ankles. I look at his prick-- limp and lifeless as the rest of him. Beneath it are hen's egg size balls, hanging loose between his legs. They almost touch the floor.
I reach up and grab 'em. I push my middle finger between them and let one each slide into the spaces on each side of that finger. I hold tight-- then I squeeze. Blood spurts from his mouth like a fountain. A half-cough half whimper follows it. I twist. Turning those balls, once, twice, three times around. The body beneath me trembles. It shakes.
I pull up. Hard. I try to rip them right off. They're stronger than I expect. His entire middle rises into the air during my lift. Only the back of his shoulders and his heels touch the floor. I let him drop. Hard.
Grasping his balls again, I put a foot against his pubic bone. The heel presses against his hairy path. I support my grasping hand with the other hand, pulling with both arms while pushing with my leg. Something tears. First inside, then out. Blood flows around my fingers as I pull harder. With a sound like a tire deflating, the skin tears. The tear follows that scrotum until it's off. In my hands. His body tenses. A feeble gasp comes from his throat. His head rises and bangs against the tile floor. Now, under his limpness is a hole.
I look at myself. My own former limpness is hard as an oakbranch. I lower my own pants and place myself between his legs. Aiming right for that newly formed hole, I push forward. I'm swallowed up. No friction. Nothing to press against. Just a soft squish.
I grab his limp tube and pull it directly up, making a space between his pubic skin and the bone beneath. I slip into that space and release my hand. Perfect! I pump hard into that hole laying on top of his now-limp body. I press my lips against his. I taste the blood filling his mouth. I can feel myself tense, ready to spill my seed into his fundament. Now. Now. Now!!!
The bathroom door opens. It's the girlfriend, the one with the sideburns. She must've seen him come in; wondered what was taking so long. If I let her leave, there's gonna be big trouble.
I spring up, using both my legs to drive my fist into her face. The power of the blow forces her upper teeth through her lower lip. Those teeth scrape my knuckles. The momentum carries us both against the sink. She bends backwards. I, pressed tight up against her, bend forward.
There's more fight in the girl. She lifts her leg between mine, kneeing me in the balls. I double over. She uses that same knee against my chin. My teeth click together as I sit hard on the floor. My tongue was between those teeth. Now, I spit out the piece severed by the blow.
Not that there's much time to consider the situation. She's on top of me in a flash. Sitting on my chest, her fingernails rake across my face. Right! Left! Right! Like flashing razors. Somehow I grab one of those flailing fists. I pull her TOWARD me. (Kung Fu rules: Always go in a direction opposite from what they expect.) Raising my head, I smash my forehead against the bridge of her nose. It cracks and breaks. Her attention switches from me to her now-damaged face. That's a mistake.
I lift my right shoulder and turn. Hard. Now it's her; back against the floor. She struggles under me, stronger than I expect. I reach back to support myself. My hand touches one of the Doc Martins I stripped from her boyfriend. I smash it hard against her right temple. Her muscles tense as if they were all one. I smash again. And again. Blood trickles from her ear onto the tile below. Again and again I slam. There is a cracking sound. the side of her face sags like a tomato left too long in the refrigerator.
That strange wave of emotion washes over me again. This time, it's not the urge to fuck, but to anti-fuck. Frantically, I pull the laces from the boot I'd been using to bash her skull in. Bang! Down come her army pants. Boxer shorts! I should've known! Bang! Down come the boxer shorts.
I hold the boot lace right near the stiff shellacked end. I reach between her legs, stretching one side of her hairy hole, right at the top. Putting my fingers inside, I press the end of the lace against that lower lip. I push. Hard. It pierces, making a petite little hole, now with a bootlace through it.
Though she can't move, she can still scream. She does. My eyes scan the floor. I see her boyfriend's ripped-off testicles, laying-- now bloodless, near the urinal. I reach over, pick them up, and bring them to her face. Squeezing the sides of her jaw forces her mouth open. I stuff 'em in. The sac the balls, the whole thing-- all at once. That takes care of the screams.
I now press the lace against the top of the other lip. Twisting with the push, I force it through. Criss-crossing that hole, I thread the bootlace first in one side then the other. I reach the bottom, close to her little brown target-- now filled with blood collected from the freshly punched holes. Grabbing each side of the lace, I pull tight.
Damn! Right in the middle, a lace rips through one of the holes. One lip splits and curls inward. Instead of sealing the gap, in that place, it widens. I wonder if I should undo it and try again. There's no time to wonder.
The music stopped. I hadn't noticed. The mensroom door opens. A fat little guy with glasses and a large nosering pushes insides. His hand reaches automatically for his zipper. Then he sees the situation. He turns. Runs screaming back into the crowd. It's time for me to leave.
I push through the panicking punks. Someone grabs my Skrewdriver shirt. I keep running, feeling it tear and split in front of me. I let it slip off my back. Another hand grabs my waistband. I unhook the button, open the fly and step out of my pants, running blindly away from maniacal mob. Only my shorts-- my tight little bikini briefs-- are left. Not for long.
Naked, I hit one of those huge pillows tacked to the wall. Hands push me deeper. I slide over to the crack where two pillows meet. I lean back against that crack and feel my naked body slip through. I fall. Through the crack. Through blue space. Backward.
There's no splash. No wave. No submersion. I lie on my back in a tub of water, surrounded by a dozen naked Thai teenage boys. They're all jerking off. Three young oriental women straddle my body. They squat down in a perfect row. One at my head. One over my hard fleshpole. One at my feet. They begin to piss. As they do, the dozen Thai boys spew their semen simultaneously, bathing me in white and yellow fluids. The water beneath me begins to jerk in huge fast waves...
****************************************************************
The preceding story was not true. It never happened. It spurted forth from my imagination into my computer. From there, I printed it out, wrote and rewrote, honed it like a samurai sword, and finally modemed it to Tim.
It is ink on paper. No one was hurt. No blood was spilled. No one felt an iota of pain. I don't promote, advocate or execute. It's not a call to action. It is imagination realized as ink on paper.
Imagination, creativity, the ability to project ourselves outside our own personal experiences. These make us human. A "marketplace of ideas" is bankrupt, if those ideas are limited to what's safe, what's mundane, what's practical. Imagination lets us get beyond that. It lets us explore parts of each other's mind that we would never know about. It lets us create worlds-- dangerous, nasty worlds-- that we'd like to see, but would never want to live in.
Imagination is the most basic of freedoms. Without it, all other freedoms are worthless. By definition it's creative. By God's design, its harmless. It invents, twists, develops, does the impossible. It can reveal evil, but can't BE evil. It's art, literature, music, architecture, science. It's under attack.
Of course, politicians, christians, feminists, those who want to control us, do not yet have the means to direct our thoughts. Pure Imagination-- internal and unexpressed-- is legal anywhere, at anytime. There are no laws against 'thoughts' in even the most repressive countries. There would be. It's only that they've not yet found ways of enforcing such laws.
There are laws, however, against the expression of imagination. More and more of them. It's hard to believe that certain arrangements of ink on paper, magnetic particles on tape, silver on celluloid, electrons on video screens, are punishable by prison.
Right now, through legal and 'moral' blackmail, we face an even a greater challenge to imagination. In the name of defending "our children" people assault imagination, or more precisely, the expression of imagination. In America, you will be sent to jail for cutting kids pictures out of clothing catalogs and pasting them together. The FBI will follow you for posting your imagination on an electronic bulletin board.
The attacks come on all sides. It's no accident that the first internet censorship bill was introduced by a Democrat and sponsored by Republicans. Imagination is freedom, and governments, just can't put up with that.
I write this on July 4. Symbolic of the call to fight I'm making in this column. Defending the imagination is not going to be easy. They'll pick away on all fronts. They'll attack sexual imagination in the name of the family or avoiding the degradation of women. They'll attack political imagination in the name of preventing terrorism. They'll attack most everything else in the name of insuring the peace, as if imagination were more dangerous than police firearms or prison rape.
It'll take courage to fight back. A weapon in that fight is extremes. That's why I killed twice. Bloody, sexy deaths, in my imagination. Extremes open up the space. They say, "Even this we can do." They push back the limits and give more room for others to function inside. What I wrote is still legal. It might not be, if those jerking Thai boys or pissing girls were under 18. I went as far as I could. But what is legal today, may not be tomorrow. The coming government control of the internet is only the most recent example of bad things to come.
To cave in, to tone down, to wimp out, that's how they win. Records with warning labels. Movies with ratings. (Hollywood now films two version of most of its movies. There's a European or complete version, and an American version, self-censored to get an R-rating.) Even if they don't make the laws on the outside, they make them in your head. They make you afraid to say it. To show it. To print it. This is what the not-yet-passed laws of cyberspace censorship are out to do. Create fear.
What action can you take? You can write your representative. Send your email. Create your own extremes.
Most importantly, take the chains off your own imagination. Don't censor yourself, but explore yourself. You might find some pretty weird shit inside, but it's there for the taking. It's not hurting anyone, and, if you express it, might lead to some pretty powerful creations. As my fallen idol Jerry Rubin used to say: DO IT. (Express that imagination.) If you don't, they win.
ENDNOTES:
--> Compilation of the month Dept: I finally listened to {W}rec{k}room Volume 2, a compilation put out by Safe House Communications (POB 5349, West Lebanon NH 03784-5349). All I can say is WOW! For you hardcore purists, there're the Lunachicks. Of course, they've got a great tune. For the more adventurous, there're a couple of wild HALF JAPANESE songs, including one, Little Records, that gives the lie to folks who say they don't ROCK. I already jerked off to a song by ALLURING STRANGE. That girl has the sexiest voice on record-- and she's covering an Alex Chilton song!!! Unfortunately, this CD is promo-only. You're gonna have to buy all the CDs, or hope the label has enough promos to sell you one. It sure is worth it!
--> ABC NO RIO is in trouble again. New York City is trying to evict 'em. They need as much aid as possible. Here's how you can help. Write or fax a letter of support. Don't mention ABC NO RIO as a 'punk only' place. That doesn't weigh too heavily with the city. If you want, you can mention punk among other things, like art, music, spoken word, etc. Use your imagination. Be polite, or you could really fuck it up.
Send faxes to:
ABC NO RIO's lawyer, Jackie Bukowski at (212) 280-1613
plus:
Deborah Wright, Commissioner of HPD (212) 267-2565
(HPD, is the city agency that's trying to evict the group.)
Kathryn Freed, City Councilmember, (212) 788-2565
Ruth Messinger, Manhattan Borough President (212) 669-4900
-->Abort yourself dept: I got a form letter from The National Right To Life Committee, (419 Seventh St #500, Washington DC 20004-2293). They're asking for money, of course. This came in the guise of a "Media Petition." The petition itself is rather straightforward. It is addressed to network presidents, asking them to "tell the truth about legal abortions" and stop "portraying abortionists as intelligent, caring individuals, and pro-life advocates as heartless, unreasoning fanatics." OK. I don't support abortion, but it's fair to ask for a reasoned discussion without personal degradation or false accusations of fanaticism.
Then I looked at the envelope the petition came in. On the outside, in big type: YOU AND I CANNOT LET A HANDFUL OF PRO-ABORTION NETWORK EXECUTIVES AND HOLLYWOOD MOVIE MOGULS POISON AMERICA WITH THEIR GODLESS ANTI-FAMILY, ANTI-RELIGION AND ANTI-LIFE VIEW OF THE WORLD.
Oy vey! And these people don't want to be portrayed "as fanatics."
-->Speaking of Oy Vey dept: JEWCORE zine has finally come out. It's published under the title: "Mazel-Tov Cocktail" and chock full of all you need to know about the Jewpunk conspiracy. I have a short piece in there on "Why I'm Not Jewish." There are contributions by Fat Mike, George Tabb, Aaron Cometbus (I didn't know 'Cometbus' was a Jewish name.), and an international section. You can get your copy (normally $2.50-- but for you-- $2) from: Bloodlink Records, PO Box 252, New Gretna NJ 08224.
--> Horn-tooting time dept: An essay by me and one by Donny The Punk are among those included in a new book: Bisexual Politics. It costs $15 in paperback so I don't expect you to actually buy it. But it would be nice if you'd ask your local university library to get a copy. It is now in pre-productions so there's a 20% pre-order discount. Call 1-800-342-9678 or fax 1-607-722-6362 to order.
--> Strange story dept: My pal Chris Butler (the guy who wrote I Know What Boys Like) told me he read the following in a magazine called THE EDGE:
Gunther Burpus of Bremen Germany tried to get into his house through the cat door. He mislaid his keys. He got stuck. A prankster, passing the house, took off the guy's pants, painted his butt orange, stuck a daffodil in the hole, and put up a sign saying, "Germany Resurgent: an Essay on Street Art. Please give generously."
Passersby thought the guy's screams were part of the act. It was only when someone complained to the cops that he was finally freed.
"I kept calling for help," he said, "but people just said 'Very good! Very clever!' and they threw coins at me."
--> Punk is dead. I know because I was in the supermarket Wednesday, shopping for a week's supply of ramen. Over the speakers-- usually playing 101 Strings or Barry Manilow, comes The Ramones. Yep, "I Wanna Be Sedated" right there where most of the listeners ARE sedated. For me, this was punk's final death knell.
--> Speaking of COOL BEANS dept: I forgot to mention about my visit with Matt Kelly, sysop of Cool Beans BBS. (Have your modem call (415) 648-7865). Matt showed me a fine time. (Not THAT way, you pervert!) He also talked about his future plans for Cool Beans and the internet. Cool Beans is much more informal and low key than The Punk List or (G-d forbid!) America On Line. Give it a call.
--> Dija see the new issue? dept: BATTERIES NOT INCLUDED (c/o Richard Freeman, 130 Limestone St., Yellow Springs OH 45387) is turning into one of the best written newsletters about the porn industry. The current issue has the beginning of a great essay by Richard Pacheco about post-pornstar life. Another porn actor wrote about the problem of developing a crush on his co-star. BNI really humanizes the business. There are no pictures, so I don't know if you need an age statement-- but you do need $3. It's worth it.
-end-
