You're Wrong, #1

Mykel Board says: You're Wrong

YOU'RE WRONG

An Irregular Column

by Mykel Board

I'm more worried than a gerbil in a homobar. It's the eve of the primary. Though I voted for Bradley, things look grim. Bradley will loose. Running will be a born-again Christian who believes in tax support for churches, and teaching creationism in school. That's the Democrat! The Republican will be a moron with a large bank account, filled by every corporate slimeball who's ever poisoned a well. Jezus fuckin' Christ!

As usual, I'll vote third party, applauding those who don't vote at all, packing my bags in case I have to make a quick getaway when they make masturbation illegal.

You know Tipper Gore's PMRC connection. You know Al Gore's Christian proclamations. There's no excuse. If you read this column and vote for Gore, you're a traitor. If you love music... If you love your freedom... what's left of it... If you hate Christiandom... you absolutely cannot vote for Al Gore. Pat Buchanan would be better than Gore. At least he is anti-NAFTA and doesn't take money from the Chinese.

I've heard all the lesser of two evil arguments. I've heard the Supreme Court Justice's arguments. They don't mean shit. Life under Gore would be no better than life under Bush. A third-party vote or no vote at all tells the politicos they can't take you for granted. If you always vote for the lesser of two evils, you'll always get an evil. In any case, the next four years are gonna be pretty nasty.

I used to take sanctuary in being a New Yorker. America's problems didn't affect me, I said. Things are different here. Not any more.

Either the people in this city are not the same as they once were, or they've lost their balls. You can't even have a good riot in New York.

In LA, Rodney King gets roughed up. The cops get off. People go bonkers. In New York, the cops actually KILL someone. Forty-one shots. The local Negroes have a march. A fuckin' march! My, how peaceful of you. Next time someone gets shot, why not have TWO marches.

Actually, there've been two more killed-by-cops since that one. No riots though. The only riot was a buncha white punks in the East Village. What happened to them? The city bulldozed their garden. For flowers, they get it up for a riot. Kill a racial brother, and you have a march. Jezus, what good is having a big dick if you've got no balls?

I love riots. A good one would kill Guiliani's Senate chances. Of course, rioting for a jury verdict isn't the best of reasons. Juries have to decide cases on their merits, not on street pressure. Caving in to public opinion is a lynch mob mentality... and we already have that in Congress. So riot against the shootings, not the verdicts. Yeah!

The public will get their pound of copflesh out of these cops anyway. The government will keep putting them on trial until SOMEONE finds them guilty of SOMETHING. It's the American way. Fuck double jeopardy. That went out with the rest of The Constitution. You know that. How many times have you complained about losing your rights? You forget that cops have civil liberties too. Along with baseball players who make statements we don't like. But that's another column.

For this one, let's get back to my South American adventure. Having left Brazil, land of ugly guys and sexy girls, I'm now in Argentina the land of Tango, Gauchos, and Uggi's whole-pizzas-for-$2.

When last we left me, I moved from the ritzy apartment of some very hostile Argentines into the lesbo-friendly Fun People commune.

The band is leaving in a few days to go on tour. My Quilmes pal, Roman, told me that the band is a bunch of rich rockstars with an exotic tourbus and rock'n'roll lifestyle. I can't wait to see what it's like. We'll be travelling in luxury. Roman told me. Complete Rock'n'Roll decadence,

The first time I visit the Fun People, I ring the bell. The door opens. There's a tough-looking guy, naked from the waist up, with double pierced nipples and a Samurai haircut. He introduces himself as Manny The Manager.

He's not a typical cigar-smoking, cocaine sniffing manager though. He's the booking agent, friend, trouble-shooter, tour supervisor, and baby-sitter for the band. He's like a Jewish mother, making sure the chicken soup never runs out.

The commune itself is a live wire of activity. There's a record label, archives, living quarters for Fun People singer, Carlito aka Nekro. She Devils and sundry other visitors stay in sundry other rooms in the place.

Nekro is a smallish guy, about my size but thinner boned and more sensitive looking. He's also got a lot more head hair and a lot less body hair than I have. He writes, sings, and has the world's weirdest record collection.

"You like The Pretenders?" he asks me.

I shake my head.

"That's too bad." he says. Pulling out an obscure bootleg as well as a video. He's also got GG Allin, some Country and Western classics, and Janis Joplin.

He asks me to check his transcription... "My friends all have porches. I must make almonds." Not quite it.

Also in that commune is a Goddess. Tough, funny, with beautiful self-confidence and a raspy voice that's like alcohol on my balls. Her name's Pilar. She's a lesbian. She lives there with her girlfriend, a cool German girl. They fight all the time. Typical lesbo stuff.

Part of the band She Devils, Pilar's co-female is not her girlfriend, but Patricia, another devil of a woman. She too is in "a relationship"-- with the band's male drummer. (It's a conspiracy!)

My one-day with Pilar is pure heaven. We visit Eva Peron's tomb. It's in an amazing mausoleum in the heart of Buenos Aires. Pilar tells me Evita isn't really in the tomb. The army stole her body after doing something very nasty to it. Juan, her husband, suffered a post-mortem castration as well has having both hands removed. Still, Evita has a tomb, fresh flowers and all, amidst the evil generals and dictators of the past.

Most of the tombs are more elaborate than Evita's. Towers of cherubs and angels, surround proud statues of the scummiest dictators. The door to one of the tombs is open. It looks empty. The architect cut a small window in the concrete under the shelf where the coffin usually lies. Pilar reaches in and fumbles for awhile.

(I write words originally spoken in Spanish in bold type.)

"Look at what I found, Mykel," she says.

She's holding up what looks like a four-foot long prop from a science fiction movie. It's glass. For most of its length, cylindrical two inches in diameter. At the bottom, it changes into a bulb, as wide as a double fist.

"What do you think it's for?" she asks.

"I don't know, maybe it's for ashes." I say.

"There are no ashes in it," she says. "There's nothing in it."

"Maybe the ashes got scattered when someone busted into the tomb." I answer, "Maybe they reform into the original body that now walks around here at night. I don't know."

She lifts the glass object turning it in the sun. "I think I'm going to take it home" she says.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," I say. "I'm not a superstitious guy (lie) but I don't think having one of those whatever-it-ises in your room can be good luck. What happens if the original occupant, now scattered to the winds, wants to come home? Do you want her dragging her chains and howling through the house?"

Pilar's subtly tanned face whitens.

"Tu tienes razon," she says, and, to my relief, puts the glass thing back.

We take some pictures of me crying at Evita's tomb, go for a couple of beers in a fancy outdoor restaurant, and talk about sex.

"So, why are you having problems with your girlfriend?" I ask her.

"Well, you see, she answers, "I love her, but I like other girls too... Lot's of them."

"What is your type?" I ask her.

"I want to fuck anyone!" she says, "I have no type..."

My pants tighten.

"As long as it's a girl."

Droop city.

Back at the commune, I bid farewell to The Goddess as she goes off work her night job. I switch to Patricia who takes me drinking. Somehow I wind up in a live broadcast on Argentine radio, with a reggae band from Venezuela. We're talking about "the music underground." It's sprung on me in complete surprise. And while I can understand the questions, my Spanish is malo enough to completely fuck up the answers. My jokes get no response. When I answer seriously, the place cracks up.

"Yo Patricia," I say. "How about if I speak English and you translate?"

She agrees and the rest of the night goes well, except I wind up in bed alone... again.

The day comes to leave on the tour. All the Fun People are here. Here too are two roadies, a soundman, a merchandiser, Manny The Manager, and the members of the supporting band Lo Quero.

The big white bus is not exactly the lap of luxury. Yes, there are beds in the back. Well, not exactly beds, but half a dozen large shelves with pieces of foam on them. Yes, there are drugs. Two joints and a large bottle of Quilmes beer. The super video, is a small portable TV, connected to a VCR, mounted high above the bus windshield. Half the windows are cracked. The other half won't open. The air conditioning is a vent about the size of a small microwave oven. It's on top of the bus, just a rising and lowering piece of metal. Some ritz.

Before we leave, we have a farewell feast. Fit for the rock'n'roll kings of decadence. A feast, an obscene orgy of food. A cornucopia of abundance: Two Uggis pizzas.

We pile into the warm bus and wave to our well-wishers. The boys stick a boring California skater tape in the VCR and head out of town. Once outside Buenos Aires, the bus picks up speed. When it does, the videotape changes. Porno! Yeah!

Before we can enjoy the thrust, the wind forces the airvent closed. Manny The Manager finds a piece of wood to prop it open. A few miles down the road THWAP! The wood falls to the floor. The vent slams shut.

This happens two or three more times before Manny resolves the problem by turning the wood piece vertical, and hammering it into place. Not long after that, the wind catches the vent cover, rips it off and sends in clattering to the highway behind us.

Now it's cold. Freezing inside. This should be spring but it feels like Mongolia in here. Manny The Manager, with a manager's resourcefulness, grabs a plastic garbage bag. Me, with 35 years of travel in my rectum have come prepared to help. Duct tape! I never leave home without it. It can get me out of more jams than a $50 receipt from the Police Benevolence Association.

Together we tape the bag around the hole, Manny holding. Me taping. Soon we have our shield, wildly noisy as the wind tries to rip through.

In the few minutes before it succeeds, I talk with the Fun Boys. I ask them about their reputation as "big rock stars," and the naturally accompanying SELLOUT.

"We tour a lot," says the bass player, an attractive young man with skin the color of English tea. "A lot of people come to our shows. Maybe that's why."

"It also comes from America," says Carlito/Nekro. "Like for instance, we were in New York. And we go to Esndeider's place to sleep. Here we are from Argentina. We've never been to the US before. He's got records like the first AGNOSTIC FRONT album. Stuff we've never seen. But he wants to show us the newest radical group from Peru. Jesus Christo! We can get Peru here, but AGNOSTIC FRONT???"

"Was that a problem?" I ask.

"You bet!" he says. "Suddenly we're America-focused and we don't care about what goes on in South America. And blah blah blah. All these great records, and he wants to talk politics!"

That's as deep as I could get into the reputation mystery, because just at that moment, the plastic bag rips off the bus top. Papers, cards, everything inside goes flying. So much for the luxury ride.

The show itself goes smoothly. Both bands are great and Carlito is a magnetic performer! There are a lot of very young people, and a few obnoxious drunks. Strange for a punkshow, huh? One particularly repulsive feature is the number of couples-- boy girl-- holding hands, making out, yuk! If you wanna fuck, do it. But don't just show off. Who needs that?

The show starts at midnight. We leave about four AM the next morning. I bid my farewell. The band heads South. I head for the beach.

Beach, yeah right. The temperature drops like the Viagra ran out. It's freezing. Did I bring a jacket? Are you kidding? It's spring. Yeah, right.

Back in Rio for a few days before coming back to New York. Leonardo, who I originally stayed with, is on tour with his band Jason. Mancini, another friend, has parents who don't allow guests. Fernanda, my first love of the trip, hasn't answered my email.

It's raining. I'm in a hotel. My feet hurt from walking. I'm sunburnt from trying to get a month's worth of beach in 12 hours at Copacabana. I've got a coldsore as big as the Rio slums on my upper lip.

The next day, in the Rio airport, I'm stupid enough to tell the truth. A rude Continental Airlines "security officer," asks if I have anything that I can use as a weapon.

"I got two pairs of nail scissors," I say.

He wants to see 'em. They're packed away in my locked bag. In my toilet kit. Under condoms, shampoo. The works.

"They are in my bag." I tell him.

"Show them to me." he says.

Wow! Am I mad. Unpack everything. Make a mess on the floor. Condoms here and there. Pills rolling. I shake, I'm so angry. Get one pair out, a cheap pair I bought in Brazil. I slam it on the desk in front of him.

"Is that all?" he asks.

What an idiot I was, telling the guy the truth! I get the other pair. More condoms, earplugs the works, spilling this way and that, while the crowd on line gawks.

"You have two choices:" he says. "You can check your bag or..."

"Keep 'em!" I yell at him.

"You can pack your things now." he says.

I do. One hard-ass in the security crew and I get him. This does not bode well for my return to New York.

Back in The City... as usual, not glad to be. I wait on line at the bus station, Ahead of me, a mom carries a baby-- about six months old. She makes goo goo noises while looking the baby in the face. Then she turns her body and WHAM! smacks the kid's head against the plexiglass window in the waiting room. The kid says nothing. Then more goo goo noise, and WHAM, whacked against the glass again. Each whack sends a resounding THUMP throughout the waiting room. People look over their shoulders. The mother takes no notice. WHAM, she's at it again. From the black hair of the kid, I first think it's an Oriental family. A glimpse of the short mom's face says no. She's hard to peg, though a lot of Hispanics are on this route.

Now I'm on the bus. Next to me, actually a couple seats over, are a couple speaking in a language I don't know. Greek? No clue. Whatever it is, I wish I were there.

ENDNOTES: [Visitors to my website: www.MykelBoard.com or subscribers (email to: TheBoss@MykelBoard.com) receive a few extra endnotes. There are just too many to keep up with.]

--> Amazon screw dept: I removed the Amazon Books link to one of my websites. That's because of Amazon's recent patents on openly available internet techniques. If Microsoft is trying to take over the internet, Amazon is trying to take over how it works. And if they win? What kind of task-master would Amazon be?

Well, here's a message I got from them about listing sex stuff in their auction site:

Greetings from Amazon.com Auctions and zShop!

This is to inform you that listing #0208H645683 for "THE RAPEMAN: Notorious Japanese Hentai" has been canceled.

As listed in the Prohibited Content for our website:

"Erotica and artwork are permitted. This includes prints, paintings,MPA-rated NR movies, and other material that is not sexually explicit, including magazines of the type you'd find at a convenience store. We do stipulate that listings of such items not include explicit images--as at the convenience store, please leave nude images 'behind the counter' (i.e., use censor strips or don't include images).

Amazon.com participants may not list pornography or material that includes graphic images of sex acts. They also may not list erotica and artwork in inappropriate categories. Images and language may not be graphic or obscene, and links to pornographic Web sites are prohibited."

We determined that your listed item was in violation of these guidelines, and have ended the sale. In the future, if you are at all unsure about whether you should list an item, I would advise that you err on the side of caution and contact us before listing it.

Thank you for your interest in Amazon.com Auctions and zShops!

Best regards, Keith Womack Amazon.com Earth's Biggest Selection http://www.amazon.com

-->

dept: My pal Irwin forwarded me email about a candidate for Pope. He may take over when the current on-the-cusp-of-deather finally meets Dr. Lucifer.

The London Times reports:

The leading conservative contender to succeed the Pope yesterday said that the "Antichrist" was already on Earth in the guise of a prominent philanthropist whose concern for human rights and the environment and advocacy of ecumenicism masks his real aim: the destruction of Christianity and "the death of God".

Cardinal Giacomo Biffi, 71, the Archbishop of Bologna, said the Antichrist advocates ecumenical dialogue between the Roman Catholic Church and other Christian denominations, including

Anglicanism and the Orthodox Church. This appears to be a worthy aim, but in fact is being used by the Antichrist in an attempt to water down and undermine Catholicism to the point where it collapses.

We can only hope.

--> More religious nuttery or let the idiots duke it out dept: According to the Associated Press, two Southern Baptist congregations are preparing to teach their members how to convert ``cult'' members. Cults include Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses.

The Cult Awareness Impact Crusade was scheduled for Feb. 6-8 at Calvary Baptist Church and Oaklawn Baptist Church.

Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses are not Christians, say the Rev. Mark Corts, Calvary's senior pastor, and the Rev. Philip Henry, assistant pastor for evangelism and new-member assimilation.

They want to help prevent their members from joining those religions and teach them how to convert Jehovah's Witnesses and Mormons to Christianity.

The denomination also issued a booklet last year saying Hindus have "darkness in their hearts that no lamp can dispel.''

What could be more fun than having these Christian idiots trying to convert one another? I can see armies of doorbell ringers, switching tit-for-tat in each other's neighborhoods. Maybe they'll leave the rest of us alone for awhile.

--> How much sex do you get in Russia? dept: Moscow paper Komsomolskaya Pravda reports on a sex education program now being tested in back woods cities. The book for first graders shows a pair of dogs going at it. A booklet for the Seventh Grade is called Your Friend the Condom. In the 9th grade, students learn masturbation "to relieve psychophysiological discomfort." Now what about another, even better way of relieving that discomfort?

--> Clearing the clutter dept: I found a 1998 magazine that reports on a group started in Shumen, Bulgaria. Called the "Male Democratic Movement for the Support of Bill Clinton," the group sent a letter to the US Supreme Court. The letter said, A strong state can be established only by spiritually, as well as sexually, strong politicians. It is a shame to persecute one of the few real men of the late 20th century. The article adds that the group has prohibited homosexuals from membership, but will accept women who believe "a strong politician should be strong in every respect."

-->Although they exclude homos in Bulgaria, they more than include them in Denmark. For the first time, a homosexual couple was officially invited to an event at the Danish royal palace. The press celebrated the idea. The monarchy's reaction? "What's all the fuss about?" Ah, there ain't nothin' like a Dane!

--> There's so much more to tell about my South American trip, but I've been back so long the memory is fading like a morning erection after the first piss. I do want to mention Marcello. The Argentine GG Allin. Well, not exactly GG. GG could never have gotten it together to put out a fanzine AND be in a band. And though Marcello doesn't shit on stage, I wouldn't stand in front at one of his shows.

Body Bag is his zine. Somewhere between Answer Me and MRR, it's on newsprint with interesting and gory things, if you understand Spanish. You can send Marcello $3 in well-concealed cash for a copy. Write to him c/o Patricia at: Cabrera 5340, DPO 2, Buenos Aires 1414, ARGENTINA or email: sdvs@mundo.waman.apc.org

-->Take that.... dahling dept: Parinya Kiatbusaba is an 18 year old Thai kick boxer. He's also a kratoey or "lady boy." He feels himself to be "a woman inside" and likes the pork up the poopchute. He boxes wearing make-up and nail polish. His opponent in his first fight said, "He will learn that boxing is a game for a real man." Yeah right. That real man was down and out after five rounds. Parinya packs 'em in at Lumpani stadium and has done more to promote gender tolerance than a thousand Washington marches.

-->Something in the water? dept: It's weird enough that Vermont is the first state to give homo couples the same rights as het couples. What's weirder is that their capital, Montpelier, is the only state capital that has NO MCDONALDS! They're just lucky it's cold there. Otherwise, they'd have the largest unAmerican population in America. Maybe they already do.

-->Just when I thought no one was reading dept: "Zine Guide" reviewzine released its survey of best liked and most hated zines. MRR is on the top of almost every list! Here are the results for this mag: