My journal of life and those lives that surround & influence me, both positively & negatively

Thursday, November 26

The Day I "Died..."

The day that you die is supposed to be the day that you are remembered in infamy. Your friends, family/relatives and enemies remember you fondly and only have good things to say about you---never bad.

The night I died according to Facebook was completely the opposite. It was mid-Wednesday evening April 1, 2015, I was cabbing it over to the Gallery Cabaret on Oakley, just off of Armitage in Chicago on my way to a Henchmen gig.

I was late coming from school-doing something, like I always did.

 Doing something. I talked to the cab driver about my art. Told him lots of stories. I remember him taking a different way there because traffic was blocked and for some reason he took the Eisenhower, got off at Western and took a straight shot over.

I’ve had my run-ins with cab drivers in 2015; like the cabbie in early March who nearly killed me in his cab driving over a median strip and into the northbound lanes thinking there were the southbound lanes. It was a wonder I was still alive. And then later, when we pulled up to the event I was headed to and hitting the man on the bike and only caring about his cab.

That was wicked.



It must have been about 7:30 in the evening when the cab pulled up to the club. I paid the driver and saw Dr. Nothing and Dennis The Menace out on the sidewalk. Said something to them that I can’t remember and headed inside with them. The Slurve was sitting at the bar.

The open mic was already in progress as I set my gear down and went to unpack the bingo box, the instruments and my costume. I said hello to the hostess who was donning a boring blond wig, because after all, it was April Fool’s Day and the one of the biggest fool in the Chicagoland area was moments away from disgracing the stage.

The rest of the Henchmen filed into the club. I greeted all of them. The poets were already there. Some I recognized and some I didn’t. Even saw the one I screwed one night and found out later she was married but was hot for teacher. 

Yeah, something like that.

On stage at that moment, was anarchist anti-Israeli poet Joffre Stewart. Crowing about it being “Sid Yiddish Day” and oh, who just happens to walk into the club and hears him saying it as if on cue? Moi. I just glared at him, knowing that he would do an anti-Israeli poem in my honor. And of course, that was the very next poem he recited, while I whispered to the host’s husband on how to film the band & I, as we performed the bingo game. I told him that I was going to “put him to work.”

After a long open mic, we were ready to perform. I sent the Henchmen up, to take positions, while I readied my own space and passed out the bingo cards, chips and set up the bingo cage and whispered more instructions to the host, but I knew things were already going to go wrong, as I told the crowd we were going to play “4 corner bingo” and someone else decided to play bingo the regular way and as we played on and the crowd got slightly unruly because someone else did it wrong and they all wanted to win and that’s how it goes when you play bingo. 

No one wants to lose and everyone wants a prize. To try and please everyone, we played a 2nd game and who should win, but Joffre Stewart. His prize? A genuine bar of Swiss chocolate marzipan from Copenhagen.

We do one a couple of more compositions and I decide to end it early because I wasn’t exactly sure on time. As I am packing up and collecting the bounty from generous supporters of our work, Dr. Nothing comes up to me and tells me “Sid, you’re dead.” I have no clue what he’s talking about and go back to packing up my gear, changing out of my costume and talking to the host and wiping the sweat off my face.

I get a ride home from the host’s sidekick, as he lives pretty close to me. I am tired, I say to him as I get settled into the car. The conversation is nothing special between him and I, in fact, it centers on my brother Louie, just like always after I ride with him. I don’t care really to talk about my brother Louie, because my brother Louie is a true asshole; someone I wouldn’t trust with my life even if I were dying, because he’d be the first one to ask for either my Saturn or my laptop or some other valuable material possession I now own.

And with a brother like that, who needs him?

I was pretty tired that night as I turned in. It already had been a difficult week in my life; bad critique at grad school, a canceled spring trip to New York City on top of canceling an important performance gig, which had stressed me out because the last time I canceled an important performance gig I was called “unprofessional” and I would never work in Kansas City again.
 
That’s somewhat true. I haven’t worked there since February 2014. Again, due to the unprofessionalism of my grad school department who didn’t bother to tell its students that the building was going to close that summer due to asbestos removal and only had a week to pack up all of their belongings and have them put into storage.

The same week I was supposed to go to Kansas City. Life isn’t fair but so it went.

I went to bed and thought nothing of it. It was spring break after all and I could sleep in that week.

When I awoke the next morning, I arose to such a clatter; I had 4 voicemails, several texts on my cell phone and a little over 200 notices on Facebook that had declared me dead.

The following posted note on my Facebook page started off the feeding frenzy, a little after 9pm central daylight savings time: “I am sorry and heart-crushed to announce the passing of Sid Yiddish. He collapsed upon ushering his most famous hand signal high E, whilst using audience participation in the game of bingo as a chance parameter to direct his conducting for the first time. He was pronounced dead when the paramedics arrived. Multi Kulti will host a gathering in his memory, details to follow.”

This post appeared on my friend Dr Nothing’s Facebook page. As I discovered later, his account was hacked into. Yes. Hacked. Even the tightest of ITT men can have their accounts hacked into.
In the sickening irony that followed, 19 friends of mine liked the post.

And that’s when the shit hit the fan.

Here are the actual posts that followed, minus the names.

Holy Shit!‬ This better be a Cruel April Fools Joke!

‬

Hoax?
‬
The world just lost some light.
 ‬
‪

‬



‬

I always figured I'd find out about his death on social media, and I'm His BROTHER!!!!!!


‪

‬

 Sounds like the onion headlines
.

Gosh, will he be alright?


Whatttttttttt? Are u serious? Damn I just asked u about him
.

‬

Were his last words "And I would be your leader!"  

He is all right. He is gone to heaven to be with god.

‬
This better not be an April Fool’s joke
! ‬
‪

‬



‬

Just at the hospital to view the remains. Though he appeared much as he did in life, family is still recommending a closed casket. he will be sorely missed, at least through the weekend, and depending upon the weather. Sid always considered me a very dear friend. At times I considered him as well.


And just earlier today he was alive and well debunking everyone's April Fool’s jokes... and now he is gone. He will be missed except on April 1st when he was a bit of a party pooper...


Wooowww.‬ I can't believe this!‬ So Sorry to Hear it happened....


‪‬

Oh man I am in shock and deeply saddened by this news...



‪‬

My brain cannot be alive, it is dead with the memory, and cannot go on
.


‪
Awwwwww I'm sorry to hear this. He was definitely an original. & will greatly missed.


He left this world doing what he loved like a total boss. this is the way he would have wanted it to be.



‪‬

Please tell me this is an April Fool's joke?


‪‬

What???
 I don't believe this shit though.


‪‬

 
I've texted a couple of friends and have not gotten any confirmation that this isn't an April Fool's joke. Being that neither one of them have come to this thread to assure us that this is not a joke has me suspicious
; alright, there’s a message here that is a give away that this is a joke. everyone read his post.
 There should be many people who could deny or confirm it. And for whatever it's worth now posts memorializing him on April 2nd.


‪‬

You had me until the hand signals!!



‪‬

Oh no. and I never got a chance to meet him and always wanted to.


So very sorry for the loss.

Okay, it's April 2nd now. What's the real story?


And that was just the start. Like a long drawn out drizzle, it continued.

What?? I thought at first this was a horrible April fools joke. If true.. RIP Sid Yiddish.I had just thought it had to be an April Fool’s joke. How sad. Don't know what happened. Crazee.

Jesus, I can't believe it. We had such a good time hanging out with him last summer. Check his page,  it's true. Well, there's no obituary or anything. Some fellow claims to have witnessed the whole thing, onstage; it's all very weird, which is why no one knows whether to actually believe it. Especially on April Fool's Day, but it's April 2 now, and where's Sid? I know a lot of his friends are comedians, and they seem to be congenitally incapable of serious discourse.

So sorry Sid...RIP
. ‬

And it continued. From bad to worse. A angry mob looking for blood.

Well fuck you very much for worrying people. Very fucking lousy and triggering prank.

Sid Yiddish is NOT dead. Very bad joke. NOT dead. Very bad joke.

And as the mopping up began and more remarks were made in the process, a pattern began to form and it was an odd pattern at that. There were the usual suspects in the mob; the reactionaries; the truth-seekers, the actual believers and the angry. And then there were those who never actually saw it and had no clue what had taken place.

In particular, there was one guy, whom I’ll deem as an acquaintance, who was so insistent on “my death” that he pushed pretty hard on reasons why, how and where only to discover through a mutual friend of ours, that this guy had staged his own death four years prior to this. It left me scratching my head and wondering, what the fuck!

And there were the ones who privately messaged me; I thought, now if I am dead, how am I supposed to answer their letters? It was enough that I had been off Facebook publicly since late January, 22, 2015 and rarely posted, save for a photo or a gig.

In the days that followed, after getting bullied and pushed around by others who were convinced that I staged my own death online, I ran into friends on campus who saw the post and there were those who didn’t see the post and embraced me as if I had truly died. 

An interesting side-note was that a Google search of my name two days after I supposedly died, turned up at least 54, 400 entries for me, 184,000 less than usual. It was quite evident that the my death put a quash on a lot of things and people.

In the months that followed, there were those who I had emailed about things and situational stuff that I wanted to resolve but for some reason or another, I couldn’t, most everyone said the same thing, “I thought you were dead!”

And then I discovered, quite by sheer accident or perhaps it was sheer coincidence, online in a conspiracy forum, what the name, Sid Yiddish truly stands for and that is:

S=Sid
I=Is
D=Dead
Y=Yiddish
I=Is
D=Dead
D=Dead
I=Is
S=Sid
H=Hoax

Why is it, in life, no one truly gives a shit about one or another’s well-being until it’s too late? Why is it that on Facebook that many people take situations and people for granted until it’s too late? Not reach across the aisle, the pond, the sea, the next city and make that concerted effort and say hello until it’s too late?

I say, do it now, before you miss out.


Put your differences aside. Stop being so sensitive. It’s not always about you. The world doesn’t revolve around you. Be more forgiving. Tell someone you love him or her. And everyday. Life is like a deck of cards, you never know when that Ace of Spades will be dealt. Do it now. 

Don’t wait until the moment is gone.

Sunday, September 13

You Gotta Fight For Your Right Even As Some Accuse You Of Being Wite (Even When You Are Not)

I, Sid Yiddish, am done with political correctness and social media mob mentality. It is time to bury this shit for once and for all. Especially on social media and in universities, where it seems to have taken over for worse than better.

In my defense of this thought, I present the following three incidents, in which I was the brunt of political correctness and angry social media mob mentality. For worse, not better.


Example 1: The argument of white privilege; verses the idea of quality of work. I got into a conversational thread as I do often on Facebook, in which I defended the idea of quality of work verses the idea that because a prominent late night TV host happens to have several white men and only two women on his writing production team that somehow that is offensive and unfair. I defended my position the following way: “It's not really and shouldn't be about color or gender. It is his choice on who he works well with and that what should matter most.”

The person in whom I was engaging with, someone who I consider a pretty good friend, in real life, responded in the following manner: “Unlike you (meaning me, Sid), I think this type of answer comes from being a white man in society. Despite your eccentricities, there are things afforded or allowed, indulged to you that are not to others. Sadly for women and all people of color, having their work being overlooked, ignored, denigrated, not taken into consideration, solely because of their ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation is a sad reality. And yes, in an ideal world it shouldn't be about color or gender. But I believe that in an ideal world, Blacks, Latinos, Asians, queers, and so on would be hired regularly at those jobs. TV and writing for TV is very much a white man's game.”

Although I knew what she was trying to say, she was saying in such a way that was insulting to me. And so I responded again: “By no means, because I am "supposedly white" that I have more privileges or have had better or greater opportunities than you or anyone else. If you don't like the situation, then do something to change it. But try not to bemoan the dilemma of your gender or color of your skin because as you well know, plenty of others have gotten their jobs not based on color, but based on their quality of work they bring forth to the table. That is what it should be about. Quality, not quantity.”

And again she responded, leaving me with a few articles to read, explaining why my whiteness was so horrible told to me through other writers, who could easily defend her position better than she ever could.

I left her with this response: “I see, so because I disagree with you, because of my whiteness you think that reading these articles will help me to understand better, even though I was born to who I was born to? I don't look at myself as, "well, I'm better than you, because I am white." You know better than that. In fact, if you really want to know something about privilege/race in this country, go and research how Walt Disney treated white Jews (animators, actors, actresses, etc) between the 1930s-1950s. You really need to understand that it has nothing to do with being white. That is just an excuse. It has more to do with production and quality of work. No one should be hired on a team just for their color of their skin or gender alone. That is just wrong.”

And even after all of this, she responded: “If that's what you think I said then this is a useless dialogue.”

To which I responded: “it’s not useless to me. It’s useless to you because I don’t agree with you or the writer of the original article.”

I don’t know if she responded further or not, but in my mind, I thought, “it is your choice not to watch him if you don't want to, but ah, I think there's a bigger issue abound and it has nothing to do with color or race or privilege. And that is called sour grapes.”

Example 2-At Columbia College Chicago during my second year of grad school, I was part of a classroom competition in my Connected Studio Practice class, in which we students had to anonymously submit four images and one minute video to be judged by a panel of prestigious arts related judges, to show us what competition is like for art fellowships in the real world. I submitted my work and patiently waited.

Came the judgment day and we all waited impatiently, except for me mostly because I felt if I were to have taken the prize it was either going to happen or not happen. When it came to my turn, the judges viewed my work as sensual and warm. They didn’t like the artist statement past the first paragraph and that was okay with me. The judges expressed pure adulteration for my images and video. After one more student was judged, the vote came forth and wouldn’t you know it? I won. 

In fact, all the winners were men, 1st place, 2nd place and the 2-runners up. Winning meant bragging rights and $100. And $100 comes in mighty handy when you are jobless and paying for college on your own.

Moments after the competition, the howling by the losers began. It went something like “why did all men win? The judges are bias. They are against women, “ howled the losers and the resident professor feminist. 

The funny part was that all three judges were women and all three of those judges’ preferred good performance art and not art that doesn’t say much. Now, I’m not saying that my cohort wasn’t as good or even better than me; they all well could have been and another day might have scored even better than me, but on this day, they didn’t.  And I wondered, why all the fuss? Fair is fair.

Example 3-between 1990 and 1995, I wrote for several alternative and independent presses, two of them being, Nightlines/Outlines and Gay Chicago. I never had a problem with the first publication, but I sure as hell had a major problem with the latter publication? Why? Because I wrote articles that were fair and balanced. And the entertainment/features editor kept editing out the balance, meaning the reality of the negativity that plagued the subject matter. And all he cared about was just showing the happy, positive side. As if no evil or terribleness existed in the gay and lesbian community of Chicago.

In those days when I wrote for those two publications (and others), I wrote for them because I wanted to learn all about the communities I was immersed in. the Internet was still young. I still believe that despite my handicaps (as in being one over another), I still wrote well because I understood.
The editor at the time never had problems with my articles, until one day when he became unusually livid because I dared to ask a question in an interview I submitted to him, with Phranc, the all-American Jewish lesbian folk singer.

He asked me at that point if I was gay or not. I told him that didn’t matter and that I was still capable of writing and asking important questions. With that, the editor fired me on the spot and told me, “I don’t have the time or the energy to explain to you what political correctness is.” 

That was 1990.

That editor has since moved on, won a ton of awards for being “politically correct or perhaps kissing ass. It could have been both ways, but I never knew for sure, but I suppose I can ask those who know him.

I remember the reaction 3 years later , in 1993, at the holy union of two friends of mine-the shock and hisses that went through attending friends, as my friend Don recalled the story. He was just as stunned.

Political correctness with a mob mentality within a bunch of nodding heads doesn’t belong anywhere. And yet, there is way too much of it. That sadly is what political correctness and social media has become, a bunch of talking heads that all agree on the same issues and bash anyone who doesn’t agree with them, even if they are correct just because they are incorrect.

Or perhaps it’s just a conglomerate of something greater and that is an out-of-control attacking electronic dog army of angry people who are collectively controlled by the stroke of computer keys. You see them everywhere online, including blogs, in shared vengeful videos, on Youtube, in comments sections of Internet articles, in college and university classrooms (students and professors combined), on buses, in the streets, at art shows, in alternative and mainstream media, talk radio, television morning news.

Chilling.

Just chilling.

Americans are out of control.


Friday, September 4

Christmas Music To Be Heard!


As many of you have noticed by now, I don’t celebrate Christmas. I do however like one little aspect of it and that being the music that’s played toward the days leading up to the holiday itself.
As a result, over the years I have collected several pieces of music that are in some small way related to Christmas itself. Going through my audio cassettes and compact discs, I have a rather limited, but eclectic collection of Christmas music including artists and if someone were to make me a couple Christmas mix CDs (hint-hint Junior), I’d be most obliged!
I don’t have all the standard pieces of music like I should, but I do have some of the cooler stuff, like: Nat (King) Cole’s “The Christmas Song,” The Beatles: “Christmas Messages 1963-1969,” John Lennon & Yoko Ono’s “Happy Xmas: War Is Over (If You Want It), Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmastime,” Judy Garland’s “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas”/“Merry Christmas,” and Charlie Parker (and friends), “White Christmas.”
I can’t exactly remember how I got into collecting Christmas music to start with, but I think it had something to do with the novelty of a holiday, other than Halloween, which there are plenty of records out there to start with. There’s a whole market on holiday songs, but they only seem to be sold when the market is right or whenever the holiday approaches.
I seem to recall that several radio shows host holiday music programs, which is fine I guess, but I suppose it’s like dragging out the plastic fake Christmas tree along with the dull ornaments that are hung upon it and it gets so old after awhile.
Locally, we have two really cool radio stations that host special programs on or near Christmas Day, like “Blues Before Sunrise,” hosted by Steve Cushing and broadcast locally on WBEZ (91.5 on the FM dial) and syndicated by National Public Radio. Then there’s “Those Were The Days,” hosted by Chuck Schaden and broadcast locally on WDCB (90.9 on the FM dial). Schaden usually runs thematic programs, just as Cushing does and he does a fine job of it.
There are other programs I am sure, like syndicated shows on the weekends that will play Christmas music, both novelty and modern musicians of all genres and then there is at least one radio station in town, WLIT (93.9 FM) that plays nothing but Christmas music beginning after Thanksgiving, up to Christmas Day.
Even though I celebrate Hanukkah, which the music as far as modern stuff goes isn’t a whole lot to choose from, other than traditional stuff, although there’s been a movement afoot lately for new tunes, anyway, having said that, I think I’d still probably prefer Christmas music over other holiday music.
There are tons of novelty records too numerous to name, but I will tell you about at least two great Christmas albums you might consider owning. There’s this guy, late great guy named Harry “The Hipster” Gibson, who rose to fame in the 1940s with his novelty hit record, “Who Put The Benzedrine In Mrs. Murphy’s Ovaltine,” who back in 1976, put out a great Christmas album called “Harry “The Hipster” Digs Christmas, a real rollicking boogie-woogie pianist if there ever was a great pianist! The funniest cut on there is an original, called “I Wish My Mother-In-Law Don’t Visit Us This Christmas.”
Then there’s Spike Jones, who along with his City Slickers made buttloads of comedy records in the 1940s & 1950s, most notably, “Cocktails For Two,” and “William Tell Overture,” but back in the 1950s, he scored pretty solid with a hit called “All I Want For Christmas (Is My Two Front Teeth).” In 1956, Jones released a great, absolutely hysterical, yet serious, which seems hard to believe, but true Christmas album called “Let’s Sing A Song Of Christmas.” Perhaps the best cut on there is the version of “Jingle Bells” in pig latin! You have to hear it to believe it!
But, I’m digressing slightly, now where was I? Oh yeah! Continuing onward with a couple of great mix CDs I’d love to have, which would definitely have to include Allan Sherman’s “The Twelve Gifts Of Christmas,” a parody of the hymn “The 12 Days Of Christmas,” followed by Lord Buckley’s version of “Scrooge,” then “Beatnik’s Wish” by Patsy Raye and The Beatniks, followed by “7’O Clock News/Silent Night,” by Simon & Garfunkel, then Sun Ra’s “Happy Christmas,” the those crazy, annoying Singing Dogs version of “Jingle Bells,” followed by “I Yust Go Nuts At Christmas” by Yogi Yorgesson AKA Orion Samuelson, then a dose of Frank Sinatra, Jackie Allen & Judy Roberts & Vince Gauraldi.
Rounding out my listening pleasure, I’d like Tom Lehrer’s “A Christmas Carol,” followed by Tom Waits’ “Christmas Card From A Hooker In Minneapolis” and finally, the capper of all songs, “12 Days Of Xmas,” sung by none other than the late great blood-and-fecal and honorary mishegas master, GG Allin!
Now, I couldn’t think of a better way to treat my ears to some great, great music!

Wednesday, July 15

How I Met One Of The Nicest Jewish Men In My Life Or How Loshon Hora Isn't Always A Bad Thing

Every once in a while, someone writes or broadcasts something about me. Whether it's newspaper, radio or television or loshon hora (gossip), it is always something. Not that I am bragging about it, but it's the truth really. Someone always has something to say about the work I do, as an entertainer or about me. And sometimes it's really wonderful, while other times it is not, especially in the case of loshon hora, which I have written about previously here (Loshon Hora: Can't Live With It, Can't Live Without It-September 13, 2011).

In grad school, I've certainly had my lion's share of loshon hora, from those whom I thought were friends, to those who were hell-bent on cheap inferior talk for other reasons. Little blemishes of competitiveness. But that doesn't seem as important.

From this point onward, I will be presenting articles/reviews that have been written on or about me; whether I agreed or not. What's more important however, is how entertaining the articles have become, in some cases, over the years. This first example, is in my opinion, the best description of me ever by a writer and because of it, we have remained great friends!

I met Mykel back in 1991 at a fanzine conference in Chicago. We shared an extra large pizza together from Father And Son Pizza on North Avenue in Chicago, which is still there 24 years later. The only other remembrances I have of that conference was somebody being stabbed & meeting (or was it hearing about her?) performance artist Vaginal Creme Davis.

I interviewed Mykel initially for another publication I wrote for at the time, called Freefest, at Union Station in Chicago, while he was waiting for a train to take him back to New York City. He told me anytime I was in New York to come look him up and I could stay with him (for further reference on Mykel Board, see: Post Partum New York Stories>Act One: Sid Yiddish Visits Mykel Board, October  30, 2005). I have written extensively about Mykel; toured with him twice and even created a Tuvan ballad in his honor, Mykel Board Weasel Squeezer. He's a nice considerate man, whom I consider family, as he does of I.

In spring, 2005, I was published in the poetry publication, Si Señor and came to New York to read and ultimately throat sing at the event. I remember staying with Mykel and when I left, he told me to "have a thick skin." The rest as they say, "is history..." 

This column originally ran in July, 2005 in (now) San Francisco-based publication, Maximum RocknRoll, in the column; "No You're Wrong," by writer/author Mykel Board. In those days, Mykel Board was a regular writer for them. It was only recently that they axed him, a huge mistake on their part, because he tells it like it is and doesn't pussyfoot around, but I am digressing just a touch.

When I received this article from Mykel recently, it is marked as #265, but since it ran in July 2005, it looks like it became a part of Issue 266. The column remains intact, including the other folks he wrote about and all of his endnotes, which are entertaining on their own.

And now, I present to you, the column that Mykel Board introduced me in, to the punks of the world from 2005...

You're Wrong An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board

Since all behavior has a function, there
can be no "dysfunctional" behavior. The term is
a scientistic (sic) euphemism for "disapproved."
-- Thomas Szasz

[As usual, names have been changed to protect my friends and my ass.]

     It's Monday. The clock-radio rouses me out
of my beer-sleep. The Yankees lost, something-
teen to 2. I whack the snooze button and drift
off. In ten minutes the radio is on again,
telling me the subways are on or close. Yeah
right.
     I flip the off button and curl fetally on
the bed. Tensing my stomach, I blow a massive
beerfart between the sheets. The Pilsneresque
fragrance wafts to my barlyed brain, acting like
chloroform. I'm once more asleep, dreaming of
Yankees who are NOT on or close.
     A few minutes later, I drift out of sleep
and force myself into a sitting position.
Somehow I stand and wobble to my desk and the
table next to it. I push the ON buttons on my
old laptop and ancient desktop computers.
Flashing Microsoft blue, they begin their own
struggles to wake up. While they boot, I waddle
naked into the kitchen to see if any dregs of
yesterday's coffee remain. As I reach for the
coffee pot, I notice that the hairs under my arm
are stuck together in a black crusty mass.
     There's about three inches of black goo
left from yesterday. I pour it into the least
filthy cup in the sink. That cup I put into the
microwave and go back to bed to take care of my
morning protrusion.
     Flesh in hand, I doze off again, expecting
the microwave DING will wake me up. It would,
except that I forgot to turn it on.
     Sometime later, I awaken to two bright
computer screens. One flashes red.
ERROR. DISK'S USAGE TABLE  ALLOCATES
TOO MUCH OR TOO LITTLE SPACE
FOR THESE FILES. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CORRECT
THESE ERRORS? YES OR NO?
   
I hit the ENTER key, figuring the computer
knows better than me. Then I go back to the
kitchen and press the microwave buttons for ONE
MINUTE AND THIRTY SECONDS. This time it beeps
when it's done.
   
 I take the hot coffee, and a piece of matzo
left over from Passover, and sit in front of the
computers. I gaze at the screens, waiting for
the words and images to make some kind of sense.
     While I wait for my eyes to focus, I call
my voicemail. [Aside: I hate the telephone. It's
an evil intrusion into my private world. I turn
the ringer off. I don't even know when anyone
calls. Twice a day, I check my voicemail and
call people back. Some people. Eventually.]
     Good morning, this is Citibank MasterCard
calling. We're wondering if you know that your
account... DELETE! NEXT!
     Good afternoon, Mr. Board, this is Al
Schweitzer from American Express... DELETE!
NEXT!
     Hello Mykel, comes a gentle almost-boy
voice, This is Paul Ratner speaking...
calling... I hope you remember me... We met at
the Toronto Anarchist gathering... convention...
a long time ago. I think you were chasing after
me, but Dave from MDC got me... You lost... This
one I let play on.
     And on it went. In fact, it went on so long
the voicemail cut it off... twice. It's too much
for me to quote here, but the gist is that he,
Paul, and his friend, Gloria, are coming to The
City for an Intersex Conference. The conference
lasts two days and could we please sleep at your
place during that time?
     If I hadn't already jerked off, I'd do it
now. Two sexy she-males sleeping at my
apartment. And a whole conference, a city full
of prancing trannies? How 'bout a party at my
place? I wonder if it's too early to call back.
     Turning to my computer, I delete a couple
item unsold messages from eBay. And laugh at,
then delete hustler spam from "a Russian girl"
and a "Malaysian young woman," telling me how
intrigued they were with my profile on "the
dating service." Could I please write back to
them and tell them more about myself? They love
me. Yeah right.
     Then I begin to daydream about the shemales
soon to visit. I unzip my pants and slip my hand
downward. As I do, my gaze drifts toward the
clock.
     Damn! I gotta leave for work. I'm already
late. I'll call the visitors when I get back
home. I just hope they don't find another place
in the meantime.
     I arrive at work an hour late. I've missed
one class. The boss is pissed. As usual, my
fellow teachers glance skyward when I arrive.
     "The train was late," I say.
     After work, I watch the guy playing Chinese
music in the subway station. He plays a Koto,
and a Mongolian instrument, a kind of square
guitar with a horsehead head. He looks Mongolian
to me, but I've never heard him speak.
     When I get back home I immediately call
Paul.
     "Yo!" I say. "You need a place to stay?"
     "Yes," he says. "You know. This conference.
It's so wonderful. I used to think I was the
only one... you know... like me. But since I met
Gloria... some people call her Ralph... she's
very accepting of both names... I know I'm not
alone. Now this conference... there'll be so
many... all together... there was this professor
from Stony Brook. I thought he'd be there, but
he's in Europe. But others... from all over... I
think... I mean... You can't imagine."
     "Sure I can," I say, unzipping my fly.
     "So Mykel," the voice continues, "do you
think it would be possible... I mean would it be
too much trouble... I know there are two of
us... we wouldn't be there much... Mykel? Are
you all right? You sound out of breath?"
     "I... I... I...aaaaaaaaaaah! I couldn't be
finer," I say wiping my hand on a handy sock.
"What time will you be here? I work 'til nine."
     "That's okay," says Paul, "the conference
lasts until 8 or so and then probably... we're
gonna go out to... you know... dinner or
something. We could meet you... I mean if it's
okay... It is okay, isn't it?"
     I nod into the phone.
     "We could meet you at 9:30."
     "Fine," I tell him. "I'm looking forward to
it."
     Flash ahead. It's 9:30. I stand in the
hallway, next to the buzzer. I'm wearing my
tightest black jeans, and a white on black DYKES
WITH BIKES t-shirt. The second they ring the
bell, I can let them in. Then they'll come up
the elevator and we'll be in a night of bliss.
     9:32. They're late. What if they don't show
up? I changed the sheets, and it's not even
March.
     9:37, Shit. They're not coming. Damn it!
After all those...BZZZZZ. The doorbuzzer sounds.

     I push the TALK button. "Who is it?" I sing
into the intercom.
     "It's Paul and Gloria," comes the return
voice, "you don't have to call her Gloria
though. Some people call her Ralph... and she's
very accepting of both..."
     I push the DOOR OPEN button and hold it a
few seconds. Through the intercom, I hear the
scrape of two people carrying bags, entering the
elevator and coming up. I open my door. Then
step into the hall, watching the elevator with
erect anticipation.
     The elevator door opens.
     In jails, I hear they use saltpeter. It's a
kind of spice that tightens the capillaries
around the penis, preventing blood flow. It's
used to limit the amount of sex among prisoners
by limiting the amount of erections among
prisoners.
     Here arrives my saltpeter.
     Paul is three or four inches taller than I.
He's square shouldered, as all-American looking
as a loaf of Wonderbread. He's got red rosy
cheeks with a pointed chin and nose and
absolutely no facial hair. But he's pasty white
and pumped, like Macaulay Culkin on steroids. A
gorilla with a little boy face.
     And Gloria? You're probably too young to
remember a Saturday Night Live character called,
PAT. Pat was a chubby sexually ambiguous person
whose humor lied in the fact that she... or
he... was so unattractive that nobody cared--
just a roly-poly roundness, as sexy as a soccer
ball. Gloria is Pat.
     I invite them into my apartment freezing a
smile on my face. They tell me about the
conference and how they look forward to it. They
tell me about life in a small town on Long
Island. About how they met and learned there
were more people like them. About how Paul was
born without the ability to produce
testosterone, so he has to take it through
injection and that "bulks him up." And how
Gloria never felt right in any case. And...
and... and... They go on.
     "It's late," I finally manage to say. "I
need to get up to go to work tomorrow."
     I start taking off my clothes. They look at
each other and do the same. Both strip to their
underwear... Paul in standard tighty-whities,
Gloria, boxers. Me, my sexy black bikinis...
that I regret wearing at the moment. Quickly, I
climb into my loft bed as my visitors huddle on
the couch below. They talk.
     I turn off the light but am unable to
sleep. The two chatter on the small couch, like
girls at a slumber party. I turn on the light
again and pick up some bedside reading, Darkly
Dreaming Dexter, and try to read myself to
sleep.
     [Aside: Here's my book recommendation. Get
this one! It's great. It's about a detective who
is also a serial killer. But he only kills
serial killers. Weird as hell and gory!]
  About 2AM the chatter stops. They've fallen
asleep, and so can I. My mind drifts to my
fantasy of before. A Lucky Chang Waitress. A
shemale. A slim twenty-year-old with cock, balls
and tits... and all of it beautiful. A tight
stomached, ethnic beauty who... who... What's
that sound?
     I'm pulled from my half-sleep into full
consciousness. One of the two is snoring louder
than a Slayer concert. What the fuck? I throw
Darkly Dreaming Dexter at the couch. The snoring
stops.
     The next morning, another loud body noise
wakes me up. Farting, immediately followed by
giggles. Then more farting. And more giggles.
     Intersex? Instead of the best of both
worlds, I get the worst. Giggling and snoring.
It's shemales turned inside out. Instead of a
beautiful girl with a dick, I get non-stop
talking and farting.  What have I done to
deserve... ok, better ask another question.
     Tonight we're eating dinner at a Vietnamese
restaurant. Gloria wears torn jeans and a HWA t-
shirt. S/he tells me HWA means HERMAPHRODITES
WITH ATTITUDE. I'm a little surprised there're
enough to have such an organization, let alone
such an attitude.
     Gloria holds the menu a few inches away
from her face and squints. "The light in here is
really bad," she says.
     My 80-year old father is blind in one eye.
The other is going fast. I know that "the light
in here is really bad," means, "I can't see and
I need some help with this, but I'm embarrassed
to ask."
     "I'll read it to you," I tell him/her.
     "I'm not blind," s/he says, reacting as if
I'd insulted him/her. "I just can't see in this
light."
     It's at this moment that the drums roll.
The horns come in. The lightbulbs flash. Tinker
Bell arrives and touches her wand to my
forehead. I GET IT.
     Suddenly, I get that these people feel
lonely, frustrated and picked on like the rest
of us. They have pride in what they can and
can't do, like you do. Suddenly, I see that they
have to go out every day and face the world
knowing that, not only are they different from
everyone else, but the first thing people see
about them is that difference.
     They don't choose to be freaks. They don't
live their lives to be different from everyone
else. In fact, they struggle to join everyone.

I can see just as good as you can. I'm just like
you except...

     Suddenly, I understand that when I fart,
it's just a guy farting. But when they fart,
it's some special thing. They aren't supposed to
fart or laugh about it like ordinary people do.
Suddenly, I feel like shit for asking them to
live up to my image of intersex. Do I live up to
their image of... I don't know what?
     "Hey, guys... er... people," I say. "This
meal's on me."
     "You don't have to do that," says Paul.
     "Yes I do," I answer.
     Flash ahead about two months. I met Sid
almost as many years ago as I'd met Paul. I
don't remember the details, but I do remember
that he gave me a cassette (or was it a
fanzine?) called COPS HATE POETRY. I remember
being amused that, for the first time in my
life, I found myself on the same side of an
issue as cops.
     [Aside: Yeah, I've changed a bit since
then, though my poetry tastes are still pretty
limited. But that's another column.]
     As I remember, Sid's a shlubby Jewish guy,
kind of egg-shaped, very sincere. I also vaguely
remember there was something eager about him. As
if he wanted to jump into new things with both
feet, and eyes closed. He told me about some
weird combination of hobbies --not AK-47s and
macramÇ-- but something like that. It was a
quality I admired.
     When Sid visits, I see he's still shlubby,
now shaped like a huge matzoball. He's pretty
much like I remember him, though. Balder,
perhaps, but who isn't?
     He carries a battered knapsack and what
looks like a red canvas gymbag. Because my
apartment is so small, he has to set these in
the bathroom before there is enough space for
him to make it to the livingdiningbedroom. I
offer him a seat on the bedcouchvisitorschair.
He sits down heavily, hands on his knees. His
deep-set eyes dart around him.
     "Your apartment," he says. "It's like
living in a thrift store."
     I smile.
     He looks at a metal colored-boy bank I have
next to my TV. Then he looks at the Uncle Ben's
cap on the big Munch-Scream blow-up doll. "I
notice you've got a lot of..."
     "Yes," I tell him. "I collect Negroes."
     He nods.
     "I need my red bag," he says. "I want to
give you something."
     I get it for him. He takes out a couple CDs
and hands them to me. "Some of my poetry," he
says, "I hope you like it."
     Then strange sounds begin to come from him.
Deep sounds, almost electronic, coming from his
face somehow.
     ooooWWWWAAAAAAAAAAA.
ooooWWWWAAAAAAAAAAA.
ooooWWWWAAAAAAAAAAA.
     It sounds like Tuvan throat-singing, but I
never heard a whiteguy-- let along a Jewish poet
from Chicago-- who could do it.
     "I've been studying Tuvan throat-singing,"
says Sid. "I entertained the guys on the bus
back from the airport."
     Imagine riding cooped up in a bus after a
long flight from Des Moines. Your first trip to
New York. You're already afraid of muggers and
Osama. Suddenly your fellow passenger starts
sounding like a science fiction movie... I'd
bolt. Go right back home.
     "What did the guys on the bus say?" I ask.
     "They didn't say anything," answers Sid.
"It was like they were scared or something."
     Sid spies my twin computers. "Do my mind if
I use one of your computers to check my email?"
he asks. "I've got these two girls chasing after
me. One from Russia and one from Malaysia. I
think they really love me."
     Eagerly, he checks his hotmail account.
Smiling and clicking his tongue.
     "They can't get enough of me," he says to
himself or me-- I can't tell which.
     Tomorrow Sid reads his poetry at "The
Bowery Poetry Club." He tells me he's scheduled
for 2 but probably won't start till much later.
He's going to throat sing as well as read poetry
for the masses. That I've got to see.
     I show up at 3:30, but I'm too late.
     "I'm sorry I missed it," I tell him.
Actually, I AM sorry I missed it. The absolute
natural weirdness of the guy is beginning to
intrigue me. He has such a pure oddity about
him. The kind of weirdness others spend a
lifetime consciously crafting. I haven't seen
anything like it since Jim Skafish (also from
Chicago) played at CBGBs-- except maybe for the
Intersexers who recently slept on the same couch
as Sid now sleeps.
     The next day I go off to work, teaching
Japanese businessmen how to act as obnoxiously
as Americans. Sid goes off on his own to explore
the city. He gets back to my apartment about an
hour after I do.
     "I was in the subway today," Sid says. "And
I saw this Chinese guy playing some weird
instruments. Something like a guitar with a
horse's head. I just watched a bit, then I
joined him with throat singing. He didn't say
anything. He just shrugged and went on. Other
people on the platform didn't seem to like it
though."
     "Dija get any money?" I ask him.
     He continues as if my question weren't
meant in sincerity. It weren't.
     "I'm meeting a friend tomorrow," he tells
me. "He's a really tall guy... and he looks like
Howard Stern."
     "Is he a poet too?" I ask.
     "Oh no," says Sid. "He's a comedian. He
does Howard Stern impersonations."
     Then he stops and jumps. Just a small jump,
but given his girth, the jump ripples through
his body like shockwaves ripple through the air
in front of a crashing 747.
     "I want to take up tap-dancing," says Sid.
"I want to learn to do this right."
     "Maybe you could tap dance and throat sing
at the same time," I joke.
     "That's the idea," he doesn't joke. "I want
to be able to do them both together. It would be
great to be skilled that way."
     I'm not working tomorrow, but I can't sleep
late either. The doorbell rings at 10 AM. I
climb down from my loft and put on my pants. Sid
is already dressed, trying to figure out how to
use the intercom/doorbell.
     I push the right buttons, opening the door
and watching as the elevator comes up to my
floor.
     Out of the elevator comes Howard Stern.
Well, a younger, much taller, Howard Stern, with
even longer hair. He shakes my hand.
     "Hi," he says, "nice to meet you. I guess
everyone tells you this, but I gotta say it. I
don't always agree with what you write."
     "Nope," I tell him, keeping as straight a
face as I can. "No one has ever said that to me
before. And, by the way, could you help me get
my air conditioner out of the wall? It's really
high and its 28 years old."
     The guy nods and comes into my apartment,
nearly hitting his head on everything. The two
of us struggle with the air conditioner for 15
minutes. Nothing happens. After 28 years, it's
not about to give up its position to Howard
Stern.
     I thank him for his efforts though, and
Howard and Sid go off to explore Times Square.
From here things are uneventful, or at least
unimportant. So let's flash out and into
mindland.
     During the sixties, hippies, yippies,
druggies and drop-outs-- those who chose a
tributary off the mainstream-- called themselves
FREAKS. It was a badge of distinction, warn
proudly by the long-haired culture rebels whose
non-conformity wound up as conformist as any
modern day Republican or vegetarian.
     Few people use the word "freak" any more.
These days advertisers use catch phrases like
"uniquely you" or "made to suit the rebel in
you" or something equally stupid. Everyone sees
herself as unique... a kind of freak, different
from everyone else.
     You too, I bet. You're not like them,
right? Yeah, right. You're as freaky as Ashton
Kutcher. You can slip in an out of freakdom as
easily as changing t-shirts.
     Excuse me while I open a Brooklyn Lager and
toast it to Sid, to Paul, to Gloria, to the guy
who looks like Howard Stern. These are the real
freaks. The ones who thrive in their freakdom
without ever seeing it as freaky. The
hermaphrodite who farts in the night, or the
shlub who throat sings on a subway platform
without the slightest intention of being weird.
     This brew's for those who live inside of
freakdom without showing it off. For those who
can't switch back and forth from freak to non-
freak because their bodies or brains don't work
that way.
     Give me your strange, your odd, your hungry
freaks, yearning to breathe free. Give me your
cast-offs, your poets and tap-dancing throat
singers. The wretched refuse of a homogenous
society. Send me these insecure, human, social
misfits. My couch is yours, and I lift my
beercan beside my open door. L'chiam!


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

Your tax dollars at work dept:
     This from an internet personal security
site:

Computer-security flaws at the IRS expose
millions of taxpayers to potential identity
theft or illegal police snooping, according to a
recent congressional report.
     The Internal Revenue Service also can't
tell if outsiders are browsing through your tax
returns, because it doesn't check its computer
systems for unauthorized use. These findings
were made public by the Government
Accountability Office found.

     I say, GOVERNMENT ACCOUNTABILITY OFFICE????
Whoever heard of such an agency? I can't imagine
them surviving the next round of tax cuts.

-->Who cares about flaccid? dept:
     Kesha sent me this from Reuters/MSNBC:

     A group of scientists in Hong Kong spent
five months measuring 148 ethnic Chinese
volunteers. The average length of their flaccid
penises was 8.46 centimeters (3.4 inches), which
compared favorably with similar studies on other
men overseas.
     Germans have average lengths of about 8.6
centimeters, Israelis 8.3, Turks 7.8 and
Filipinos 7.35. Italians were the longest at 9
centimeters and Americans averaged 8.8. The
scientists did not measure the penises when they
were erect.
     The study also found that a man's height
bore no relation to the length of his member.
However, those with higher body mass indexes, or
fat content, appeared to have shorter penises.
   
-->Whoops dept:

     Tom Yohannon, brother of God, emailed me
that I erred when I said that Turkey had
proposed a law decriminalizing adultery. He was
right. Mia culpa. (Or culpa of wherever I read
it.)
     The proposed law would have CRIMINALIZED
adultery, making it a jailable offence. As it
turns out, the law was never passed. Instead,
Turkey adopted more modern laws of oppression
and discrimination: jail terms for
intergenerational sex, for example. And a new
"anti-obscenity" law. Soon there'll be no place
to go. EVERYWHERE will be America.

-->In case you're not watching dept:
     The National Coalition Against Censorship
(www.ncac.org) reports on a PBS show "Postcards
from Buster." In that show, a little animated
rabbit travels around the country to see how
different children live. In one of the early
episodes, Buster learns about maple syrup and
dairy farming from some kids in Vermont. The
kids live with two women.
     Margaret Spellings, the US Secretary of
Education complained. She said "parents would
not want their young children exposed to the
lifestyles portrayed in the episode." Bravely
standing up for free speech, PBS pulled the plug
on the show.

-->Free speech for me, but not for thee, dept:
The "Holocaust Survivors Association" includes
Jerrold Nadler, my local congressman, along with
other big names, most with very Jewish- sounding
names. They don't have a website, but they do
have a phone number: 718-743-6640.
     What do they do? Their proudest
achievements have been:

     1. We stopped the sale of Nazi Newspapers
in Manhattan.
     2. We stopped the selling of Hitler T-
shirts in Times Square.
     3. We forced Lyndon LaRouche to leave New
York after two demonstrations in front of his
office.
     And, oh yeah,
     4. We work for human rights and social
justice.

     Errrr... isn't free speech a human right?
Maybe that one doesn't count.

-->Jew of the Month:
     With all the bad free speech stuff going
on, it's my pleasure to announce this month's
Jew of the Month. She is Nadine Strossen,
president of the New York branch of the ACLU.
     They're not ALWAYS right. And lately
they've been focusing more on "equality" than
free speech. Still the ACLU's the best we
have... and a good chunk of that is due to
Nadine.

-->Ah eBay times dept:
     While going through boxes of old newspapers
to sell on eBay, I found one date August 14,
1945. The headline: JAPAN ANNOUNCES SURRENDER.
Oh yeah, that was 2 1/2 months BEFORE the US
dropped the A-bomb on them.