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.
