YOU'RE WRONG!
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board

   I was more out of place than a leg razor at a lesbian bar.  It
was the great ANARCHIST UNCONVENTION in Toronto.  I figured
there'd be lot's of sex, beer, and free food.  And the best part;
I could cause some trouble.  Maybe the last issue of MRR had a
report of what went on.   Here's the truth
   I rode up there with Mike Gunderloy, editor of FACTSHEET
FIVE.  Mike's an anarcho-capitalist who believes, among other
things, that highways should be privately owned and you should
have a choice between driving on those that require a license and
those that don't-- the latter presumably more expensive than the
former.
   Mike planned to distribute a leaflet from some Chicago
Anarchists.  They didn't like the way things were run at the
convention.  They objected to senseless "death-demonstrations"
that trashed things for no reason.    They said that the
organizers spend time raising money for food and future meetings
and all of it winds up being used for bail.  Besides rioting
could give anarchists a bad name.  The Chicagoans also objected
to completely open workshops that included seemingly irrelevant
topics.  "What if someone proposes to give a workshop on 'Why
Anarchists should join the Churches?'" They asked.
   The Toronto newspapers gave the convention a lot of hype. "15,000
Anarchists, skinheads and Nazis to descend on Toronto," they
said.
   Local politicians called for a full scale investigation of the
city.  How could they let a bunch of mostly foreign scum use a
public Civic Center for their nefarious purpose?  Organizers
planned the auditorium for selling stuff, another big room as a
daycare center, and the small rooms for a bunch of "workshops"
on all kinds of things.  The banana-colored journalists were
outraged.  Because of all the publicity, Mike and I  decided to
cross the border near Montreal, then drive on to Toronto.
   When I arrived I heard people shouting numbers.  "Eight!  Six!
Forty two!  One!" They said.  They were all shouting at the same
time, but each of them said a different number.  I peeped into
the room and saw that as they shouted, the people kicked up
their legs, opened their arms wide or tilted their heads to the
right or to the left.  Everybody moved in unison, but no two
people did the same thing at the same time.  I looked at my
schedule to see what this was.  "Anarchist Aerobics Workshop,"
it said.
   I went to find the "bomb making" workshop listed as being in
room 723.  Of course there was no room 723.  All the other rooms
were numbered randomly and those numbers kept changing every
five minutes.  I tried to find the men's room, but there were
only two "person rooms."  Hardline anarchists objected anyway.
It was fascist to assign a specific function to a specific room.
Each room should be allowed to seek its full potential and not
be hampered by arbitrary human restrictions.  That was
"animist."  People pissed in ashtrays and shat in coffee urns.
   None of that is true.  I wish it were.  Instead of anarcho-
weirdness, I got hippies.  Long haired, barefooted, patched
clothed, hairy legged, dope smoking, love-in hippies.  Punk
hippies, homo hippies, lesbo hippies, veggie hippies.   The free
food was lentils and spinach-- mmmm boy!   I went off to Colonel
Sanders and spent the three days of the convention with a chicken
bone in my mouth.
   You'd think that might rile up these organo-veggie hippies.  Ho,
ho, not the Canadians.  They are so proper and polite you could
gag.  Steve B., one of my many hosts, said he saw a Canadian
anarchist with a button that said, "QUESTION AUTHORITY. . .
PLEASE."  If it weren't for the Americans there, you could've
never gotten a decent riot out of these folks.  Fortunately the
Chicago anarchists were right and there would be lot's of window
breaking.
   The entire city reeked of veggies.  Their big politicos were "The
Kentucky Fried Five" who graffitied the local you-know-what.
How radical!  My hosts, Sean, Ruth, Al, and Ron were otherwise
fine folks, but they just would not chew the bone.  Two
Californians and a Brit also stayed at this house.  The three of
them were part of the "vegans", an extreme veggie sect who wear
veils over their faces so they didn't inadvertently inhale any
insects. They carried their own Soyburger mix with them, just in
case the local stuff was tainted.  Of course they ate bread.
   "How could you eat bread?"  I complained.  "Don't you know that
the wheat used to make that stuff is factory farmed?  First it's
cut down ruthlessly, while still alive, with no anaesthetic.
Then it's herded like cattle up tiny shoots where it's
sadistically ground into tiny slivers and packed like sardines
to be cooked for your pleasure."
   They weren't too pleased with me.
   There were lots of homos up there.  Besides the natives, came
California computer wiz, Tommy J, and the truly flaming Tad K
from Kansas.  Tad took me to my first homo bar in Toronto, but
it was too early for the action to have started.  Over nice
Canuk beer, Tad told me about his new band, THE GRATEFUL DEAD
BOYS.  An album should be out soon called, "Young, Loud and On
Acid."  The most interesting homo there was Bruce LaBruce,
editor of JDs magazine and future guest editor of the all-homo
issue of MRR.  Bruce is the founder of the "homocore" music
movement.  He lives with this artist girl named Candy and their
little female dog-- a pug.  They make 8mm movies.
   Speaking of movies, he's got a sure winner you'll want to see.
Dave D., of MDC stayed with Bruce while he was in town.  After
the MDC show, a punk girl stumbled up to Dave.  He took her with
us to Bruce's house.  The girl varied in consciousness from semi
to un.  Because of her heavy use of eye make-up, you couldn't
really tell if the lids were open or not.  Back at the house,
Bruce showed me his collection of film noir porno videos.
Through the open door I saw Dave carry the crewcut girl into the
bathroom.
   During an extremely arty blowjob on the TV screen, we heard Dave
call out.
   "Bruce, come here quick! Bring your camera!"
   Dave and the semi conscious girl were in the shower.  Dave had
his face nuzzled between her legs and was licking furiously.
Bruce ran in with the camera.  The dog followed.  I didn't.
   From the bedroom I heard running water, a gentle moaning, a
slurping and an occasional yapping.  It's all on film.  That, by
the way, was one of three MDC stunts that raised my opinion of
the band 100%.  Another was how they got into the country in the
first place.
   You see, M.D.C. was banned from Canada for either politics or
beastial sexual practices, I'm not sure which.  In any case,
they chose to brave the border to play for the anarchists.  The
band flew to Syracuse NY then waited in the airport for more
than six hours.  A Canadian finally picked them up and brought
them to the U.S. side of an Indian reservation.  That
reservation spans both the U.S. and Canadian border. No national
cops are allowed in. From inside the reservation, Indians canoed
them across the river to the Canadian side.  There, in the
woods, they again had to wait in fear of helicopter cops.
Finally they were brought out by I-can't-tell-you-who to play
for the @-boys.  Those guys have balls!  (For proof, just ask Bruce to
look at the movie.)
   Now let's back track.  Let's go into the community center where
all these "workshops" were happening.  The organizers posted a
schedule on the bulletin board.  Vertically were listed the times
of each workshop, horizontally were the room numbers.  I looked
down the schedule and saw the "wymyn's" workshop.  (They like
spelling it like that because "woman" has the word "man" in it.
They want to avoid that.  Get it?)  In parenthesis was the
notation, "wymyn only."
   Fortunately, there was a blank square under this listing.  Even
more fortunately, I had a pen with me.  I filled in the square
with a fake "Klanarchy workshop."  In parenthesis, I made the
notation, "whites only."  I hope they would appreciate my biting
satire.  Within half an hour, my graffiti was crossed out.
Within a full hour the entire poster was torn down so no one
could read through the crossout.
   I went to a workshop called "Loving Alternatives."  I liked the
name and was attracted to the fact that it was being held right
next to the "Animal Rights" workshop.  I figured there should be
some pretty wild alternatives if they combined the two.  They
didn't.
   About 50 people sat on the floor in a big circle.  A bulky girl
started things by explaining how she had formed this
"arrangement" with her boyfriend so he could see another girl on
Mondays and Wednsdays and she would get Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Pretty daring, huh?  Then people talked about their own ideas.
The big problem was making sure that at all times the
relationships involved "love and understanding."
   "What the fuck does love and understanding have to do with sex?"
I asked.  "Why should sex with someone involve love anymore than
eating dinner with them?"
   Oh boy, did they get mad.  I was just a stupid male, with a male
understanding and girls felt the connection more deeply.  I
could just never understand how a womyn felt. Even the guys
yelled at me for being "a man."
   The nasty thing was how I wasn't allowed to defend myself.  This
was an anarchist workshop, you see, so they had very strict
rules.  They couldn't have a leader or a moderator.   Each
speaker had to pick a person to follow him/her.  You had to give
everybody a chance, so you had to pick someone who hadn't spoken
before.  Of course, you weren't allowed to pick two boys in a
row, because this would be sexist.  You could never answer a
challenge, because you had already spoken and you had to give
someone else a chance.  It was maddening!
   "Who does that guy think he is?" they'd say.  "He doesn't see the
beauty and mysticism of sex?"  It got worse from there.
Whenever I would try to defend myself, someone would shout, "You
had your turn, let others speak."  Eventually they got tired of
yelling at me and started talking about themselves again.
   A great moment came when a pretty blond dutch girl spoke about
how she was "an incest survivor."  (Don't you just love these
new phrases?  I guess I'm a "suburb survivor".)  Anyway, you
could just smell the feminists' hackles rising slowly from
wherever hackles raise.  "Those evil men," they were stewing,
"abusing their own relatives like that.  Typical of penis
mentality."
   The girl continued, "I was attacked by my sister. . . "  Those
hackles deflated and lay limp.   I couldn't hold back the smile.
Gradually, the workshop turned more and more into a group
psychotherapy session.  People took turns telling about their sex
problems and what they did to overcome them.  Each story tried to
out-sensitize the others.  Sometimes there was applause.
   One sensitive looking young man, who, if he wasn't barefoot,
should've been, meekly raised his hand.  "Right now," he said, "I
am in pain."  He brought his clenched hands to his chest.  I
gagged and left the room.
   Outside the building was a park-like space where some people
frolicked in the garden and others tried to sensitive the nearest
stranger into having meaningful sex with them.  Tad introduced me
to blond girl named Alex.  He met her at the last @-fest and they
became good pals.  You'll read about my special "aura" later, but
it was working then, because Alex said, "Hi," then walked away.
   Lisa Seagul, ARTLESS's first guitar player and composer of
"We Want Nuclear War", walked right by me.  I grabbed her.
   "What are YOU doing here?" she asked.
   "I got a ride." I said.
   Bob Z walked by.  (Remember him?  He's the guy who got $22,000
worth of postering tickets from the NYC sanitation department?)
Bob had a knapsack full of beer.  He offered me one.  We sat
drinking on the grass. Bob finished his beer.  I set mine down
for a second.  It was the same second that a pair of Toronto's
Finest chose to pass by.  They saw the half filled can in front
of Bob and then opened his knapsack.  Another beer, same brand.
Yep, Bob, the ticket magnet, got another one, $53.75, for MY
beer.  Of course, Bob threw the ticket out-- or framed it.
   Bored with the playground, I hooked up with Tad K., Bruce LaBruce
and this reporter for Canadian TV.  We went drinking where it was
legal.  Over drinks we discussed anarchism, politics, sports and
stuff I don't remember.  I do remember making a rapier-witted
remark that struck them cold.  I can't remember what it was, but
it must've been good, because Tad answered, "Did you have a hair
transplant, Mykel?"  There was a split second of dead silence and
the conversation continued as if the question had never been
asked.
   It's taken me a long time to figure it out, but I realize that
people who try to embarrass you with physical remarks are
admitting they've lost.  It's like the "your mother wears combat
boots" game that little kids play.  Stephan, singer of THE
FALSE PROPHETS, pulls this all the time.
   "So Stephan," I ask, "How come The False Prophets play at over 21
clubs with big bouncers and rules that keep out punks and let in
yuppies."
   "You're short and you're losing your hair." replies Stephan.
   Anyway, back in Toronto, Tad eventually went off to look for
boys.  It was getting late, so I went hunting up some chicken
wings.  I could've waited on line for three hours for the
evening's free service of lentil guts and cabbage brains, but I
decided against it.
   That evening the first Americans were arrested.  The locals said
it was immigration and not the Toronto cops who busted them.
They drove a car with American license plates.  Immigration
stopped them and said that they must've lied at the border.
Their reasoning was this:  If they had told the border patrol
that they were coming to Toronto for the anarchist convention,
then they would not have been let in the country.  Since they
WERE let in the country, they must've lied at the border.
Because they lied at the border, they were under arrest.
   "Pretty good reasoning," I thought, "those guys should be
anarchists."
   During the day, I heard people talk about "the orgy house."  It
was also called "Cathedral B" and was supposed to be a hippy
anarchist sex house.  Boys and girls of all ages and preferences
lived there and supposedly strangers were welcome.  Of course I
headed right over.  I went with Tom, Bruce, Dave MDC, Tad and a
couple of other folks.  As I walked in I could smell the stewing
Brussels Sprouts.  I had hoped for something more fishy.  The
first floor was packed with pretty girls.  They looked at my
leather jacket, my leather army boots, and my face and sneered
once for each.  The reflection in their eyes said, "Cow
Murderer!" when they looked at my jacket.  It said "Man!" when
they looked at my face.
   "I'm not a man!"  I wanted to say, "I'm a myn!  Do you think men
are just incomplete women?  Hah!  We're independent beings with
thoughts and feelings of our own!"
   I didn't say any of that, though.  After all, I wanted to get
laid.  I went to the downstairs room where all the girls were.
They didn't seem to be DOING anything yet, but I figured it
was only  a matter of time.
   "Hey, get out of here," said a pretty one with a crewcut, "this
is the wymyn's rooms!"  She gave me a look like I was wearing a
CRASS shirt to a SKREWDRIVER show.  I apologized and went
upstairs to the boys.
   Tommy J, and Dave D. were already there.  Maybe it's something
about me.  Bruce says I radiate a certain "hostile aura."  In any
case, when I walked in the room a cold silence fell like an
Iranian airliner on the crowd lying on the floor.  People
suddenly grew intensely interested in things like cleaning their
nails, or puffing up their jackets to make them better pillows.
Tom & Dave MDC nodded hello, slightly embarrassed to know me.  I
waved back, took the hint and returned to the vegan house to
drink some beer.
   Later I found out that, after I left, there was indeed an orgy
at Cathedral B.  In fact, Tom himself started the boys' part
with some "cute guy with braces."  Not only was there an orgy,
but there was nearly a riot.
   The "bad guys" in the Toronto scene are not the baldies, but the
hair-in-the-air crew.  I met some of them at a NO MINDS show,
and they seemed nice enough.  I drank their beer and hung out
with them.  They told me they worshipped me.  In any case,
they're not very popular with the anarcho-homo crew, that's for
sure.  Now, I wasn't at the orgy/riot at Cathedral B, so I can't
say exactly what happened, but here's what I heard.
   It was late.  Tom and his new friend were starting the action
upstairs.  Suddenly the door opens and the hair-in-the-air crew
stands hostilely on the other side.
   "Look at those guys," says one of them, "that's disgusting!"
   "Yeah, what a bunch of sick fags," said another, "I think we
should teach them a lesson."
   They went on like this, their statements gradually increasing in
hostility.  Most of the homoboys ignore them.  Dave MDC got up
from whatever he was doing.
   "Hey, these guys aren't kidding!"  He said.  Suddenly the happy
homos realize that they might actually be in danger.  Dave faced
the bad guys.
   "You'd better leave," he said.  What happened after that isn't
clear. There was some sort of confrontation, with a group of
hard line hair people, their softer line supporters, Dave and
the B-boys.  Eventually the hairboys left and the orgy
continued.
   While those guys were deep in fudge packing, I was deep in
conversation back at the vegan house.  The California veilfaces
explained their particular brand of anarchism.
   I said I thought it was ironic that all these anti-censorship
people suddenly spoke out of the other side of their @'s when it
came to things like SKREWDRIVER concerts.  (If you don't know,
that band has been in the U.S.  They had as much trouble getting
here as MDC had in getting into Canada.  They're having an even
MORE difficult time playing.  Most of the A-punks say they'd
fight to stop any of their shows.  Fortunately the NO MORE
CENSORSHIP DEFENSE FUND is putting up the money to hire a hall
for them.)  [This is NOT true.  It's just another example
of Mykel's "humor."  --TY]
   Anyway, I told those vegans that I couldn't understand that kind
of pro/anti-censorship hypocrisy.
   "We've made sure they can't play in the open in England,"  said
one of them with a funny accent.  "They have to make special
meeting places.  Then someone comes to check 'em out and takes
them to the concert."
   "That doesn't seem very anarchistic to me." I said.
   "We're anarcho-fascists." came the reply.
   To be fair, I actually liked those guys, despite the horrors they
later inflicted on me.  They were smart and funny and could
commiserate with me, as they seemed to be the only OTHER folks
at this @-party not getting laid.
   Anyway we drank ourselves to sleep.  The next morning, the
vegetable people were off to go to an "Anarchy and the Military"
workshop.  I went to one called "Queer Anarchists."
   At that workshop a lot of homo boys wore dresses and didn't
shave their faces, presumably in solidarity with the homo girls
who wore dresses and didn't shave their legs.  The anarchist
rules were the same from one workshop to the other.  Only this
one was even more unfair, since we had to give the girls an
equal chance and there were only about a half dozen of them.
Most of the girls look like they were the type who stand to
piss.    I could tell the most militant because she didn't sit
on her chair, but squatted on it, like a panther ready to
pounce.
   One of the older gentlemen started off saying how these young
homos now days don't respect their elders.  The older folks are
doing all this AIDS work and the kids don't want to hear from
it.  They just want to disco. They're not responsible enough to
protest for more money for AIDS testing.  They don't listen to
their elders.  A younger guy apologetically said he couldn't
demonstrate for AIDS funding, because they use the money to test
drugs and drug testing kills animals.  The others nodded in grim
agreement.  It was quite an anarchists dilemma.
   I didn't wait to be called on.
   "Hey," I said, "Maybe the kids are right.  Maybe it isn't the
most thrilling thing in the world to establish your identity
from a disease you can catch.  It's bad enough to label yourself
based on where you stick your penis.. . . er. . . whatever you
have to stick, but to base your self-image on a sickness is
pretty lame."
   That got 'em mad, but they were too polite to yell.
   "Oh, he's just a bi-sexual," said one of the dressboys.  "I hate
bisexuals. They're all liars. They're just queers who don't have
the balls to admit it."
   "I'm afraid that's not right" said another,  "They're just
straights who think it's fashionable and politically correct to
say they're bi."
   Being neither Canadian nor an anarchist, I didn't wait to be
called on to defend myself.  "Why bother with labels at all?" I
asked.  "Why not just say that you like whoever you like, you
want to do it with whoever you want to do it with, and that's it?
Why CALL yourself something?"
   A guy sitting in the corner responded.  "Well personally," he
said, "I like the label ANDROGYNOUS.  I feel that way I can
express both parts of myself. . . "
   A person is androgynous if they could be either gender.  Someone
in the middle; like David Bowie in his prime or the people who
go to THE CURE concerts.  This guy needed a shave and showed
lots of curly chest hairs.  He was as androgynous as Hulk Hogan,
but that was the label he picked.  Jee-sus!
   The squatting girl raised her hand and called on herself to
answer.
   "I LIKE being a lesbian!"  she said, "I'm proud to be a
lesbian.  It gives me an identity, a way of reaching solidarity
with my sisters.  It carves me a place in the struggle."
   She adjusted her sitting position to give herself greater vocal
effectiveness.  She often spoke in italics.
   "MEN," she said, "especially STRAIGHT MEN are the enemy
when I make myself a lesbian.  They just don't understand.
There was a womyn's workshop and some MAN wrote something
obscene on the poster because it was WYMYN ONLY.  Then I
heard about this OTHER ASSHOLE who tried to bed down with
the lesbians at Cathedral B.  THEY just don't understand.
We're LESBIANS and we need our space."
   Applause.
   I left.
   I did get to see a couple of good bands when I was there.  I
didn't get to the MDC, MR. T EXPERIENCE show.  I saw NO MINDS,
the fun all-girl FIFTH COLUMN, THE LAYABOUTS and FAIL SAFE.  All
these are  really good Canuk bands, who might get to play in the
U.S. if the Canadian parliament passes "The Free Trade Bill".
FAIL SAFE, by the way, is the only punk band I've ever seen with
a blind guitar player.  He goes a long way toward proving my
theory that cripples are generally better than "normal people."
   Oh yeah, this Free Trade Bill is a law introduced into the
Canadian parliament that repeals the duty on goods crossing the
U.S.-Canadian border.  It would make U.S. records, books and
other goods cheaper in Canada.  It would also make Canadian
goods more available in the U.S.  (I could finally get that
VILETONES single, for example.)  What's really odd about this
thing is that the lefties are against it.  D.O.A. played a
benefit to help defeat it.  The pink-tinged labor party sang the
Canadian national anthem in parliament as a protest against it's
introduction. They said (with straight faces, presumably) that
Canada would loose "it's national identity" if it were passed.
   Can you imagine all these lefty nationalists?  These guys saying
"my country first, and fuck freedom of access?"  Can you imagine
DOA wanting to make it hard for MDC to play in Canada?  I wonder
how many other Canadian anarchists are against free trade.
Politics does make funny bedmates-- no?
   On the next to last day of festivities, there was the giant party
in the park.  If you weren't around in 1966, you didn't have to
be.  The Toronto @-people brought their own time machine.  When
I got there, a bunch of them beat on drums, oil kegs and who
knows what else.  Another barefoot crew was wildly dancing to the
drumbeat, carried off to mental Grateful Dead land.  There were
boxes of green things and pita bread for those who wanted to eat.
   Off to one side, another bunch of folks  discussed the next
convention.  It'll be in San Francisco.  They also discussed the
demonstration scheduled for the next day.  The U.S. had shot
down that plane, so they had a good excuse to riot.  I didn't
hang around for the discussion.  I'd rather go shopping than
rioting.
   Overhead, two blimps circled.  One was from Goodyear, the other
from a Canuk company called OV.  These companies paid the bail
bill for the anarchists in exchange for being allowed to
advertise at the gathering.
   A stage was set up.  An all girl band played and they invited
lot's of people on stage to beat on things.  The hot weather let
people pull off their shirts.  Couples were making out on the
grass.  Under a tree, Tom  prepared his latest find for future
drilling.  Alex, the girl that Tad had introduced me to, came
running up to me through the crowd.
   "Hey," she said, "when Tad introduced us, I didn't realize you
were MYKEL BOARD."
   I smiled an "aw shucks" smile and kicked the dirt with the toe of
my boot.
   Alex called to another girl.
   "Hey Collette," she said, "this is Mykel Board.  LET'S GET HIM!"
   Before I knew what hit me, they tackled me.  Alex pulled at my
shirt.  As I reached up to keep it on, Collette went for my belt.
It was the second time in a year that I was to become an
attempted rape survivor.
   When I let got of the T-shirt, Alex pulled it up over my head.
Trying to keep my pants closed with one hand, I reached up to
save my shirt with the other.  It was too late.  Alex took my
arms and pulled them up over my head.  She managed to pull the
shirt completely off me while Collette fumbled at my waist.
   Then she sat on me.  Collette grabbed my legs.  By this time
another girl, Becky, had joined the gang bang.  I managed to roll
over onto my stomach.  While still fighting for my pants, I
realized that Alex had gotten a marking pen from somewhere.  The
girls held me down.   Alex used my back as a public billboard.
   "I support the struggle of oppressed wymyn everywhere," she wrote
indelibly.  Then they turned me over.  Collette sat on my pelvis
and Becky held my hands.  Nearby, Bruce took movies and Mike G.
smiled.  So much for male solidarity.
   Alex drew two arrows on my chest, one pointing to each of my
nipples.  The base of the arrows came down to my stomach where
she printed, "These are tits too!"
   "OK," I shouted, "you've had your fun.  Now give me back my
shirt."
   "Nope," said Alex, "you've got to walk around the whole city like
that.  It'll help you pay back some of the shit you've been doing
for these past years."  She stuffed the shirt in her pants'
pocket and ran.
   Later at the festival, Tad managed to corner her and grab the
shirt from her pocket.  "I always wondered what it would be like
to get into a girl's pants." he said.
   The victory was short lived, though.  Alex soon stole it back
and-- to my knowledge-- still has it.  Was that it?  Was that
the end of my torture at the hands of sadistic anarchists?  You
bet it wasn't.
   I want back to the veggie house to get something to cover my
upper body.  The vegans were waiting for me.
   "Hey Mykel," they said, "come on out to the car.  We want to show
you something."
   I should've smelled a rotten turnip right then, but I was still
stunned from my attack in the park.  I walked out to the car.
They took out the box of "instant Tofu-loaf mix."
   "Uh oh," I thought.  I was right.
   Again I was tackled.  Right there on some stranger's front yard.
One of the veggies must've eaten a lot of spinach, because he weighed
almost 200 pounds.  It only took one of him to hold me down,
while the Brit opened the box of Tofu mix.  Sean squeezed my
cheeks to force my mouth open.  The stuff tasted like salted
sand.  I choked on it as it filled my mouth and spilled over
into my hair, over my chest, in my ears.  Meanwhile, the regular
residents of the house were happily snapping away with their
instamatics.
   Anything else?  Oh yeah, there was a riot.  They burned flags.
The papers said, "We told you so."  A bunch of people got
arrested.  Lot's of money was used for bail.  I went to a Blue
Jays game with Steve B & Al.  The Blue Jays lost.