Sunday, July 27, 2014

WHITE MEN? PUL-- EEZE! Mykel Board's Post-MRR Column 12

YOU'RE STILL WRONG
POST-MRR COLUMNS
by Mykel Board

aka: WHITE MEN? PUL-- EEZE! 

"People who get upset over the mildest racial slur aren't nearly so bothered by obscenities such as "war stimulates the economy" or "the poor you shall always have with you." But this kind of thinking has killed more people, black and white, than racism ever has.” --Jim Goad

[Last column I wrote about my trip to Detroit. That episode was about my adventures with Unitarian Men's Liberationists. Now let's flash to the Allied Media Conference... the main reason I'm here.]

I'm madder than a feminist at a free-speech rally. It's my chance and THEY blew it.

Detroit, city of possibilities, dreams... a blank slate. I'm here for the Allied Media Conference: a collection of alternative types from all over America. In my mind that means lesbos, homos, punks, colored folks... the full spectrum... snow to fudge syrup... everything in-between. Genders up the wazoo.... the full spectrum... Rihanna to Arnold Schwartzenegger... everything in between. It'll be a mammoth mingle... a coming together... freaks of all kinds in one big jumble... up each other's wazoo. Oh boy!

Hosted at Detroit's Wayne State University, they'll use the classrooms to teach-- and celebrate-- the possibilities of Freak Media in a boring world.

There'll be real mutants and marginals... Not the LTGs on the NYUed streets of The Village, but hardcore girls who wear their lesbitude on their chest. And the drag kings who make such pretty boys that I could cum in my Depends. (Someday, I want to make an LP called Boy With A Cunt. Whoops, I already did.)

And there'll be all those sissy boys, prancing around... begging for sexual favors from a literary superstar, fired from MRR for being too punk.

It'll be one fantastic educational, sensual, groping, orgy. And, I'll learn something from it too! Yeah!

Check out some of the workshops on tap.

FAT ACTIVISM FOR UNRULY PEOPLE. Catalog description: I'm not looking for fat activism that produces well-behaved citizens while reinforcing existing inequalities: what I want is wild, weird, funny and free.

or

REIMAGINING DESIRE. Catalog description: This workshop will create a safe(r) shame-free space to explore the ways we can help shift and explore our own desires.

or maybe my favorite

CREATIVE DIGESTION FOR PEOPLE OF COLOR. Catalog description: In this caucus we will reclaim the dirtiest parts of ourselves. Come prepared to make art, share stories, and get messy.

This is gonna be fun.

I arrive at the check-in, greeted by a huge Negress “manning” the information booth. Smiley, funny, in great humor. I LOVE fat people. Especially the ones who are comfortable in their bodies. And there are... er... a ton of 'em here. Sexy fat colored girls, fat dykes who look like the cops in Tom of Finland drawings, bulky boys with double-D tits. Hubba Hubba!

Then I wake up. This crew is not punk. There's a bit of colored hair, but it's collegiate colored hair, not punk colored hair. In fact, the entire conference has the odor of college about it. Academic freaks rather than street freaks. FTG? Uh oh!

It's time for the first workshop. The REIMAGINING DESIRE one. Shame-free! Yeah, bring it on. I'm so there.

I check the catalog entry to confirm the time. Rereading the description, I see that it says, Open to all self-identifying people of color.

What? White people are not allowed??? If you're white but don't “act white” or think of yourself as white, it's okay? What the fuck? That is racist. No two ways about it. Entrance by race is racist. That's as clear as the freckles on my back.

Okay, I need a quick second choice. I decide on SELFIES & SURVEILLANCE: Where do our Pics Go? It's about photos on the internet. Not spectacular, but better than Software for Accessible Game Design.

The presenter is an academic-looking white woman with curly hair and glasses. The glasses do not have a chain that goes around the back, but they should. She introduces herself.

My name is Karen Schwartz,” she says. “I'm an academic.”

Is this an AA meeting?

She continues, “When you fill out the cards I'll hand you... if you don't mind... could you include some demographics? Age, gender, affiliation. Academics like that sort of thing. You don't have to put your name on it.”

But first,” she concludes, “let's go around the room and ask each person to introduce themselves. Tell us your organization, and your preferred pronoun.”

Preferred pronoun? I have a preferred sexual position (top). A preferred beer (U Fleku). A preferred degree of doneness in beef (rare). But a preferred pronoun?

My name is Cassie,” says the first girl, sitting in front, all the way to the left. “I work with Feminists Against The Patriarchy. My preferred pronoun is SHE.”

Nice to meet you, Cassie,” says the leader.

My name is Madison,” says the next girl, a beautiful colored girl with beach-weaved hair. “I work with Detroit Women of Color Preserving Neighborhoods. My preferred pronoun is SHE.”

Nice to meet you, Madison,” says the leader.

Then comes a cute school-boyish something. Blond hair, cut like a 1950s farmer boy... smooth face, no Adam's apple, but jeans and a boy's haircut. Speaking in a medium tenor voice, “My name is Dan. I work with Trans-people Trans-forming America. My preferred pronoun is HE.”

Nice to meet you, Dan,” says the leader.

Then it's my turn. “I'm Mykel,” I say, “I work with anyone who'll have me. My preferred pronoun is ME.”

Nice to meet you, Mykel,” says nobody.

Then the next person, a hugely fat woman... dressed like one of the Village People... begins to speak. “My name is Nicole,” she says... and the introductions continue.

After the introductions, the academic hands out her cards and asks us to write down-- next to our demographics-- who we take pictures of and why... what we look for in a picture... what we're careful of.

I like taking pictures of people who are proud of their difference,” I write on the card. “I want to concentrate on their self-confidence rather than on their freakdom.”

I steal a glance at the tall trannie with black hair sitting in the back of the room. She wears pointy glasses and a very prim office-lady dress. She doesn't notice me.

The academic in the front of the room discusses the dangers of posting pictures online, who can use those pictures, how they can be taken and put anywhere and how we have no control over them.

I think about evil Mayor Giuliani suing to have his picture removed from an ad for New York Magazine. The tagline was

“Possibly the only good thing in New York Rudy hasn’t taken credit for.” 

He was the fuckin' mayor. His face was all over the place... in every newspaper. How could he complain about it in an ad? Anyway, his suit created more publicity for the magazine than the ad campaign alone ever could.

How can we keep our images among ourselves?” asks the academic. “How can we prevent others from taking them and using them to their advantage?”

I raise my hand. You do that when there's an academic at the head of the room. She nods to me.

Why bother?” I ask. “If you don't fear how people use an image, you can't be harmed by it. Bill Gates' mug shot is all over the internet. Nothing is private. Why should we worry?”

Don't you see,” says the academic woman, “this is about power.”

Bill Gates doesn't have power?” I ask.

The tall trannie in the corner stands. “Why is it always WHITE MEN who are so free with other people's images? Why is it always WHITE MEN who don't get it?” she says.

She says white men the same way New Yorkers say white bread... the curled lip, metaphorical hand on metaphorical hip.

Then the class breaks into small discussion groups-- they call 'em breakout groups-- to talk about nothing. Instead of learning from a teacher, we have to geek off each other and talk about ourselves. Usually, I'm the last person to refrain from talking about himself... but I'm here to learn, to discuss among EVERYBODY.

This small group shit is a waste of time, but they do it in this workshop... and in every other one. I never learn if it's some kind of feminist/identity plot... or just a new fad in pedagogy. In any case, it's annoying and a time waster.

The other two people in my group are women-- one white, one Oriental. They discuss ways that their images have been misused. I don't have much to say.

After the small groups, the academic talks some more. Some people exchange email addresses and facebook names. No one asks for mine. The seminar is over.

Okay, what's next?

I can't go to the Arab Women in Sports one. The notes say that it's only for people “who self-identify as Muslim.” That leaves me out.

Okay here's Femmes After the Apocalypse. Sounds cool, sissy boys after World War Three maybe. Who knows who I could pick up?... uh.. nope. Not that one either. The fine print: We respectfully ask that white allies do not attend. I guess I could go and say I'm NOT an ally but an adversary... but there's a fuck of a lot more of THEM than of ME.

Well, here's one. Hooeey, talk about up one's alley. It's Bromance: Sex in the Bois Room. It's about... it doesn't matter. It's a closed and confidential space QPOC only. In case you don't get it by now: Queer People of Color.

Racist and heterophobic... what the fuck?

What am I gonna do? Ah here's one... Erotica/Porn as a Tool for Social Justice. I read the description...the fine print... twice. White people are allowed. Even white men! I'm there!

But more on that one next month.

ENDNOTES: [You can contact me by email at god@mykelboard.com. Through the post office: send those... er... private DVDs..or music or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to: Mykel Board, POB 137, New York, NY 10012-0003.
If you like my writing, you can be notified when anything new is available by subscribing to the MYKEL'S READERS Yahoo group readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

-->Middle East Department: Let me get this straight. The US and Israel should invade Iran because they might make nuclear weapons and bring them into the Middle East. Hamas fires rockets at an Israeli Nuclear Weapons facility, which means Israel already has nuclear weapons, and has brought them into the Middle East. Does that mean the Iran and the US should attack Israel?

-->Wanna bet they won't fade from the NSA dept: A new email service allows you to send emails that fade away seconds after the recipient opens them. You just add fade.li to the end of an email address (e.g. god@mykelboard.com.fade.li) and the reader's version of the email will disappear.
Too bad they don't make an app where the reader herself fades away after opening the message. You computer geeks! Work on that!

-->Hometown Embarrassment Dept: The Long Island town of Old Westbury (right next to my hometown of Hicksville), may ban a statue by Damien Hirst called Virgin Mother. It's a visible-woman type sculpture, showing how a baby rests in its mom's womb. The reason for the ban? The statue shows the woman's nipples.

-->Keeping the Pressure on Dept: I want to thank reader George Metesky for suggesting a Bring Back Mykel effort directed at Maximum Rock'n'Roll. Send your comments-- to mrr@maximumrocknroll.com with the subject line: BRING BACK MYKEL. Let me know how they answer.

-->And: I'm on a massive clean-up/divest kick. I'm giving away DVDs, cassettes, VHS videos, and a few CDs. Just pay separate shipping and handling. Details at: MykelsGiveaway


-end-






Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Eureka? You're Boring! (Column Meant for Street Carnage)

Eureka? You're Boring!

by Mykel Board

[I originally wrote this for Street Carnage e-zine, but I never heard from the editor after I sent it in. I expected it to be run on that shameful NY Sky Vodka, TD Bank, corporate who-knows-what “Gay Pride Day.” It didn't happen.

So, I'm putting it out there for my friends, followers and enemies. As usual, you can use this any way you'd like... without changing it (ask if you want to edit it)... and with giving me credit/blame for the writing.]

John Jay College of Criminal Justice... where they train the cops... courses like Forensic Science and Protection Management. Not a place I expected to be... ever. But here I am... in the gym, of all places. I hate sports... especially team sports... especially COLLEGE team sports. But this is perfect... perfect for Manhattan Mayhem vs Queens of Pain. Yes! Roller Derby... a track taped in orange concentric ovals just inside the edge of the gym mats. Girls... skating around... bashing each other... elbows and hips flying. My kind of sport.

PLOW!... a pile-up... block... hit... block... I don't get the rules... something about the girl with the star on her helmet. She's gotta break through the blockers, score points. An elbow to the abdomen... Yeah! Shoulder to shoulder... okay! Not as violent as I hoped... no blood. Still the crowd... the audience on the gym bleachers... a mass of lesbitude.... like at a WBA game ... more butch than Henrietta's... my kind of crowd.

On the mats, the referees wear black and white. The jersey back on the one in front of me says WILLIAM SKATESPEARE.

Another bunch of guys stands around the center of the mats. I donno... prop men maybe. They handle the towels, fan the girls between periods. They look like college students. One-- a 20-something guy with a beard-- wears a black t-shirt with white letters. STRIVE TO BE BORING, it says.

He can wear this at a Roller Derby? Surrounded by manly women? They'd just as soon run a cue stick up his ass as munch a carpet. And he STRIVES TO BE BORING??? What the...

BOING!

I'm Archimedes in the bath... Newton under the apple tree... Fleming at the moldy Petri dish. EUREKA! I get it! That t-shirt explains EVERYTHING... the last 35 years... exactly what we lost... exactly what's gone in the screaming demands from every don't-call-me-tranny to every Mack-and-Mark wedding registration at Bloomingdales. It's the STRIVE TO BE BORING.

There was a time not so long ago, when people strove to be exciting. Hets copied homos. Straight men put on glitter to separate themselves from the boring masses of heterosexuality. Plato's Retreat, the notorious on-the-premises swingers' club, opened. It was the first of many hetero attempts to copy the free-wheeling WE ARE EXCITING life-style of America's homotude. I was there. I was also at HELLFIRE jerking off with a dozen other guys watching a beautiful naked blond woman, hung in a sling. She was being fisted by a man wearing a black leather vest and nothing else.

In the decade before that, the New York Dolls-- whose individual sexual preferences remain unknown-- made some of the most powerful rock'n'roll in decades-- in drag. Make-up became standard for outsider music. Trannies? Homos? Everyone wanted to be one... or at least look like it.

Holy red scare! Herpes-- then AIDS-- put the kibosh on the free sex. Sad, but understandable... at least in its reining in condomless nookie. But what else happened? The first stirrings of a change... of the quest for equality changing to the quest for sameness... and then the quest for BORING!

Instead of just putting a sock on it, people stopped screwing around. The law came down on the gay baths and their hetero imitators. Platos and Hellfire closed. The Dolls stopped dressing up. Exciting was dying.

Worse: a multitude of homos came out in VERY BORING places. The Log Cabin Club-- gay Republicans-- were among the first. From the New Republic, a formerly liberal magazine that trannied to Neo-Con in the late 80s, came the first call for gay marriage. In 1989, Andrew Sullivan wrote an essay for that magazine called “Here Comes the Groom: A (Conservative) Case for Gay Marriage.”

Its premise: homitude was wild, promiscuous, exciting. How to tame it? Allow... encourage... homos to get married. Then, they could be just like everybody else... boring. Gay marriage became legal in Denmark and other Scandinavian countries-- then England and Canada. [Interesting side note: a friend of mine was one of the first in England to get gay-married. He was also one of the first to get gay-divorced... and to pay gay alimony.]

In America, it wasn't until the rich got involved that things began to roll... money talked. Bill Clinton, ironically much beloved by America's same-sexers, had signed the DEFENSE OF MARRIAGE ACT. That law prohibited states and the federal government from recognizing same-sex marriage.

FLASH TO WESTCHESTER: A pair of rich lesbians in a mansion. They'd married in Canada. One of them kicks the bucket. The court orders her mate to pay more than $300,000 in estate taxes. That ain't clamjuice!

The mate fights it all the way to the Supreme Court. DOMA is UNCONSTITUTIONAL! says the court. Why? It violates equality. That $300,000 doesn't have to be paid!

What the court DOESN'T say is that marriage ITSELF violates equality. Married people don't have to pay estate tax. Unmarried do. Is that equality? There are over a thousand LEGAL rights that married people have, and singles don't have. Is that equality?

The right questions: What business does the government have in marriage? Why do relationships require licenses in the first place? How can the government sanction a religious service? Why should I be forced to WORK to make a relationship, or else suffer the consequences of divorce? Instead of asking these, the former (drag) kings and queens of freedom... of open lifestyles... of sex and make-up and genderfuck... ask to be boring!

Marriage is not only a conservative economic union, it's a BORING one. Screwing outside is A VIOLATION, and reason for divorce. Marriage takes your sexuality and MAKES IT BORING. You always hear married couples working on their relationships. You ever hear of blowjob-in-the-toilet stallers working on their relationships?

Work is boring. Play is not. The right to be outrageous... to be exciting... to be playful... beats the right to be boring any day. Don't worry, Gay Priders, you've been striving to be boring for more than a decade now. You're coming closer to your goal every day.

Me? I will not strive to be boring. There's no pride in that.


-end-


Tuesday, July 01, 2014

ARE WE NOT MEN? Mykel Board's Post-MRR Column 11

YOU'RE STILL WRONG
POST MRR COLUMNS
Post MRR Column 11
“Are We Not Men?”
by Mykel Board

To trust in men is itself to let oneself be killed a little.”-- Celine

Every guy worth his weight in foreskins knows that the best place to pick up girls is a homobar. Usually sitting on an empty bar stool, they'll be waiting to talk to you... to find out about your history... to mother you... to show you that girls are nothing to be afraid of... to show you that if you try it... you'll see it's not so bad.

You put on your I've-never-done-this-before-so-be-gentle-with-me face, and before you know it, you're at her place, listening to... (maybe), “You're so good. I can't believe you've never done this before.” or (more likely) “Don't worry. You'll learn. It takes time.”

I write this in the lobby of the McGreggor building at Detroit's Wayne State University. I'm here for the AMC (Allied Media Conference) The conference is NOT punk. It IS homo. A huge gay bar... waiting for me to confess I've-never-done-this before-so-be-gentle-with-me. NOT!

I can hardly talk to any of these people, let alone pick one up for a roll in the Haymarket. Conference attendees are so self-absorbed, insular and identity-based, it reminds me of of those Mens Liberation groups I've heard about... where the members get in a big circle, hug each other, and scream WE ARE MEN. WE ARE BROTHERS. WE ARE MEN. Oy vey!

I've come to Detroit with a second motive... a fantasy.... news reports of a deserted city... empty... cultureless... depopulated. After Clinton's NAFTA killed the American auto industry, there was nothing left. Kill City again... like the 70s... a blank slate... move here and you can do anything. If you fail, it won't cost you much to try again.

I have a (low-paying) job I like in NYC. I have a (tiny) cheap apartment. I have the freedom to take a (non-paid) week... month... year... off work and have a job when I return. As long as that remains, I'm not going anywhere. But what if it changes? If I lose my job, my apartment, my benefits, where'm I gonna go? Detroit?

FLASH TO THE LAGUARDIA AIRPORT: At the gate, I survey the waiting crowd. They look like anybody anywhere. More fat people than you'd see on a typical NYC street, but otherwise... no... there's one girl... dyed black hair... tattoos... skinny... Hoooeee! She might be on my flight. I walk over... take a seat as close as I can to the sexy girl. Close enough to read the Bob Dylan quote in her tattoo. I gave her my heart, she wanted my soul. Holy cow, lesbo too! I'm in love!

I'm wearing my THORAZINE t-shirt, the one where Alice holds a smoking gun... the white rabbit lying dead at her feet.

I love your t-shirt,” this girl's gonna say. “I know Thorazine from Philly.” Those words will make me come.

Doesn't happen.

FLASH TO DETROIT: I've pick up my rental and am off to my couch-surfing hosts. I end up in a neighborhood someplace. The streets don't have lights, but the houses are big... like mansions... huge white columns... a historic district... next to Henry Ford's historic home. That's where my scummy couch-surfing hosts are. Huh?

More about the neighborhood-- and people later. I drop my bags off and go to meet Dennis, another couch-surfer... in the burbs. He's invited me to dinner with some friends.

Dennis sits in the back yard of his house... a suburban-looking place in a suburb whose name I forget. I pull into the driveway next to the back yard. He waves to me, but doesn't stand up. We shake hands. He's a man about my own age, short cropped gray hair, shorts and sandals.

Sit down, Mykel,” he says. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Wachya got?” I ask.

I got water, juice, may have a beer,” he says.

A beer'd be great,” I tell him.

When he gets up, I see that he walks with a limp... stepping ahead with one leg and dragging the other behind. In a few minutes, he limps back with my first can of Michigan beer. [Aside: during this week I'll have a ton of Michigan beers. Not a bad one in the bunch. Two especially good ones, Nicie Spicie and Ghettoblaster, are better than The Beer Advocate says.]

Glad you could make it,” he says, “and you're coming to dinner with my friends, right? My church friends... Unitarian Universalist... you saw the church in Detroit?”

I passed it coming here,” I tell him. Maybe I'm telling the truth.

Detroit churches are so ubiquitous-- and so beautiful-- that I've been looking at them since I arrived. And I THINK I saw the Unitarian one.

After the beer: “Okay, let's go to my friend's house-- church brethren-- for dinner.”

FLASH TO THE LIVING ROOM OF THE SECOND SUBURBAN HOUSEHOLD: A half dozen of us around at table: Dennis, Me, the host/cook, a guy who looks like a truck driver-- baseball hat, beard, a fourth who looks like a TV sportscaster-- clean-cut as a Mormon, and one guy who looks slightly... off... a bit chubby... doesn't look at you... quiet... he rocks a bit when he's eating.

After dinner, we sit around a fire burning in a huge concrete cauldron in the back yard. The sun is just dipping into the horizon. Dennis starts talking , his face lit by the glow of the fire and the setting sun.

My wife has done it again,” he says. “She's demanded that I stop having people over. She won't talk to my friends... Last week it was worse. She got out of the car... at a stoplight... she just opened the door and ran.”

The other guys shake their collective heads. Then, the next man speaks... the trucker.

My wife has been treating me like dirt,” he says, and he continues to talk about his better half in a not better-half-friendly way.

One-by-one, the men talk. They talk about their wives... in one case a girlfriend... they complain... seek sympathy... get it. Eventually, it's my turn.

I don't really know what to say,” I tell them, “I'm single. Never been married. I'm here for an Alternative Media Conference.

Why aren't you married, Mykel?” asks the host, a round-faced man with a farmer's tan and Alfred Hitchcock belly.

Once in my life I asked a girl to marry me,” I answer. “She said no and immediately became a lesbian.”

Instead of the laughter that line usually brings, I get tsk-tsks and head shakes. The quiet, slightly-off guy looks at me. His eyes glisten. “I have two kids,” he says, “a daughter and a son. Both of them are gay. How do you figure it?”

Tell us about the shirt,” the trucker says to me. “I know Thorazine... it's a drug. Had it forced on me in the hospital once. But I don't get the picture.”

Thorazine is a band... from Philadelphia,” I tell him. “I like the picture. I figured I could wear it at this conference. It's got a slightly feminist message, you know?”

Silence.

The metaphorical speaking stick passes to the last guy in the circle... the Mormon. He talks about how he's forced to work two jobs to pay for what his wife spends “willy-nilly on whatever she wants.”

After he speaks, we stand. I figure we're leaving. I figure wrong.

Mykel,” says Dennis, “come and join us.”

The group has formed a standing circle... arms over each other's shoulders.

Together,” says Dennis, “WE ARE MEN. WE ARE BROTHERS. WE ARE MEN.”

We group hug. Then get into our individual cars and go off. I head back to downtown Detroit and my couch-surfed home.


ENDNOTES: [Contact: You can email me at god@mykelboard.com. For postal contact (send those... er... private DVDs..or music or zines... or anything else-- legal only!) write to: Mykel Board, POB 137, New York, NY 10012-0003 If you like my writing, I can tell you when anything new is available. (I also have a travel blog and some other stuff.) Join the MYKEL'S READERS YAHOO GROUP readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

-->Every little bit helps dept: Heeb Magazine reports that the GENESIS PRIZE, is given by a group of wealthy Jews to other Jews who “help inspire a new generation of Jewish leaders.” Last year, the $1,000,000 prize was given to: Michael Bloomberg... a billionaire 17 times over.
Yeah, that sure inspires!

-->War Crimes Dept: Anjolina Jouli has been active in convening a United Nations group to make it illegal to use rape or sexual violence as a weapon of war. She was joined in her activism by British foreign secretary, William Hague. The focus was punishing those “war criminals” guilty of sexual violence.
Hmmmm, seems to me, torture and murder are more important war crimes than sexual ones... but that would be helping when the victims are MEN. We wouldn't want that, would we... BROTHERS?

-->Thought Crimes Dept: A man in Olathe, Kansas, was prosecuted for possession of child pornography. He had pasted a photo of a young person's face onto a larger nude picture of an adult woman "with the intent to satisfy his sexual desires." The man was acquitted, but only because the judge could not determine beyond a reasonable doubt that the face in the picture was of a child under 18. Despite his acquittal, the court would not release the man's book of pictures of girls taken from legal catalogs and magazines, nor his diary which chronicled his dreams, including some of young girls.

-->Tit Crimes Dept: The Galveston, Texas City Council drafted an ordinance that would prohibit the baring of women's breasts, “real or in image.” The law would make it illegal to wear novelty vests embossed with bare breasts and asses, or tee shirts with photos or drawings of bare breasts or asses. City Attorney Barbara Roberts assured the City Council that a similar Fort Worth law had been constitutionally tested and upheld.

-->Keeping the Pressure on Dept: I want to thank reader George Metesky for suggesting a Bring Back Mykel effort directed at Maximum Rock'n'Roll. Send your comments-- to mrr@maximumrocknroll.com with the subject line: BRING BACK MYKEL. Let me know how they answer.

-->And: I'm on a massive clean-up/divest kick. I'm giving away DVDs, cassettes, VHS videos, and a few CDs. Just pay separate shipping and handling. Details at: MykelsGiveaway


-end-