Ya Gotta Have Heart or YOU'RE STILL WRONG, Mykel's Blog for October 2025

 

You’re STILL Wrong

or

Mykel's October 2025 Blog/Column

YOU GOTTA HAVE HEART

by Mykel Board    

[Sorry I’m a bit late this month. I had… er… other obligations. You’ll read about them right here, I hope.]

You have to treat the injured person not like a human being with a wound, but like a human wound.                      – Abe Kobo

We forget that health is a means, not an end   – Thomas Szasz

The hardening of the American heart is far more dangerous than the softening of our borders.   – Marianne Williamson

“Feather… Building… Brown.” [NOTE: I’m making up those three words. I have no idea what they really were.] And how are you feeling? Any pain since the operation? Twinges? Body parts? Can you describe how you feel now?

“I’ll never remember those words,” I think. “No pain now but my brain isn’t working right.”

“Mdfabadf ksafsartfa,” I say.

“What was that? Can you remember the three words?”

“No.” I answer, “Kiptoesink wastupa.”

I can say a few single words: bed, door, nurse. Others can go perfectly through my brain… thought waves… but I can’t spit them out verbally.

“Do you know where you are?” comes the question.

“Hospital,” I answer.

“What’s the name of the hospital?”

“I don’t remember,” I answer. “Koospaf smitzerik.”

“I see,” she says. “We’ll let you sleep now.”

“Yes, I’m in a hospital,” my brain tells me. “I came here from another hospital. I forgot the name of this one… The old one used to be called … be called… be called... Oh yes, St. Vincent’s… but it changed names. Why did they send me away… I… I… I…”

I drift off to semi-sleep. As I fall asleep, I have a vision of a psychedelic machine… a white thing… looking a little like a parking meter… with swirling black lines on a gray screen. Have I seen that some place before? In a museum? In college during an acid trip? POW! Awake again.

“I can’t remember the words,” I tell the nurse. “ but I remember telling you I wouldn’t remember them.”

Okay, let’s back up…. Go to the recent past… a couple weeks ago… mainly a blur. I remember the pain… in my chest. I use my finger to trace the ache. Hey isn’t that exactly where my heart is? Didn’t I just use the sharp fingernail on my right hand to trace on my chest an exact outline of my heart?

Hmmm, maybe I should see a doctor.

Flash to the doctor’s office: In Chinatown… Yellow pages cardiologist… closest one. She’s on the insurance plan. Make that appointment.

Meanwhile the pain goes away… and comes back 2 days later. My visit with the doctor… of course… prescription for testing… more testing… in Chinatown. Pain again… harder longer… I can’t wait for the tests I’ll go to Saint Vincent’s. It was closed for a while, but I hear it’s open again with a different name… a drag name: Northwell. I don’t know. Maybe it changed genders Emergency room. Late… near 10 o’clock.

NOTE: As I type these words I feel a mild chest sting. Left side to the upper right of the heart… I know where that is now. Very light pain… but… but…

Back to St. Vincent’s, a temperature test. A blood test for cholesterol… The doctor comes in to tell me the results. I can’t remember what he says, but I do remember him saying… “we have to test again in four hours to confirm the first results.”

It’s now 11 o’clock. I’m not sticking around until 3AM to confirm a test. A fuckin’ heart attack will confirm the test. When the doctor leaves, I wait a few minutes and check myself out the front door.

I don’t know if they’ve got my name… let alone my insurance company. How much is my 3-hour stay gonna cost me? Does it count if they can’t double check.. give me my 3AM confirmation? Fuck ‘em… the pain isn’t bad anyway. I can walk out the front door and no one will notice.. It’s a 20-minute walk home. 20 minutes well spent, I’d say.

I’m out. On the street... no check out... no nothing. I wonder what they’ll think when someone comes up to the bed at 3AM to administer the confirmation. I chuckle to myself thinking about the look on the nurses’ face when she sees the empty bed.

I get to 6^th Ave. No pain… maybe a little tension… a little pressure… Aaaaah, home!

I peel off my clothes and, fully naked, lie down on my bed and fall asleep. Yes, a naked glorious sleep. No beeps. No buzzes… no coughing neighbor, just sleep. I stay in bed most of the next day… fading in and out of consciousness… like a boxer getting hit in the head… waking up… throwing a punch… getting hit again.

About 5 the next morning, I wake up with a chest pain… but not a chest exactly… just at the bottom of the rib cage… I think that’s where the diaphragm is. You know, that flat muscle that pumps the air in and out of the lungs. It’s a steady pain on the right and on the left… I fall asleep again.

It’s later… I don’t know how much later. The pain has moved… up… up into my chest. A small area right in the center. Easily defined… Using my thumbnail, I trace the edges of the pain. Exactly tracing an outline of my heart. Dit.. dit… dit… a heart-shaped pain right where my heart is. Pressure... then stabbing pain… Exactly there… like an anatomy lesson in medical school... Exactly….

I force myself to stand up. Slip on yesterday’s clothes… take my wallet… leave the apartment… Do I lock the door? I can’t remember. Elevator down to the street. It’s dark outside… I start walking… I can’t do this. I hail a cab…

“Get me to the hospital,” I tell the driver, “St. Vincent’s on 7^th Ave.”

I hope he doesn’t panic. I hope I don’t panic. We make it. I throw all the bills in my wallet at the driver… $10? $5? $50? Who knows? He’s too panicked to complain… Just wants me out of the cab. Could you imagine the paperwork if your fare kicks the bucket while you’re driving?

I check into St. Vincents again. The guy at the desk doesn’t recognize me from two days before. Maybe it’s a different guy… I don’t remember showing him ID or an insurance card. I don’t remember them undressing me or what they did to get me in bed. But there I am again… in a hospital gown… naked underneath.

Beeps and buzzes… then a lift… on a stretcher like a TV news victim. An ambulance ride… No siren just the ride uptown. An ambulance without a siren. Where’s the fun? It’s like a jerk off without an orgasm… Why bother?

I’m now at Lenox Hill hospital. They explain that the former St. Vincent’s doesn’t have overnight stays… so I was transferred here. “Here, have something to eat.”

Nothing tastes good. Fruit is the best among the offerings… I guess it’s the high-fructose fructose. Even the coffee is awful. The only taste is bitter… bitter brown water... It gives me gas. Here I lay… tooting away… unable to crawl out of bed and would it make a difference. Putttt… putttt … puttt… not like the beer fart which precedes a beer shit. (“Poetry is like a good beer shit.” Charles Bukowski).

FLASH AHEAD: I give up. I’ve got to force out some poetry. I’ve been here a day now… Not taken a single step in that time. I can do it. I’m sure I can stumble from here to the bathroom. I only need to pass the bed of my roommate, enter the room and close the door. First, I swing my legs over the side. More difficult than it sounds…. First the right… uh… uh… uhhhh... then the left… hospital gown rising up as I move. No one there to see junior and his jowls… revealing himself under my hospital gown. What must it be like for people who see this stuff day in and day out? I’ve often wondered how come all gynecologists aren’t gay? Doesn’t over exposure take away the joy?

Ah… ah… ahh… I lower myself from the bed to the floor. My naked feet touch down. Using my arms I slowly lower my weight to those toes.. the soles… the heels… Full weight… My body sways slightly and I grab the bed for balance.

Right foot… left foot… right foot… Past the cloth curtain room separator. Past the groaning black guy… around my age… gray beard… hospital robe slit visible up the side like a stripper… He squints his eyes open to look at me and then closes them again. I hope he hasn’t died.

Right… left… right… left… OW!! I stepped on something. Tiny and hard. I walk with the pain following me on the bottom of my foot. When I reach the bathroom, I hold the knob with my left hand and lift my right foot… grabbing it with my right hand… pulling up. There... embedded in the sole… near the big toe… is a tiny black speck. I use the nail of my right index finger to scrape it out… It looks like a mouse turd.

I flick it under my roommate’s bed… enter the bathroom… lift up my robe and sit down. Pffffftttt! (Wasn’t that a Rudolf’s Rache song?) I push. A pain shoots through my head. Fuck! I’ve given myself a stroke in addition to my heart attack. The pain disappears with the next pffffftttt! Then I feel it. You know the feeling… starting about navel height you can feel the clump… clumps… move through the lower intestine… millimeter by millimeter… right to left to right again… then down… gloriously down… PLOP! PLOP! Oh God yes!! Yes!! POETRY!

I tilt my body to the right to look at my accomplishment. Not great… but better than the mouse turd I picked out of the bottom of my foot.

FLASH TO MY RELEASE… I’ve found out they put a stent into my heart. It’s a kind of plastic min-tube that keeps a closed artery open. The hospital has made an appointment with new my cardiologist. A six-foot way plus guy. He’s barely more that third my age with a fashionable (as opposed to Chabadnik) beard, and a slim attractive body. When he speaks, I hear an accent, but I can’t identify it. His name is Dr. Farhan… pronounced “far hahn.”

“I have a few questions I’d like to ask you,” I tell him.

“Ask away” says the Doc.

“First,” I tell him. “It’s almost Yom Kippur. Can I or should I fast for the Jewish holiday?”

“It won’t hurt you,” he says. “But I don’t know how much good it’ll do you.”

“Are you Jewish?” I ask. “Where are you from?”

“I’m from Austria,” comes the answer, “but I’m Muslim.”

“Ah,” I tell him. “I’ve got a friend from Bahrain who complains that he gains weight every Ramadan. He tells me that as soon as the sun sets, the eating starts and doesn’t stop until sunrise the next day.”

Doc shakes his head. “My parents were Muslim so I keep the identity nominally. I don’t like the way my fellow Muslims keep the holiday. You’re supposed to feel the starvation… realize the poverty in the fast… the pain of the poor. But we just focus on watching the sunset so we can stuff our faces.”

“Same with a lot of Jews,” I tell him “Yom Kippur is… at least in part... to feel the pain of hunger so we can understand the poor. But we can’t wait to break that fast. Jews and Muslims are like fighting cousins. It’s so sad.”

“I’m non-practicing,” he says.

“Okay,” I say. “Next question: When I was in the hospital something happened to my memory. First I couldn’t even remember how to speak. Then it got a little better, but I couldn’t remember the names of my family members… then cities or places I’ve been. I failed that test… you know when they give you three words to remember? I couldn’t remember even one of them.”

“Okay,” says Dr. Farhan. “I’ll give you three words. Let’s see if you can remember them: Jew, Muslim, Christian.” [NOTE: Those were the actual words he gave me. I remember them now… weeks later.]

I laugh.

I ask about diet… exercise… “Cardiac Rehabilitation”… I got a prescription for it from the hospital, but the bureaucracy in filling that prescription has prevented me from doing it. I still don’t know how much or what kind of exercises I should be doing.

“What about eating and drinking?” I ask.

I expect he’ll tell me to quit drinking alcohol and subsist on a non-hotdogs and non-chicken wings diet washed down with O’douls non-beer.

“You don’t need to quit the good stuff,” he says. “Just try to cut down. How much do you drink now?”

“I just have a beer with dinner,” I lie. [NOTE: Just after I return home, I see in my spam box one of my weekly newsletters with a sub-title WHY PEOPLE LIE TO THEIR DOCTOR. I don’t read it.]

[NOTE: As I write this, I have actually cut down the drinking to about 8 beers a week. And I haven’t had fried wings, a hot dog, or a Jamaican patty since the operation.]

Dr. Fahrhan writes me a prescription. It’s for a statin replacement… “you shoot it into your belly.” He tells me.

“Like Ozempic,” I say. “I’ve seen the ads for that one.”

He holds up his index finger. “Wait a minute!” He says, “I have a practice kit.”

He leaves the office and returns with a box. He opens the box and takes out a tube similar to the Ozempic one. He passes me the tube I lift up my t-shirt and press it against my belly.

 “No… no…” says the doctor. “You have to remove the little red cap in front. Then look for some liquid to fill the tiny window. Then you should pinch your belly and get a nice chunk of fatty tissue between your thumb and forefinger.”

I grab a hunk of flesh and press it between my fingers. “Like this?” I ask.

“Yeah, but use your left hand,” he says. “You need your right hand to do the injection.”

I switch hands.

He nods.

“Now press the tip against the flesh and push the black button in the back. You’ll see the liquid disappears as it goes into your flesh.”

I do. It does.

I feel nothing as the chemical goes into my body. It doesn’t.

“When you take the actual drug,” he says, “you’ll feel a sting. This is just a practice shot. Nothing goes into your skin.”

“You got it!” He continues. “I’ll send a prescription for the Repatha over to your pharmacy.”

He looks at some papers. “CVS on Mulberry Street, right?”

I nod.

ASIDE: PET PEEVE. Doctors used to write prescriptions. SCRIPT means write. PRE- means before. Get it? It’s what the doctor WRITES BEFORE you get your drugs. You should take a written piece of paper into a pharmacy and get a price for the drugs listed on it. If you didn’t like the price, you brought it to another pharmacy. In 2025 YOU HAVE NO CHOICE! In order to prevent fake prescriptions… say a prescription for heroin or cocaine… There has to be direct contact between the doctor’s office and the drugstore. No shopping around for the best price. You pay what they ask or you don’t get it.

After the doctor, I go home... quickly fall asleep, wake up and go to the drugstore. One of the things I like about it is that it’s open 24 hours… another one is that the people who work there are nice.

The next day, I go to pick up the drug. That CVS is my usual go-to drug store even though they keep half their goods locked behind glass. Maybe they all do these days.

I’m there around 11 in the morning. I walk to the prescription section in the back, punch in my name and birthdate [ASIDE: I guess we’ve all seen and those older have noticed, that birthdays have replaced Social Security numbers as proof of ID. Hey Gen Z… do you even KNOW your social security number?]

The druggist greets me... checks the numbers on the screen… types in some words and then POW! “Yes Mr. Board, that’ll be four hundred and sixty-seven dollars.”

See you in hell
Mykel Board

ENDNOTES: [You can contact me on facebook or by email at mykelboard@gmail.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. Send me an email with SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG in the subject line. Back blogs and columns are at https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com]

→ Role Reversal Dept pt. 1: I dislike 90% of what Donny The Trump does and the same percentage (or higher) of who he appoints to office. But my friends don’t think about it. They just hate 100% on principle. It used to be that liberals/lefties hate big corporations and love DIY or “mutual aid.” But when former Democrat RFK Jr. says “mental illness” isn’t like cancer or pneumonia and needs a different type of treatment… oooooh cooties! Look, I’ve got a lot of friends who live on the street. They do not live there because they have mental problems. They have mental problems because they live on the street! The cure for homelessness is not a pill from a psychiatrist’s hand. The cure for homelessness is A HOME… not some stupid psycho drug.

→ Role Reversal Dept pt 2: Historical note: The US did not defend itself from a Korean invasion. The US did not set up a military shield to prevent an attack by the Vietnamese. When some Saudi pilots flew some planes into the World Trade Center how did the US DEFEND itself… by invading IRAQ? The US has, in the last 100+ years NEVER defended itself. It has only attacked. Those of us who protested many of those attacks did not protest a DEFENSE. We were not “anti-defense” we were ANTI-WAR. So when Donny changed the name of the DEFENSE DEPARTMENT to the WAR DEPARTMENT… he was correcting a mistake! He was becoming more truthful. It was absolutely the right move. Though, of course, taking money away from healthcare and giving it to the WAR Department. THAT was a mistake.

AFRICAN LINKS:

Albert aka Alberto Melody is the reason I went to Kenya. We met on facebook a couple years ago. He has a blog you should take a look at: Albertomelody.blogspot.com. Tell him Mykel sent ya. Oh yeah… He’s looking for friends his own age. So if you’re a 20-something and interested in Africa… or just meeting new people. Contact him at: albertletowon42@gmail.com

NON-AFRICANS

Sid Yiddish sent me this link to all his videos. It’s a great place to start, especially if you don’t know him.

I did a nice interview with The Aither zine. Interesting questions, complete, and questions I’ve never been asked before. You can read it here. It’s a good one.

Here’s Ricardo Wang with a “micro-label” in Seattle “specializing in 8-track tapes and CDs. WOW! Check out one of their label staples: The Dead Air Fresheners, best band name of the year.

Also on bandcamp: My very long time faves in NYC, the BLACKOUT SHOPPERS. Featuring pals Seth and possibly the next vice-president of the US

Sid Yiddish has posted a video of a show done for WZRD in Chicago. Great live performances, and if you catch the video around the 20+ minute point you might see a familiar face doing the lyrics to his songs (some unrecorded) as poetry. You’ll find it here.

And this sounds right up Sid’s alley. The Bilderberg Jazz Arkestra on Bandcamp!

Eric Grayson has an online music review zine, Sobriquet. Full pictures of the sleeves too! Something missing from too many zines. Sometimes you CAN judge a… er… book… by its cover.

Steen Thomsen is a Dane I’ve known ever since Lincoln was shot. I put his band THE ZERO POINT on the great WORLD CLASS PUNK Cassette for ROIR. It must be worth a mint now. I don’t have any left, I’m afraid. You can (and should) connect to the Zero Point on facebook. Tell ‘em Mykel’s blog sent you.

Sorry Dorothy, we are STILL in Kansas. And it’s as weird as OZ. Check out Bob Cutler’s DISTOPEKA.

You already know Murder & Mayhem zine… those guys who did the Mykel Board centerfold. (No genitals shown… and probably for the better.) Their online version is here.

The Clean Boys from Denmark are also longtime friends of mine. In Denmark we recorded as The Bend-over Boys. Only one 10-inch available… but at least now I can say I have a 10-incher!

Finally, for this month, Margaret O’Brien asked me to include the site: anti-war.com They seem to be folks after my own heart. I’m glad they didn’t call it “anti-defense.”

Oh yeah, then there’s me. I have a blog of stuff I’ve written mostly from last century. You might enjoy it. Then again, you might not. It’s here.

Let me know if you have a blog… or a print zine… or a YouTube and want to be added to the list. You show me yours… you’ve already seen mine. mykelboard@gmail.com

SECURITY Or You're Still Wrong... Blog post by Mykel Board

   

You’re STILL Wrong

or

Mykel's September 2025 Blog/Column

SECURITY

by Mykel Board    

“The more data we give, the more they take. And the less control we have.”

- Timsux Wales

“Passwords are like underwear: don’t let people see it, change it very often, and you shouldn’t share it with strangers.”
            – Chris Pirillo

“Security used to be an inconvenience sometimes, but now it’s a necessity all the time.” 

– Martina Navratilova

“The only way to maintain privacy on the internet is to not be on the internet.” 

– Abhijit Naskar

=================================

“Oh Jordan,” I breathe. “I never dreamed I’d be with you like this.”

“Mykel! Mykel! Mykel!,” Jordan breathes back. 

I press my body against Jordan’s, squeezing hard trying to feel through the double layer of clothing between us. It’s my first time in the student’s new apartment… a dorm-room actually. Part of NYU. Jordan says it’s the safest most secure student housing in the world. “Mom made sure of it.”

I reach under the twenty something’s t-shirt, feeling the skin on the spine. I bring my hand to the front… looking for a nipple to caress. I feel blood rush between my legs. 

My phone vibrates on the night-table next to the bed. 

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll ignore it.”  

“No! You can’t.” comes the answer. “You need the internet code or you can’t go any further. You want to go further, don’t you?”

“Password?” I ask. “I need a password to touch your nipple?”

“It’s the newest technology,’  comes the reply, “It protects me against harassment… you know, unwanted touching. Please!! Get the code, now!”

I turn on my shoulder... grab the phone… swipe away the home screen… click on the messages speech balloon… There is a box with a small check-box. Next to the check-box it says I am not a robot. I click the small box. And it connects to my own SMS messages. 

Top message: CVS, your prescription for TAM is ready. Just bring this message and when you’re ready click… 

Fuck… the next one… from protectyourbody.com:

Your code is 48521234. Check your email for a message from
ProtectYourBody.com. Click on the email and enter your code.

It takes a lot of self control to keep the phone in my hand instead of sending it through the window. I click on the multi-colored M from gmail. And the first email is from the evil guys. 

Please insert your code in the space below. It says. 

“I’d like to insert my fist up your virtual ass,” I think... loud enough to be heard on the next block.

Fuck! I forgot the number already, and go back to the text message to retrieve it… then I plug it in the email… the phone buzzes again… I check. A larger box shows up. In that larger box is a picture of a naked Margaret Thatcher, Joan Baez and Beyonce lying next to each other on a large bed. Their legs are spread. 

Click on all the squares that show a clitoris, says the caption. 

Using my thumbs, I stretch the picture until I can examine carefully. There’s one… another… and… it’s harder to see on Beyonce, but I manage to discover that bull-tongue clit... spanning two frames. Click. Click. I then press ENTER.

The message now says: You may proceed.

Back to the business at hand. First I press myself against Jordan hoping body to body will stimulate me again. And now I run my hand under that t-shirt… across the chest… Yes! A nipple!! And then another one. Their pinkness tingles my fingers. I can feel the tiny points harden under my fingers… and I can feel Me harden where it’s important. 

I press my lips against Jordan’s. Feeling the other’s tongue slither into my mouth, I suck it in. I peel off my own clothes and press my now-naked body against Jordan’s. Then I reach between us to help the t-shirt nudify that body… and I help the rest of the clothes free the rest of the body lying next to me. We press our nakedness together. 

I run my tongue downwards: breasts, stomach, lingering for a taste of belly button, then go south, to a hairless pube mound, then… PLOW! My head is stuck... Jordan’s thighs pinching it tight, like a wrestling hold. 

“Help!” I shout, muted by the leg hold. “I can’t move. I feel like my head is in a vice. The pain!”

“It’s not me,” answers Jordan. “Mom subscribed me to Legclamp-dot-com. They force my knees together until I call to release them. I have to get to their website and put in a release code in order to let you go.”

“Please do it quick!” I try to shout back. “My head is going to explode.” 

“Roll on to your stomach,” says Jordan, legs twisting my head forcing our entire bodies toward the cellphone. 

I jerk my shoulders, trying to get my body to follow… another jerk… finally with the help of Jordan’s turn toward the table, I manage to be completely face down... a thigh still pressing on either side of my head. 

I guess Jordan reached the phone. I hear half the conversation. It is not encouraging. 

“I don’t remember the fucking password!” Jordan shouts into the phone. “I’m in pain, and my bedfriend is in worse pain.” 

“You tell ‘em!” I try to say, my words lost between the pressing legs... fading into the mattress. 

“Goldstein,” I hear Jordan say… probably in answer to a mother’s maiden name question from the other side of the phone. Then, "Fifi." I’m guessing childhood pet. 

“You’re kidding!” comes Jordan’s voice. “Okay, okay… Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

PAROONG! The pressure eases on each side of my head. I can remove my head from between Jordan’s legs. I roll onto my back and in relief, Jordan turns to me and licks my ear. I smile. 

My bedmate’s hand rubs my chest and goes south. Lightly cupping the good parts, that hand moves up and down bringing blood into that key vessel. My limpy slowly hardens. Jordan’s lips follow the path laid out by the hand.  A joyful hardness between my legs replaces the awful pain in my head.

Jordan turns face down. I roll face down onto the nakedness now underneath me. My face nestles again a right buttocks. I move over… stick my nose between right and left lower cheeks. Working the saliva in my throat into my mouth, I use my tongue to lubricate the little hole. The sphincter tightens around my tongue. I spin around like a helicopter propeller, and nestle new hardness where my tongue has been. 

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! SECURITY VIOLATION!  ATTEMPTED SPHINCTER VIOLATION! CAMPUS POLICE INFORMED. 

The announcement… loud enough to wake the neighbors… blasting from speakers hidden who-knows-where. It doesn’t stop!

AUTHORITIES INFORMED. CAVITY SEALED! 

A siren sounds… UUUUWAAAH! UUUUWAAAH! UUUUWAAAH!

“Mykel,” says Jordan. “You’ve got to get out of here… fast… Campus security will be here in three minutes. Who knows where you’ll end up?”

I don’t ask questions. Pow! I dress like there’s no tomorrow. If I don’t hurry, maybe there will be no tomorrow. Blam! I’m out of the room… Fearing a booby-trapped elevator, I take the stairs down and exit through the back of the building… into a courtyard filled with rubber trash cans… There’s a low cyclone fence that I can easily climb over. Wow! Safe. 

Is Jordan safe? I guess it depends on how you look at it. The sophomore is safe from my hard flesh for the night. But is the sophomore safe from security? Is anyone? 

I make it back to my apartment, the stiffness in my pants just starting to loosen. I pull it out of my pants as I pull the laptop onto the bed. I lay down and tune into XNXX. Then comes the loud banging on my door… then the break-in. 

See you in hell, 

MB

ENDNOTES: [You can contact me on facebook or by email at mykelboard@gmail.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.  Send me an email with SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG in the subject line.  Back blogs and columns are at https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com]

Explanation dept: The adventure described in this post is obviously a figment of my imagination… but is it really that far from reality? Security is the greatest danger that humanity now faces. Soldiers call their killing-jobs security.  Your bank account gets locked because of a mis-typed password… and that’s security. Your call may be monitored or recorded. Why? For YOUR security. I’d like to walk into Times Square and piss on Sponge Bob while shouting? “You want security? Shit… well piss… happens. Security is the opposite of freedom! Arrest me and my dick… see how far that gets you!”

Even the government dept: Wired Magazine reports: A string of previously undisclosed break-ins at Tennessee National Guard armories last fall marks the latest in a growing series of security breaches at military facilities across the United States, raising fresh concerns about the vulnerability of US armories to theft and intrusion.

A confidential memo from the Tennessee Fusion Center reviewed by WIRED details four break-ins at Tennessee National Guard armories over a seven-week span. In one incident, thieves made off with night vision goggles, laser target locators, and thermal weapons sights, among other equipment. In other incidents, intruders breached fences, tripped alarms, and gained access to supply rooms discovered in the aftermath to have been unlocked.

Victoria’s Not-So Secret:  Sexy Fashion retail chain Victoria's Secret has delayed its first quarter 2025 earnings release because of ongoing corporate system restoration efforts following a security problem. In response to a late May incident, the company took down corporate systems, some in-store services, and the e-commerce website as a precaution.

Get it? No matter how much security you have, someone else can outsmart it. More security means more out-smarters and worse than that, it means less freedom for the rest of us. I have a friend with no cellphone, no laptop, no TikTok page. In fact, the only pages he has are made of paper and connected to a binding. He never gets hacked. 

AFRICAN LINKS:

Albert aka Alberto Melody is the reason I went to Kenya. We met on facebook a couple years ago. He has a blog you should take a look at: Albertomelody.blogspot.com. Tell him Mykel sent ya.

NON-AFRICANS

Sid Yiddish sent me this link to all his videos. It’s a great place to start, especially if you don’t know him.

I did a nice interview with The Aither zine. Interesting questions, complete, and questions I’ve never been asked before. You can read it here. It’s a good one.

Here’s Ricardo Wang with a “micro-label” in Seattle “specializing in 8-track tapes and CDs. WOW! Check out one of their label staples: The Dead Air Fresheners, best band name of the year.

Also on bandcamp: My very long time faves in NYC, the BLACKOUT SHOPPERS. Featuring pals Seth and possibly the next vice-president of the US

Sid Yiddish has posted a video of a show done for WZRD in Chicago. Great live performances, and if you catch the video around the 20+ minute point you might see a familiar face doing the lyrics to his songs (some unrecorded) as poetry. You’ll find it here.

And this sounds right up Sid’s alley. The Bilderberg Jazz Arkestra on Bandcamp!

Eric Grayson has an online music review zine, Sobriquet. Full pictures of the sleeves too! Something missing from too many zines. Sometimes you CAN judge a… er… book… by its cover.

Steen Thomsen is a Dane I’ve known ever since Lincoln was shot. I put his band THE ZERO POINT on the great WORLD CLASS PUNK Cassette for ROIR. It must be worth a mint now. I don’t have any left, I’m afraid. You can (and should) connect to the Zero Point on facebook. Tell ‘em Mykel’s blog sent you.

Sorry Dorothy, we are STILL in Kansas. And it’s as weird as OZ. Check out Bob Cutler’s DISTOPEKA.

You already know Murder & Mayhem zine… those guys who did the Mykel Board centerfold. (No genitals shown… and probably for the better.) Their online version is here.

The Clean Boys from Denmark are also longtime friends of mine. In Denmark we recorded as The Bend-over Boys. Only one 10-inch available… but at least now I can say I have a 10-incher!

Finally, for this month, Margaret O’Brien asked me to include the site: anti-war.com They seem to be folks after my own heart.

Oh yeah, then there’s me. I have a blog of stuff I’ve written mostly from last century. You might enjoy it. Then again, you might not. It’s here.

Let me know if you have a blog… or a print zine… or a YouTube and want to be added to the list. You show me yours… you’ve already seen mine. god@mykelboard.com

Of Course It’s Bad, Look Who Did It OR Mykel Board's August 2025 Blog

 

   

You’re STILL Wrong

or

Mykel's August 2025 Blog/Column

Of Course It’s Bad, Look Who Did It

by Mykel Board    

 “When I use a word,’ Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, ‘it means just what I choose it to mean — neither more nor less.’ – Lewis Carroll

The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he's in prison.

            – Fyodor Dostoevsky

Chrysanthemum growers, you are prisoners of your chrysanthemum.

                        --Yosa Buson

“Eeeewww, it’s like a little doggie dick… not dick-looking at all… just a crotch volcano.” Ashley is complaining. Evidently “some cute boy” she brought home last night was uncircumcised. That was too much for poor little Ashley.

“I want a helmet,” she tells me. “A fireman’s hat.. Not a fuckin’ flesh cone.”

“So did you do him?” I ask.

“I kicked him out,” she says. “Waddaya think? I want something like that up my twat?” Tears well up in her eyes. “It took me two beers before I got someone to sit with me. Cool-looking… sort of Asian… with good enough taste in music to be at Arlene’s Grocery.” [NOTE for non-New Yorkers. Arlene’s Grocery was an actual grocery store that has since turned into a low-key music venue. Cool place if you’re in town.]

“A banana, maybe?” I ask.

“HIS banana!” She answers… “that’s the whole point of this conversation. HIS banana!”

“That’s not what I mean,” I answer. “Japanese… maybe all Asians... call Asians who act like white people bananas. You know, yellow on the outside… white on the inside.”

“I could never figure out that yellow stuff,” Ashley answers. “They are the same color as white people… different eyes… a shorter nose… but skin? It’s the same as yours or mine. They’re like us, but sexier.”

“I know what you mean,” I say. “I think it’s the lack of body hair. Just smooth skin… smooth white skin.”

Ashley nods. “But those dicks! Those hard little sausages… they need to have that taken care of!”

“What was his name?” I ask.

“Something like Kenny, I think,” answers Ashley. “An Asian version of Kenneth.”

“Maybe Kento?” I say, “that’s a common Japanese name.”

“Could be,” answers Ashley. “That’s good enough. From now on we’ll call him Kento… or Ken-dick or something. Ken-lousy-lay, for all I care.”

“How could you say “lousy lay?” I ask. “You didn’t screw him, did you?”

“Of course not,” comes the answer, “but I’m sure he wudda been a lousy lay if I had the balls to do it with him… and there’s more. He claims he’s an artist… a painter. Can you imagine an artist with a foreskin?”

FLASH TO NOW: I sit at the desk in my apartment here on Bleecker Street… having introduced my theme of the month, I need to know how to connect it to what I REALLY want to write about. You may have heard rumors… read on facebook… seen a blog… noticed the graffiti on the restroom wall… overheard a conversation with Larry Livermore… read those last issues of MRR.

Mykel Board is a Trumpist. He supports Trump. Mykel gave a blowjob to an ICE agent. Mykel has turned into a fascist. AJ Weberman was right. Mykel Board is a Nazi.

I voted for Zohan Mamdani. I support the total abolition of prisons. I favor open borders with entrance or leave of a country as easy as crossing the street. I believe in universal free healthcare, high taxes for the rich, free food and homes for the poor. So am I a Trumpist? Like Humpty Dumpty, the name callers make it mean whatever they want to. And where does the twisted call that I’m a Trumpist come from? I’ll tell ya. It comes from the same kind of thinking that says a guy with an uncut dick can’t be a good artist. For now, I’ll call it Kento Thinking.

What is Kento Thinking? I’m glad you asked. Kento thinking is if you find one aspect (or several aspects) of a person repulsive, unkind, or illogical, then EVERYTHING that person says or does is repulsive, unkind or illogical. You don’t judge the words. You don’t judge the actions. But having judged the person, you struggle to find ways to make any of his/her words or actions fit into your image of that person.

“Mykel, you’re not being fair,” comes a voice I’d know anywhere. It’s Literary Device aka L.D.. who somehow feels free to butt in no matter what I’m writing about.

“You’re talking about Donny The Trump here. Right?” says L.D. “He’s the guy who sent the government troops to quash free-speech in LA. He gave a secret police force permission to kidnap and deport people… without trial. Take ‘em from the street, from court houses, from school. POW! Ship ‘em off to a torture camp in El Salvador. You’re talking about a guy who takes away food stamps and medicare so super-rich friends can have tax cuts. Right?”

“Of course,” I answer. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. But I’m also talking about a guy who started human relations between the US and North Korea. Who’s tried to foster (with on and off success) ceasefires in Eastern Europe and the Middle East.”

“You mean the guy who got played as a chump by Kim Jung Un,” says L D. “The guy who failed in Gaza and Ukraine. The guy who stopped taxes on tips, because the huge bonuses his rich friends make are tips. The guy who stopped taxes on overtime, because his friends who don’t clock in as it is, need another tax break for their accountants.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about!” I shout to LD. “No matter what he does, because he is DONNY TRUMP, it must be bad/evil/stupid… even if it’s not. It’s like an artist cannot create great art if he has a foreskin.”

“Look Mykel,” answers L.D., “you commit the same crime you accuse others of doing. You’re boycotting Target because they don’t give preferential treatment to those who need it. You don’t buy Amy’s Organic because they had bad working conditions and they laid off a whole factory. You didn’t even start buying again, when the boycott ended…”

“It ended?” I ask, “I didn’t know that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” says L.D., “You just put Amy’s = bad in your brain and never checked it again.”

“You mean, I’m the bad guy?” I ask. “Like Charles Bronson in Death Wish?”

L.D. nods… and disappears, as is his wont.

Lesson learned… for now. From now on, I will try to understand other people’s motives. For every fault, I’ll look for a virtue. I may not find one, but the act of looking ennobles me… or if not that… it at least acts as a crowbar to pry open that Kento Thinking box… so that I can get a look at it. It might be my own prison.

So let’s go back to Kento’s dick. What’s wrong with a foreskin anyway? I have my tribal marking… a red-brown scar around the shaft. In 2025, it no longer only signifies Jew or Muslim… In America everybody does it. Those who want to avoid the religious or tribal meaning say it’s “for health reasons,” but countries where circumcision is common are no healthier than countries that keep the tag on.

Besides, that little skin is fun to play with, and no uglier than a cone vs pyramid. But there's more to this than aesthetics. There is a value called equality. In the US, boys are routinely cut before they leave their birth hospital. No question, no objection… So much for the boys… how 'bout the girls?

Female circumcision is now called “female genital mutilation.” The WHO defines the practice as "all procedures that involve partial or total removal of the external female genitalia, or other injury to the female genital organs for non-medical reason" And guess what… it's BAD! "How could they do that to a girl?" people ask.

"Ït's so barbaric!" answer the same girls who are disgusted when they find their just-picked-up partner with an extra flab..

Of course, complete genital removal is nasty business. But, most female circumcision is no more than taking a bit of skin off the top… just like male circumcision. What's the big deal?

The big deal is that this happens to girls…women... and women are a fragile protected species. They are the ones to step on that cloak laid over the mud puddle by THE OTHER species.

"Stop! Stop! Stop!" shouts L.D! "You're doing it again... what you accuse others of doing. You're making giant generalizations from a clitsworth of information. Yeah, I know when armies fight hundreds are killed but few in society complain. Armies are mostly men. But when the protected species are injured… women and children… oh… how horrible. I've heard that story from you before… Don't forget. I've known you since Jr. High school."

Wow! He got me. "He's right. If it's done to men, it's okay. If it’s done to women, it's not okay." That’s my opinion of society in general… but it's not so simple. Here I am talking about the evils of making sweeping judgments, and the sweeping judgment broom has just hit me in the balls.

Of course it's more complicated than boys vs girls. That's not the point of this post, but it's a (the?) point of life. And it's what I'm complaining about. We pick people we don't like, and instead of looking at their actions, we decide a priori that if we don't like X then X is a bad person and any action done by X is bad… and anything X does that appears good or valuable must be done for some hidden motive because X is bad.

Sometimes girls are the honored gender and sometimes they’re at the bottom of the privilege pole. Here, L.D. is right. Not him personally (I'm not even sure he is a HE), but his criticism. There is more than a big picture… There is an infinite picture. Of course we can't explore all the possibilities, but we can leave ourselves open to discoveries by others. We can say our pre-judgements were wrong… or incomplete… we can ask more questions. For Jews circumcision is a tribal marking. For some Africans, a series of three cheek slashes is a tribal marking. For a Gen Z girl, a nose-ring is a tribal marking. All of these are mutilations… or not. We can think about that. But let's not judge that an action or a ritual or a favorite color or… or… or… is evil, or done with malintent because we don't like the person or the group or the aesthetic of the person doing it.

There are no simple answers… there aren’t even any simple questions. But this name calling, binary thinking, with us or against us, not only destroys thought, but also it imprisons us in a world of can’t say… can’t think… that opinion makes you a bad person. Yeah it imprisons us, but most of us can’t see the bars.

See you in hell,

MB

ENDNOTES: [You can contact me on facebook or by email at mykelboard@gmail.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. Send me an email with SUBSCRIBE TO THE BLOG in the subject line. Back blogs and columns are at https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com]

→AH AMERICA… YA’ GOTTA LAUGH AT IT DEPT: So Donny is in a new scandal. His base is turning against him. Is it his creation of a kidnapping squad that grabs people off the street and sends them to foreign jails? Is it the bromance between him and the Military-Industrial-Complex with the US military budget hitting a trillion dollars, while foodstamps and medicare are defunded? Is it his defunding of emergency and aid programs? No! It’s a more than two decades old birthday letter to Jeffrey Epstein! Who cares? No crime on Trump’s part. No one killed or hurt. In civilized countries the letter would be laughed off as man-talk. But this is America… I can usually laugh at it, but every once-in-awhile it makes me sick.

→SUMMER LONG BALLS DEPT: Frankly, I don’t get enough views of other guys summer junk, so I can’t comment on the accuracy. But summer long balls seems to be a real enough phenomenon that news sites can write about it. Summer itch, I get. But any time, any year, there’s no part of me that gets longer-- summer or not. Let me know if it happens to you… pictures are appreciated… but NOT photos sent through your cellphone! Nothing is secure on a cellphone… even when “deleted.”

–> OH THOSE WACKY JAPANESE DEPT: Oddity Central reports that in Japan you can “rent a Grandma” for the equivalent of $23 an hour. Some cook and clean, but most are for show. I guess around the world, grandmas incite special feelings and can get things done that no non-grandma person can do. This article mentions a young woman who wants to break up with her boyfriend. She hires a grandma (presumably impersonating her real grandma) to accompany her as she breaks the news to the guy. She expects the grandma will keep the guy from losing his temper, and soften the emotional blow of the break-up.

See you in hell redux,
MB

LINKS

I read that the search engines like lots of links... and it's also nice to support my friends and enemies in their blogs. So facebook me or email me if you have a blog, webpage or something else to connect to. I add you. You add me.

AFRICAN LINKS:

Albert aka Alberto Melody is the reason I went to Kenya. We met on facebook a couple years ago. He has a blog you should take a look at: Albertomelody.blogspot.com. Tell him Mykel sent ya.

Sid Yiddish sent me this link to all his videos. It’s a great place to start, especially if you don’t know him.

I did a nice interview with The Aither zine. Interesting questions, complete, and questions I’ve never been asked before. You can read it here. It’s a good one.

Here’s Ricardo Wang with a “micro-label” in Seattle “specializing in 8-track tapes and CDs. WOW! Check out one of their label staples: The Dead Air Fresheners, best band name of the year.

Also on bandcamp: My very long time faves in NYC, the BLACKOUT SHOPPERS. Featuring pals Seth and possibly the next vice-president of the US

Sid Yiddish has posted a video of a show done for WZRD in Chicago. Great live performances, and if you catch the video around the 20+ minute point you might see a familiar face doing the lyrics to his songs (some unrecorded) as poetry. You’ll find it here.

And this sounds right up Sid’s alley. The Bilderberg Jazz Arkestra on Bandcamp!

Eric Grayson has an online music review zine, Sobriquet. Full pictures of the sleeves too! Something missing from too many zines. Sometimes you CAN judge a… er… book… by its cover.

Steen Thomsen is a Dane I’ve known ever since Lincoln was shot. I put his band THE ZERO POINT on the great WORLD CLASS PUNK Cassette for ROIR. It must be worth a mint now. I don’t have any left, I’m afraid. You can (and should) connect to the Zero Point on facebook. Tell ‘em Mykel’s blog sent you.

Sorry Dorothy, we are STILL in Kansas. And it’s as weird as OZ. Check out Bob Cutler’s DISTOPEKA.

You already know Murder & Mayhem zine… those guys who did the Mykel Board centerfold. (No genitals shown… and probably for the better.) Their online version is here.

The Clean Boys from Denmark are also longtime friends of mine. In Denmark we recorded as The Bend-over Boys. Only one 10-inch available… but at least now I can say I have a 10-incher!

Finally, for this month, Margaret O’Brien asked me to include the site: anti-war.com They seem to be folks after my own heart.

Oh yeah, then there’s me. I have a blog of stuff I’ve written mostly from last century. You might enjoy it. Then again, you might not. It’s here.

Let me know if you have a blog… or a print zine… or a YouTube and want to be added to the list. You show me yours… you’ve already seen mine. god@mykelboard.com