Sunday, February 04, 2018

Chickens Come Home to Roost or Mykel's Post MRR Column no 54

Post MRR Column no 54
Chickens Come Home to Roost

I remember when all I thought about was sex... when the most important thing in my life was getting laid... when everything was just a means to that end? I remember it like it was yesterday. It WAS yesterday.

I was happier than an AntiFa at a book burning. I've written before about my complete lack of Gaydar. I hit on “lesbians” and “straight” guys with equal lack of success. These days, the response to the former is likely to be more violent than the latter.

The problem comes from my agnosticism about lesbian and straight in the first place. Since I believe homotude is something you DO rather than something you ARE... it's difficult to identify someone without them actually DOING anything. I feel like like an atheist trying to tell a Baptist from a Methodist.

The answer came in the form of a small packet from Thailand:
They're cough drops... small... spherical. You take three at a time... hold them in your mouth. On the front of the packet, there's a picture of a guy in an jacket and tie... between two centipedes. The drops look like tiny brown eggs.... centipede eggs. They have a sour taste and melt into a viscous fluid in your mouth.

Flash to the butch colored girl. Grace Jones shaved hair... a swagger like a basketball player... tattoos... just designs, no images... shoulder to wrist... with the kind of bulgish black butt that makes the world's best case for African immigration.

Just looking at her straightens up every limp part of my 70 year old body.

We're at a show... punk rock... The Sonic Reducers... a Dead Boys cover band. I stand as close to her as I can as the band starts its set. Son of Sam

She coughs... a light dry throat cough... like when you come into an overheated room on a cold day.

She coughs again.

I reach into my pocket and get the Thai cough drops.

Here,” I say, pouring out three into her hand. “They're made from centipede eggs. And they taste like semen. But just keep them in your mouth and the cough will stop.”

She's punk rock, so she takes them and pops them into her mouth. Her cough stops.

Thanks,” she says. “They work fine... but they don't taste like semen.”

BOOOOOING! She knows the taste of semen! That means...

What's your name?” I ask her.


Those of you who are older than the iPhone will remember an all-girl band from the 90s called SPITBOY.
I've written about them before... and have had a long-term friendship with Adrienne, the singer. We've kept in touch over the years as the band itself has spread out over the world.

I told Adrienne that I planned to be in New Zealand at the end of the year.

[The actual plan: TWO NEW YEARS in two days! Since New Zealand is one of the first countries in the world to celebrate New Years. The plan was to go there... celebrate New Year... then fly to Tahiti on the other side of the international dateline... one of the LAST countries to have New Year. Celebrate New Year AGAIN. I did it.]

Adrienne tells me that Karin, Spitboy's guitar player, is living in New Zealand and I should contact her. Well, what's facebook for?

In New Zealand Karin treats me like an old friend. Invites me to stay at their (her, hubby Aleister, 2 kids) house on a hill in Nelson. As if New Zealand weren't nowhere enough, Nelson is nowhere IN New Zealand. And Karin's family lives high on a hill on the outskirts of the “city.” You wanna know how rural this place is? They have chickens!

Honest-to-Goddess clucking, waddling, feathered chickens. It's wonderful! In the morning, Kael, the youngest kid, and I walked barefoot from the house down the gravel path to the coop to scoop out eggs for breakfast.

Now I have ridden a camel in Mongolia, fucked a guy in country where homo-relations bring the death penalty, had a jealous lesbian pour a whiskey over my head, eaten rice seasoned with locust, crossed the arctic circle, wiped my ass on poison oak, lived in Mongolia... but I had never in my life walked barefoot to gather my own breakfast eggs. Let me tell you... there's nothing in the world quite like reaching under a chicken.

[Note: This barefoot thing is endemic to the Pacific. Both in New Zealand and Tahiti, locals walk on the street... on pebble strewn beaches... on gravel roads... barefoot. In New York... white pants and a Hawaiian shirt are hallmarks of a tourist. In the Pacific... it's shoes.]

The eggs are delicious... the best. It could be that they actually tasted better because they were super fresh, free range and organic... or it could be that I THOUGHT they tasted better because they were super fresh, free range and organic. It doesn't matter. They were super eggs... the eggiest eggs I've ever breakfasted on.

During the day, Kael was my tourguide. Having earned his stone in the category of hard-work, hard-study, his assignment was to take me to the Center of New Zealand®. You can read about that trip in my travel blog. On the way back home, we pass a pasture on the side of the hill where cows graze lazily... or just lie in the sun chewing the cud with their fellow bovines.

Back at the house, mom and the two boys rocked out in the practice room before dinner... then dinner. Steak and vegetables.

And what a steak. Tender as an eighteen year old... with perfect sauce and not boiled/not frozen vegetables on the side.

Yowsah!” I said to Aleister, Karin's other half. “This is great. Where did that meat come from? It was...”

“Isn't it good?” asked Aleister. “It comes from our neighbors... they raise cows... give us the meat... fresh from the slaughter... couldn't be better.”

Booooing! It hits me.

Not only are vegetarians losing out on the deliciousness of animal flesh... they're actually hurting animals. Here's why:

Few people will argue in favor of factory farming. Cows or chickens raised like plants... unable to move... living their whole lives in a space smaller than my NYC apartment. Fed antibiotics that make them sick... Killed cruelly on an assembly line that actually may be better than the horrible lives they've led in captivity. Just wrong...

Now, humans have eaten meat for nearly as long as they've eaten plants. Asking humans to go without meat makes as much sense as asking a dog to go without meat. Of course, we can debate that... but there is something more important.

Humans have factory farmed for only the last hundred years or so... maybe less. If I just say, “don't eat meat... it's cruel.” You'll accept the argument or reject it. If you reject it, you can reject it with a slew of reasons, starting with “asking humans to go without meat makes as much sense as asking a dog to go without meat.” But in any case you'll see me as a VEGETARIAN. It's a kind of identity politics. Jews don't eat pork. Vegetarians don't eat meat. QED.

It's not a reasoning person who is suggesting I give up meat. It's a VEGETARIAN. I can and will write it off as irrelevant to the world as a colored person asking me to call him AFRICAN AMERICAN... even though he speaks French and lives in Tahiti. (That didn't happen.)

On the other hand, if a person says, “Eating meat is neither right nor wrong... good nor bad. I am NOT a vegetarian, but factory farming is cruel to animals, it's unhealthy for individuals and the world, and it slowly destroys the environment... here's why....”

In other words, the discussion is based on REASON not on identity. As long as vegetarians insist that all MEAT IS MURDER... those who eat meat can dismiss them as THE OTHER... that is AS VEGETARIANS. No need to listen to the reasons. No need to discuss at all. They're vegetarians. I am not. End of discussion. Animals suffer the horrors of factory farming.

But once some guy or gal just like me presents these reasoned arguments, I cannot dismiss them. Once I see people raising animals compassionately... or hunting and eating their own food without the cruelty, antibiotics, or the massive methane of factory farming. Omnivores... just like me... Then I have to think about things in a new way.

Get it? VEGETARIANS, by assuming that identity, make it easy to dismiss all animal-eating... and thus hurt the animals most in pain.

Besides, let a vegetarian try the argument “cruelty-free organic meat TASTES better than cows that are factory farmed.” That's a point they cannot make.

After dinner, I want to hit the bars in town. I've already been to the Center of New Zealand®... now it's time to drink.

Back in town, I hit the bars. There's one called MOON that has very nice WHISPERING SISTER IPA. Beside the beautiful name, it's a great tasting local brew... in a pub featuring local musicians.

I sit at one of the back tables... drinking my Whispering Sister... watching as the bar fills up. A young man... thin... maybe a Maori mix sits at my table. Cheeks as smooth as a waxed head... thick red lips. He smiles at me when he sits down. Then he clears his throat.

You know the band?” he asks with the kind of New Zealand accent that gives me a hard-on.

I shake my head.
I'm not from around here,” I say.

You from New York?” he asks.

Fuckin' A, I am,” I answer.

He laughs.

Well, they're called Kiwi Pie... used to be in a punk band... now they play drunk pub music.”

My favorite,” I tell him.

He laughs. The laugh turns into a cough.

I reach into my pocket for the Thai cough drops.

Here,” I tell him, “take three of these. Just hold them in your mouth. They always work.

I shake three tablets into his hand.

I should warn you,” I add, “they taste like semen.”

He pops them into his mouth and holds them there a bit.

Shaking his head, he says, “They work, but they don't taste like semen.”



ENDNOTES: [You can contact me on facebook or by email at 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. Subscribe to the MYKEL'S READERS Yahoo group]

-->Conflation dept: As in most of what I write, I mix facts, adventures, places and people... truth and fiction. The New Zealand adventures described above were actually in TWO cities... or two places. One was the home of Karin G and family near Nelson. The other was from Mr. Sterile Assembly near Wellington. I thank both of them for taking care of me in New Zealand. You are Gods and Goddesses!  

-->Wenn der kunstler scheisst dept: Chicago's West Loop gallery featured a blank wall with the artist living in a 10-foot space behind the wall. The actual ART was a sign put up by the artist, Alejandro Figueredo Diaz-Perera, that said, “I am here, but you will not see me.” The artwork was called InThe Absence of a Body. I have no idea if it was sold or not... and if sold... did it include the artist?

-->Stan-the-land dept: A likely, but still unsure goal for my next trip will be to visit three STANS. I've never been to any of them. I think I'll skip Afghanistan and Pakistan... too many bullets and too much politics. Right now I'm thinking, Kazakhstan Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan. Luk Haas has given me some contacts... but if you have any... or any STAN advice contact me on facebook. Or email me

-->Fake news dept: An Australian beach sign supposedly supporting multiculturalism suddenly appeared on facebook:

It was followed by the usual outrage... though it doesn't seem to me to be that much different from most American beaches at least in the prohibitions of dogs and alcohol.

It turned out to be a fake. A shit-stirrer posted by anti-Muslimists who can't find anything REAL to complain about. I can find something real to complain about...

In New Orleans 8 strip clubs have been closed in one month. Shut down by the cops. My suspicions are that CHRISTIANITY rather than ISLAM is to blame for that one. In many ways, the US is almost a Muslim country from the get-go. World's highest drinking age. World's highest sexual age of consent. Among the world's strictest controls over public (and increasingly private) alcohol and tobacco use. I think we could use MORE multiculturalism.

-->Chickenshit dept: Marlene Wicherski has informed me that it has lately become fashionable to have Rooftop Chickencoops in big cities. She lives in Boston. Here in New York --at least in most places in Manhattan south of 96 Street-- landlords don't allow tenants rooftop access at all. Liability insurance... people might through themselves off! So I didn't know about the trend. If you're lucky enough to be able to go upstairs for your just-laid morning eggs... do it barefoot. It's an important part of the experience.

See you in hell.


NOTE: If you're interested in my travel blog, you can read it at I have another blog of short interesting things at: And finally, my oldies from last century are slowly being scanned and uploaded to:


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.

Here's a start:

  • David Goldberg's Busy Microbes Blog
  • And another Goldberg:
  • Poetry and humor fans will like Justin Martin in The Latency
  • Sometimes I contribute to an interesting multi-talented blog called OgFomK Arts see me there!
  • And my friend Mike R has a nice site with recipe hits from the past! (He cooked for me once... great stuff.) Check out Yesterday's Recipes.
  • And here's one by a member of ANTI-SEEN... a tour diary of sorts.

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