That's a Crazy Idea, Let's Talk About Itor You're STILL Wrong,Mykel's August 2022 Blog
by Mykel Board
We
live in a technological universe in which we are always
communicating. And yet we have sacrificed conversation for mere
connection. --Sherry Turkle
Knowledge
nowadays, is a matter of reaffirming what we already believe. There
is no real conversation. --Stephen L. Carter
To
get real diversity of thought, you need to find the people who
genuinely hold different views and invite them into the conversation.
--Adam Grant
We all lose when bullying and personal
attacks become a substitute for genuine conversation and principled
disagreement. --Alicia Garza
I've
got tons of Nazi friends. David Duke and all the Nazis totally think
I rock... No offence, Nazis, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but
I don't like you. I like Jews. –Gavin McInnes
=============================
It’s
a great beer shit. More than the release of pain. More than the
emptying of too-fullness. Just a slight push and… SPLOT! …
downward relief so fulfilling it turns on itself and splashes upward.
It must be close to what women feel when they give birth. A giant
human turdlike mass… a vaginal shit that cries and squirms... a
relief of pain so wonderful you carry it with you for days… months…
years... to come… thinking back… Wow! That was great!
As
for my massive rectal birth: This is gonna take half a roll of toilet
paper. I reach for the first sheets, ball them up and start wiping…
I feel nothing… like scraping mud off a pair of boots. Fuck, it’s
all over my hand… under the nails… over my thumb, embedded in
whatever that piece of skin is called between the base of one finger
and the next.
Next
bundle of paper… Ahhh, I can feel the sphincter… the little
circle of muscle... the release point… the anal vagina that births
a pleasure that gives orgasm a run for its money.
I
feel around... feel each wrinkle of that muscle... wiping away debris
and dingle-berries. Ah, the tight… one fold… the next fold… the
next… Ouch! What’s this? A bulge… It hurts… sticks out like
something that belongs inside was pushed out with the giant turds…
something that shouldn’t be there. It’s smooth, covered with
slime… Using my middle finger, I wiggle it back and forth… push
it inside and clamp tight. I run my finger around again. It’s gone,
replaced with a perfect wrinkled circle.
Whew.
I
check in the mirror for any cheek splashes… wipe away a dot here…
a brown streak there... pull up and finish getting dressed for the
day. Next comes a cup of coffee, poured from the refrigerated pitcher
where I keep the percolator left overs. BLAM!into the microwave. Two
and a half minutes… aaaahhhh. A beershit and a cup of coffee. Maybe
life isn’t so bad after all.
As
I drink the coffee, I check facebook, and try to think of snappy
answers to all those people who’ve said they’ve had enough of me…
but have not as yet blocked me.
Here’s
a new one… from a friend who I’ve known about 40 years. Now she’s
fed up. “Mykel,” she says, “It’s time I take a vacation from
you. I’ve had enough for a while.”
Aahhh,
I relearn a much-needed lesson: Some friends should not be facebook
friends. And…
Fuck!
The second shit. It always hits about half an hour after the first. I
can predict. Half the load… with a consistency more like yogurt
than cottage cheese.
Okay,
okay, I’ll go. The porcelain goddess wins. Facebook loses.
This
one takes a little more push than the last… but… but… but…
aaaaaah! Yogurt as predicted, a lighter brown than should be healthy…
but oh so good. More paper… wipe… wipe again… What’s that?
It’s back. That rectal ‘roid popped out again like a rubbed
nipple. What the fuck? I thought I’d gotten rid of it.
After
I clean myself, I reach for the CVS Oral Analgesic. Nothing like oral
to kill the pain of anal. Then I push it back up into its rightful
home and pull up my pants
Returning to the desk and
facebook, I sit gently.
Here’s
a message from Sid Yiddish. He’s asking about my friend,
performance artist, prankster, and noise musician, Boyd Rice.
HALT!
TECH
TALK. LAST CENTURY VERSION:
I need to explain something. A lock
groove is
a groove on vinyl records, usually at the end of each
side.
It
locks
the needle in place, so it doesn’t go running into the label. It’s
not a spiral like a usual groove, but rather a circle, keeping
the
needle in place. If it’s used before the end of the record, it
sounds like the record is skipping and playing the same thing over
and over again.
Back
to Boyd Rice.. Back to Boyd Rice…. Back to Boyd Rice
Whatta
guy, that Boyd is. The first time I heard of him was when he made a
record as a “band” called NON. He sent me a vinyl
copy
in the days before “download” had anything to do with music.
Every
groove of the record was a lock groove. In order to play it, you had
to manually lift up the needle and move it from one groove to the
next. It was wonderful frustration. Immediately, I thought. Here
is a man after my evil heart.
I
learned even more when I saw him in front of an “art piece.” You
know that awful LOVE sign? The
eye-rolling tilted “O”? Oy
vey!
So
what punker art than to create
a LOVE sign with a universal symbol of hate? It’s just genius.
Yeah,
that’s Boyd Rice next to his artwork. The original, as I remember,
was a sculpture, but I can’t find a picture that
version.
I
finally get
to meet the guy when he has
a performance in NYC... sometime
last century.
He
affects a kind of SS leather coat look with no insignia... just
the
look. Like
my
mafia fedora trenchcoat look or Sid Yiddish’s talis
and tzitzit masked Hassid look. An
image... like an actor… a performer…. always
on stage.
Boyd
“performs” by making noise on some electronic machine or other. I
don’t remember the details. I do remember talking to him after the
show.
“I
saw that LOVE thing you did,” I tell him. “Just genius… use
some cliche
and turn it into its opposite.”
Boyd shakes his head.
“They just don’t get it, Mykel. Irony is lost…” It’s a
great conversation… about
music, art, and the loss of irony.
“Boyd
Rice is a bad man,” says Sid Yiddish in his facebook message. “A
friend of mine told me.”
Ah,
his friend must’ve seen the LOVE ART and figured… sure the guy’s
a Nazi. Our mutual friend outs him to Sid.
My
fuckin’ God… It’s IRONY… humor. Wise up! Think punk! Think
about the conversation with Boyd Rice. THAT’s what I want to write
about: conversation.
Flash
to California: A film-maker pal wants to do a day-in-the-life
documentary on Gavin McInnes, founder of the Proud Boys®.
From Canada, Gavin once played in a punk band, Anal Chinook.
My pal wondered if I had any connections to him. I didn’t then, but
now I do.
Through
a circuitous route I got in touch with Gavin. We went out for a beer
and snacks at an Irish bar in Manhattan.
“I
want a picture,” says Gavin. “Put your hat on and try to look
like Mykel Board.”
We
talk about punk rock. We talk about how people just have no idea
what real punkrock is. How my friends in Hungary thought the Dead
Kennedys were seriously advocating pooricide when they sang,
Kill The Poor. We laugh.
“Are
you still a homo?” Gavin asks me.
“I
was never a homosexual,” I answer, “but most of the guys I’ve
had sex with have been homosexuals.”
He
laughs.
Gavin
drinks Bud. I drink Lagunitas. We agree on censorship and how what
used to be topics for discussion are now topics to be censored. We
disagree on immigration. He wants to keep them out. I want to open
the borders… make it no different going to the US from Mexico than
from going to New York from New Jersey. We disagree on guns. He likes
‘em. I think the big ones need to be banned. We disagree on
welfare. He thinks people should have to work to EARN their money. I
think if rich people want diamond-studded Maseratis, then they can
work for them. Meanwhile, most of rich people’s money should go to
support those without money-- whether they choose to work or not.
Gavin has “issues” with transfolks. I think that they’re among
the sexiest people in the world. (I didn’t call the second ARTLESS
record Boy With A Cunt for nothing.)
The
conversation is deep, but fun… lots of laughs… lots of overlap…
I felt a friendship and liked the guy. I still like him and hope we
can drink together again. We agreed on a few things. Disagreed on a
few. Sometimes just talked about stuff where there was nothing to
agree with or disagree. I tell him I could never have been a Proud
Boy®.
“Those
guys don’t jerk off!” I complain.
He
laughs.
During
the discussion, I mention that I’d read that he quit the Proud
Boys. I ask him if it was because they were getting too hot to
handle.
“No,”
he tells me, “I’d said some pretty extreme stuff. You know, like
punk rock. Courts and juries don’t get the punk rock mind... Kill
The Poor. You know what I’m talking about.
Lawyers
would use my quotes like “choke a tranny” literally. It could
cost those guys some time in jail. I thought it was best for me
divorce myself from the group in order to save it.
Wow!
I had completely misunderstood. I misread an act of altruism for an
act of ass-saving. I’m glad we talked about it. New respect for the guy...
At
the end of the evening, Gavin pays for both of us and we both leave
with a smile. Like I said, I like the guy and hope to see him again
sometime.
After
I get home, I post the picture of Gavin and me on facebook and say
what I great time I had drinking and talking with him.
The
reaction comes
swift... and hard. The same
stuff I put up with Boyd Rice… only stronger… harder. Like the
returning hemorrhoid
I
thought I’d
stuffed away.
My
“friends” list shrinks by nearly 100. Those who don’t leave
fill the picture comments with How could yous and You’re
turning alt-rights and… and… and...
Yeah,
there are a few commenters I admire. They want to talk. Especially
one on the left and one on the right… but the majority are too
outraged to discuss… only ready to complain.
I
try to explain that I like people… especially smart people with a
sense of humor. It doesn’t work and it’s not long before Godwin’s
Law hits.
“Sure,”
I answer, “I used to go to the local kneipe with Herr Goebbels. He
never let me pay for a Hofbrau.”
Pretty
snappy, huh? Huh?
Then
it hits! I’m as guilty as the others. Instead of conversing,
listening, taking a drink, inhaling, stroking my chin… and maybe
changing my mind, I’m more concerned with snappy answers than
learning anything. That concern baits snappy questions and feeds on
itself like a hemorrhoid feeds on a steady diet of beer shits.
SCENE
SHIFT: I hate the telephone. It’s an evil intrusion… calling you
away from what you’re doing… demanding an answer NOW! But when I
find myself in a quandary, I pick up the phone and call Dorothy
Parker, the smartest person I know.
Since
she’s dead, I never worry about her calling me at inopportune
moments. I have the upper hand… er… voice.
“Dorothy,”
I say, “you gotta help me. Suddenly, I’m finding myself as my own
best enemy. I complain about people not willing to converse anymore,
just looking for snappy answers... Something to throw out without
thinking… for a laugh. In reality, I never learn anything. I never
change my mind. I’m just interested in throwing out something
witty.
“Wit
has truth in it; wise-cracking is simply calisthenics with words,”
Dorothy says.
“So
I’m learning,” I tell her. “I’m trying to learn how to listen
and have a peaceable discussion. I want to learn from people who want
to learn from people. I’m tired of ideologues who stick to the
party line come Trump or Nancy Pelosi. I don’t want that. I want to
converse.”
“You
can’t teach an old dogma new tricks,” she says.
“But
what should I do?” I beg. “Where should I go?”
“The
Algonquin,” she says. “Get a roundtable, eat, drink, talk about
things... and listen.”
BINGO!
So
now, slightly less often than once a month, I meet with friends and
strangers in the lobby of the Algonquin hotel. Poets, musicians,
thinkers… lesbians, homosexuals, people in their 20s and people in
their 80s. We talk. When I’m tempted to jump in and listen to
myself, I bite the inside of my thumb or squeeze my asscheeks
together until the hemorrhoid hurts.
But
slowly, ever-so-slowly, I listen and learn. Gavin and Boyd… come
and join us! Smart people listening to each other. That’s what we
need. I’ll shut up now and see what the other folks have to say.
See
you in hell.
MB
aka
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 in the subject line. Back blogs and columns are at
https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com]
→ Join
the conversation dept. If you’re in the NYC area or can be, we
want YOU at the Algonquin Round Table, especially if you’re not
white, not old, or/and not binary. We need to increase our diversity.
If you’re interested in joining us, send
me an email, and I’ll put you on the list. Just show up some
month, introduce yourself, and converse.
→ Is
that a handy wipe in your river, or are you happy to
see me? Science News reports
that an island the size of two tennis courts and composed entirely of
used handy wipes (the Brits call ‘em wet wipes) has
appeared in the Thames River that goes through London. Government
ministers have asked people to stop using the wipes and are
considering a ban. A Labor Party MP said she had visited the site:
"I've ... stood on it -- it's a meter deep or more in places.”
It's actually changed the course of the Thames."
The
Environmental Minister asked citizens not to flush the wipes. My
question, if you don’t flush them, just where do you put them?
→
Accidents will happen dept: The British tabloid The
Daily Mirror tells
us about a man who may never be able to use his penis again after
his partner accidentally sprayed expanding foam inside his urethra.The
man was struggling with impotence and had been putting different
items into the opening of his penis in a bid to stay firm. But his
latest attempt ended in horror when his partner tried to use the
straw of a can of insulation spray to keep him erect.
His
partner said she accidentally hit the button on top of the can,
sending the foam into his penis. There, it hardened and “became
anchored."
Doctors
had to cut a new opening between the man's scrotum and his anus to
urinate and said he must pass a psychiatric test in order to qualify
for “reconstructive surgery.”
See
you in hell, redux,
MB
LINK
TRADE DEPARTMENT:
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.
Here's
a start:
You can see Gavin on Censored.tv... maybe the only place he's not blocked.
There’s
a great interview with Sid Yiddish on YouTube. You can check it out here.
Here’s
Richard Goldberg:
goldberg.wordpress.com
Poetry
and humor fans will like Justin Martin in The
Latency
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.
Andy
Shelton has an interesting blog here.
Savage
Hippie is a guy who has been YouTubing
for a long time. Our opinions largely overlap... but he complains
that I'm a Communist. I'm not! I'm a communist.
Chris
Stecher publishes a zine called PRECIS.
You can see the back issue links there... and he promises a new issue
soon.
George
Fertakis has a very nice graphics-heavy blog... with music and books
featured prominently. If there’s no link here (I can’t find it
temporarily), then Google… er… Duckduckgo him for information.
And
my long-term pal Sid Yiddish contributes with his Mishegas
Master Blog.
And
connect to TRUST Zine, a long-running German punk zine… that STILL
PRINTS!!! Yeah, they have a website too… of course! It’s here.
Here
are a couple video links.
This
from Jon Cox https://squelchchamber1.bandcamp.com/album/down-so-low
And
this
one from
my very long-time friend Roger Armstrong.
Jim
Testa moved his long running zine, Jersey Beat, to the blogosphere
awhile back. You can read it here.
Jim also recommended a kind of unique album… in a style you don’t
see to much of these days… or any days. Neo-Hassidic Rock Opera.
You can stream the album here.
Kyle
Nonneman is in prison in Portland. At least he can’t be kidnapped
by the secret police… I think. I post his
blog
for him, he can’t do it from the klink. Lots of stuff about noise
metal… and some very weird politics that will either fascinate or
repulse you… or both.
My
long time pal, Jim Hayes rightfully complained about my leaving out
his blog. He’s a great writer, so it was a tragic omission. Here
it is.
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
We live in a technological universe in which we are always communicating. And yet we have sacrificed conversation for mere connection. --Sherry Turkle
Knowledge
nowadays, is a matter of reaffirming what we already believe. There
is no real conversation. --Stephen L. Carter
To
get real diversity of thought, you need to find the people who
genuinely hold different views and invite them into the conversation.
--Adam Grant
We all lose when bullying and personal
attacks become a substitute for genuine conversation and principled
disagreement. --Alicia Garza
I've
got tons of Nazi friends. David Duke and all the Nazis totally think
I rock... No offence, Nazis, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but
I don't like you. I like Jews. –Gavin McInnes
=============================
It’s
a great beer shit. More than the release of pain. More than the
emptying of too-fullness. Just a slight push and… SPLOT! …
downward relief so fulfilling it turns on itself and splashes upward.
It must be close to what women feel when they give birth. A giant
human turdlike mass… a vaginal shit that cries and squirms... a
relief of pain so wonderful you carry it with you for days… months…
years... to come… thinking back… Wow! That was great!
As
for my massive rectal birth: This is gonna take half a roll of toilet
paper. I reach for the first sheets, ball them up and start wiping…
I feel nothing… like scraping mud off a pair of boots. Fuck, it’s
all over my hand… under the nails… over my thumb, embedded in
whatever that piece of skin is called between the base of one finger
and the next.
Next bundle of paper… Ahhh, I can feel the sphincter… the little circle of muscle... the release point… the anal vagina that births a pleasure that gives orgasm a run for its money.
I feel around... feel each wrinkle of that muscle... wiping away debris and dingle-berries. Ah, the tight… one fold… the next fold… the next… Ouch! What’s this? A bulge… It hurts… sticks out like something that belongs inside was pushed out with the giant turds… something that shouldn’t be there. It’s smooth, covered with slime… Using my middle finger, I wiggle it back and forth… push it inside and clamp tight. I run my finger around again. It’s gone, replaced with a perfect wrinkled circle.
Whew.
I check in the mirror for any cheek splashes… wipe away a dot here… a brown streak there... pull up and finish getting dressed for the day. Next comes a cup of coffee, poured from the refrigerated pitcher where I keep the percolator left overs. BLAM!into the microwave. Two and a half minutes… aaaahhhh. A beershit and a cup of coffee. Maybe life isn’t so bad after all.
As I drink the coffee, I check facebook, and try to think of snappy answers to all those people who’ve said they’ve had enough of me… but have not as yet blocked me.
Here’s a new one… from a friend who I’ve known about 40 years. Now she’s fed up. “Mykel,” she says, “It’s time I take a vacation from you. I’ve had enough for a while.”
Aahhh, I relearn a much-needed lesson: Some friends should not be facebook friends. And…
Fuck! The second shit. It always hits about half an hour after the first. I can predict. Half the load… with a consistency more like yogurt than cottage cheese.
Okay, okay, I’ll go. The porcelain goddess wins. Facebook loses.
This one takes a little more push than the last… but… but… but… aaaaaah! Yogurt as predicted, a lighter brown than should be healthy… but oh so good. More paper… wipe… wipe again… What’s that? It’s back. That rectal ‘roid popped out again like a rubbed nipple. What the fuck? I thought I’d gotten rid of it.
After
I clean myself, I reach for the CVS Oral Analgesic. Nothing like oral
to kill the pain of anal. Then I push it back up into its rightful
home and pull up my pants
Returning to the desk and
facebook, I sit gently.
Here’s a message from Sid Yiddish. He’s asking about my friend, performance artist, prankster, and noise musician, Boyd Rice.
HALT! TECH TALK. LAST CENTURY VERSION: I need to explain something. A lock groove is a groove on vinyl records, usually at the end of each side. It locks the needle in place, so it doesn’t go running into the label. It’s not a spiral like a usual groove, but rather a circle, keeping the needle in place. If it’s used before the end of the record, it sounds like the record is skipping and playing the same thing over and over again.
Back to Boyd Rice.. Back to Boyd Rice…. Back to Boyd Rice
Whatta guy, that Boyd is. The first time I heard of him was when he made a record as a “band” called NON. He sent me a vinyl copy in the days before “download” had anything to do with music.
Every
groove of the record was a lock groove. In order to play it, you had
to manually lift up the needle and move it from one groove to the
next. It was wonderful frustration. Immediately, I thought. Here
is a man after my evil heart.
I
learned even more when I saw him in front of an “art piece.” You
know that awful LOVE sign? The
eye-rolling tilted “O”? Oy
vey!
So
what punker art than to create
a LOVE sign with a universal symbol of hate? It’s just genius.
Yeah, that’s Boyd Rice next to his artwork. The original, as I remember, was a sculpture, but I can’t find a picture that version.
I finally get to meet the guy when he has a performance in NYC... sometime last century. He affects a kind of SS leather coat look with no insignia... just the look. Like my mafia fedora trenchcoat look or Sid Yiddish’s talis and tzitzit masked Hassid look. An image... like an actor… a performer…. always on stage.
Boyd “performs” by making noise on some electronic machine or other. I don’t remember the details. I do remember talking to him after the show.
“I
saw that LOVE thing you did,” I tell him. “Just genius… use
some cliche
and turn it into its opposite.”
Boyd shakes his head.
“They just don’t get it, Mykel. Irony is lost…” It’s a
great conversation… about
music, art, and the loss of irony.
“Boyd Rice is a bad man,” says Sid Yiddish in his facebook message. “A friend of mine told me.”
Ah, his friend must’ve seen the LOVE ART and figured… sure the guy’s a Nazi. Our mutual friend outs him to Sid.
My fuckin’ God… It’s IRONY… humor. Wise up! Think punk! Think about the conversation with Boyd Rice. THAT’s what I want to write about: conversation.
Flash to California: A film-maker pal wants to do a day-in-the-life documentary on Gavin McInnes, founder of the Proud Boys®. From Canada, Gavin once played in a punk band, Anal Chinook. My pal wondered if I had any connections to him. I didn’t then, but now I do.
Through a circuitous route I got in touch with Gavin. We went out for a beer and snacks at an Irish bar in Manhattan.
“I want a picture,” says Gavin. “Put your hat on and try to look like Mykel Board.”
We talk about punk rock. We talk about how people just have no idea what real punkrock is. How my friends in Hungary thought the Dead Kennedys were seriously advocating pooricide when they sang, Kill The Poor. We laugh.
“Are you still a homo?” Gavin asks me.
“I was never a homosexual,” I answer, “but most of the guys I’ve had sex with have been homosexuals.”
He laughs.
Gavin drinks Bud. I drink Lagunitas. We agree on censorship and how what used to be topics for discussion are now topics to be censored. We disagree on immigration. He wants to keep them out. I want to open the borders… make it no different going to the US from Mexico than from going to New York from New Jersey. We disagree on guns. He likes ‘em. I think the big ones need to be banned. We disagree on welfare. He thinks people should have to work to EARN their money. I think if rich people want diamond-studded Maseratis, then they can work for them. Meanwhile, most of rich people’s money should go to support those without money-- whether they choose to work or not. Gavin has “issues” with transfolks. I think that they’re among the sexiest people in the world. (I didn’t call the second ARTLESS record Boy With A Cunt for nothing.)
The conversation is deep, but fun… lots of laughs… lots of overlap… I felt a friendship and liked the guy. I still like him and hope we can drink together again. We agreed on a few things. Disagreed on a few. Sometimes just talked about stuff where there was nothing to agree with or disagree. I tell him I could never have been a Proud Boy®.
“Those guys don’t jerk off!” I complain.
He laughs.
During the discussion, I mention that I’d read that he quit the Proud Boys. I ask him if it was because they were getting too hot to handle.
“No,” he tells me, “I’d said some pretty extreme stuff. You know, like punk rock. Courts and juries don’t get the punk rock mind... Kill The Poor. You know what I’m talking about.
Lawyers would use my quotes like “choke a tranny” literally. It could cost those guys some time in jail. I thought it was best for me divorce myself from the group in order to save it.
Wow! I had completely misunderstood. I misread an act of altruism for an act of ass-saving. I’m glad we talked about it. New respect for the guy...
At the end of the evening, Gavin pays for both of us and we both leave with a smile. Like I said, I like the guy and hope to see him again sometime.
After I get home, I post the picture of Gavin and me on facebook and say what I great time I had drinking and talking with him.
The reaction comes swift... and hard. The same stuff I put up with Boyd Rice… only stronger… harder. Like the returning hemorrhoid I thought I’d stuffed away.
My “friends” list shrinks by nearly 100. Those who don’t leave fill the picture comments with How could yous and You’re turning alt-rights and… and… and...
Yeah, there are a few commenters I admire. They want to talk. Especially one on the left and one on the right… but the majority are too outraged to discuss… only ready to complain.
I try to explain that I like people… especially smart people with a sense of humor. It doesn’t work and it’s not long before Godwin’s Law hits.
“Sure,” I answer, “I used to go to the local kneipe with Herr Goebbels. He never let me pay for a Hofbrau.”
Pretty snappy, huh? Huh?
Then it hits! I’m as guilty as the others. Instead of conversing, listening, taking a drink, inhaling, stroking my chin… and maybe changing my mind, I’m more concerned with snappy answers than learning anything. That concern baits snappy questions and feeds on itself like a hemorrhoid feeds on a steady diet of beer shits.
SCENE SHIFT: I hate the telephone. It’s an evil intrusion… calling you away from what you’re doing… demanding an answer NOW! But when I find myself in a quandary, I pick up the phone and call Dorothy Parker, the smartest person I know.
Since she’s dead, I never worry about her calling me at inopportune moments. I have the upper hand… er… voice.
“Dorothy,” I say, “you gotta help me. Suddenly, I’m finding myself as my own best enemy. I complain about people not willing to converse anymore, just looking for snappy answers... Something to throw out without thinking… for a laugh. In reality, I never learn anything. I never change my mind. I’m just interested in throwing out something witty.
“Wit has truth in it; wise-cracking is simply calisthenics with words,” Dorothy says.
“So I’m learning,” I tell her. “I’m trying to learn how to listen and have a peaceable discussion. I want to learn from people who want to learn from people. I’m tired of ideologues who stick to the party line come Trump or Nancy Pelosi. I don’t want that. I want to converse.”
“You can’t teach an old dogma new tricks,” she says.
“But what should I do?” I beg. “Where should I go?”
“The Algonquin,” she says. “Get a roundtable, eat, drink, talk about things... and listen.”
BINGO!
So now, slightly less often than once a month, I meet with friends and strangers in the lobby of the Algonquin hotel. Poets, musicians, thinkers… lesbians, homosexuals, people in their 20s and people in their 80s. We talk. When I’m tempted to jump in and listen to myself, I bite the inside of my thumb or squeeze my asscheeks together until the hemorrhoid hurts.
But slowly, ever-so-slowly, I listen and learn. Gavin and Boyd… come and join us! Smart people listening to each other. That’s what we need. I’ll shut up now and see what the other folks have to say.
See you in hell.
MB
aka
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 in the subject line. Back blogs and columns are at https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com]
→ Join the conversation dept. If you’re in the NYC area or can be, we want YOU at the Algonquin Round Table, especially if you’re not white, not old, or/and not binary. We need to increase our diversity. If you’re interested in joining us, send me an email, and I’ll put you on the list. Just show up some month, introduce yourself, and converse.
→ Is
that a handy wipe in your river, or are you happy to
see me? Science News reports
that an island the size of two tennis courts and composed entirely of
used handy wipes (the Brits call ‘em wet wipes) has
appeared in the Thames River that goes through London. Government
ministers have asked people to stop using the wipes and are
considering a ban. A Labor Party MP said she had visited the site:
"I've ... stood on it -- it's a meter deep or more in places.”
It's actually changed the course of the Thames."
The
Environmental Minister asked citizens not to flush the wipes. My
question, if you don’t flush them, just where do you put them?
→
Accidents will happen dept: The British tabloid The
Daily Mirror tells
us about a man who may never be able to use his penis again after
his partner accidentally sprayed expanding foam inside his urethra.The
man was struggling with impotence and had been putting different
items into the opening of his penis in a bid to stay firm. But his
latest attempt ended in horror when his partner tried to use the
straw of a can of insulation spray to keep him erect.
His
partner said she accidentally hit the button on top of the can,
sending the foam into his penis. There, it hardened and “became
anchored."
Doctors
had to cut a new opening between the man's scrotum and his anus to
urinate and said he must pass a psychiatric test in order to qualify
for “reconstructive surgery.”
See
you in hell, redux,
MB
LINK TRADE DEPARTMENT:
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.
Here's
a start:
You can see Gavin on Censored.tv... maybe the only place he's not blocked.
There’s
a great interview with Sid Yiddish on YouTube. You can check it out here.
Here’s Richard Goldberg: goldberg.wordpress.com
Poetry and humor fans will like Justin Martin in The Latency
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.
Andy Shelton has an interesting blog here.
Savage Hippie is a guy who has been YouTubing for a long time. Our opinions largely overlap... but he complains that I'm a Communist. I'm not! I'm a communist.
Chris Stecher publishes a zine called PRECIS. You can see the back issue links there... and he promises a new issue soon.
George Fertakis has a very nice graphics-heavy blog... with music and books featured prominently. If there’s no link here (I can’t find it temporarily), then Google… er… Duckduckgo him for information.
And my long-term pal Sid Yiddish contributes with his Mishegas Master Blog.
And connect to TRUST Zine, a long-running German punk zine… that STILL PRINTS!!! Yeah, they have a website too… of course! It’s here.
Here
are a couple video links.
This
from Jon Cox https://squelchchamber1.bandcamp.com/album/down-so-low
And this one from my very long-time friend Roger Armstrong.
Jim Testa moved his long running zine, Jersey Beat, to the blogosphere awhile back. You can read it here. Jim also recommended a kind of unique album… in a style you don’t see to much of these days… or any days. Neo-Hassidic Rock Opera. You can stream the album here.
Kyle Nonneman is in prison in Portland. At least he can’t be kidnapped by the secret police… I think. I post his blog for him, he can’t do it from the klink. Lots of stuff about noise metal… and some very weird politics that will either fascinate or repulse you… or both.
My long time pal, Jim Hayes rightfully complained about my leaving out his blog. He’s a great writer, so it was a tragic omission. Here it is.
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
