i DIED LAST NIGHT! or You're STILL Wrong, Mykel's February 2025 Blog/Column

 

I DIED LAST NIGHT!, or You're STILL Wrong, Mykel's February 2025 Blog/Column

 

You’re STILL Wrong
Mykel's

January 2025 Blog/Column

BANG! YOU'RE DEAD!

I didn't realize it, but the days came along one after another, and then two years were gone, and everything was gone, and I was gone.
                                            -- F. Scott Fitzgerald

What I can’t understand is the selfishness! Those of you who want to die and take your whole lives doing it.
                                            --Edward Albee

The world may be strange to a child, but he does not fear it the way a man fears it. He marvels at it, but the grown man mainly dreads it. And why? Because of death.                     
                                            --Saul Bellow

But he found the men of the world all engrossed in the quest for profit or fame, there was not one who had any care for the end in store for him. 
                                                -- Wu Cheng’ en

I died last night at exactly 12:04 AM. It was a peaceful death… well not peaceful, but not unpleasant. I know the time because I was laying down… my WZRD shotglass empty on the low table next to the bed… just drained of a pour of Jim Beam.

Now it’s time to do that thing that most guys do to help getting to sleep. My laptop on my stomach… my browser tuned to xvideos… Ah, here’s a good one: Two Boys and a Girl: First Time For All. I click on it. Oh yeah, if they’re 18, I’m a twink.

My fist around my protrusion, I stare at the screen. It’s just the way I like it. Girl on her back on the bed. Blond boy lying on top, inserted balls deep. On his back is the brunette guy, inserted balls deep into the blond guy.

My eyes dance over the screen. I especially like to focus on the faces. You know that Andy Warhol movie Blow Job? That’s the kind of entertainment I… My eyes dart to that little clock in the corner of the screen. It’s 12:03 AM.,, right time to fall asleep. But there’s something wrong… or at least different. I have a headache… really bad.

I think about my hand. I can’t feel anything. Yeah, I’m not a large guy… but NOTHING? There’s an emptiness between my legs… Actually, I can’t feel anything at all. Not the organ in my fist... not the computer on my belly… not the bed underneath me.

I look back at the screen and there’s nothing there… not a blank screen, but nothing at all. I remember I had a headache, but now there’s nothing. It suddenly occurs to me that I must be dead. A stroke, I guess.

All the stories I’ve read, told by dying people saved just before they’re completely gone… They talk about rising up… going through a tunnel with a bright light at the end… flying toward the light. There is none of that for me.

No tunnel. No floating. No flying. I do move, but it’s more like teleportation… Beam Me Up, Scotty… than flying. Suddenly, I’m in a white room. Standing naked on a white tile floor. Clouds of something white form and dissolve around me. Gradually the forms solidify, like when the transporter puts Captain Kirk back together… molecule by molecule. As they take shape, I can see all my heroes –at least the dead ones– form as complete figures… not naked… in the room around me. There’s Celine, mustached… arching eyebrows… just standing, arms limply at his side. Bella Abzug… yes, wearing a hat… the bellicose one now silently standing with her arms folded over her chest. Stiv Bators, with his thin weasel-like face squished into one of his typical Stiv Bators stage antics. Oh look, over there… smirking in the corner, a cigarette burning in his developing hand… Yes, it’s William Burroughs!

I turn around and around, watching new people appear… each seems oblivious to the others in the room… and to the naked me watching it all from someplace near the middle. Thurman Munson and Phil Rizzuto… right next to each other, seemingly unaware. Barry Goldwater and Jimmy Carter… this time at opposite sides of the room. Marcel Duchamp and Frida Kahlo and more heroes than I knew I had.

I wonder if I can talk to these people. All of them are dead. The only one I’ve ever spoken to in real life is Stiv Bators and we didn’t say all that much to each other. Gradually, I lose my uneasiness at being nude. I walk up to Celine, deciding the best way to start a conversation is with a compliment. I’m going to tell him that he was the greatest writer who ever lived… or died.

I walk up to him, not feeling the floor against my bare feet. I’m behind him now. I reach out to tap him on the shoulder. But he’s not there. None of them are there. The room… the whiteness… the clouds… the people… nothing. I’m still naked, but now I’m outside… in what looks like a forest… or at least a very large public park or some other wilderness. I look down and under my bare feet are leaves… nothing but leaves.

Otto Kentrol once told me he could tell the name of a tree just by looking at it. An oak, a birch, an elm… anything. The shape of the tree... the leaves... the way the branches hang. KERCHOW! He could tell you what kind of tree it was… an awe-inspiring skill.

Me? In Hicksville, we had a weeping willow in the backyard. I think I’d know one if I saw it again. I probably could tell a giant redwood if a car drove through a tunnel in the trunk. But that’s about it. Here, I know nothing. It’s a like a painting… filled with greens and browns and a burst of red here and there. The sky is blue… skyblue like the skies they get in Texas sometimes. And trees… lots of trees. I can’t tell one from the other.

I wonder if I can time travel as well as travel from one place to another. After all there are fewer than 10 billion people alive on earth. But there must be zillions of dead people here in heaven. Living people go through a cycle: birth, life, death. The same for everyone, although to varying degrees.

Time exists as a marker between birth and death. You get older. Some people die. Other people are born. Time is how you keep track. But if there is no birth or life… only an eternal death, then there is no time. Moving to the past or present is meaningless.

I’m distracted from these thoughts by the cold wet splash of semen on my naked feet. It’s my own semen, of course, still leaking from my continued harditude. Strange that it is the only thing I’m able to feel.

I’m off again… not flying, just transporting… new place. Another woods-like area but here is a little clearing with a tree in the middle. Despite my usual inability to distinguish trees, I understand that this is an apple tree. The apples growing from the branches are the best clue.

I have no feeling of hunger, but I can imagine the taste of an apple and have half an urge to experience it. I reach for the red fruit.

There is a rustling next to me. And I see a young woman… also naked… the first other naked person I’ve seen since my death.

And she’s a WOW! Short dark hair… in a dykish crew cut, breasts risen, tight, two handfuls. A face that could be in a K-Pop boy band.

I feel a stirring between my legs. Something that I haven’t felt for a year. Even alive… after my prostate radiation… I never got the sense… but here it is… heavenly.

She looks my way.

Wow!

It’s impossible to imagine. When I was alive, I was a believer. Too many things go wrong for there not to be a God. Not to mention, she kills everyone who ever lives. And just think of how miserable life is for so many people… you and me. You think that’s an accident? Only a God… an evil God could be responsible for that horror.

But, until now, I didn’t believe in heaven or hell. I thought once you kicked the bucket, it was all over. Like a dreamless sleep you never wake up from.

The naked young woman reaches to my dripping organ and fondles it. It throbs. Has the dripping stopped? I’m not sure. She kneels in front of me then takes me into her mouth.

“Whatever the case,” I tell her. “I sure didn’t expect heaven to be like this.”

“Heaven?” she laughs, speaking around my fullness. “Heaven? That’s where you think you are?” She laughs again.

Then she bites down… hard. This time I feel it.

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 in the subject line. Back blogs and columns are at https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com]

→ Explanation Dept: As this is February, you might have guessed this was not my annual APRIL FOOLS’ column. It was an experiment… a trial at a new way of writing… a new form… something new… like a Beatles Album. Maybe I should dedicate it to the spirit of David Lynch. He must be ghosting around the cosmos now.
    Comments are welcome. It’s a first attempt at an alternate reality (I think that’s what they call it) non-political blogpost. I’m trying to combine a few genres here. Let me know if it’s a hit or a miss… or a near hit or near miss. Thanks.

→Kenya: By the time you read this I’ll probably be in Kenya. It’ll be my first trip to East Africa. I start in Nairobi, which my Lonely Planet Guide tells me is known as Nairobbery by the locals. Whatever happens, it’ll be an adventure. I might even die there. Contact me if you have any Kenyan connections, the more the merrier. By the way, there may be no March blog this year. I’ll be too busy going native.

→Speaking of Kenya dept: MSN reports that a giant metal ring fell from the sky onto earth in a small Kenyan village. The space ring weighs over a ton. Its origins are unknown.. and just listed as “somewhere in outer space.” Here’s a picture of it:

TIME TO READ THIS AGAIN!!

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.

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:

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.

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

And a terrific performance piece from Sid Yiddish and his Candy Store Henchmen, with some special guest stars you might recognize. All for WZRD radio.

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

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.

And for a quiet smile and a much needed break for you and the dog, try G.C. Adams’ YouTube entry.

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!

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

Jennifer Blowdryer has just come out with a great book called Music A-Z. Anybody who’s ever played in a band will be able to relate to the drug-addled club rip-off people here. You can order it here… directly from the publisher.

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

You're Still Wrong: Mykel's June Blog... Recycled

 

You’re STILL Wrong

or

Mykel's

June 2021 Blog/Column

Recycled

by Mykel Board

It’s been awhile since I’ve been under the sink. Long-time readers know that there is a cabinet under my sink. There is a door in back of the cabinet that allows me to travel to other places. I used to often squeeze myself in… Lately it’s harder to fold these old bones in to a compact package.  I’m going to try again. My travel guide, George Metesky, is always waiting for me on the other side. He shows me around. 

My urge to see an alternative, amazingly enough, has nothing to do with the COVID plague. It’s something that hits me as I’m bringing a paperbag full of empty beer and whisky bottled to the basement. What hits me is three of those bottles… fallen through the bag onto my bare feet as I carry that bag from in front of the sink to the door of my apartment. The glass doesn’t break but the pain of the clunk on my naked foot makes me wonder if this recycling shit is really worth it. 

I’ve long suspected that the energy used to melt old glass, press old plastic, grind old paper is more than the energy saved by not making new glass, new plastic, new paper in the first place. And that’s not counting the fuel spent in transporting this trash... and the land wasted in storing it. Recycling clearly takes more energy than not buying so much crap in the first place. 

I suspect recycling is a corporate scam to ease the guilty conscience of consumerism…. Something that makes it okay to buy stuff you’ll never use in containers that do nothing when bought except stuff up the garbage pail. 

Dozens of sources (see notes at the end of this blog), point to the failure of recycling. But my friends say no, it CAN work if done right. The failure isn’t in the IDEA of recycling, but in how it’s done. We’ll see.

My quest is to find if recycling can work... if it can be productive… a way that capitalists and communists can appreciate. The perfect recycling solution. 

I know where that solution is and how to get there: The cabinet under my sink. 

Squeezing my COVID-fattened body into the cabinet, I fetally push myself in… moving aside the Clorox and the Glade. I close the outside door and feel for the wall. Using my head for ballast, I slam my shoulder into the piece of plywood in back. Once… twice…. BLAM… It tumbles outward and so do I... feeling the sun on my face. 

“Right on time,” says George, who somehow knows when I’ll appear.

“George!” I shout, pushing myself up to standing, giving him a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. “It’s been a long time.” 

“Welcome,” he says. “Let me take you to my place. You’re free to stay there as long as you’d like.” 

“Sleeping on a couch filled with recycled plastic?” I ask.

George frowns thoughtfully, then smiles. “I keep forgetting you come from someplace else,” he tells me. “The couch isn’t filled with recycled plastic. It IS recycled plastic. Top to bottom, squeezed into and out of a mold.”

“Doesn’t sound comfortable,” I say.

“Well,” he answers, “if you sleep naked, you’ll stick to it.”

“I usually don’t sleep naked in other people’s houses,” I tell him. “Unless I’m sleeping WITH them….” I look at his thick glasses… and his thicker nosehair... like sprigs of clover... sprouting from his nostrils and merging into his mustache…. “And, I’m sorry to tell you, you’re not my type.”

He laughs. I brush the dust off my trenchcoat, and follow George to the center of what at first looks like a typical suburban town. Then I see the sheen... the waxiness... of the identical off-white houses in front of identical bright green lawns. 

I point to them.

“Recycled?” I ask. 

George nods, “From spray-can lids,” he says. 

“The recycling factory collects the can tops, melts down the plastic, colors it with mucus scraped from tons of retrieved kleenex. Then, they press it into pre-fab parts…. Roofs, walls, floors… The windows are recycled Scotch tape, processed in a different plant.” 

“But all that specialized equipment… and the collection and processing, doesn’t that use more energy than…” I start.

“Energy, shmenergy,” says George. “We don’t care about energy. We care about recycling. Using energy creates jobs. Jobs are good. Anyone can make a few extra bucks at the power plant… look at this.” George pulls up a pants-leg to show me his huge calf. 

“From the power plant,” he explains. “I ride a generator-bike at least two hours a day. And that’s not unusual. We got power out the ass.”

“Beans?” I don’t ask. 

As we walk, I notice green balls… about the size of softballs... scattered on the lawns. Every house has at least one, some have several. They seem randomly placed over the lawn. 

“What are those balls?” I ask George.

“They’re recycled,” he says. “Made from the plastic windows of utility and credit card bills. Then they’re dyed using millions of Whole Foods logos harvested from bags, boxes, and cans.”

“What do they do? Those balls, I mean.” 

“Do?” answers George, “They don’t do anything. They just sit there. If you’re a good recycler, you’re allowed to buy them… and they ain’t cheap… to show that you recycle… that you’re a good person. Doing stuff isn’t the point. They’re recycled! That’s what counts.”

Inside George’s plastic palace, I’m surprised to see a huge TV. It takes up most of one wall in the living room… wider than I am tall. 

“That can’t possibly be recycled,” I tell him. 

“Of course it is,” he says. “Old cell phones… they pull out the wires, melt down the cases, take the electronics, run them through who knows what, pay some Chinese guys to put them together piece by piece. The screen too: old iPhone screens pasted together… thousands of them… Yeah, the quality isn’t so great… but it’s recycled… that’s what counts, right?”

He turns on the set. It’s like watching a mosaic... gives me a headache. 

“I think I’ll just get some sleep,” I tell him.

“I got porn, if you want,” he says with a grin.

“Sure,” I tell him, “Since we’re on a recycle kick, you got anything with Kip Knoll or Sharon Mitchell?”

George walks over to the wall… perpendicular to the TV. On that wall hangs a single picture… a photo that looks like it’s been clipped from a magazine and framed… Al Gore.

George presses Al’s nose.

It’s like a mystery movie, where the safe is hidden in the wall behind a painting, but here, with a sound like a skateboard on cobblestone, half the wall slides behind the other half. 

Then there are shelves… maybe a hundred… maybe twice that… filled with DVDs.

“Don’t you stream?” I ask. “Why the fuck do you have DVDs in a recycletopia?”

“The only streaming I do,” answers George, “is into the urine bottles for pharmaceutical recycling.” 

I say nothing. 

“Stream?” he continues, “If you mean electronic transmission of sound and images… Of course not! You can’t recycle that… it’s electrons… ones and zeros… What are you going to do with that? You need something you can melt down, press into something else, repackage, and keep until you’re ready to melt it down again, press it into something else and repackage it. That is RE-cycling, boy. You need something to cycle in the first place.”

Again I say nothing, despite being called --maybe for the first time in my life-- BOY.

George takes a small step stool from an aisle between the shelves and climbs to examine the DVDs. 

“For Kip Knoll,” he tells me, “I can give you Boys of Venice or Greece Monkeys. For Sharon Mitchell, I got The Boxer and the Stripper, Knockout, or Kamikaze Hearts.”

“I saw Kamikaze Hearts,” I tell him. “That is not a film to jerk off to. In some way, I think it’s anti-porn... like Boogie Nights.”

“Oh,” answers George, “I didn’t realize you actually wanted to choke the chicken. I’ll give you Pacific Coast Highway... that should get you where you want to go.”

From one of the DVD shelves he takes a small carton that looks like a mini Saran Wrap box. He opens it slightly then tears off a small plastic bag with a built-in twisty at the top. 

“You’ll need one of these,” he says. “It’s a Semen-Saver. Just take care of business in the bag here, and I’ll put it with the recycling that’s picked up every morning at 8.”

Falling asleep soon after depositing a few drops in the Semen-Saver, something wakes me up.  It sounds like a massive belch… almost like a bullfrog with a megaphone. It repeats. And again. 

I hear George stir, then say, “Hello?” Then, “No, when??? How did it happen?? Shit, this is awful!” Then, “I can’t believe it. I have a guest I was going to show around, but this is….” His voice cracks. I can’t make out the rest of what he says. 

George returns to me, his face ashen… eyes watery. 

“Mykel,” he says, “I’m so sorry. I just got some horrible news….”

I can hear him breathing harder, or trying to hold back sobs.

“I just heard my grandfather died,” he continues. “We were very close. His mulching is this afternoon.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say.

“It’s not a loss,” says George… almost in anger. “That’s the beauty of recycle culture. There is no loss. Grandpa will be in Whole Foods in less than a month… the frozen sausage section…. I’m afraid you’ll have to fend for yourself for a bit. Help yourself to anything in the refrigerator. Don’t worry about waste. It was all something else before.”

George leaves the house… hops on a skateboard… made from ground and pressed coconut shells… and disappears from sight. 

I check out the kitchen: In the cupboard: a package of Picked-from-Turds Corn Kernels. In the refrigerator: a box of Twice-Used Broccoli Stems…  and a lot of sausage. I lose my appetite and decide it’s time to return to my sink. 

But a souvenir! I need something to bring back with me... to remember this place. The balls! I’ll take them off the neighbor’s yard… but I’ll have to disguise them. Everyone knows the green ones… Ah, right here… next to George’s sink… a can of yellow paint… I check the ingredients label: recycled from children’s rubber ducks and mustard scraped from discarded McDonald hot-dog rolls.

Looking both ways, I run out, grab some balls from the neighbor’s yard, bring them into the living room. I set some newspaper on the table, set the balls on the newspaper, and using George’s paint… change the green to yellow. 

While waiting for the paint to dry, I fill another Semen Saver®  with Sharon Mitchell. 

I grab the newly yellowed status markers and walk out the door… two in each hand… head down the road to the plywood opening that looks like an old-fashioned cellar door. 

There it is… about 3 minutes away… I hear running behind me. It’s the recycle cops… come to get me for stealing the round recycle balls without having earned them. I run faster, but these are cops, and even in this alternative world, I’m still pushing 80 years old. 

I know, turn the tables… I turn around… throw the balls at the cops… jump up… make a few fake karate jabs, 

“YEEE--- HAH! HEEE-- YAH!” I shout.

The cop backs off slightly. It’s enough for me to just reach the plywood door. 

“Hey,” shouts the cop when he sees what I threw at him. “Who’s the kung fu comedian with the yellow balls?”

I open the door, and shout back at the cop, “JACKIE CHAN!” Then I enter, and find myself back under the sink. 

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 in the subject line. Back blogs and columns are at https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com]

–> As promised here are some links to stories on the failure of recycling.

https://theweek.com/articles/819488/america-recycling-problem-heres-how-solve

https://sentientmedia.org/the-worlds-recycling-system-is-failing/

https://www.motherjones.com/environment/2020/05/plastic-recycling-is-broken-so-why-does-big-plastic-want-1-billion-to-fix-it/

https://ncrarecycles.org/2015/07/wm_fails-recycling

https://fee.org/articles/america-finally-admits-recycling-doesn-t-work/

–> Hard to Imagine dept: Of all the places in the world, Chicago must be the hardest to imagine in a corruption or crime scandal. But there it is… and a recycling scandal at that! 
According to bettergov.org an investigation has found that most (by a large percentage) of Chicago’s recycling is handled by a very few private companies who dump the goods in landfills. Somehow, It’s hard to believe Chicago is the only place that happens. 

–> Giving the finger dept:

The Maricopa Monitor (yeah, THAT Maricopa) reports that police arrested a man after he left behind an obvious bit of evidence when he slashed two of his neighbor's tires. A woman found flat tires on her car parked in her own driveway. She also found a severed finger lying on that driveway, Police said a trail of blood led to a nearby home. The night before, the finger owner had allegedly become drunk and belligerent at a neighborhood get-together. He shoved and threatened the car owner and her husband before being asked to leave. The cops caught him… er… red-handed.

–> I’m at a loss for words dept: The Mirror reports A middle-aged French woman claims to be in a sexual relationship with a rollercoaster.

Gaëlle Engel, from France, says she shares 'kids' with the theme park attraction. Engel said she had been sexually attracted to objects since her teens, and as an adult, she became fascinated with rollercoasters.

Half a dozen years ago, the artist found herself developing a strong romantic bond with a German ride. She became fixated on the Sky Scream rollercoaster at Holiday Park in Southwest Germany.

Her attraction to the Sky Scream is so strong that Gaëlle believes it's true love. "You could say that I'm sexually drawn to rollercoasters but since I met the Sky Scream, I understood what love was," she said.

–> Eco-friendly dept: CNN tells us that the Kentucky Coal Museum has decided to work to lower its electricity costs. How? By installing solar panels on its roof. “Coal comes from nature,” says a museum founder. “Sun rays come from nature. So it all works out.”

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:

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.

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