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

Sad Song: You're Still Wrong: Mykel's October Blog

 

A Sad Song: You're Still Wrong: Mykel's  October Blog

 

You’re STILL Wrong

or

Mykel's 

October 2021 Blog/Column 

A Sad Song

by Mykel Board

There are two types of people in the world: those who prefer to be sad among others, and those who prefer to be sad alone. 

                                                                                  --Nicole Krauss

Staring at my picture book, she looks like Mary, Queen of Scots.

She seemed very regal to me, just goes to show how wrong you can be. I'm gonna stop wastin' my time. Somebody else would have broken both of her arms. Sad song, sad song. Sad song, sad song.

                                                          --Lou Reed

The way sadness works is one of the strange riddles of the world. If you are stricken with a great sadness, you may feel as if you have been set aflame, not only because of the enormous pain but also because your sadness may spread over your life, like smoke from an enormous fire.

                       – Lemony Snicket

It starts in that no man’s land between your belly and your chest. It’s a pressure… something on your diaphragm. You struggle to breathe...  your chest rises and falls in deep sighs. Slowly it creeps up… deep in the back of your throat… the spider in the old lady who swallowed a fly… then you feel it in your nose… your eyes… those little parts of your eyes closest to each other… wet… they fill ever more... soon you can’t see… you squeeze your eyelids shut... tears pour out... dripping down the side of your face… You look to the right and left to see if anyone’s watching you… Your nose runs. You wipe the tears… the snot… on your sleeve.

Sadness is inexorably… though understandably… linked with death. People cry when someone close to them dies. It’s the same everywhere. 

I ask my Kenyan pal, Albert, if men cry in Kenya. He says, “Sure, men cry when someone dies. It’s normal.”

Sometimes, we’re sad when people we’ve never met… but have admired… die. I cried when Thurman Munson died. I’ll cry when Jimmy Carter dies. Okay, got that. 

But there’s a kind of sadness that’s not about death. A kind of sadness that doesn’t reach up the throat… doesn’t end in the nose or the eyes... a kind of sadness that is like a giant press, squeezing your lungs… squeezing the air out of you… making you feel like shit for no reason except the sadness itself. 

FLASH TO THE SECRET KOREAN BAR; It’s above a deli on the corner. There are no signs for it… you just have to know it’s there. You enter through the deli, walk up the unmarked staircase in the back and POW! There you are. 

I’m walking up those stairs right now. 

“Yeoboseyo!,” I shout from below. It’s Hello in Korean, but only for answering the phone... never as an in-person greeting… except by me. 

“Mykel!” shouts Jenny from upstairs… behind the bar. 

“How’d you know?” I shout back. 

When I get upstairs, Jenny has poured me a mug of Hite beer. She pushes it over the bar to me as I sit in front of her. 

Andy, an ABK (American Born Korean), hangs out in the bar and is a friend. 

“Andy,” I shout at him from the other side of the room. “Come and sit next to me. We’ll talk. Have a Hite!”

Andy sits on the next stool. “Mykel,” he says, “nice to see ya! I’ve been feeling like shit for the past week.”

“I hope I didn’t make it worse,” I tell him. 

It takes him a second. Then he laughs. 

“How’s the deli job?” I ask. He works at a Korean deli, chopping salad, preparing the take-it-weigh-it-and-pay-it food that Korean delis invented. 

“You know, chop chop,” he says, his right hand making a fake karate move. “So close to Grand Central, lots of tourists and businessmen. Not my favorite people.”

I talk to the bartender, “Jenny,” I say, “give Andy a Hite on me.” 

She pours him a beer. “Mong chung eeee” we say in a fake toast. (It actually means You Moron!) 

“You look unhappy,” I tell him. “Did something happen today?” 

“Something happens every day, Mykel,” says Andy. “When I look in the mirror, I feel like shit. I want to cry. It’s….”

“Huh?” I say, nearly choking on the beer, “You’re a smart, good-looking guy. I wish I saw what you see when I looked in the mirror.”

He smiles halfheartedly… and puts the tips of his index fingers at the edges of his eyes. 

“See these? Slanty eyes!” he says. 

“Come on,” I say, “you speak perfect English… Well, I mean you tawk like a New Yawka.”

He looks at me… very close… fixing his eyes on mine. Then he says… very slowly and very LOUD.

“WHEN… PEOPLE... SEE... ME... THEY... TALK... LIKE... THIS... LOUD... AND... VERRRRRRY…. SLLOOOW. THEY... EXPECT... I... CAN’T... UNDERSTAND…” He speaks, staring directly into my eyes projecting  profound pathos.

“But…” I start.

“You don’t get it, Mykel,” he says. “I know you. Sometimes you play the outsider, the one who never fits… but you CAN fit if you want. I have no choice… I’m ALWAYS the outsider… always the foreigner… no matter how American I am.”

He slaps his own cheek. “I hate my face. I hate being born this way. And sometimes it feels worse than ever...”

I feel a giant press, squeezing my lungs… squeezing the air out… making me feel like shit for no reason except the sadness itself. 

My adventure with Andy took place at least 15 years ago. But all these years later, the sadness still creeps up on me when I think about it.

FLASH TO NOW… RECENTLY: TVs, newspapers… The New York press is filled with… stop the press. A restaurant worker is assaulted… cellphone videos prove it… punches traded… three against one… all girls… a catfight. 

What happened? The worker politely asked for COVID vaccine proof. It’s required by law, you know… can’t eat inside a restaurant without your Covid-card. And for that she gets punched? For that, she’s wounded and has to be saved by patrons pulling the evil Texans off the helpless young lady. 

New Yorkers know that Texans are violent anti-vaxxers who don’t care if the whole world comes down with the plague. Just like them to attack a helpless girl only following the law… doing her job. 

It’s all too pat. The video shows the attackers are black women. The attackee is invisible. Facebook is alive with posts… those evil Texans. Not only do they want to make the rest of us sick with their no-vaxxing, but they attack a hostess who’s just doing her job. 

The news always describes the attackers as Texans. The minions… especially the New York minions… some of the most conformist people in the world… build on the anti-Texas outrage. Ted Cruz… Trump supporters… No respect for other humans... They only love guns and their version of God. 

Looking at the rage in the three black women… looking at the reports with no comments from the attacking side… Seems as clear as a knee on the neck that there’s an unreported racial side to this. 

How could you say that Mykel? They’re from Texas. They just want to kill people… unless those people haven’t been born yet, you know, fetuses… They’re the only ones with a right to life… get it? haw haw haw.

BLEEP! BLEEP! BLEEP! The news unfolds… the waitress wasn’t white. She was Asian. The attackers were all vaccinated. They were being pestered a SECOND time to show their proof… Did someone else’s cellphone catch the word Niggers among the crowd… the staff? 

Yes, I was right. I should be happy. I should be shouting I TOLD YOU SO from the top of the Empire State Building… dancing naked with a suck this you dumb New Yorkers sign hanging from my penis. 

But I don’t feel that way at all. Instead, I struggle to breathe...  my chest rises and falls in deep sighs. Slowly it creeps up… deep in the back of my throat… Being right makes me sad. The news: all lies… the people… my friends… true believers of those lies. So sad.

Some movies are called tear-jerkers. Usually chick flicks, they’re structured to make the viewer cry. I remember one called Once Were Warriors… a New Zealand story about the Maori. I cried at that one and then was pissed off at myself for being manipulated into tears. Now that I think back on the movie, I realize I cried from the film structure, not from sadness… like I laugh at Moe, Larry and Curly. 

Tears can come from pain, laughter, anger, frustration… as well as sadness. Sadness can only come from reality… from the realization that something is really wrong. 

There are people in the world who don’t feel the sadness…. who aren’t aware of the pitiable pain of our lives… who watch the TV news and are outraged… but not saddened. That, in itself, is sad. 

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]

–> The Way Out dept: 

Seems to me, when the government requires creative people to be creative for those they don’t like, the answer is to do lousy or offensive work. This web designer doesn’t like homosexuals? Ok, make a website where every click on every link will bring you to queerbait.com. You want to prove a point by hiring someone who doesn’t approve of you? Have your gay wedding cake with an icing picture of a little boy impaled on a devil-dick. It’d serve you right.

–> My kinda school outing dept: Mass Live reports: Students in Boston rode a party bus, complete with a stripper pole and neon lights, on a school field trip. Why? There’s a national school bus driver shortage. They have to take what they can get from private companies.

Eleventh grade Language teacher, Jim Mayers tweeted about the experience on Sept. 17.

“It is a funny story, but there actually is a real bus shortage and it speaks to major flaws in our education system,” said Mayers. “This in no way is a reflection of anyone involved in planning the trip. We were trying to have a fun day with the kids and that’s exactly what happened.”

I say: the only way to top “a fun day with kids” in a stripper bus with poles and neon… is to have actual strippers. 

–> Rising rents dept: The LA Times reports that a family owned crypt with neighbors Hugh Hefner and Marilyn Monroe is taking bids for a luxury deathplace. Bidding starts at $2 million for the no-bedroom… er… flat. 

–> Shaving lifespan dept: CNN tells of published research that says that eating a single hot dog can take 36 minutes off your lifespan. Joey Chestnut, one of my few heroes, has won the Coney Island Hot Dog Eating Contest for the past several years. He estimates he’s eaten more than 19,000 hot dogs. He’s not dead yet, but the clock is ticking faster than for most people. If he’s buried next to Hugh Hefner, I might visit him one of these days. 

-->Speaking of Death Dept: I just wanted to give a sad nod to the death of Michael Evans... long time ARTLESS drummer and drummer around town (God Is My Co-Pilote, False Prophets, and a ton of others). One of the few people who switched easily from punk to avante garde to jazz to Afro-Caribbean... and just a great guy. 

See you in hell, redux, but I expect Evans will not be there to greet us. He's jamming with Ginger Baker.

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 here... 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's a few 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 too 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

You're Still Wrong, Mykels Aug. 2020 Blog Vol 2: WHAT OLD PEOPLE DO!

 

YOU'RE STILL WRONG.. 

MYKEL'S AUGUST 2020 BLOG

VOLUME 2

OR

WHAT OLD PEOPLE DO

by Mykel Board

In America, the land of the perpetually young, growing old is an embarrassment and dying is seen as a failure. – Harold S. Kushner

Suffering and understanding are deeply connected; death and self-awareness are in league. – Denis de Rougemont

Olivia de Havilland died? What a shame! She was 104 years old… had her whole life behind her. It’s just awful. Such a tragedy.

I know. It’s so sad. And what about that Regis Philbin? 84 years old and poof! Just gone! It’s terrifying. Quick! Close everything NOW!!!! Old people are dying!

And Granny! It was so horrible. She had diabetes, chronic lung infection, pneumonia… and she just died. Can you imagine a woman like that just up and dying?

Flash to small talk: At a wedding party… you meet a young man, full head of hair tight chin under his scruffy beard.

“And what do you do?” you ask…

He answers.

“Oh, still in grad school,” you say, “What are your plans for the next decade or so?”

“Well, after I graduate,” comes the answer, “I think I’ll take a trip around the world. Then, look for a job in an emerging tech company. You never know when Google will be on a buying spree.”

Flash to small talk TWO, same party: an older man. The fringe of hair left is deeply gray... eyebags like a shopping trip to Safeway… wisps of gray beard missed in shaving.

“Ah, grandfather of the bride?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Of the groom.”

“And what are your plans for the next decade or so?” you don’t ask.

“I plan to die,” he doesn’t say. “That’s what old people do. We die.”

Get it?

We have a panic. The government is asking… sometimes demanding… that everyone change their lives to protect the old and the sick. Society upends. There is more sudden poverty than at any time since the great depression. Why? So that old and sick people don’t die.

I’m pushing 80 years old. I’m a high risker. And I’m going to die! You know? That’s what old people do. That’s what EVERYBODY does. You don’t save lives… the best you can do is postpone death. Does this come as a shock to you?

Why should…

Hey Mykel!

Fuck! I’d know that font anywhere. It’s The Literary Device. Okay, I’ll bite. What the hell do you want?

Where are you going with this? As if I didn’t know. You think, since old people and sick people are going to die anyway, that asking everybody to sacrifice to save them is a worthless sacrifice.

“Worse than worthless,” I answer. “Destructive! We’re harming the many to save those who won’t be saved anyway.”

Think, Mykel... since everyone is going to die anyway, why have lifeguards at beaches… or EMT? You’re not saving anyone, you’re just postponing death.

“First,” I say, “what gives you the right to butt in here anyway. You’re just a literary device… you’re not even human. Second...”

BINGO! That’s exactly what gives me the right. I’m one who WON’T die. Literary devices live forever. That gives me some perspective.

“Shut up!” I yell back. “Second, you have a good point. I should have said that given the way this epidemic goes: You don’t save lives. the best you can do is postpone death… a little. Is it worth it?”

Who are you to judge?

“I’m Mykel fuckin’ Board. That’s who. I have the same right to give my opinion as anyone else. And I hate to see lives wrecked... people afraid to leave their houses... last chance meetings missed... plans destroyed... kids taught that other humans are dangerous and being too close to them will kill those kids… the idea of social followed immediately by the idea of distancing… We’re destroying ourselves to save people who would die soon anyway.”

Young people get the virus… even kids. It’s not just a the sick and the old disease.

“Neither is the flu, the common cold, or e-coli,” I answer, “But most people get over them. Corona is unpleasant for a while, sometimes needs heroic measures, but more than 90% of the people who get it, get over it. In the meantime, people’s lives are ruined –forever– by the fear of it. They won’t get over it. Future generations are ruined by lack of real schooling, lack of human contact, lack of a social life… except for DISTANCING. A $600 –or Trumpian $400– check is not going to fix that.”

So what do you propose? Overwhelm the US healthcare system? It’s the worst in the so-called developed world. You want to make it impossible to treat any other disease than the pile of COVIDS?

“Ah,” I reply, “you’ve hit the problem. We’re fucked from the start by living in such a primitive country. Worst medical system… except for the rich. And that’s a problem… for once in my life... I don’t have an answer to.”

Bingo!

- end -

ENDNOTES: [You can contact me on facebook or by email at god@mykelboard.com. Through the post office: send those... er... private DVDs..or music or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to: Mykel Board, POB 137, New York, NY 10012-0003. If you like my writing, you can be notified when anything new is available. Send me an email with SUBSCRIBE in the subject line. Back blogs and columns are at https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com

Had enough yet? dept: There’s a great story (with an awful headline, cut from the picture below) that just reports and doesn’t take sides. It’s so rare to see any balance from anyone these days.

To mask or not to mask… no conclusions. That’s the way it should be.

→ Bird Flew dept: Meaww.com reports that a British man pleaded guilty to having sex with chickens and having his wife film the act. Rehan Baigalong with his wife, Heema Baig, appeared for a hearing before a judge and pleaded guilty to 11 charges including three of performing an act of penetration on chickens.

Funny, fucking a chicken is a criminal offense, but killing one is not. Values anyone?

→ Swine get it right dept: Meanwhile, the Ripley’s site shows us a flu animal that gets it. There are, evidently, dozens of cases where pigs, farmed for their flesh, EAT the farmers. They do a pretty good job. One family reports a farmer’s remains as “his dentures and a few small body parts-- that’s all.” The article does not say if there are records of pigs fucking humans (though it seems to me I’ve seen the 8mm films). I have no idea if it would be legal or not. But if people aren’t allowed to do it to chickens, you’d expect that pigs wouldn’t be allowed to do it to people. You never know, though. If you do it... send me a picture, will ya?

--See you in hell!

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.

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.

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