Showing posts with label drugs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drugs. Show all posts

Thursday, January 01, 2026

I WAS WRONG or Mykel Board's Blog for January 2026

  

I WAS WRONG or Mykel Board's Blog for January 2026

  


You’re STILL Wrong

or

Mykel's January 2026 Blog/Column

I WAS WRONG

by Mykel Board    


The only real mistake is the one from which we learn nothing.
                -- Henry Ford

More people would learn from their mistakes if they weren't so busy denying them
                -- J. Harold Smith

You have to own your mistakes, otherwise your mistakes own you
            --Paulo Coelho


For nearly 50 years, I hated Opera on principle. It was fat ladies and guys who “sang” the word Figaro over and over again. And the plots? My God! Love and other mushy shit. Opera was something to make fun of… like the Marx Brothers did. Opera isn’t punk. Texas Chainsaw Massacre is punk. Outrage is punk (if you haven’t seen it, do!) Aileen Wuornos is punk. The Ramones, The Dead Boys, The Sex Pistols are punk… but opera cannot be punk… or so I thought. A Drink Clubber showed up… he’s an opera singer. He put me on the guest list.

I was wrong. Opera can be pretty punk. You got this girl who works in a cigarette factory. She’s got two guys who want to get into her pants. One of ‘em ends up stabbing the girl to death… at a bullring!! What could be punker? In case you don’t know, that’s the plot of Carmen.

This, being my first blog entry of 2026, will talk about some of the times I’ve been wrong. As I come to the end of the legend that is me… (heart attack in September)… it’s time to come clean. From punk to politics… I know it’s hard to believe… but I’ve been wrong a few times. And now I want to talk about it.

Let’s first time travel back to 1966-67… Hicksville High School. Yeah, I went to high school with Billy Joel. When I was there, he was two years older than me and had a band called The Hassles. Now, he’s two years younger than me… but that’s show biz. I never saw his band. Me, and my best pal Dave, had better things to do. We took the Long Island Railroad in from Hicksville to Manhattan. We went to the city...Cafe Wha... almost every weekend to see The Fugs. We often got stoned… before taking the train. I remember once I took a handful of mom’s diet pills. I got so high, I fell in love with the train door.

That was the thing in Hicksville High School. The cool kids (called TRACK ONE… with advanced placement classes and lots of Jews) smoked dope. The dumb kids (called TRACK THREE, often taking “shop” or “home economics” classes), drank booze. I never had a full can of beer until I went to Beloit College in Wisconsin. You cannot live in Wisconsin without drinking beer. Not drinking beer is against the law there.

That’s when I realized I WAS WRONG. Marijuana made me want to sit alone and read books… often the same paragraph... over and over again. Alcohol made me want to kiss strangers and dance naked in the street. My love of drugs over booze was a big mistake… corrected as a teenager and 20-something. Though at Beloit, I have to admit to doing both.

FLASH TO NOW: I've just wiped up the few seminal drops I can still spill… after 20 minutes looking for-- and finding-- exactly the right video on ThisVid porn site. You can't get good scat vids very many places, so you take what you can get. Time to put away the laptop, zip up my pants and watch some real TV.

I turn on my just bought VIZIO TV, grab my new ROKU remote (a gift from a fb friend) and look for the next ALFRED HITCHCOCK HOUR streaming TV show. I want to watch them all… Found it, and Dennis Hopper’s in it! My favorite American actor.

BANG! A commercial… for Starbucks. A store/company I hate on principle. Crazy high prices, awful reputation for treating their workers like shit, ugly mega-corp forcing the little guys out of business. I wish I could jerk off into their frappacino.

And this commercial??? Does it talk about how great the coffee is? Does it say they let you sit there all day doing your homework on your MacBook? Does it brag about all the crap they put in their coffee, call it by an Italian name and charge 6 bucks for it?

NO!!! They talk about how the shlubs who work for them have a chance for advancement… how they throw their baristas a few dollars to pay for a college course or two... NOTHING about the product, only what good employers they are.

Later come more ads: One for Meta (the drag-name of Facebook/ Instagram/ WhatsApp). What’s in the commercial? Do they talk about how facebook keeps you on-line for hours… checking back if that last cat picture has as many LIKES as you'd want? Do they explain how you can avoid local phone charges by sending messages and calls through the Internet? Do they entice you to post your personal twerking videos to earn more hearts than your neighbors have?

NO!!! The ad starts with a very working-class looking guy… flannel shirt… overweight… 2 days’ beard growth… talking about his home town and how it suffered when the factory closed and the business moved to China. And how people were poor and they thought they were lost until META "invested" millions of dollars in a new facility housing computers and AI machines. How the city came back with all that money,.. How META made jobs. Not a word about the products or services… just about how good META is for the community. Bringing jobs and income... what the locals need.

Back to Dennis Hopper: he's a piano player and there's some mobster connection. Also a sexy female singer and… another commercial… This one from Amazon.

[NOTE: While I never go to Starbucks, I have to admit being addicted to Facebook, and using Instagram every once-in-awhile. I also use WhatsApp to communicate with my non-American friends. And I use Amazon both to buy and sell from, though my buying is mostly from gift-cards I earn by taking stupid surveys that pay in Amazon gift-cards. I feel guilty for my sins in using these sites.]

Back to the Amazon commercial: Does it brag about next day delivery? Does it say it sells anything from American Cheese to Zambian Socks? Does it tell you how it makes your home so comfortable and product ready that you never have to leave?

NO! It reports that 28% of its business is working with small businesses. It tells us about how Amazon "supports" small businesses, and how they can't do without it. They tell us how kind they are in providing shipping materials and delivery services for their small business babies. They are not a mega (or MAGA)-business. They are a public service, providing for the needs of small businesses in your neighborhood.

Right-wingers and corporate Democrats call anti-racist jacket-patches and driving (non-Musk) electric cars virtue signaling. The implication is I'm on the good side and I want you to notice it. I call these commercials virtue advertising. Companies brag about their benefits to society and their workers, rather than the quality of their products. And I hated it.

Then, in a flash, I realize I’m wrong. That virtue advertising means these assholes are worried. It means that the boycotts, the strikes, the petitions, the letters of complaints are working. Virtue advertising is a sign of FEAR. Those evil corporations have learned they are not loved. They have to change and tell people about the change.

Does Starbucks give college scholarships so people won't think they're evil? They hope so. Does Meta invest in local economies, create jobs for local workers, build factories that include kiddie play spaces, because they're afraid that people will think they're shithead exploiters and polluters if they don't? Yes! And they advertise those actions.

So my hatred of virtue advertising has changed to a clenched fist victory salute. These ads are admissions of guilt. They know their image and do something about it, THEN advertise that doing. Virtue advertising means the good guys won… not completely, of course, but we made a difference. Let's celebrate it… not complain about it.

The next wrongitude I want to talk about has to do with my arthritic hand, stent-supported heart, loss of hair, radiated prostate, limpy-flogger, increased bowel gas… There's a reason old farts are called old FARTS.

When I was a young-un of 18 or 40 or 60 I was usually the oldest in my crew… just a few years older than the others, but older. Younger people were sexier, brighter, more willing to try new things… think new thoughts. I avoided the real oldsters.

In my 20s, when I hung out at the 9th Circle, we used to make fun of the crowd at Ty's or Boots and Saddles. We called those places "wrinkle bars."... laughing at the patrons as well as the locales.

By the time you read this, I'll be 76 years old. Maybe just back from a birthday party celebrating the 90th birthday of one of my best pals. Old people may not have the smooth looks. Though, for some people… age is a fetish. Check out ThisVids' geriatric porn. Lots of those MILFs and DILFs are OILFs. oldsters, doin’ the dirty.

For more than 50 years, I’ve been the oldest member of any group that would have me. In college, the the crew I organized under the banner OPERATION MAXWELL (named after the Beatle’s song Maxwell’s Silver Hammer), was 3rd year me and a bunch of freshmen. When I was with ARTLESS, Gavin, the guitar player looked so young that we told people I was his dad. The idea of hanging out with old (older) people was as appealing to me as eating mountain oysters.

FLASH TO MINUTES BEFORE I WRITE THESE WORDS: I just finish wrapping a re-gift to one of the two best friends met at the start of the COVID plague. One is in his early sixties, his boyfriend turns 90 on the day before Christmas. This is how we met:

For those who don’t know, I’m the big macher of a group called Drink Club. Once a roving troop, we now meet every week on Thursday night at the Peculier Pub, where we drink ourselves into Friday. During COVID we started meeting outside at the Peculier. The weekend before we meet I send out email to about 150 people. I’m lucky if 6 show up. The official starting time is 8:32 PM.

Tonight, I sit by myself at our usual table outside. It’s a little after nine and no other Drink Clubbers are here. At another table, closer to the street, sit these two old guys… balder than me. Next to their table a black wheeled walker is parked. The shorter guy has a full gray beard and looks to be the older of the two. He’s laughing at something said by his partner… slapping the table… head thrown back… the beer on the table making waves in its glass mugs. His friend gestures… opening his arms to the sky... as if planning to embrace the universe. Then both laugh. And again.

I stand up and walk over to their table.

Excuse me,” I say to them. “I am Drink Club. Usually, we have a crew of people here, but tonight no one showed up. You guys seem to be having so much fun… can I sit with you?”

Sure,” says the younger guy, “my name’s Ed.” He gestures toward his senior, “that’s George.”

I’m Mykel,” I say and sit down. Not one Drink Clubber shows that entire night, but I have a great time… and learn that Ed and George live together just down the street from me. They’re now my best friends. (Except for two girls who I may tell you about some day.)

Get it? OLD PEOPLE ARE (or at least can be) AWESOME. They’ve seen, done, screwed, joked, drank, more than you have. Maybe more than you ever will. They’ve got it… and you’re still lookin’ for it!

Tomorrow is the first of George’s several 90th birthday parties. It’ll be at Ty’s, a NY gay bar that’s at least as old as Ed is. George is a celebrity there. His advancing walker is treated like the horses pulling the king’s coach in London.

Avoid Old People?? Boy, was I wrong.

The last wrong I want to write is more political. Ever since Dad made me mow the lawn for my allowance, I had the feeling there was something wrong with work. Not the expenditure of energy or brain work, but the exchange of labor (or mind) for money. When I read Bob Black’s The Abolition of Work sometime in the 80s, I could only think YES! YES! YES!

Why should people spend more than half their waking time just so they can eat, clothe their nakedness, and travel from home to a job over and over again? That’s not humanity, that’s slavery.

As a corollary to anti-work, comes the natural thought of being anti-Union. What do unions do? They support work. They want more people to work. They want to legitimize work… more cookies for the slaves instead of abolishing slavery in the first place.

As I grew older and was forced into the work machine myself, I saw that I’d been wrong. Unions want shorter hours, LESS work, more time off. They don’t legitimize work, they put reins on it.

No, it’s not as good a solution as ending work completely… but it is making the lives of the slaves better than they would have been otherwise. That’s something I’ve got to support.

See you in hell
Mykel Board


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


Two wrongs make a right dept: Starbucks is a great example of how virtue-advertising and unions can work together to make life better for those trapped in the work cage. You can read about all the good stuff the Starbuck’s union has done, and wants to do here.

Getting It Up At My Age dept: The NY Post reports on a survey of 687 “older Americans.” The survey asked about about their sexual habits and preferences. The results revealed that those in their 70s get it on even more than those youngsters in their mid-to-late 50s. I’ll drink to that.

They were wrong dept: Even a few presidents have apologized for making mistakes… Okay, that’s something. But I want to make it clear that I’m not really apologizing. I’m just stating that I think differently now than I thought before. It is interesting that most of the presidential apologies involve the deaths of other people. That is very American. I’m not sure, but I’d guess that, among countries not involved in war, Americans kill more people than the citizens of any other country in the world. No one apologizes for that.

You can’t say that, dept: I just came across this BANISHED WORD LIST. It’s not clear who is doing the banishing, but most of those words I don’t use. I guess I’ll have to start using them now that they’ve been banished.

See you in hell (redux)

MB


AFRICAN LINKS:

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

NON-AFRICANS

Jim Testa, a long-time friend, journalist, editor, musician and wordsmith, has an interesting substack about music and more. You can find it here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


Wednesday, October 08, 2025

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

 


You’re STILL Wrong

or

Mykel's October 2025 Blog/Column

YOU GOTTA HAVE HEART

by Mykel Board    


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


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


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


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


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

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

“Mdfabadf ksafsartfa,” I say.

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

No.” I answer, “Kiptoesink wastupa.”

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

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

Hospital,” I answer.

“What’s the name of the hospital?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmmm, maybe I should see a doctor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ask away” says the Doc.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m non-practicing,” he says.

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

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

I laugh.

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

“What about eating and drinking?” I ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

I switch hands.

He nods.

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

I do. It does.

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

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

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

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

I nod.

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

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

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

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

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

See you in hell
Mykel Board

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

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

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

AFRICAN LINKS:

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

NON-AFRICANS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




I WAS WRONG or Mykel Board's Blog for January 2026

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