That's a Crazy Idea, Let's Talk About It or You're STILL Wrong August 2022 Blog

 

 

That's a Crazy Idea, Let's Talk About It

or You're STILL Wrong,

Mykel's August 2022 Blog

by Mykel Board

We live in a technological universe in which we are always communicating. And yet we have sacrificed conversation for mere connection. --Sherry Turkle

Knowledge nowadays, is a matter of reaffirming what we already believe. There is no real conversation. --Stephen L. Carter

To get real diversity of thought, you need to find the people who genuinely hold different views and invite them into the conversation. --Adam Grant

We all lose when bullying and personal attacks become a substitute for genuine conversation and principled disagreement. --Alicia Garza

I've got tons of Nazi friends. David Duke and all the Nazis totally think I rock... No offence, Nazis, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I don't like you. I like Jews. –Gavin McInnes

=============================

It’s a great beer shit. More than the release of pain. More than the emptying of too-fullness. Just a slight push and… SPLOT! … downward relief so fulfilling it turns on itself and splashes upward. It must be close to what women feel when they give birth. A giant human turdlike mass… a vaginal shit that cries and squirms... a relief of pain so wonderful you carry it with you for days… months… years... to come… thinking back… Wow! That was great!

As for my massive rectal birth: This is gonna take half a roll of toilet paper. I reach for the first sheets, ball them up and start wiping… I feel nothing… like scraping mud off a pair of boots. Fuck, it’s all over my hand… under the nails… over my thumb, embedded in whatever that piece of skin is called between the base of one finger and the next.

Next bundle of paper… Ahhh, I can feel the sphincter… the little circle of muscle... the release point… the anal vagina that births a pleasure that gives orgasm a run for its money.

I feel around... feel each wrinkle of that muscle... wiping away debris and dingle-berries. Ah, the tight… one fold… the next fold… the next… Ouch! What’s this? A bulge… It hurts… sticks out like something that belongs inside was pushed out with the giant turds… something that shouldn’t be there. It’s smooth, covered with slime… Using my middle finger, I wiggle it back and forth… push it inside and clamp tight. I run my finger around again. It’s gone, replaced with a perfect wrinkled circle.

Whew.

I check in the mirror for any cheek splashes… wipe away a dot here… a brown streak there... pull up and finish getting dressed for the day. Next comes a cup of coffee, poured from the refrigerated pitcher where I keep the percolator left overs. BLAM!into the microwave. Two and a half minutes… aaaahhhh. A beershit and a cup of coffee. Maybe life isn’t so bad after all.

As I drink the coffee, I check facebook, and try to think of snappy answers to all those people who’ve said they’ve had enough of me… but have not as yet blocked me.

Here’s a new one… from a friend who I’ve known about 40 years. Now she’s fed up. “Mykel,” she says, “It’s time I take a vacation from you. I’ve had enough for a while.”

Aahhh, I relearn a much-needed lesson: Some friends should not be facebook friends. And…

Fuck! The second shit. It always hits about half an hour after the first. I can predict. Half the load… with a consistency more like yogurt than cottage cheese.

Okay, okay, I’ll go. The porcelain goddess wins. Facebook loses.

This one takes a little more push than the last… but… but… but… aaaaaah! Yogurt as predicted, a lighter brown than should be healthy… but oh so good. More paper… wipe… wipe again… What’s that? It’s back. That rectal ‘roid popped out again like a rubbed nipple. What the fuck? I thought I’d gotten rid of it.

After I clean myself, I reach for the CVS Oral Analgesic. Nothing like oral to kill the pain of anal. Then I push it back up into its rightful home and pull up my pants

Returning to the desk and facebook, I sit gently.

Here’s a message from Sid Yiddish. He’s asking about my friend, performance artist, prankster, and noise musician, Boyd Rice.

HALT! TECH TALK. LAST CENTURY VERSION: I need to explain something. A lock groove is a groove on vinyl records, usually at the end of each side. It locks the needle in place, so it doesn’t go running into the label. It’s not a spiral like a usual groove, but rather a circle, keeping the needle in place. If it’s used before the end of the record, it sounds like the record is skipping and playing the same thing over and over again.

Back to Boyd Rice.. Back to Boyd Rice…. Back to Boyd Rice

Whatta guy, that Boyd is. The first time I heard of him was when he made a record as a “band” called NON. He sent me a vinyl copy in the days before “download” had anything to do with music.

Every groove of the record was a lock groove. In order to play it, you had to manually lift up the needle and move it from one groove to the next. It was wonderful frustration. Immediately, I thought. Here is a man after my evil heart.

I learned even more when I saw him in front of an “art piece.” You know that awful LOVE sign? The eye-rolling tilted “O”? Oy vey!

So what punker art than to create a LOVE sign with a universal symbol of hate? It’s just genius.

Yeah, that’s Boyd Rice next to his artwork. The original, as I remember, was a sculpture, but I can’t find a picture that version.

I finally get to meet the guy when he has a performance in NYC... sometime last century. He affects a kind of SS leather coat look with no insignia... just the look. Like my mafia fedora trenchcoat look or Sid Yiddish’s talis and tzitzit masked Hassid look. An image... like an actor… a performer…. always on stage.

Boyd “performs” by making noise on some electronic machine or other. I don’t remember the details. I do remember talking to him after the show.

“I saw that LOVE thing you did,” I tell him. “Just genius… use some cliche and turn it into its opposite.”

Boyd shakes his head. “They just don’t get it, Mykel. Irony is lost…” It’s a great conversation… about music, art, and the loss of irony.

“Boyd Rice is a bad man,” says Sid Yiddish in his facebook message. “A friend of mine told me.”

Ah, his friend must’ve seen the LOVE ART and figured… sure the guy’s a Nazi. Our mutual friend outs him to Sid.

My fuckin’ God… It’s IRONY… humor. Wise up! Think punk! Think about the conversation with Boyd Rice. THAT’s what I want to write about: conversation.

Flash to California: A film-maker pal wants to do a day-in-the-life documentary on Gavin McInnes, founder of the Proud Boys^®. From Canada, Gavin once played in a punk band, Anal Chinook. My pal wondered if I had any connections to him. I didn’t then, but now I do.

Through a circuitous route I got in touch with Gavin. We went out for a beer and snacks at an Irish bar in Manhattan.

“I want a picture,” says Gavin. “Put your hat on and try to look like Mykel Board.”

We talk about punk rock. We talk about how people just have no idea what real punkrock is. How my friends in Hungary thought the Dead Kennedys were seriously advocating pooricide when they sang, Kill The Poor. We laugh.

“Are you still a homo?” Gavin asks me.

“I was never a homosexual,” I answer, “but most of the guys I’ve had sex with have been homosexuals.”

He laughs.

Gavin drinks Bud. I drink Lagunitas. We agree on censorship and how what used to be topics for discussion are now topics to be censored. We disagree on immigration. He wants to keep them out. I want to open the borders… make it no different going to the US from Mexico than from going to New York from New Jersey. We disagree on guns. He likes ‘em. I think the big ones need to be banned. We disagree on welfare. He thinks people should have to work to EARN their money. I think if rich people want diamond-studded Maseratis, then they can work for them. Meanwhile, most of rich people’s money should go to support those without money-- whether they choose to work or not. Gavin has “issues” with transfolks. I think that they’re among the sexiest people in the world. (I didn’t call the second ARTLESS record Boy With A Cunt for nothing.)

The conversation is deep, but fun… lots of laughs… lots of overlap… I felt a friendship and liked the guy. I still like him and hope we can drink together again. We agreed on a few things. Disagreed on a few. Sometimes just talked about stuff where there was nothing to agree with or disagree. I tell him I could never have been a Proud Boy^®.

“Those guys don’t jerk off!” I complain.

He laughs.

During the discussion, I mention that I’d read that he quit the Proud Boys. I ask him if it was because they were getting too hot to handle.

“No,” he tells me, “I’d said some pretty extreme stuff. You know, like punk rock. Courts and juries don’t get the punk rock mind... Kill The Poor. You know what I’m talking about.

Lawyers would use my quotes like “choke a tranny” literally. It could cost those guys some time in jail. I thought it was best for me divorce myself from the group in order to save it.

Wow! I had completely misunderstood. I misread an act of altruism for an act of ass-saving. I’m glad we talked about it. New respect for the guy... 

At the end of the evening, Gavin pays for both of us and we both leave with a smile. Like I said, I like the guy and hope to see him again sometime.

After I get home, I post the picture of Gavin and me on facebook and say what I great time I had drinking and talking with him.

The reaction comes swift... and hard. The same stuff I put up with Boyd Rice… only stronger… harder. Like the returning hemorrhoid I thought I’d stuffed away.

My “friends” list shrinks by nearly 100. Those who don’t leave fill the picture comments with How could yous and You’re turning alt-rights and… and… and...

Yeah, there are a few commenters I admire. They want to talk. Especially one on the left and one on the right… but the majority are too outraged to discuss… only ready to complain.

I try to explain that I like people… especially smart people with a sense of humor. It doesn’t work and it’s not long before Godwin’s Law hits.

“Sure,” I answer, “I used to go to the local kneipe with Herr Goebbels. He never let me pay for a Hofbrau.”

Pretty snappy, huh? Huh?

Then it hits! I’m as guilty as the others. Instead of conversing, listening, taking a drink, inhaling, stroking my chin… and maybe changing my mind, I’m more concerned with snappy answers than learning anything. That concern baits snappy questions and feeds on itself like a hemorrhoid feeds on a steady diet of beer shits.

SCENE SHIFT: I hate the telephone. It’s an evil intrusion… calling you away from what you’re doing… demanding an answer NOW! But when I find myself in a quandary, I pick up the phone and call Dorothy Parker, the smartest person I know.

Since she’s dead, I never worry about her calling me at inopportune moments. I have the upper hand… er… voice.

“Dorothy,” I say, “you gotta help me. Suddenly, I’m finding myself as my own best enemy. I complain about people not willing to converse anymore, just looking for snappy answers... Something to throw out without thinking… for a laugh. In reality, I never learn anything. I never change my mind. I’m just interested in throwing out something witty.

“Wit has truth in it; wise-cracking is simply calisthenics with words,” Dorothy says.

“So I’m learning,” I tell her. “I’m trying to learn how to listen and have a peaceable discussion. I want to learn from people who want to learn from people. I’m tired of ideologues who stick to the party line come Trump or Nancy Pelosi. I don’t want that. I want to converse.”

“You can’t teach an old dogma new tricks,” she says.

“But what should I do?” I beg. “Where should I go?”

“The Algonquin,” she says. “Get a roundtable, eat, drink, talk about things... and listen.”

BINGO!

So now, slightly less often than once a month, I meet with friends and strangers in the lobby of the Algonquin hotel. Poets, musicians, thinkers… lesbians, homosexuals, people in their 20s and people in their 80s. We talk. When I’m tempted to jump in and listen to myself, I bite the inside of my thumb or squeeze my asscheeks together until the hemorrhoid hurts.

But slowly, ever-so-slowly, I listen and learn. Gavin and Boyd… come and join us! Smart people listening to each other. That’s what we need. I’ll shut up now and see what the other folks have to say.

See you in hell. 

MB

aka

Mykel Board

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

→ Join the conversation dept. If you’re in the NYC area or can be, we want YOU at the Algonquin Round Table, especially if you’re not white, not old, or/and not binary. We need to increase our diversity. If you’re interested in joining us, send me an email, and I’ll put you on the list. Just show up some month, introduce yourself, and converse.

→ Is that a handy wipe in your river, or are you happy to see me? Science News reports that an island the size of two tennis courts and composed entirely of used handy wipes (the Brits call ‘em wet wipes) has appeared in the Thames River that goes through London. Government ministers have asked people to stop using the wipes and are considering a ban. A Labor Party MP said she had visited the site: "I've ... stood on it -- it's a meter deep or more in places.” It's actually changed the course of the Thames."
    The Environmental Minister asked citizens not to flush the wipes. My question, if you don’t flush them, just where do you put them?

→ Accidents will happen dept: The British tabloid The Daily Mirror tells us about a man who may never be able to use his penis again after his partner accidentally sprayed expanding foam inside his urethra.The man was struggling with impotence and had been putting different items into the opening of his penis in a bid to stay firm. But his latest attempt ended in horror when his partner tried to use the straw of a can of insulation spray to keep him erect.
    His partner said she accidentally hit the button on top of the can, sending the foam into his penis. There, it hardened and “became anchored."
    Doctors had to cut a new opening between the man's scrotum and his anus to urinate and said he must pass a psychiatric test in order to qualify for “reconstructive surgery.”

See you in hell, redux,

MB

LINK TRADE DEPARTMENT:

I read that the search engines like lots of links... and it's also nice to support my friends and enemies in their blogs. So facebook me or email me if you have a blog, webpage or something else to connect to. I add you. You add me.

Here's a start:

You can see Gavin on Censored.tv... maybe the only place he's not blocked.

There’s a great interview with Sid Yiddish on YouTube. You can check it out here.

Here’s Richard Goldberg: goldberg.wordpress.com

Poetry and humor fans will like Justin Martin in The Latency

And my friend Mike R has a nice site with recipe hits from the past! (He cooked for me once... great stuff.) Check out Yesterday's Recipes.

And here's one by a member of ANTI-SEEN... a tour diary of sorts.

Andy Shelton has an interesting blog here.

Savage Hippie is a guy who has been YouTubing for a long time. Our opinions largely overlap... but he complains that I'm a Communist. I'm not! I'm a communist.

Chris Stecher publishes a zine called PRECIS. You can see the back issue links there... and he promises a new issue soon.

George Fertakis has a very nice graphics-heavy blog... with music and books featured prominently. If there’s no link here (I can’t find it temporarily), then Google… er… Duckduckgo him for information.

And my long-term pal Sid Yiddish contributes with his Mishegas Master Blog.

And connect to TRUST Zine, a long-running German punk zine… that STILL PRINTS!!! Yeah, they have a website too… of course! It’s here.

Here are a couple video links.

This from Jon Cox https://squelchchamber1.bandcamp.com/album/down-so-low

And this one from my very long-time friend Roger Armstrong.

Jim Testa moved his long running zine, Jersey Beat, to the blogosphere awhile back. You can read it here. Jim also recommended a kind of unique album… in a style you don’t see to much of these days… or any days. Neo-Hassidic Rock Opera. You can stream the album here.

Kyle Nonneman is in prison in Portland. At least he can’t be kidnapped by the secret police… I think. I post his blog for him, he can’t do it from the klink. Lots of stuff about noise metal… and some very weird politics that will either fascinate or repulse you… or both.

My long time pal, Jim Hayes rightfully complained about my leaving out his blog. He’s a great writer, so it was a tragic omission. Here it is.

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

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

You’re STILL Wrong Mykel's December 2018 Blog/Column "Appropriation"

You’re Still Wrong

Mykel’s Post MRR column
December 2018
or
CULTURAL APPROPRIATION

It’s hard to believe… I can’t believe it myself… but I type this at a tiny table in Mumbai, India… inside a… I can hardly type this… inside a… this is pain! Inside a Starbucks!

I hate the coffee. I hate the company. I hate the atmosphere… the customers. But it’s 97^o outside. I’ve been sitting... standing... walking... in the sun since 10:30AM… it’s now 2:11PM. I asked Google for the nearest coffee shop with AC and it gave me three or four within a couple miles… none of which responded to a tap of the DIRECTIONS button. The only name I could remember was STARBUCKS… so I plugged it into Google Maps and voila! Here I am… guilty and unpleasant for being here. But here just the same.

Starbucks prices in India are the same as in New York. 200+ rupees for an Ice Coffee Medium… I refuse to say Grande or Tall or whatever the fuck they call it. 200 rupees is about $3... big money for the local snake charmers. The baristas served it to me In a cup with my name... “Michle...” written on the outside.

There are mostly brown-skinned people here, but enough palefaces to make me feel totally creeped out. Few things can be as horrible as drinking coffee at a Starbucks in an Asian country where other white people also sit and drink. It’s embarassing... like a fart in an elevator.

I’ve been in India almost 2 weeks now. Except for the weather, lack of toilets, and spotty internet, it’s been pretty good to me. (You can read my adventures at: https://mykelsdiary.blogspot.com.) One of the reasons I came to the country is I love Indian food in New York and I want to see how the real thing compares. I won’t find the answer in Starbucks.

Also, I know Indian food, but I don’t know Indian punkrock. I’ve been waiting 40 years for an Indian band The Vindalosers to show up at CBGBs. It’s not gonna happen, I fear… for two reasons.

1. CBGBs is gone…. at least the punk rock club by that name is gone.

2. As far as I know (or any of my punk pals in India know) there never was an Indian band called The Vindalosers.

It’s yours for the taking. Feel free to appropriate it and use it as you like. You don’t even have to give me credit…. And that is what I want to talk about this month…

FLASH TO a long shot of a dusty prairie... roaming cattle… a single dilapidated building… maybe a bar. Johnny Cash sings off camera as a lone horse and cowboy enter from screen left… galloping across... a dustcloud forming alongside… then fading behind them.

Slowly pan in… follow the horse over the plains closing in behind… until we have a view of the tail and… from behind… a man in bluejeans, flannel shirt… and cowboy hat… sitting on the horse… The dust kicked up behind the animal slowly fades… hoofbeats change from galloping thuds to clop... clop... clop.

Pan out again. The horse is on a street… some suburban town… a middle class American town… white fences… rose gardens… suburban houses with a few faded, tattered, Hillary Clinton for President signs stuck in a few well-mowed front lawns.

As our cowboy rides down the street, two people come running from one of the houses. They wear black hoodies with a black scarves… burqa-like.… covering their faces. They shout at the passing cowboy. We hear the shouts over the hoofbeats.

“Fuck you! You fascist pig!”

“You think you’re a cowboy! You mock the Native American killers? You’re fetishizing the old west… The genocide of native people. You’re appropriating their culture and turning it against them!”

The pair picks up some rocks… some garbage… some things to throw… and throw they do…. the horse and rider gallop off toward a shopping mall.

“You’re culturally appropriating!” They scream…. and that brings me directly to the topic.

APPROPRIATION

First, let’s get the terms right.

There are two types of appropriation in the cultural sense. One is like the flu. If someone gets the flu from you… you still have it. The amount of flu is not fixed, but can be passed from waitress to bank president… with neither losing it as they give it away. This kind of appropriation takes from other cultures-- or takes from other languages-- but doesn’t TAKE IT AWAY.

When Burger King offered its “breakfast bagel” in New York, customers had their choice of ham, bacon or sausage. The chain appropriated a quintessentially Jewish food and made it as goy as you can get. In New York people objected… complained. Well, of course.

The offer didn’t last long in New York. But I hear it continues today in the South. I still have my bagels with lox and a shmear. Burger King did not take that away from me.

FLASH TO SCHOOL (I teach English to Japanese students) Ari shows up with a single thin chain around her neck. Dangling from the chain is a small rhinestone-studded cross.

“Oh,” I ask, “are you Catholic or some other kind?”

She frowns.

“Your necklace,” I say, pointing to the cross.

“Oh that,” she says, laughing, “I’m not Christian. I just like the design.”

My pal Sara told me she saw a Japanese student wearing Mogen David star earrings. She asked what synagogue she went to. 

The answer, of course, was “What’s a synagogue?”

My mogen-david Matzoh cover loses nothing because of her earrings.

Now, take Halloween… please!

Happily, this year I was in India for that horrible holiday. Few people celebrate it here. Next to Christmas and the related Santacon… Halloween is my least favorite holiday. It’s gotten worse… more restrictive… because of charges of Cultural Appropriation.

I’m a Navajo, not your Halloween costume.

Pagans are not witches.

Blackface is racist.

The X-men of cultural purity don’t get that if I wear a loin cloth and feathers, it does not damage Chief Waterwiggle’s ability to sit down with his tribe of REAL Indians and smoke a peacepipe any more than Burger King’s bagels damaged my ability to enjoy lox and cream cheese.

What’s left for Halloween? Vampires?, Superheroes? Bad parodies of Donald Trump? Glad I missed it.

In Oregon, two women who traveled extensively in Mexico… discovered a special way of making tacos… one never seen in the U.S. They learn the recipe and cooking method from the locals, They open a restaurant based on their culinary discovery. What happens?

You guessed it!

CULTURAL APPROPRIATION screamed the Twitter Twits… The owners STOLE the recipe from some poor Mexicans. Hegemony! Imperialism! The restaurant soon closed.

I’ll try to put it another way, Culture is not a car. If I steal your car, you don’t have it anymore… It’s not there for your use. If I copy your burrito, you can still make another using the same recipe.

But there IS a kind of appropriation similar to car stealing.

When homosexuals became Gay sometime in the 1970s, “Gay” still carried the meaning of happy, carefree, light-hearted. I never liked the term as a sexual one. And most of the homos I knew (and most that I know now) are as far from being GAY (in the original meaning) as a crowbar is from being a crow.

“Look at that guy, I wonder if he’s gay.” only has one meaning now… no matter how happy and carefree he is. The word is lost… stolen… taken away. And probably will never be returned. In 2018, you cannot have a gay old time without exchanging bodily fluids.

Then there’s anti-semite. A Semite is a person of Middle Eastern origin. Hebrew, Arabic and Aramaic (the language of Jesus… if you believe) are Semitic languages. Moroccans are Semites. Tunisians are Semites. Sephardic Jews are Semites. My Ukrainian grandfather was NOT a Semite.

But what happened? Somehow anti-Semitic came to mean anti-Jewish. All those other Semites were pushed aside. Jews-- whether Semitic or not-- took over the word and pushed aside its original meaning. In 2018 Palestinians can be “anti-Semitic,” and Jewish advocates for the Palestinian holocaust… well they’re just… er… something else.

FLASH TO NOW: I continue this blog in Delhi Airport… terminal 3. My flight for New York is set to leave in 13 hours. I can’t find an electrical socket, so my only choice is to write until the battery conks out. Around me are Indian-looking guys with tags around their necks. I guess they work at the airport. Across from me, a business-suited guy fiddles with his iPhone, stopping once or twice to adjust his black turban.

I clear my throat, trying to avoid the hacking cough that comes from 2 weeks in the most air-polluted section of the most air-polluted city in India… and I was staying with a chain smoker. My weak lung (the left one) wheezes on the inhale… coughs on the exhale. So much can happen between one paragraph and the next. Watch this:

Bang! I’ve returned to New York for a few days, then left by bus for a visit to relatives in South Carolina, I am now seated next to the bus toilet... the stink roughing up my still-frail lung…I chain suck one Fisherman’s Friend after the other. Any break makes a coughing fit loud enough to wake the neighbors.

This bus feels like India. I’m the only white guy… the way I like it. I know I’ll be jinxing it to write this… but although I’m overwhelmed with the smell of piss… there are no screaming babies.

I love the U.S. Southeast… except for the politics. The weather is usually nice. People are friendly. Best barbecue in America. Maybe I’ll stop in to Burger King for ham and cheese… on a bagel.

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. Subscribe to the MYKEL'S READERS Yahoo group readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

-→INKED Dept: If you need another reason (other than the risk of God’s wrath) NOT to get a tattoo, the Electronic Frontier Foundation reports that agencies of the US government are working on a tattoo database. It both matches tattoos with the wearer and tries to figure out the political and ideological positions of various tattoo holders. Originally they used images from police files only, but have recently branched out to include Flickr… and, I bet, that’s only the beginning. Watch that Instagram of your latest. The FBI is watching it right now. 

Cultural Appropriation by People in That Culture dept: People Magazine, of all places, reports that model superstar Gigi Hadid (mother: Dutch, father: Palestinian) has been criticized for wearing a hajib in her picture on the debut cover of Vogue Arabia. Her critics say she has culturally appropriated the traditional Muslim scarf. Of course, since she is ½ Palestinian-- and a Muslim… it’s HER tradition! -- Maybe she should have worn have a burqa.

-------------------------

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:

• David Goldberg's Busy Microbes Blog
• And another Goldberg: goldberg.wordpress.com
• I post a blog for Kyle Nonnemon, in prison for a ton of shit. He's a smart guy, with a passion for industrial metal and a general detestation of humankind. You can read his blog at:apothelema.blogspot.com
• Poetry and humor fans will like Justin Martin in The Latency
• Sometimes I contribute to an interesting multi-talented blog called OgFomK Arts see me there!
• And my friend Mike R has a nice site with recipe hits from the past! (He cooked for me once... great stuff.) Check out Yesterday's Recipes.
• And here's one by a member of ANTI-SEEN... a tour diary of sorts.
• 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-heavyblog... with music and books featured prominently.
• And my long-term pal Sid Yiddish contributes with his Mishegas Master Blog.

CONTACT REDUX: You can contact me on facebook or by email atgod@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. Subscribe to the MYKEL'S READERS Yahoo group readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com.