NO EMPATHY or Mykel's August 2023 Blog

   

No Empathy... or Mykel's Blog for July 2023

You’re STILL Wrong

or

Mykel's August 2023 Blog/Column 

No Empathy....    

by Mykel Board

“We are surrounded by people who appear to be happy, people who clap their hands and dance in the streets, people who sing for the pure joy of singing… and you think they don’t suffer? You think that they are somehow excluded from the battle of the human condition-- death, infirmity, lost love, poverty, crime and all the rest of it. We’re all half mad.”

--Robert Wilson

“There is only one way to understand a lonely bench in a park: Sit on it; watch whatever it is watching; listen to whatever it is listening to! Sit in spring, sit in winter, sit in summer! To understand something deeply, you need to live its life!”

- Mehmet Murat Ildan

[NOTE: All the people and events described in this blog are true. No names have been changed. No one is innocent.]

I’ve just left the cancer center. Prostate… what old men get. I’m an old man. Radiation surgery… cyberknife they call it. Five cybercuts in 10 days. Not painful… but requiring a weird diet of non-fiber food: white bread, popsicles, canned fruit. A double laxative at night… then a Fleet enema in the morning just to make sure nothing is left inside. After that, a half hour on the operating table.

Your choice of music while they cut. First was Dixieland Jazz. Then The Velvet Underground, Today: Patti Smith. I have other choices. At a hospital, I don’t want to ask for something dead: (Kennedys, Boys, Milkmen, Grateful). It might make the staff uncomfortable. Right now, they’re helping me off the table just as Patti asks if I know how to pony... like Tony Maroni.

I leave the building… on the street now. I need to find a post office. The Upper East Side… I don’t know this neighborhood. I’ll ask someone. Here’s a fellow patient, skinny guy… about half my age… just leaving the cancer center.

“Excuse me,” I ask, “do you know where there’s a post office nearby?”

“Sorry, I’m not from around here.”

“Thanks anyway.”

I ask a security guard… standing in front of the next building taking a smoking break. I love it: a smoking break next to a cancer hospital.

“I know there’s one close,” she says, “but I’m not sure what street.”

I thank her. Ah, here comes a very determined-looking woman… wearing a backpack… body leaning forward as if marching into battle… I approach her.

“Excuse me,” I say, “do you…

She snarls… shakes her head… waves her arms above her head as if brushing away a gnat attack. Stamps the ground... harder as she passes me and disappears around the corner.

I don’t get it? I’m 5 foot 3 inches tall… pushing 80 years old… barely standing after radiation treatment. Did she think I was going to attack her? I don’t understand the cruelty. All she’d have to do is say, “I’m sorry,” and then give an excuse. She wouldn't even have to stop. I just don’t get the inhumanity.

BOING! That’s it. That brings me exactly to what I want to write about. First some definitions (to quote Humpty Dumpty: words mean what I want them to mean… so don’t bother looking this up):

SYMPATHY is feeling sorry for someone. When someone dies you send a sympathy card. When you see a wounded animal, you feel sympathy. You feel unhappy because someone or something else is suffering.

EMPATHY is the ability to feel the emotions of someone else... to mentally put yourself in their jockstrap. To understand what makes them tiktok. To “get it” as if from inside another person.

You’re probably familiar with Jim Testa. He’s known for half a century of music writing… for supporting bands that nobody’s heard of… for supporting friends (including me) that no one else would dare support. A great human being. That’s why it hurt… when Jim said, “Mykel, I’ve known you for a long time… and one thing I’ve gotta say… again… is that you have no empathy.”

The remark comes after I say I refuse to be bullied by the language cops. I’ll say Colored People if it fits what I’m talking about… or if it proves a point. How is People of Color okay, but Colored People offensive? And what’s the problem with being offensive anyway?

“Mykel,” says Jim, “I’ll say it again. You have no empathy.”

FLASH TO CALVIN: Calvin sits on his milk crate… the color of the crate slightly lighter than his skin…. He gets darker in the summer. His back is against the side of the building that corners Bleecker and LaGuardia. He wears a black baseball hat, a plain gray t-shirt and bluejeans. On his feet, some kind of sneakers that are neither new nor fashionable. In his left hand is a plastic soda cup with a few coins on the bottom. He sees me from his corner… smiles and waves.

“Calvin!” I shout from across the street. “How you been doin’?”

I cross to talk with him. Simultaneously, I pull a single dollar bill out of the watch pocket of my jeans… where I keep my homeless money.

“You on your way to your favorite place?” Calvin asks me, nodding toward the Peculier Pub, my regular hangout.

“How’d you guess?” I joke, dropping the dollar into Calvin’s cup.

“You goin’ back to South Carolina this summer?” I ask.

“Mykel, are you kidding? You know how hot the summers are in New York? Double that for South Carolina…”

He interrupts our conversation to talk to some passing folks… all with purple NYU T-shirts… talking with each other… gesturing with their cellphones.

“How you doin’ today, folks?” He says, rattling the coins in his plastic cup. They keep walking… like he’s invisible.

Calvin and I talk a little more. My sister lives in South Carolina and we’ve talked about that before. Calvin’s family is from a different part of the state than my sister is.

“It’s almost like a different country,” he tells me.

I often think about Calvin. Where does he go at night? How does he get to South Carolina once a year? Hitchhike? Do people still hitchhike in 2023? What’s it like 20+ years after the last time I hitchhiked. What’s his life like? I can’t imagine!

FLASH TO MANNY: In a wheelchair on the other side of Bleecker… down a little bit.. usually in front of the CVS on the corner. About 50, a big guy... missing a few teeth on the bottom… I drop a buck into his plastic cup. Even though it’s nearly 90^o out, he’s covered from shoulder to knees in a blanket.

“Mykel,” says Manny. “ Gotta talk to you. I always see you hangin’ out with these Japanese guys… girls… whatever. Lemme warn you. Be careful of ‘em.”

“But, I like Japanese people. They’re smart and fun.”

“They act like they’s your friend,” he says, stealing a glance to the right and left. “But secretly, they hate you. They want to kill you. Take it from me… I know.”

What happened to this guy? Is he talking about the Japanese or Asians in general? Did he serve in Vietnam and end up in a wheelchair? Why would he say something like that? I can’t imagine why he feels like that. No clue to what it must be like to have that kind of fear and hatred inside... stewing as he sits in the heat and asks people for money.

FLASH TO KEVIN: If Manny is big and fat, Kevin is a monster. From neck to knees… rolls and rolls of it… His body is just a lump… a huge lump… any particular part: chest... stomach... back... ass… They fold into one another… just blobs… impossible to know where one part ends the next part begins. He’s like a huge mound of jello on a bench. Not really ON the bench, but dripping over the bench.

Kevin’s bench is in front of H-Mart, the Korean supermarket chain. I often shop there. Not expensive... good Korean food... good Japanese food at two-thirds the price of the Japanese stores. Kevin’s cup doesn’t get a dollar from me. I know him too well.

“Mykel,” he tells me twice a week... when I shop at H-Mart, “I don’t want your money. I know you’re going into that store. Bring me a Coke when you come out.”

I say to him, “Kevin, you say the same thing to me every week. I know you by now. You know they got a sign in the store… in the soda section… by the Coke. HOLD ONE CAN FOR MYKEL TO PICK UP FOR KEVIN.”

He laughs.

We shake hands… bump fists actually. I go into H-Mart… buy some frozen Korean pancakes, red miso, pork dumplings… and a can of Coke. I pay... walk out… freeze. Kevin is on his feet… leaning forward… yelling…. Both fists clenched at his side… the muscles on his neck throbbing.

YOU WHITE BITCH! WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? YOU WON’T EVEN TALK TO ME? DON’T EVEN SAY “I’M SORRY!”

And the rant goes on. He stands and shouts down the street at someone I can’t see. I’ve never seen him like this. He could have a stroke. If he were white, he’d be red in the face. I steal behind him… quietly set the can of coke on the bench… he’s still yelling not seeing anything but the object of his rage. I turn toward Houston Street and head home.

FLASH TO WILL: Will’s from Texas… Austin… BA in film from UT. He arrived in New York at the beginning of this year. His plan? Live on the street until he earns enough money to get a place of his own.

25 years old, Will is the thinnest of my homeless friends. He’s amassing his future fortune by working for DoorDash, a food delivery service that makes its workers compete with one another to score points for quick service and good ratings. Orders flash to cellphones close to either pick-up or delivery points. The first person to accept… provided he has a good rating… gets the job.

Will also makes money on eBay… learning and visiting thrift-shops… anywhere the subway goes… pickup up DVDs and electronic doodads… and “flipping them” on eBay… two to ten times their original value. Will travels the city wearing a huge backpack… for his deliveries and his thrift-store finds.

Will is a schlemazel. Two months ago, I saw him with a shiner… not the beer, but the black eye.

“What happened?”

“Mykel, it was weird… these two crackheads… they chased me. They wanted to mug me… I fought them off… screamed at them. One got me right in the face. Blam! It’s a little better now, but still hurts.”

“I’ll buy you a drink,” I tell him.

While waiting for orders from DoorDash, Will hangs out in a mid-town library. He’s got a laptop in his knapsack, and can connect and post on facebook. Today marks a week after the black-eye incident.

“I was attacked again… mugged… wallet stolen… all my money… at swordpoint!”

This is New York. People get mugged. I understand. But mugged at swordpoint? In the subway in 2023? That is impossible… or would be for anyone not Will.

“At least I still have my cellphone.” continues the facebook post. “I couldn’t survive without that. Doordash! What would I do?”

Give it another week.

“I fell asleep on the subway. Woke up… my phone was gone.”

Will sleeps on my couch once a week or so. I watch him planning his next day. After the phone is gone, he’s still planning… visit Verizon… it’s insured… get a replacement… how will they transfer the number? Where’s the nearest Verizon? We sit on the couch to work out the details. But I think: How can he do that? How can he keep going? He could easily move back to Austin where its familiar… easier… more friends than one old Jewish guy who’ll give up his couch once a week. What gives him the power to keep it up… and to smile and be friendly… and not to hate the world? I can’t imagine.

POW! it hits me… like a Fleet Enema. Jim is right. I don’t have empathy. I can’t put myself in other people’s jockstraps. I can’t imagine what it’s like to live on the street. I can’t see myself hating Japanese people. I don’t know how it feels to be confined to a wheelchair… to be black… to flip DVDs from the Salvation Armies. I think about that… wonder… but I can’t feel it. Yep, Jim’s right. I don’t have empathy. Sympathy yes! I live for sympathy. Sometimes I even feel sorry for people who are much richer than I am. But empathy? No, I just can’t do it.

Shit! It’s late. I gotta get to today’s prostate zapping. That enema... that music choice… I need to stop at the bank first. POW! Out of the house, down Broadway… what’s this. Some girl with an ID tag… she wants me to contribute to something… just to talk to me about children or animal abuse. She moves to block my path. I snarl… shake my head… wave my arms above my head as if brushing away a gnat attack. I stamp the ground harder as I pass her… not saying a word, and then, I disappear around the corner.

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]

→ Headline of the week dept: Speaking of homelessness. I saw this headline on the internet: Homeless Man With No Arms Stabs Tourist

I hope the tourist wasn’t Will.

→ Speaking of Will dept: CNN reports DoorDash is jumping on the speedy delivery trend. The company is now offering 10- to 15-minute delivery. Okay Will, you’re really gonna have to jump to it to pick up the food and bring it to the lazy shit who ordered it… in a quarter of an hour!!! Make sure you bring your pepper spray, though you might not have time to use it.

→ Pearls Before Swine dept: It seems that TickTockers have been promoting “Yoni Pearls,” small bundles of a variety of herbs. The idea is to insert them into your vagina (if you have one) to help improve odor, remove toxins and treat bacterial and yeast infections. “Reported side effects are, itching, dryness, stinging and cramping." I donno, I can think of better things to put in MY vagina.

→ I try to be a philosopher but I Kant dept:  This from a facebook pal of mine:

THE NATION AGAIN
I’m a long-time subscriber to the The Nation. It’s the only lefty publication that I find myself not only agreeing with, but also getting inspiration from. Strangely, when I post this stuff on facebook, no one looks at it. My “friends” would just rather call me a “Trumpist” or a “Republican” for all the times I don’t follow the party line. If it’s printed in THE NATION, it should give me street cred, right? Yeah right.

This time, Lev Golinkin writes about how the Western (and pro-war liberal) media praise Ukraine fighters who have exactly the same philosophy as US white supremacists. And, as I still can’t figure out how someone can be Pro-Israel and Anti-Trump at the same time. Israel has more public places named after Donny than anywhere else on earth. In any case, there’s a nice letter from Bob Gris (no link, sorry) quoting the evil Alexander Haig who called Israel “the largest American aircraft in the world that cannot be sunk.”

Finally, there’s a nice discussion of Bernie Sanders and how this guy usually gets everything right.


You can read more, or even subscribe at: https://www.thenation.com/



LINK TRADE DEPARTMENT:

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:

Jason Rodgers sent me his book Invisible Generation… free! And I lost it. Jason, a long-time partner of Suzy Poe, has been bugging me to review it… and I can’t. So the best I can do is promote it. I have a lot of respect for Jason… he is a libertarian (in the best sense of the word), and a super-smart guy. When/if I find the book, I’ll give you some more details.

Video of the week: My long-time friend Sid Yiddish appears on a YouTube DatingGame-like video. Guess who wins the bachlorette!

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 APRIL Vol 2 2020 BLOG OR Who Is That Unmasked Man? by Mykel Board

YOU'RE STILL WRONG.. 

MYKEL'S APRIL 2020 BLOG
Volume 2

OR

Who is that masked man?

by Mykel Board

[I’ve completely given up the idea of splitting the blog into smaller parts. It just doesn’t work well. So now, I’ll just be writing shorter blogs… but more often. Twice a month if I can manage it. This is the second April Blog. I wanted to avoid talking about IT… but these days IT is all there is to talk about]

You’re STILL Wrong

or
Mykel's

April 2020 Blog/Column #2 (version 2)

The Mask

by Mykel Board

A castaway in the sea was going down for the third time when he caught sight of a passing ship. Gathering his last strength, he waved frantically and called for help. Someone on board peered at him scornfully and shouted back, "Get a boat!”

―Daniel Quinn,

The police drive into the plaza with a megaphone reminding people to isolate. Then they harass the homeless people that have nowhere to go. It is very weird to see this here in NYC. Do they do this in higher class neighborhoods where people do the same socializing? Redundant question. I know. I wish I had videotaped. --Esneider Huasipungo

It’s just after noon. Time for my afternoon walk to the grocery… post office… the river… someplace to see the city like I’ve never seen it before. I put on my combat boots, trenchcoat, fedora. I do not wear a mask.

Walking down a nearly deserted Bleecker Street. I wave through the window of Cafe Angelique. Elam, the manager and only worker during the plague, waves back.

“Chag sameach!” I shout.

He gives me the thumbs up. I keep walking… passing several masked people.

[NOTE: from my observation, the majority of masked people –not counting bicycle deliver guys, generally black or Mexican– are white millennial couples… mostly hets. Then, single or paired women. Fewest are people my age… that is, old people.]

On Lafayette Street, Lester stands at his usual corner. He is not wearing a mask. Lester is the directions guy. Every day, he stands by the subway, looking for people Googling a map, or holding a guide book. He knows the subway system up and down. After he gives directions, he asks for spare change. Sometimes he gets it. Today, nobody Googles. No tourists are checking guidebooks.

Usually Lester’s with his friend, a woman about my height, looks about 60… but very wrinkled. I forget her name… maybe I never knew it.

“Yo Lester,” I say to him. “S’up? Where’s your friend?”

“Mykel,” he says, “it’s shit. Not a soul here. I don’t eat today.”

I hand him a dollar… one of a few I keep in my jeans watch pocket for homeless expenses. Lester is not homeless. He has a small room in city housing.

“Thanks,” he says. “Let me tell you about Laura. [Aaaah, that’s her name!] I had to smuggle her. The city shelter where I live said NO MORE GUESTS… SHE’S GOTTA LEAVE. The virus… you know... you know her, Mykel. She’s little. She’s fragile. She couldn’t last a night on the street.”

“So what’d you do?” I ask.

He walks to the side of me and touches my arm. I flinch… immediately feel ashamed. There are few things that can shame me… but a flinch at the touch of a guy asking for money? I’m not proud of that.

Lester pretends he doesn’t notice. He mimes holding a shopping cart with two hands.

“I hid her,” he tells me, “in a shopping cart. Just put her in and threw in some left over groceries… some cans and bottles… a few cereal boxes… pretended I was coming back from shopping. Smuggled her in. Hid her in the closet when the case-worker came around. She knows how to hide, that girl does.”

I want to kiss him. That kind of love/bravery is something these white millennials with masks don’t get. This guy lives in public housing. If they catch him violating the rules, he’s out on the street. What place… in the midst of a plague… is more fearsome than the street? I don’t kiss him, but I do hand him another dollar.

I turn from Lester and walk uptown. The street is nearly deserted except for a few masked woke folks giving me a wide berth.

Whoa! There’s Dexter. I’ve known him for years. As usual, he stands outside the Korean Deli. We bump fists.

“Yo Dex,” I say. “How’s it shakin’?”

“Up and down when I finish peeing,” he says.

We both laugh… same joke… at least once a week for the last 2 years.

Dexter shakes his head. “I donno Mykel,” he says, as I hand him a dollar. “Look around you. There’s nobody on the street. Usually I make four or five bucks an hour. Today, your dollar is the first bill I got all day. All I got is a few quarters.”

He reaches into his pocket to show me. I hand him another buck.

“You don’t have to do that, Mykel,” he tells me.

“Ok,” I say, “give it back.”

He laughs… We both laugh.

“Sorry I can’t stay and talk,” I tell him, “I gotta get to CVS to buy some cough drops… It’s this post nasal drip… allergy… everybody thinks it’s CORONA. I’m afraid someone is gonna punch me.”

“I’ll protect you, Mykel,” says Dexter.

“Hah!” I say, “If I could afford a personal bodyguard, I’d hire you. But you might have more work than you expect. Some people don’t like me very much.”

He smiles like he gets what I’m talking about. We bump fists again and I head downtown to the CVS on Astor Place.

On the subway, I wonder about Calvin, my homeless friend who sits on a milkcrate outside the Peculier Pub. I’ve known him for almost as long as I’ve known Dexter. He’s got family in South Carolina… like I do. Somehow he visits them every year… I think he hops freight trains. We often talk about how nice people are in the South, and how good the food is.

“Everything except the politics,” I say… I always say… and we both always laugh. I don’t think I’ll get to see Calvin today.

Getting out of the subway, I walk over to the CVS about two dozen steps away. In front of the drugstore is a random white guy… holding a coffee cup. He needs a haircut and a shave, but in this plague everybody needs a haircut and a shave. Maybe he’s homeless. These days more and more white people are.

“Hey bud,” he says as I approach, “can you spare something?”

“Sorry,” I tell him. “I gave my last buck to a guy up the street… I may have something when I get out of the store.”

“I’ll take that,” says Random Whiteguy, “I may have something is a hell of a lot better than I usually get.”

I smile, wave at him and go into CVS. A clerk wearing a red t-shirt and a blue mask asks if she can help me.

“Where are the cough drops?” I ask.

She takes a step back, then points, “In the middle of Aisle 4, on the right,” she tells me… and takes another step back.

I thank her. Go to the aisle. No Fisherman’s Friends so I pick up some Halls and go to the cashier. I NEVER do self-checkout. The only time I tried, it accused me of stealing something.

The cashier, wearing a pink mask, sits behind an improvised plastic bank-teller-like window. She rings up the sale and one of her gloved hands takes my twenty-dollar bill.

“Could you give me some singles?” I ask.

She nods and hands me a ten, five singles and some change. I thank her, put the change in my pocket, the ten in my wallet and four of the five singles in my watch pocket. The other single, I keep in my gloveless hand.

I leave the store… there’s Random Whiteguy… approaching the masked NYU students who are breaking their isolation for necessities like bubblegum-flavored vaping tobacco. No one stops for Random Whiteguy.

He recognizes me as I leave. I show him the dollar.

“I got a dollar for you,” I tell him. “I wish I could afford to give you more but...”

I can’t think of an appropriate ending for the bullshit sentence.

He pretends not to notice.

“Thanks a lot, Mister,” he says. “I really need it.”

“Good luck to you,” I tell him.

He waves.

As I leave Random Whiteguy, some jockish-looking young man is approaching. He walks like King Kong… arms at his side puffed out… each hand in a fist…

“Get a mask!” he shouts at me. “Keep everyone safe. You shouldn’t even be out, let alone spreading corona from street beggars.”

I lose it.

I spin on my heels. Head down like a bull. POW! Headfirst into his chest. He’s down. SMACK… the back of his head hits the sidewalk. I hear a crunch. He’s dazed.

I put a knee on each shoulder and punch his chest. Then point to the homeless white guy.

“I’ll… stay… home… when… that… guy… has… a… home… to… go… to!” I say, punching his chest… right-left… after every word. “Where’s HIS mask? Where are HIS gloves?” I smack the jock in the face… open handed… right then left.

“I’ll wear a mask when Lester, Dexter, Calvin and that random white guy have masks to wear. I’ll practice social fuckin’ distancing when these guys don’t have to live their lives socially distanced from everyone who passes and sneers ewwww cooties.”

A trickle of blood drips from under his mask onto the sidewalk. I keep smacking away.

“You say your mask keeps everyone safe. You don’t give a shit about everyone. You think your fuckin’ mask will keep YOU safe.” I rip his mask off and spit in his face.

“There’s your safe, asshole! People live on the street and you say STAY HOME. What about them? They ARE home.”

Actually, I don’t do any of that. I just ignore the guy and walk past. I wish I were younger, bigger, with more cajones than I really have. But I’m not.

--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 want to be notified when a new blog is published, send me an email with the subject line SUBSCRIBE BLOG. Back blogs and columns are at https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com.

Oh yeah, in case you doubt what I’m saying about the REASONS people wear masks… check out this on the local deli window. And the protectees? YOU AND YOUR FAMILY! It’s not to protect old people like me. Keep everyone safe my ass!

But wait! There's more! How ‘bout this ad from facebook? The height of fashion… no mention of the virus at all… but we all know what it means, right?

 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 facebookme or email me if you have a blog, webpage or something else to connect to. I add you. You add me.

• From my friend and fellow poet, Richard 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
• 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.
• And my long-term pal Sid Yiddish contributes with his Mishegas Master Blog.