Home is Where... or Mykel's July 2023 Blog

  

Home is Where... or Mykel's Blog for July 2023

You’re STILL Wrong

or

Mykel's July 2023 Blog/Column 

Home is Where....    

by Mykel Board

The worst thing someone gets is isolated. Isolation is the darkest part of any condition.  – Annie Lennox

Other people may complicate our lives, but life without them would be unbearably desolate. None of us can be truly human in isolation. The qualities that make us human emerge only in the ways we relate to other people.           --Rabbi Harold S. Kushner

Give Me Convenience or Give Me Death

                              --Jello Biafra

My name is Hitori Bochi. I’m a third generation Japanese guy... in prison in Arlington Texas... nearly 20 years so far… I’ve lost count. The charges? FAILURE TO OBEY…. And attempted murder… with a pair of chopsticks!

Right now, I’m in a room… concrete walls… concrete floor… shit and piss hole in the middle. Another hole in one wall lets in sunlight. It’s higher than I can reach. From down here, I can only see sky, clouds, sometimes feel the splash of rain blown in from outside.

It’s punishment. The hole I mean… for contraband. A magazine under the prison mattress... erections and shaved twats. Forbidden to us. We need to stay full of cum… keep tension high. The strongest will rape… get their nookie any way they can. The weakest will pleasure ourselves… using CONTRABAND.. My asshole still aches from the rape.

Yo! Yo! Yo! Hitori! This is Mykel speaking. Can you hear me? You’re not going crazy. I just wanted to tell you what’s going on in the outside world.

I don’t care if you’re real or not. I got nothing else to do here except talk to phantoms… so talk away. What do you want to tell me?

What I want to tell you will surprise you. The world has changed. It’s become more like this concrete room you’re in. Not because people are forced into it. Not as a punishment. It’s what people want. They want a world without other people… without physical contact. They want a virtual world… an isolated world with communication only through machines.

But don’t people eat? Don’t they need to buy toilet paper? Don’t they go to movie theaters, baseball stadiums? What good is shouting SWING HARD at the Rangers’ batter if he can’t hear you? Are prices so high at the stadium that people stay home and watch it for free on TV?

It’s not free on TV anymore! You have to pay to watch the local teams. I’m a Yankee fan, but…

Fuck you! You’re a Yankee fan? Stop talking to me!

Ok, no baseball talk. I just want to let you know about how the world has changed. How the class system has changed from people who work in offices vs people who work in the field to people who work at home and people who serve them.

Remember how it used to be? You got up, put on your business drag, drove or took the train/bus to the office, spent the day doing mostly worthless work with your co-workers... complaining to each other, laughing secretly at the boss, hanging out in bars after work… It was called HAPPY HOUR for a reason. Even if you hated your job (most people did), you could enjoy the company of others.

So it’s different now? How could that change?

It started with that plague that came from China... spread quickly around the world… Lockdowns... restaurants and bars closed… the only people allowed out were called “essential workers.” Hospital workers: nurses, orderlies, janitors... cashiers at supermarkets, cops, firemen, postal workers… usually the lowest paid jobs. They were essential.

Doctors? What about doctors?

In hospitals, they physically existed. Most of the rest became “tele-medicine.” You saw your doctor though a phone with a built-in TV. No body touching… no breathing the same air. The plague eventually ended… or at least lightened enough to allow people to go out again. Most didn’t want to.

Some couldn’t. Companies, learning that employees could work from home, sold off their office space, down-sized, saved money on rent, electricity... gave their employees computers and said “Use your own heat and electricity to work. We’re not paying for that anymore.” No more happy hours. No more hangin’ out in the common room. No more other people.

Wasn’t there a rebellion? A demand to get back to work?

Nope. Most people LOVED working from home. No commute! No highway. No crowded trains. The wall between work and home... smashed to wallboard dust. People LIVED at work and they quickly fell in love with it.

FLASH TO HERE AND NOW: Hitori is still in the clink. I don’t know if he’s in solitary or back with his fellow cons and a big black prick up his ass. I do know there’s a protest movement… friends and families of the incarcerated… demanding an end to solitary confinement… and end to THE HOLE. I donno, they could just throw the guy an iPhone and everything would be just like you and me, right?

Me? I’m calling the EPSON PRINTER tech department… I get white stripes through my pictures… blotches at the edges of the page.

YOU HAVE REACHED…. PRESS ONE IF YOU WANT…. PRESS TWO IF YOU WANT… PRESS THREE…

Tech support is EIGHT. I press 8 in a fury.

ALL TECH SUPPORT AGENTS ARE CURRENTLY HELPING OTHER CUSTOMERS. YOUR CALL IS IMPORTANT TO US. PLEASE HOLD FOR THE NEXT AVAILABLE TECH SUPPORT SPECIALIST.

What sounds like old merry-go-round music plays through my headphones. Then it stops. Then it starts again… Finally, a woman with a strong accent (Indian? Philippine?) and a soft voice comes on the line.

“My printer is streaking,” I tell her.

“May I please know your name?” she asks.

“Mykel Board,” I say.

“Have you used our service before?” she asks.

I nod… then answer, “Yes, a while back.”

“Would you have the kindness to give me your phone number?”

Then I hear a scream… like a small child who has dropped a stuffed animal into the toilet.

“Tumahimik ka na!” shouts a male voice in the background… Aaah, it’s the Philippines.

At first I’m pissed off. My hearing is lousy… her accent is strong… the interruption is rude…. Then… a wave of sorrow washes over me, like champagne washes over baseball players after a world series win.

This poor woman is working at home. Her husband is taking care of the child. He probably lost his job during Covid. Now, instead of going to The Call Center, like my Pinoy friends did, the plague has forced her to work from home… squeezed into her 1 room house… answering phonecalls from pissed-off foreigners, while her baby screams in the background.

The sadness of this poor woman… trapped at home… living at work… What a tragedy!

But wait! The US government reports most people working from home here LIKE it. And it’s especially the rich, the educated and the healthy who DO it. The poor and the uneducated (often the same) are the ones riding bicycles on the sidewalk, delivering meals, groceries and vitamins to those rich enough to live in isolation.

Remember when the word InCel was an epithet? The involuntary celibate… the chubby guy with a neckbeard who never got laid… never left the house… spent all his time playing video games? Now, every unmarried person is an InCel. It’s not weird. It’s common. In order to have sex, you have to touch another person! Eeeeew Cooties!

America is not like the rest of the world. It is a jail, where the inmates happily go to the hole… and stay there by choice. Those who the society calls essential workers are in the bunk-bed cells… raped by Uber-Eats, DoorDash, and Amazon.

Americans watch movies at home, school their kids at home. Teachers teach “distance learning”. Learning? Yeah right. This is not learning. You can even study languages with no teacher at all. “Lessons” made up of bullshit where you can’t guess wrong. Besides, once you learn a new language, who are you going to speak it with?

Here's some artificial "intelligence" from the learn-Japanese website:

Meanwhile, stores close and lie empty or are replaced by UrgentCare centers or UrgentCare for Your Pets centers. Or how ‘bout a UPS office where you can call, they’ll pick up your package and the center will do the rest? You never have to leave home.

The stay-at-homes talk about convenience. It’s just sooo convenient having things delivered to your door. You never have to go out… face other people… shop in a store. See? Covid actually made the world better.

So fuckin’ sad.

The delivery folks are just as isolated as those they deliver to... on their bikes... in their cars or trucks. The country becomes 300 million people in solitary confinement... and they love it that way.

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, c/o Seidboard World Enterprises, 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]

→ Sign of the Cross(over) Dept: As a porn lover, I’ve always found it comical when het/homo stars are “caught” in other roles. Now I learn there is an epithet for that… especially het male actors who do a guy or two early in their careers. (Can you say Peter North?). The term is crossovers. There’s a great column about the gradual DE-stigmation (yeah!) of that term. You can read it here. I hope it’s true.

→ Add one more dept: I think Bill Maher is probably the celebrity whose politics are closest to mine. (Can anyone find my appearance on Politically Incorrect on the internet? I’ve tried all the keywords, but nothing pops up.)

Here he presents “The Cojones Awards” to people who stand up to cancel culture. He did, however, leave out John Cleese, who had the balls to refuse to cut the famous Loretta segment in the upcoming Broadway play that’s a Life of Brian adaptation. There will be protests.

→ Stop passing gas dept: Uexpress reports that protesters at the Massachusetts Statehouse demonstrated against climate change. People started shouting from the gallery. Then eight audience members turned their backs on the senators and mooned them. Ass cheeks were sharpied with the words "stop passing gas." The protesters continued with chants of "You're a senator, not an ass, why are you still passing gas," They were arrested and escorted out of the chamber. I’m waiting for Liz Cheney to start the hearings against them.

→ Ah masking, you gotta love it dept: This from Sky News: People in Japan became so used to wearing face masks during the pandemic that now they are signing up for lessons to teach them how to smile again.
    For three years or more, many people wouldn't be seen in public without a mask.
    With the government having finally lifted its face-covering mandate, many people realized they had forgotten how to live without them. Worse, they had forgotten how to smile.
    Now, at around $35 each. The Japanese can take lessons to bring back the habit.

See you in hell, redux,

MB

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 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, The Nation writes about yet another reason to nationalize the banks… I only wish it were possible. There’s also a great article about the true influence of Nazis in the Ukraine who turned into heroes in the American press. And speaking of the US weapons-manufacturers prop, there’s a nice column by the often-correct David Bromwich. It includes the great quote: How close is Ukraine to Russia. How close is Taiwan to China? And how far is the US from both places?


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

Mykel's MRR Column for #324 (May 2010) Mykel is saved by lesbians

  You're Wrong
  An Irregular Column 

Number 324 May, 2010
 by Mykel Board 

A weed is a plant out of place. --Jim Thompson 

I didn't think it was possible to catch Tourette's Syndrome, especially from a book. I was wrong. I'm reading Motherless Brooklyn, By Jonathan Lethem, it's fiction about a detective who barks, curses, twitches through a complicated plot about Buddhists and giant Polaks.

Now, I've got it. The syndrome, that is. Every time I pass an attractive person on the street I shout AAAAHOOOGAH! Like one of those cars from the 1920s. So far it hasn't got me punched. Hasn't got me laid either.

It could be my mood, though, not the syndrome.

Usually, I'm a jolly guy. Easily entertained. I enjoy the simple things in life... getting drunk, jerking off, taking a shit, being kidnapped in Albania. So how come I've been feeling so rotten lately?

It's not the politics. Dubya was as bad as Bambi.

It's not the age milestone. Just that I made it is cause for celebration, or at least amazement. 

It's not the state of punkrock... In fact, sometime I'll write a column about the great state of punkrock in New York... especially the NEW SCUM scene.

I think I'm depressed by something I hinted at in an earlier column. Something you see in iTunes and Facebook. Maybe I'm barking at Twitter and Netflix. At the TV-sized screens in the local multiplex and the theater-sized screens in the apartment across the street.

 
Scene shift: Lefty Hooligan already complained about it. Now I will: I've got 764 friends on Facebook. What does it get me? Can I suck the squack from 764 vaginae? Can I wrap my rectum around 764 throbbing Vienna sausages? Can I ask 764 people to share my can of PBR? Sure I can. But will they show up?

For the past 12 years, I've had a group called DRINK CLUB. It started with me and a couple Japanese students. We went to the same bar every Monday. Gradually, more people joined us, and we started moving. Then I saw Fight Club.

“Yow!” I thought, “that's us! Not Fight Club, but DRINK CLUB!”

I made a website. All kinds of folks joined us. Once we had 35 people... from seven countries. Alcohol is the world's greatest social lubricant. Have a drink, talk, laugh. Have another drink. Music is good too. But if the music is good, it's hard to talk.

At the turn of the century, at least a dozen people joined us every week in our quest to discover new bars, cause trouble, slap each others' shoulders, nibble on each others' buffalo wings.

Then something happened.

Right now I sit in Bamboo 52, in Hell's Kitchen. It's a long narrow affair. Up-front is the bar. In back are tables and a waitress. As is the fashion in New York, people stand at the bar trying to pick each other up. No one sits. So I snag a couple tables, push them together, put up the DRINK CLUB sign, and let the manager know to expect some people... both Occident-- and Orient-- al. Maybe even a colored gal or two. It's 9:15pm. Drink Club officially starts at 9:37. I pick weird starting times so people will think it's like a train schedule and rush to be on time. It doesn't work. People usually show up at 10. I'll wait.

Recently, I found out that Coors owns BLUE MOON. I order a Hoegaarten. The menu offers spurious Japanese food with a decidedly New York bend. Not a sushi roll, but a Bagel Roll: Eel, salmon, cream cheese and Tempura. Yuck.

I order noodles.

9:30: No one but me here.

I order a Kona Fire beer... a nice hoppy brew that's rare in New York. It comes with a lemon in it. What is it with bars these days? If it's from some warm place, throw a lemon or lime in it. Yuck!! If I wanted a fruit drink, I'd order a Fuzzy Navel or one of those other girl/yuppie abominations.

10:00: No one but me is here.

The only guy at the bar not hitting on one of the girls at the bar comes over to me.

“Hey,” he says. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Jeff Van Gundy?”

“Ben Weasel told me that,” I tell him.

He laughs like he gets the joke. There is no joke.

10:30: No one but me is here. I leave.

“Maybe if I find a gimmick...” I think. “People like gimmicks.”

 
Flash ahead to next week: Drink Club will be at Local 138 in the Lower East Side.

After a little bit of Googling, I find out that Drink Club Day is also National Battery Day. Huh?

On Facebook, I post that everyone should bring a battery operated something to Drink Club. It'll make for an interesting theme night. A gimmick.

 On the Friday before Drink Club, I stop in the bar to make sure there's going to be enough room for us.

It's about 4 in the afternoon. I walk through the front door, halfway down on Ludlow Street. The place is empty except for the bartendress cleaning glasses behind the bar.

AAAAHOOOGAH!

I walk up to her. Six steps from the door to the bar. Six steps until my penis achieves full erection. When I reach the bar, I come.

You guessed it. The bartendress is the sexiest white female I've ever seen. Brown almost crewcut hair. Tall, skinny, with two teacup-sized breasts pertly and naturally aroused behind her t-shirt. If Lesbian Nation makes a recruiting poster, here's the model. I'll sign up. Now!

You know that Guys With Pies series? The butch lezbo equivalent of Chicks With Dicks? This girl is even better.

I push up against the bar so she can't see the wet spot on my pants.

“Oh hi,” I croak.

“Is it so cold outside?” asks the enchantress. “Your face is bright red. You want something warm?”

“You bet, and it's right between your legs,” I don't say.

“I just noticed it when I came...er... came in,” I say.

She smiles one of those okay-bud-tell-me-what-you-want-or-leave smiles.

“A...act...actually,” I stutter, “I do this thing called Drink Club...”

I hand her a card.

“Every week we go to a different bar. Next week it's here. I just wanted to make sure there was enough room for the crew.”

“How many people will there be?” she asks.

 
“I donno,” I tell her. “The biggest group was 35 people. The smallest group was... only me. We'll be here Thursday.”

“No problem,” says the messiahness. “You can have the back room.”

She walks around the bar, toward the back. I follow at an admiring distance.

She shows me the room and I thank her.

On my way back home, I buy a toy tank from a shop in Chinatown. 

When you turn it on, it flashes. A TRANSFORMER pops out the top and shouts FIRE! FIRE!

I return home, set down the toy and scrape the semen from my pubes. Then, I send out 500 reminder emails, text a few people, print out more Drink Club business cards, and get a very good night's sleep.

 
The night of Drink Club: I'm at the bar half an hour early.

Her majesty is not working tonight. And the back room is closed. Locked.

Dejected, I take a table, put up the DRINK CLUB sign, and wait.

In about a half hour, Evan walks in. Yeah, that Evan. The one who wrote I Was A Murder Junkie. The one who played in every George Tabb band since Roach Motel. That's the one who smiles and sits down next to me.

This is terrific. Last time I saw Evan was at my birthday party where I was almost as happy to see him as I was this girl Erin. Her, I'd met only a few times, but she was sexy as a lesbian and twice as friendly. I like Evan. Since he doesn't drink, it's strange for him to come to Drink Club. Still, I'm glad he's there.

“Well,” I say to him. “Thanks a lot for coming. I thought it was gonna be only me... like last week. Did you bring a battery toy?”

Evan shakes his head. “Sorry Myke,l I don't have one. But don't worry. I think someone else will be here.”

“I hope you're right,” I say, starting my second beer.

Three-quarters of the way through it, my cellphone buzzes. A text message... from Erin.

“I'm in Chinatown,” she texts, “I'll be there in a few minutes.”

Yow! Maybe it's too bad it won't be just the two of us. Me and Erin. How do I tell Evan it was nice seeing him, but...

“It's from Erin,” I tell Evan. “Maybe you met her at my birthday party. I have such a crush on her.”

“Me too,” he says. “That's why I arranged with her to meet me here.”

I shudda known!

The night is Erin, Evan and me. Two guys who like the same girl. 

Two writers: My book is bigger than yours. Two smart guys, one nearing 40, the other just past seventy. Who has the best chance? I ask you?

Still, I'm game and I want to give it the ole' Drink Club try. 

There's nothing else to do anyway. Nobody else is gonna show up... and I need some human contact.

“I kinda set my partner limit at age fifty-five,” says Erin sometime between the sixth and seventh beer. “Sorry Mykel.”

Can you believe she actually says that? Set her limit? What's the deal? Is she afraid I'm gonna keel over on top of her like Nelson Rockefeller? (Look it up.)

I get home at 4am. Sloshed. A hangover pre-curser... or maybe just a headache from butting horns with Evan. Two horny rams. What's to do now? I can't sleep. Maybe I'll go to xhamster.com and check if they got anything new to jerk off to? I usually search under Emo.  
You may not like the music, but the porn is great. Or maybe they've got some excerpts from Guys With Pies.

AAAAHOOOGAH!

Instead, I check Facebook. There's a message from Jennifer Blowdrier, former MRR columnist, and one of the few Facebook friends worthy of the word.

 
Hi Mykel, she writes. You know I had this writer's group here in LA? Looks like it fell apart. You can't do anything face-to-face anymore.

I Facebook her back, telling her how right she is and how I've been thinking the same thing. And, oh yeah, isn't it ironic that we complain on Facebook about how virtual the world is becoming. I do NOT include a smiley icon.

Below Jennifer's message is an invitation to The Bull Dyke Chronicals. Shelly Mars, my pal, former nextdoor neighbor, and George Tabb stag party performer, hosts a lesbian variety show in a small performance space on the Lower East Side. I think I'll pass on that one... yeah right.

I'm there.

 
Flash ahead: It's a little tough to find the small club. Dixon's Place is on Christie Street. Used to be a whore street in the days before people traded whores for virtual sex.

Now, there's a crowd of attractive young men standing on the street. As I approach, I see they are not young men. AAAAHOOOGAH!THIS MUST BE THE PLACE.

As cross the last street before the bar, a giant Whole Foods truck slams into me, running me over. I die instantly.

I don't actually remember that, but it must have happened, because when I enter the door to the bar, I'm in heaven. Wall-to-wall girls! White girls. Black Girls. J.A.P.s and Japs. The only girl missing is that bartendress from Local 138. I'm sure she's here somewhere.

I stare.

Not the casual look-out-the-corner-of-my-eye-don't-want-'em-to-know-I'm-staring stare, but a Jezus-fuckin'-Christ-I-can't-believe-this-is-happening-to-me stare.

And these girls are just standing around talking. Elbows resting on palms. Drinks in hand, like being the sexiest creatures in an infinitude of simultaneous universes is no big deal.

 In the back of the bar is a tiny stage surrounded by folding chairs. One each of these chairs rests the glutei maxima callipygious of the audience. Other girls stand and face the small stage in friendly conversation, waiting for the show to begin.

And begin it does.

The lights dim. There's Shelly, dressed in sparkly tights and a gold lamé shift. She does a shtick about Joey Heatherton... a minor luminary. (Three people who read this might have heard of her.) She leaves the stage to applause; does a quick change; and returns as herself, the Mistress of Ceremony.

“Welcome to the Bull Dyke Chronicles,” she says. “You know, I've been Facebooking, and Tweeting, and virtually virtualizing everything. It's a bitch, huh? Nobody really sees anybody anymore.”

I can't believe it. It's me channeled through a lesbian body.

“Even if you go to a bar,” she continues, “you never really talk. You just stand there with your arms folded, trying to pick up some girl. And what does it get you? A hangover?”

“Yeah!” I shout.

Everyone looks at me.

Shelly laughs.

“But when there's a performance, something to see and watch. People get together in a more human way. Audience and performers and all kind of mixes. It's... I donno... like real people....”

“Enough philosophy... And now, our first guest, from Macon Georgia, we have Debbie Mae Sue.”

There's applause.

A pert twenty something with a huge blond wig mounts the stage.

“Howdy ya'll,” she says in a drawl. “It's sure a pleasure being here with you tonight for the Bulldog Chronicles. The Bulldogs, that's the team from my hometown. So it's great to be celebrating with y'all.”

She leads the crowd in a rousing football song, complete with barking. A hundred and twenty lesbians singing We are the bulldogs, arf arf arf.” I don't know whether to laugh or come.

Following Sally Mae is Sugarbutch, a guy-with-a-pie and more personality than anyone I've seen on stage in the last 10 years. 

She's a poetess who is not funny, but riveting. She's like those great actors you hear about, who can read the phonebook and make you cry. But her poems are much better than any phonebook, not sappy, not funny, but... well, you gotta be there.

“You don't like poetry?” she says. “Maybe you haven't had the right poet.”

There's so much more. It would take another column to describe. You can't imagine.

The place is packed. People are friendly, laughing, chatty... even to me. Leave it to the lezbos to touch lips across the Facebook wall. I only wish I could fit in.

Last year, Jesse made me an honorary Hispanic. This year, I want to become a lesbian. I'll pray tonight for the goddess to shrink my outtie even more. I'll let you know what happens.

 
AAAAHOOOGAH!

ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get live links and a chance to post comments on the column]

--> Last month I made a mistake on Kyle N's MySpace page: it's nothingisttrue. Note the two t's in ttrue... or is it the German "ist" plus true. Ask him. Besides he needs your support in jail. Write to him at: Kyle Nonneman, #691768, 1120 SW 3rd St, Portland OR 97204

-->Only in America dept: Everything has its price. A new web service PriceDoc.com will let you bid on the cost of hundreds of medical procedures if you pay cash or with a credit card. You can also reserve a price from published fees, make a lower offer or "name your price.” If you "win," just call the doctor for an appointment. Cancer? Get a discount operation. It might work. Pretty sick, huh?

-->I didn't realize dept: The deadline for the APRIL issue of MRR came and went without me realizing it. I think I managed to squeeze in a couple lines about being in jail. Of course, that was a lie. So far, they haven't got me.

-->More on Obama dept: The Family is a Charlie Manson-sounding secretive Religious Right group. It sponsors an annual National Prayer Breakfast in Washington DC. The group supports David Bahati, a Ugandan legislator who is pushing a super-hardcore anti-homo law.
    The Ugandan proposal calls for the execution of gays and the imprisonment of those who promote homosexuality. Obama attended the breakfast and said nothing about the Ugandan proposal. Did you expect otherwise?

-->Save a life in lust dept: My pal Sid Yiddish sent me a link to a story about a town in Switzerland that is providing its brothels with defibrillators. Seems like... er... older gentlemen have been Viagring with the young women then kicking the bucket... mid-thrust. It's a good way to go, but it's even better if you get a second chance.

-->Contact her dept: I wrote about the great, Sugarbutch. Go to her website www.sugarbutch.net to find out more about her. And there, you'll find a great link to the lesbian porn of your dreams. Yeah, they sell the entire Guys With Pies series.

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