Mykel's Other Blog: old age

Showing posts with label old age. Show all posts

Monday, November 01, 2021

Losing The Urge or Mykel's November 2021 Blog/Column

Losing The Urge: Mykel's November Blog

You’re STILL Wrong

Mykel's

November 2021 Blog/Column

Losing The Urge

by Mykel Board

With some, inhibitions and urges may be neutralized by other tendencies. But with every being the primal emotions are there. All men have an emotion to kill; when they strongly dislike some one they involuntarily wish he was dead. I have never killed any one, but I have read some obituary notices with great satisfaction. - Clarence Darrow

“That animal is not your possession. He doesn't exist for your amusement. He has needs, instincts... urges."

The way he said that word, in that deep, earthy growl, had chills rippling over her skin.

She swallowed hard. "Urges?"

"Yes. Urges." He sauntered toward her- as much as a man could saunter in knee-deep water. "But what could a lady like you know about those?"

"Oh, I understand urges. Right now, I have the powerful urge to do this."

She shoved him hard in the chest, hoping to send him flailing backward into the river. --Tessa Dare

“If you feel the urge, get up and dance; and if you don't feel the urge, get up and dance.” - Marty Rubin

When I lost the sex urge I felt as if I’d escaped from a frantic and savage master. – Sophocles

I measure the progress of my traveling adventures in what my body chooses to show me. My bowels produce a chronicle of time and place.

Stages reflect themselves in toilet water. Every trip starts with nothing… a whiff of gas… a pffffft… no more. After the gas come the raisins. Tip… tip… tip… like a rabbit spitting out sunflower seeds. Then come the cherry tomatoes… plop… plop… plop... hard and loud as they fall into the water and splash up against me.

Next are the fuzzy caterpillars, each as long as my thumb… edges unclear… worms clothed in dust bunnies. Then a day later… maybe two… it’s Vienna Sausages… sliding effortless out of my body.

Then, the kielbasa. Thick… like a turd blimp. Wider than my waist… like being fist-fucked by Mike Tyson… only in reverse.

Then, if I’m still away, I return to normal… gobs of half-solids… turning the water brown… little floating pieces… undefined shapes… exploding below.

Today I’m in Pittsburgh. I’ve reached the cherry tomato stage… or what should be the cherry tomato stage. Things are not as smooth as they should be… noisier… with a smell like the night after a Mexican lunch.

And it feels weird… like I’m releasing a playing card… Ace of Spades… one-eyed Jack. I check. It’s New Jersey.

I shit you not. It’s a turd, about the size of my hand, shaped exactly like New Jersey… From the boxy edge of Bergen County, across to the Delaware river… down to a perfect little Cape May at the tip.

Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE New Jersey… the state. Some of my best friends live there. Others are from there but have moved away. New Yorkers who can’t stand the cootiephobia, the noise, the high prices, are moving there.

Mitsuwa is in New Jersey. AOD is FROM New Jersey. It’s a great state. The shit is not a metaphor… not a judgment… but a real statement… made by my body… sculpted from the refuse of my food… hewn from the pressure of my large intestine… I have the urge to reach in… pull it away from its more normal siblings… lift it up… examine it closely, turn it over… match it to a Google map.

I don’t.

Instead, I flush.

FLASH to 2017: The Museum of Modern Art has a show featuring the art and characters of CLUB 57… a performance-space in the East Village during the 80s and 90s. On the wall are several posters of ART, my first “band” (guitar player, metronome player/vocalist, sign-language signer, and me).

The You’ll Hate This Record Record, on the Seidboard Label, is framed and hanging on the wall. I put together that record… compiled the bands… the most hated in America... pasted the rubber vomit on the cover.

Now it’s in the fuckin’ Museum of Fuckin’ Modern Fuckin’ Art! Amazing… dazzling… depressing. I’m not sure why… Then comes the email. It’s from Sophie… at MOMA.

“We’re having a party for the Club 57 Show. We’d like you to put ART back together. Just one show, downstairs in the VIP space. Of course, we’ll give you compensation. $1000 for the show.”

I’ve never been paid $1000 for a show. I think ART got $900 opening for Public Image… and that was the most. Usually, “gas money.” That’s it. Sometimes an extra twenty bucks.

I think about other old guys playing punk rock. Old men trying to reprise –or at least sell– what was their youth. Angry young bands on a tired old man road.

Several times, Jim Testa has complained to me that touring 90s bands are what’s keeping new young bands from getting shows. “No one wants to see new bands, Mykel,” he says. “Hardcore and punk is creaky old people… like us.”

At the time, I believe it’s this anti-nostalgia that leads me to reject the $1000 bucks (split 4-ways of course). I don’t want to be the balding old guy on stage trying to resurrect a performer who had hair and enough energy to tear apart 10 different t-shirts.

It’s only later, I realize I was flattering myself. What really happened was… I lost the urge to perform. It used to be all you had to do was ask… not even that. I’d jump on the stage. Furious George… BANG! I’m up there, holding up the I WEAR A WHITE HAT SIGN. The first Polish Punk Festival in Kolobrzeg, I’m there… singing SWEET JANE with my friends in KANAL.

The urge to perform… to be in front of people… to get a reaction… cheers… laughs… boos… hit by a pie… I loved it.

Then, I lost the urge. I didn’t feel the almost sexual need to perform… to be hated… to be laughed at... or even admired enough to be bought a beer by a fan.

The urge left me. I no longer need to perform… I no longer WANT to perform. When I did a short reunion tour about 10 years ago, before it was over, I realized it was a mistake.

FLASH TO EARLY SUMMER: Girls are out… in their short shorts… the ones that show leg… all the way from hip to ankle. Bare… naked leg... perfectly shaped.. hairless... disappearing into a barely hidden camel toe. Boys’ legs too –usually too hairy to excite my urges– but every once-in-awhile there’s an Oriental… Oh yeah!

But this year, there’s no urge. I don’t feel a stirring between my own hairy legs. No pressure... no dream of spreading those legs. The urge has deserted me. Gone like a flushed turd shaped like New Jersey.

Sure I still choke the chicken, but these days it’s a soporific rather than a stimulant. I’ve lost Sophocles’ frantic and savage master. The Meth of a screw has turned into a Quaalude.

I’m worried. If I become completely urgeless, I’ll be dead... one of those depressive zombies who roll out of bed only to piss and return to the covers. It’s scary.

FLASH TO THE BATHROOM… The place for serious reading… in snippets. I have the latest copy of THE NATION on the tank, waiting for me to take in bit by bit.

There’s an article about Frank B. Wilderson III, the godfather of a philosophy called Afropessimism. The basic tenet of this philosophy is that slavery makes the Black Experience® in America unique. Indians, Transexies, Hispanics, other “allies” in racial America… are not allies. They don’t suffer the same. They are higher on the totem pole and will become white when it suits them.

The ideas are fascinating. I never heard of this guy before. He evidently mixes humor, his family history, his personal adventures, and his philosophy. He teaches in California. Sounds smart, cool, deep… and wrong.

You know what? I want to go out to California. I hear plane fares are low now. I want to sit in on a class. Then, talk to the guy.

Wilderson: You can’t get it, Mykel. My ancestors were slaves.

Board: So were mine!

Wilderson: This country was built on our backs. Our slave labor built America.

Board: Ours built the pyramids.

Wilderson: Don’t pull the that stuff on me. Black… just the word is evil, dangerous, negative in all aspects.

Board: Sure. When I go into a bar and order top shelf, I always ask for Johnny Walker Jew. And in my karate class, everyone is clamoring for a white belt.

I can see the whole thing. Describe his facial reactions… picture how I’ll stand up... pace… Wilderson sits at the edge of his desk... sometimes laughs… sometimes wrinkles his brow. I gotta leave now… check plane schedules to California.

WAIT! The urge! The urge to confront. The urge to disagree… to say YOU’RE WRONG! THAT hasn’t left me. It’s as strong as it ever was.

In 2021, I’m not going to play in a punk band. I’m not going to drop $100+ in a “massage parlor.” But I still have an urge that hasn’t deserted me. The urge to not think like other people… to find new Jersey in a turd… to tell smart people they’re wrong. THAT urge hasn’t deserted me.

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]

–> Breakfast-free companions Dept: OZY reports that sex dolls are all the rage in Asia, with hotels springing up in Taiwan and mainland China where people can book a night with an almost lifelike companion. In addition: Australia, Norway, Finland, Denmark and the U.S. lead in Google searches for “sex dolls.” As A.I. matures and robots become more “life-like”... with human pimps matching customers with their ideal companions. “Robo-prostitution” will replace pornhub. There is already a term for mechanized lovers: B.O.B. . . . battery-operated boyfriend.

Hah, I thought that was just another word for dildo.

–>The world continues to prove me right dept: I've long been an opponent of recycling. My main argument is that it's used to ease consciences in more and more consumption. This from Consumer Reports saying that more than 90% of what goes in the recycle bin ends up incinerated or in landfill. And that doesn't mention the energy used in picking up the recycling, sorting it, and powering the recycling plants.

Message: DON'T RECYCLE. JUST DON'T BUY IN THE FIRST PLACE.

–> Not quite Annie Sprinkle dept: The Irish Mirror reports: The owner of a U.K. bakery went viral for ranting about regulations that are hurting his profits and his art. Rich Myers, 32, of Leeds, can no longer sell his most popular items because they feature "illegal sprinkles" imported from the US. The sprinkles contain an additive which has been linked to "hyperactivity disorders and tumors in rats." An anonymous customer tipped off the local regulatory agency. Myers swears he won't switch to approved sprinkles from his home country, because “they don't hold their colors during the baking process.”

"If I can't use the imported sprinkles, I won't use any," he said. "I will be on sprinkle strike and won't budge for no man."

That’s what I like! A man who stands up for his principles. I wonder how much I could make as a sprinkle smuggler.

See you in hell, redux,

LINK TRADE DEPARTMENT:

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

Here's a start:

Here’s Richard Goldberg: goldberg.wordpress.com

Poetry and humor fans will like Justin Martin in The Latency

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

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

Andy Shelton has an interesting blog here.

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

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

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

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

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

Friday, October 02, 2020

You're Still Wrong, Mykel's Oct 2020 Blog #1 or Old Is The New Black

MYKEL'S OCT. 2020 BLOG

VOLUME 1

OLD IS THE NEW BLACK

You’re STILL Wrong

or
Mykel's

1st October 2020 Blog/Column

Eyebags

by Mykel Board

“Your face is marked with lines of life, put there by love and laughter, suffering and tears. It's beautiful.” --Lynsay Sands

“I don’t ever remember being afraid of “oldness” – Neil Gaiman

“I like the woman you became better than the girl you were. I like the story you’ve written on your face” -- Joanna Bourne

It’s the summer before the plague locks us in isolation. I walk down 32^nd Street, in back of the Empire State Building. Akitaki, my Japanese pal, tells me it’s easy to distinguish young Korean women from young Japanese women.

“They show more leg,” he says.

And it sure is legs galore here in K-town. If those skirts were any shorter, I’d be able to get a glipse of the whole camel! Hooeeey! I want to see those gals sit down. You know how normal females tuck their skirts down between their legs when seated? Well, these girls have nothing to tuck!

This one coming right toward me… her nose about an inch and a half from her cellphone. She’s directly in my path. That’s when I notice it… looking up… I see she has dyed her hair. So what? Korean girls do that. Japanese too, though not as much.

The punchline is, she has died her hair GRAY! At the last second, she sees me in front of her, my jaw slightly agape. She sidesteps me like a bullfighter and passes to my left. I turn to stare. Then I see it. There are a ton of ‘em. It’ a fashion! Gray hair on young ladies.

Have we done it? Have the boomers’ huge numbers, and vast political power made the trappings of old age DESIRABLE?

Holy Whistler’s Mother! I can see it now.

The fashionistas… white, yellow, black, brown, green, all the possible shades of girl. They’re talking about it.

“Oh Sadie,” says a tall slim woman who flips her wrist like a caricature of a gay guy. “I’ve just been bingein’ out in Sephora. They got it all.”

“Really, do they have that new wrinkle cream?” asks a shorter, but equally slim woman. “The one that crunches up your forehead to give that webby look?”

The tall woman nods.

“You bet they do… but there’s something even better,” she says. “I found this wrinkling creme… wow! Not only does it give you forehead creases. It deepens those crows feet next to your eyes, and get this...”

She moves close to her friend, as if they’re going to kiss. They don’t. The taller woman places her index finger under her left eye and pulls slightly downward.

“It gives you eyebags!”

Sadie is slack jawed.

“Yeah look!” answers the tall one. “I only used it once and you can see it already. The skin droops like I was 50 years older… it’s incredible!”

“What’s it called?” asks the tall one.

“Well, first I gotta tell you, if you wanna look 50 years older, it’s gonna cost you a dollar a year… but it’s worth it!”

“So what’s it called? Tell me!” Sadie is getting impatient.

“It’s Eau De Crone,” says the other girl.

Women’s cosmetics have taken off like no time since the sixties… and their job is to make women look like they were born in the sixties… or before. Tits a bit too perky? There’s Saggit Breast Cream. Arm muscles too smooth? Just rub on a little Waddles Skin Loosening Cream.

And it’s not only women! Today’s MEN also succumb to the aging game. Stores can’t even keep stocked with NoGain… the men’s natural-looking hairloss shampoo.

And prosthetics… a just-introduced prosthetic double chin… implanted over the the neck, which –along with a chin-reduction procedure– will make any man into a Mitch McConnell.

30-somethings with fake oxygen tubes up the nose. Teens with walkers. Ah the world could be such a different place. And leave it to the youth of Korea to start the whole thing off.

Well, I’m ready! And I don’t need to spend the fortune on cosmetics. I’ve got the receding… er… receded hairline, the wrinkles, the long nosehair. I’ve got the droopy oldman breasts, the creaky knees.

I’m going out to pick up some twenty-something sexpot who looks just like me! Now, where’d I put that walker?

- end -

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

→ Smarter Sex Laws dept: There are plenty of groups advocating for prison reform, especially in the age of COVID-AS-PUNISHMENT. But there are few groups advocating for the abolition of punishment AFTER prison.
Take the registries… please... especially the SEX CRIME REGISTRY, where, even after you’re released, you cannot start with a clean slate. Your crime follows you wherever you go. You are always guilty. Always unable to find a place to live or a job because YOU’RE A REGISTERED OFFENDER.

Knife attackers, muggers, and most violent criminals don’t have to register. It’s only SEX… because this is America… and SEX is bad in America.

There is at least one group that is fighting against lifetime punishment after prison. That is NARSOL. You can read their story here.

→ 2020, the Hell Continues Dept: I wanted to make mention of the death of longtime friend (since the 80s) and radio broadcaster, journalist, music geek, and all around great guy. Jan Sneum died in September NOT from the COVID-19 plague, but from a brain aneurism. He helped make Denmark my favorite country in the world… and was an all around friend to music and those who love it.

→ 5781, the Hell Continues Dept: On Rosh Hashana eve, the main voice of reason and compassion on the Supreme Court, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, died. My friend and blog editor, Marlene W., sent me information on how, in the Jewish tradition, it’s a mitzvah to die on the eve of the new year. Okay, I’ll accept that. But it’s still a sad and scary day for the rest of us.

→ I gotta do it dept: I wanted to leave politics out of this blog for once, but I couldn’t pass up this story from Reuters.
With incense smoke, flowers and photos of Donald Trump and Joe Biden, Peruvian shamans performed a tribal ritual for the U.S. elections.
   Chanting and blowing a traditional Andean shell instrument, the shamans invoked the “Pachamama”, or mother earth, for the U.S. vote to take place in peace, without attacks or any witchcraft between rivals.
   The shaman teacher said, during the ritual held in a room of an old building in downtown Lima, that she was in favor of Biden.
   “That is why we are cleansing him. We have seen that they are attacking him with witchcraft, with a black doll, with a voodoo doll they are shadowing to remove him,” said she.
   “See you in hell!” said me.