You’re STILL Wrong
or
Mykel's
APRIL
2026 Blog/Column
by Mykel Board
TRUSTAFARTI
April is a dreary month that leads to a spring opening… a reawakening… the joy of nature. Fools are quick to judge a rainstorm or two… a sudden chill after a day or two of warmth. In my 76+ years on the planet, I’ve learned never to trust the calendar… or the weather. But what else have I learned? That’s what I want to write about this month. And it starts with a phone call.
People who know me know I HATE the telephone. I almost never answer it and prefer leisurely texting over the evil busting in of a ringtone and flashing phone screen.
But this month starts with a phone call that I answer… Home alone... nothing special to do for once. The phone flashes with a 646 number… probably meaning the caller is a NY cellphone user.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Is this Mykel?” She pronounces it “my-KELL”, so I figure she’s reading it from somewhere. She’s got a late-adolescent voice.
“This
is MY-cull,” I respond. “What can I do for you?”
“I
got your number from Dale Ashmun,” answers the voice, referring to
a former friend and guitar player (after Crackers) for my first band,
ART, THE ONLY BAND IN THE WORLD. Dale died early last year.
“Dale Ashmun is dead,” I reply.
“I know,” answers the voice, “I talked to him a couple years ago and since lost the reference. I just found it in an old NYU notebook. I meant to call you a very long time ago.”
“Okay,”
I say, “what can I do for you?”
“Dale told me you
were a smart old guy,” says the voice.
“Well,”
I say, “I’m at least one of those things. How can I help
you?”
“My name is Zorigtoi Teneg. I’m writing a book
called Sagely Advice For The 21st
Century. And from what Dale said, you seem like a sagely advice
kind of guy.”
A laugh snorts through my nose… along with a little mucus.
“What
I want to know,” continues the voice, “is: What is the most
important thing you’ve learned during your 78
years...”
“Seventy-Six,” I correct her.
“Seventy-Six years here on earth. If you could distill
it down to one sentence, what would that sentence be?”
The
request gives me pause… but I’ve been asked the question… in
various forms… several times before. I have one set answer that
usually keeps the conversation short.
“Never trust a fart,” I say.
There is a moment of silence… then one of those fake coughs people give when they’re stalling for time.
“Your
whole life?” she says, “and that’s the only lesson?”
“No,”
I answer, “there are lots of lessons. But that’s the one that’s
most important. It’s saved me embarrassment in 72 countries.”
“I know you’ve traveled a lot… you lived in Mongolia, right?”
I nod, then realize a nod doesn’t count for much over the phone. “Yep, Mongolia was great. They often greet each other by saying ‘Amdrar jama bein’ which means You should have a good body. But even that works. Your body will function better if you don’t trust your farts.”
Zori sounds disappointed, “That’s it for 78 years?”
“Seventy-six,” I say and hang up.
Around a week later, I’m at the post office collecting my mail. There is a plain white envelope with the return address of Zorigtoi Teneg… and a Brooklyn address. The envelope is thick... as if several sheets of paper were inside… or maybe a small zine.
When I get home, I open the envelope and pull out what, in fact, looks like a small zine. In large type on the front page is the word BELIEVE. Under that, in small type, is the phrase: Monthly Magazine of The Trustafartians. Then there is graphic... type in a picture format. It says Pffffffftttt.
With the zine is a small hand-scribbled note. I knew what you were going to say. That’s the REAL reason I called and THIS is what I wanted you to see. Join us… love, Zori.
When I get home, I take the zine, lay down on the couch, grab a tissue box in case there’s some good porn in it… and open it up. On the first page is
THE PRINCIPLES OF THE TRUSTAFARTIS
1. Your body is a temple of God. If it says FART, God wants you to believe it and fart.
2. A fart is a fart is a fart. It may be quiet. It may blast. It may be solo. It may be accompanied by something browner or more loose. But it’s still a fart.
3. Respond to farts… your own and others… Respond with a smile, applause, congratulations… Most importantly with TRUST.
4. Know that, except for a few minutes immediately after, dead people don’t fart. Realize that your farts show that you’re alive.
5. In America, people are yelling NO KINGS… but we know that’s wrong. Like Jesus for the Christians, we have a king who has not died, but still lives, for our sins.
I skip to another page. There is a picture of a guy in what looks like a military uniform. His face, looks… I donno… Bozo-ish…. Pasty white complexion… fat pink lips… a bulbous nose. He’s wearing brown pants and a brown military-collar jacket with a number of patches on it. Underneath the picture is the caption The Divine Haile Unlikeli, King of the Trustafarti.
On another page, I see a picture of a jar filled with what look like tiny white shrimps (prawns, not short people)… packed together tightly. The jar seems to be about the size of one of those plastic water bottles that top (or used to top) office water coolers. Underneath the picture is the caption: Omnes reliqui sumus. I’ll look that one up later. I’m guessing it’s Latin and means “Everyone (or everything) is released.” It’s only in Possum Grape that I find out I’m wrong.
And
speaking of Possum Grape, the back cover has nothing but a name and
address:
Trustafarti
POB
0001
Possum
Grape AR 72020
I
look it up. It turns out to be a real place… in Arkansas
I have a goal! My life has meaning. I have to meet, socialize, eat with these guys. Trustafarti!
So
here’s what happens:
I look for transportation. Find
none. But I know I can take Amtrak to Little Rock. It should be a hop
skip and ride hitch from there.
FLASH
TO MIDNIGHT AT THE END OF MARCH 31, 2023
I’ve just arrived at the only hotel in Possum Grape... after a long Amtrak trip from New York to Little Rock. Then a two-hour uber ($145!!!!) to Possum Grape, where the stunned driver asks “Why the hell would you want to go there?”
When I arrive at the TRUST Hotel, where I made an Internet reservation, the night-clerk, a chubby young man with a hillbilly beard, gives me a I know why you’re here smile as he hands me the key to my $30-a-night room.
In the morning, I plan to ask the hopefully different, more attractive, hotel desk clerk how to get a cab or an uber or SOMETHING to the Trustifartian temple.
The next morning, I see that the clerk is indeed more attractive than the one from the night before.
“Mr. Board,” he says when he sees me, (How does he know?), “your car is waiting.”
“I didn’t order a car,” I tell him.
“We know why you’re here,” says the young man, gesturing to the front door.
I walk out and there… parked on the street… is a bright pink Tesla. Standing outside the car… holding the door open… is a skinny middle-aged woman with shoulder length blond hair. She sees me and says, “Right this way, Mr. Board.”
I get in the back seat of the car and the blonde takes the driver’s seat. As she walks around the car to get in, I notice she seems like she has a slight limp… a weakness in her right leg, I guess. I guess wrong.
As soon as the car-door closes, we’re off!
“I hear you’re interested in us,” says the driver… once we’re on a very back-road-looking back road.
“Are you a Trustifartian?” I ask.
“We prefer to say Trustifart-eye,” she replies. “And yes, of course I am. We’re delighted to have someone from New York join us. Today, you will be lucky enough to meet Haile Unlikeli, king of the Trustifari survivors.”
There is something familiar about her voice… I've heard it before…
"Survivors of what?" I ask. Then I recognize the voice. It's Zori!! And she sounds a lot younger than she looks.
"Zori!"
I say. "I recognize your voice. What kind of survivor are you
and the rest of the Trustifarti?"
“Survivors of
birth,” she answers. “You know point five percent of all US born
babies die within the first year… most at birth. That’s not even
counting abortion. If you’ve made it past year one, you’re a
survivor.”
There follows one of those uncomfortable
silences… I break it. “Are we going far out of town?” I ask,
looking at the bare stretch of scenery on either side of the road.
“We’re almost there,” she answers.
In a few minutes, we turn on to a dirt road and then drive up to a building that looks like a barn. Standing at the sliding door is a tall heavily-tanned man wearing Western clothes and a cowboy hat... as if he planned to ride a bronco in a rodeo.
He walks over toward me as I get out of the car. I see he limps slightly favoring the left foot.
“Howdy brother,” he says. “I heard you was coming to visit our lord god Haili Unlikeli. I wish you welcome in your quest to take pride in farting…”
And it’s right here he lets out a massive one. Not a pfffft… but a big burbling sonic anal growl… the likes of which I’ve never heard before. Then, of course, he smiles… motions for me to approach the building and enter through the sliding door. A dozen or so people inside turn as I enter.
Just to the right of the door is a large jar. Probably the same one in the picture I saw in the zine. I stop to take a better look. One of the older men in the inside group watches me staring at the jar. He walks over. I see a slight limp on the right side.
Then It hits me…. Not physically, but psychologically. Those things I saw in the jar are not prawns. They are the little toes of scores of people. Dozens of little toes, cut from dozens of feet.
He puts his hand on my shoulder… I involuntarily jerk.
“Purdy amazin', ain’t it?” he asks. “All them people givin’ a piece of theyselves… to thank the livin’ God that they survived.”
“You
mean,” I ask, “that in order to be a trustafarti I have to cut
off a toe?”
“You don’t HAVE to do nothin’,” he
says. “You WANT to do it, see? That toe makes you a survivor…
well, you’re a survivor anyway, just ‘cause you’re livin’…
but that toe makes it your will... your strength... like
forcin’ out a fart shows you can VIOLATE the rules, you can trust
your body to do the right thing… no matter what the hell you do to
it.”
I guess he can tell that I’m not quite ready to join the voluntary limpful.
“Why doncha come in and meet the Godman. We got the sharpest knife in the neighborhood… you be out in a couple hours.”
Well, now it’s up to you, dear readers. Do I step inside? Do I step inside then out with a limp? What’s your guess?
See
you in hell,
Mykel Board
ENDNOTES:
[You can contact me on facebook or by email at mykelboard@gmail.com.
Through the post office: send those... er... private DVDs..or music
or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to: Mykel Board, POB 137,
New York, NY 10012-0003. If you like my writing, you can be notified
when anything new is available. Send me an email with SUBSCRIBE TO
THE BLOG in the subject line. Back blogs and columns are at
https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com]
→ I Don’t Expect The Goyim To Know dept; Passover starts on the first of the month this year. And I’m shocked to find a Slivovitz shortage. For those who don’t know. During the 9 days of Passover, we don’t eat or drink anything with leavening or yeast in it. To be sure of that, we don’t eat anything with wheat or any other grain... except matzos… as we’re sure matzos are yeast-free. Slivovitz is a Czech plum wine that is a traditional beer/whiskey substitute during Passover. But it’s gone! Every liquor store I try is either sold out of it… or what’s that? Never heard of it. I wonder if it has anything to do with the war in Iran. Another tragedy?
→ They
Found It Dept: For decades, I’ve been reading about the search
for the foreskin of Jesus. I didn’t exactly know what they planned
to do with it when it was found. But I guess you’ve read about that
finding and am as surprised as you are at the plans. I’ve got a
pretty strong stomach, but writing about it here could get me banned
from the blog. Yuck! It’s disgusting.
See
you in hell, redux,
MB
LINKS:
It’s
About Time dept: Finally,
a book about
Hungarian
Punk put out by Puke
and Vomit records.
Great scene there and I was glad to have contact with bands like
Der Trottel and Tizedesz. Glad to have been a (very small) part of
that scene.
Albert
aka Alberto Melody is the reason I went to Kenya. We met on facebook
a couple years ago. He has a blog you should take a look at:
Albertomelody.blogspot.com.
Tell him Mykel sent ya. Oh yeah… He’s looking for friends his
own age.
So if you’re a 20-something and interested in Africa… or just
meeting new people. Contact him at: albertletowon42@gmail.com
Here
are some other contacts to make:
Teddy Lobato’s band can
be found at
https://www.facebook.com/THEBASSMANsPSYCHEDELICNOISE
Karl De Winton sent me a link to his bandcamp DJ stuff. https://share.google/5sTnXjgMkFbiWQvzA
NSFW… but that depends on your job.
Dan Hetrick asked me “How 'bout us punk rawk programmers?”
And offers http://merk.chat
Free chat for the people!
I’ve
talked about Bob Cutler before. But he has more to offer than
DYSTOPEKA https://chrometuna.com/
https://theklusterfux.com
Riot Division makes its musical offering at: https://www.facebook.com/riotdivision
Barstool
Revolution Zine is on facebook at https://www.facebook.com/people/Barstool-Revolution-Zine/61557909822199/
Rina Borei shows off her inflatable Octopus on Instagram: @oona.frost
Jim Testa, a long-time friend, journalist, editor, musician and wordsmith, has an interesting substack about music and more. You can find it here.
Sid Yiddish sent me this link to all his videos. It’s a great place to start, especially if you don’t know him.
I did a nice interview with The Aither zine. Interesting questions, complete, and questions I’ve never been asked before. You can read it here. It’s a good one.
Here’s Ricardo Wang with a “micro-label” in Seattle “specializing in 8-track tapes and CDs. WOW! Check out one of their label staples: The Dead Air Fresheners, best band name of the year.
Also on bandcamp: My very long time faves in NYC, the BLACKOUT SHOPPERS. Featuring pals Seth and possibly the next vice-president of the US
Sid Yiddish has posted a video of a show done for WZRD in Chicago. Great live performances, and if you catch the video around the 20+ minute point you might see a familiar face doing the lyrics to his songs (some unrecorded) as poetry. You’ll find it here.
And this sounds right up Sid’s alley. The Bilderberg Jazz Arkestra on Bandcamp!
Eric Grayson has an online music review zine, Sobriquet. Full pictures of the sleeves too! Something missing from too many zines. Sometimes you CAN judge a… er… book… by its cover.
Steen Thomsen is a Dane I’ve known ever since Lincoln was shot. I put his band THE ZERO POINT on the great WORLD CLASS PUNK Cassette for ROIR. It must be worth a mint now. I don’t have any left, I’m afraid. You can (and should) connect to the Zero Point on facebook. Tell ‘em Mykel’s blog sent you.
Sorry Dorothy, we are STILL in Kansas. And it’s as weird as OZ. Check out Bob Cutler’s DISTOPEKA.
You already know Murder & Mayhem zine… those guys who did the Mykel Board centerfold. (No genitals shown… and probably for the better.) Their online version is here.
The Clean Boys from Denmark are also longtime friends of mine. In Denmark we recorded as The Bend-over Boys. Only one 10-inch available… but at least now I can say I have a 10-incher!
Finally, for this month, Margaret O’Brien asked me to include the site: anti-war.com They seem to be folks after my own heart. I’m glad they didn’t call it “anti-defense.”
Oh yeah, then there’s me. I have a blog of stuff I’ve written mostly from last century. You might enjoy it. Then again, you might not. It’s here.
Let me know if you have a blog… or a print zine… or a YouTube and want to be added to the list. You show me yours… you’ve already seen mine. mykelboard@gmail.com
