Showing posts with label punk rock. Show all posts
Showing posts with label punk rock. Show all posts

Thursday, January 01, 2026

I WAS WRONG or Mykel Board's Blog for January 2026

  

I WAS WRONG or Mykel Board's Blog for January 2026

  


You’re STILL Wrong

or

Mykel's January 2026 Blog/Column

I WAS WRONG

by Mykel Board    


The only real mistake is the one from which we learn nothing.
                -- Henry Ford

More people would learn from their mistakes if they weren't so busy denying them
                -- J. Harold Smith

You have to own your mistakes, otherwise your mistakes own you
            --Paulo Coelho


For nearly 50 years, I hated Opera on principle. It was fat ladies and guys who “sang” the word Figaro over and over again. And the plots? My God! Love and other mushy shit. Opera was something to make fun of… like the Marx Brothers did. Opera isn’t punk. Texas Chainsaw Massacre is punk. Outrage is punk (if you haven’t seen it, do!) Aileen Wuornos is punk. The Ramones, The Dead Boys, The Sex Pistols are punk… but opera cannot be punk… or so I thought. A Drink Clubber showed up… he’s an opera singer. He put me on the guest list.

I was wrong. Opera can be pretty punk. You got this girl who works in a cigarette factory. She’s got two guys who want to get into her pants. One of ‘em ends up stabbing the girl to death… at a bullring!! What could be punker? In case you don’t know, that’s the plot of Carmen.

This, being my first blog entry of 2026, will talk about some of the times I’ve been wrong. As I come to the end of the legend that is me… (heart attack in September)… it’s time to come clean. From punk to politics… I know it’s hard to believe… but I’ve been wrong a few times. And now I want to talk about it.

Let’s first time travel back to 1966-67… Hicksville High School. Yeah, I went to high school with Billy Joel. When I was there, he was two years older than me and had a band called The Hassles. Now, he’s two years younger than me… but that’s show biz. I never saw his band. Me, and my best pal Dave, had better things to do. We took the Long Island Railroad in from Hicksville to Manhattan. We went to the city...Cafe Wha... almost every weekend to see The Fugs. We often got stoned… before taking the train. I remember once I took a handful of mom’s diet pills. I got so high, I fell in love with the train door.

That was the thing in Hicksville High School. The cool kids (called TRACK ONE… with advanced placement classes and lots of Jews) smoked dope. The dumb kids (called TRACK THREE, often taking “shop” or “home economics” classes), drank booze. I never had a full can of beer until I went to Beloit College in Wisconsin. You cannot live in Wisconsin without drinking beer. Not drinking beer is against the law there.

That’s when I realized I WAS WRONG. Marijuana made me want to sit alone and read books… often the same paragraph... over and over again. Alcohol made me want to kiss strangers and dance naked in the street. My love of drugs over booze was a big mistake… corrected as a teenager and 20-something. Though at Beloit, I have to admit to doing both.

FLASH TO NOW: I've just wiped up the few seminal drops I can still spill… after 20 minutes looking for-- and finding-- exactly the right video on ThisVid porn site. You can't get good scat vids very many places, so you take what you can get. Time to put away the laptop, zip up my pants and watch some real TV.

I turn on my just bought VIZIO TV, grab my new ROKU remote (a gift from a fb friend) and look for the next ALFRED HITCHCOCK HOUR streaming TV show. I want to watch them all… Found it, and Dennis Hopper’s in it! My favorite American actor.

BANG! A commercial… for Starbucks. A store/company I hate on principle. Crazy high prices, awful reputation for treating their workers like shit, ugly mega-corp forcing the little guys out of business. I wish I could jerk off into their frappacino.

And this commercial??? Does it talk about how great the coffee is? Does it say they let you sit there all day doing your homework on your MacBook? Does it brag about all the crap they put in their coffee, call it by an Italian name and charge 6 bucks for it?

NO!!! They talk about how the shlubs who work for them have a chance for advancement… how they throw their baristas a few dollars to pay for a college course or two... NOTHING about the product, only what good employers they are.

Later come more ads: One for Meta (the drag-name of Facebook/ Instagram/ WhatsApp). What’s in the commercial? Do they talk about how facebook keeps you on-line for hours… checking back if that last cat picture has as many LIKES as you'd want? Do they explain how you can avoid local phone charges by sending messages and calls through the Internet? Do they entice you to post your personal twerking videos to earn more hearts than your neighbors have?

NO!!! The ad starts with a very working-class looking guy… flannel shirt… overweight… 2 days’ beard growth… talking about his home town and how it suffered when the factory closed and the business moved to China. And how people were poor and they thought they were lost until META "invested" millions of dollars in a new facility housing computers and AI machines. How the city came back with all that money,.. How META made jobs. Not a word about the products or services… just about how good META is for the community. Bringing jobs and income... what the locals need.

Back to Dennis Hopper: he's a piano player and there's some mobster connection. Also a sexy female singer and… another commercial… This one from Amazon.

[NOTE: While I never go to Starbucks, I have to admit being addicted to Facebook, and using Instagram every once-in-awhile. I also use WhatsApp to communicate with my non-American friends. And I use Amazon both to buy and sell from, though my buying is mostly from gift-cards I earn by taking stupid surveys that pay in Amazon gift-cards. I feel guilty for my sins in using these sites.]

Back to the Amazon commercial: Does it brag about next day delivery? Does it say it sells anything from American Cheese to Zambian Socks? Does it tell you how it makes your home so comfortable and product ready that you never have to leave?

NO! It reports that 28% of its business is working with small businesses. It tells us about how Amazon "supports" small businesses, and how they can't do without it. They tell us how kind they are in providing shipping materials and delivery services for their small business babies. They are not a mega (or MAGA)-business. They are a public service, providing for the needs of small businesses in your neighborhood.

Right-wingers and corporate Democrats call anti-racist jacket-patches and driving (non-Musk) electric cars virtue signaling. The implication is I'm on the good side and I want you to notice it. I call these commercials virtue advertising. Companies brag about their benefits to society and their workers, rather than the quality of their products. And I hated it.

Then, in a flash, I realize I’m wrong. That virtue advertising means these assholes are worried. It means that the boycotts, the strikes, the petitions, the letters of complaints are working. Virtue advertising is a sign of FEAR. Those evil corporations have learned they are not loved. They have to change and tell people about the change.

Does Starbucks give college scholarships so people won't think they're evil? They hope so. Does Meta invest in local economies, create jobs for local workers, build factories that include kiddie play spaces, because they're afraid that people will think they're shithead exploiters and polluters if they don't? Yes! And they advertise those actions.

So my hatred of virtue advertising has changed to a clenched fist victory salute. These ads are admissions of guilt. They know their image and do something about it, THEN advertise that doing. Virtue advertising means the good guys won… not completely, of course, but we made a difference. Let's celebrate it… not complain about it.

The next wrongitude I want to talk about has to do with my arthritic hand, stent-supported heart, loss of hair, radiated prostate, limpy-flogger, increased bowel gas… There's a reason old farts are called old FARTS.

When I was a young-un of 18 or 40 or 60 I was usually the oldest in my crew… just a few years older than the others, but older. Younger people were sexier, brighter, more willing to try new things… think new thoughts. I avoided the real oldsters.

In my 20s, when I hung out at the 9th Circle, we used to make fun of the crowd at Ty's or Boots and Saddles. We called those places "wrinkle bars."... laughing at the patrons as well as the locales.

By the time you read this, I'll be 76 years old. Maybe just back from a birthday party celebrating the 90th birthday of one of my best pals. Old people may not have the smooth looks. Though, for some people… age is a fetish. Check out ThisVids' geriatric porn. Lots of those MILFs and DILFs are OILFs. oldsters, doin’ the dirty.

For more than 50 years, I’ve been the oldest member of any group that would have me. In college, the the crew I organized under the banner OPERATION MAXWELL (named after the Beatle’s song Maxwell’s Silver Hammer), was 3rd year me and a bunch of freshmen. When I was with ARTLESS, Gavin, the guitar player looked so young that we told people I was his dad. The idea of hanging out with old (older) people was as appealing to me as eating mountain oysters.

FLASH TO MINUTES BEFORE I WRITE THESE WORDS: I just finish wrapping a re-gift to one of the two best friends met at the start of the COVID plague. One is in his early sixties, his boyfriend turns 90 on the day before Christmas. This is how we met:

For those who don’t know, I’m the big macher of a group called Drink Club. Once a roving troop, we now meet every week on Thursday night at the Peculier Pub, where we drink ourselves into Friday. During COVID we started meeting outside at the Peculier. The weekend before we meet I send out email to about 150 people. I’m lucky if 6 show up. The official starting time is 8:32 PM.

Tonight, I sit by myself at our usual table outside. It’s a little after nine and no other Drink Clubbers are here. At another table, closer to the street, sit these two old guys… balder than me. Next to their table a black wheeled walker is parked. The shorter guy has a full gray beard and looks to be the older of the two. He’s laughing at something said by his partner… slapping the table… head thrown back… the beer on the table making waves in its glass mugs. His friend gestures… opening his arms to the sky... as if planning to embrace the universe. Then both laugh. And again.

I stand up and walk over to their table.

Excuse me,” I say to them. “I am Drink Club. Usually, we have a crew of people here, but tonight no one showed up. You guys seem to be having so much fun… can I sit with you?”

Sure,” says the younger guy, “my name’s Ed.” He gestures toward his senior, “that’s George.”

I’m Mykel,” I say and sit down. Not one Drink Clubber shows that entire night, but I have a great time… and learn that Ed and George live together just down the street from me. They’re now my best friends. (Except for two girls who I may tell you about some day.)

Get it? OLD PEOPLE ARE (or at least can be) AWESOME. They’ve seen, done, screwed, joked, drank, more than you have. Maybe more than you ever will. They’ve got it… and you’re still lookin’ for it!

Tomorrow is the first of George’s several 90th birthday parties. It’ll be at Ty’s, a NY gay bar that’s at least as old as Ed is. George is a celebrity there. His advancing walker is treated like the horses pulling the king’s coach in London.

Avoid Old People?? Boy, was I wrong.

The last wrong I want to write is more political. Ever since Dad made me mow the lawn for my allowance, I had the feeling there was something wrong with work. Not the expenditure of energy or brain work, but the exchange of labor (or mind) for money. When I read Bob Black’s The Abolition of Work sometime in the 80s, I could only think YES! YES! YES!

Why should people spend more than half their waking time just so they can eat, clothe their nakedness, and travel from home to a job over and over again? That’s not humanity, that’s slavery.

As a corollary to anti-work, comes the natural thought of being anti-Union. What do unions do? They support work. They want more people to work. They want to legitimize work… more cookies for the slaves instead of abolishing slavery in the first place.

As I grew older and was forced into the work machine myself, I saw that I’d been wrong. Unions want shorter hours, LESS work, more time off. They don’t legitimize work, they put reins on it.

No, it’s not as good a solution as ending work completely… but it is making the lives of the slaves better than they would have been otherwise. That’s something I’ve got to support.

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]


Two wrongs make a right dept: Starbucks is a great example of how virtue-advertising and unions can work together to make life better for those trapped in the work cage. You can read about all the good stuff the Starbuck’s union has done, and wants to do here.

Getting It Up At My Age dept: The NY Post reports on a survey of 687 “older Americans.” The survey asked about about their sexual habits and preferences. The results revealed that those in their 70s get it on even more than those youngsters in their mid-to-late 50s. I’ll drink to that.

They were wrong dept: Even a few presidents have apologized for making mistakes… Okay, that’s something. But I want to make it clear that I’m not really apologizing. I’m just stating that I think differently now than I thought before. It is interesting that most of the presidential apologies involve the deaths of other people. That is very American. I’m not sure, but I’d guess that, among countries not involved in war, Americans kill more people than the citizens of any other country in the world. No one apologizes for that.

You can’t say that, dept: I just came across this BANISHED WORD LIST. It’s not clear who is doing the banishing, but most of those words I don’t use. I guess I’ll have to start using them now that they’ve been banished.

See you in hell (redux)

MB


AFRICAN LINKS:

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

NON-AFRICANS

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


Wednesday, November 01, 2023

What Happens in Las Vegas ... or Mykel's Blog for November 2023

What Happens in Las Vegas ... or Mykel's Blog for November 2023


You’re STILL Wrong
or
Mykel's November 2023 Blog/Column 
What happens In Las Vegas    

by Mykel Board

If life gives you lemons, make lemonade. If it gives you cancer, make lemonade and spike it.” – Unknown

“Las Vegas: all the amenities of modern society in a habitat unfit to grow a tomato.”
                                                 – Jason Love

“For a loser, Vegas is the meanest town on earth.”
                                                – Hunter S. Thompson


Some point to the horrors of the Israeli – Palestinian war… where bombing by the Palestinians is terrorism and bombing by Israelis is air strikes. I point in a different way… to the bulging cotton in my Depends… weighting me down… sloshing right and left… forcing me to walk like a cowboy just dismounted from a 20 mile ride on his appaloosa. Evil to the right. Evil to the left. You cannot doubt that there is a God… and she’s a bitch. So much evil… so much wrong… so much pain… so many embarrassing leg drips do not happen by accident. If there’s a coin toss and after 25 flips you haven’t won once… you know the game is fixed. God did it.

So back to my full Depends. No... further… to the doctor who said my cancer was “still operable.” Just a shot and 5 times with my legs spread for the cyberknife… and I’ll be right as rain. Oh yeah, THE SHOT.

“The cancer feeds off of testosterone,” says Dr. Marrans. “If we get rid of the testosterone, the cancer will starve to death. One shot of this super anti-testosterone magic elixir… and blam! Good-bye testosterone!”

“And what are the side effects?” I ask.

“Nothing good,” answers the doc. “You’ll go through menopause… hot flashes… fatigue… temper tantrums. And…”

He points toward me with an outstretched index finger. Then, he gradually relaxes the finger until it points toward the floor.

I flush hot... right there… before any needles... my testosterone still at my horny 73 year old level. But the shot I get. My insurance company tells me it costs $2180. They’ll pay a chunk of it.

The cyber-surgery itself is no problem. No doctors in the room, just the control panelists outside and a scary robot arm inside. I can choose the artist of my choice to sing to me during the operation. I change it ever day: Louis Armstrong, Patti Smith, Frank Sinatra, John Cale… I avoid any band with DEAD in the name… Boys, Kennedys, Grateful, Milkmen… It might be bad luck or spook the robot operator. You never know. Frank Sinatra should be safe… soothing to all of us. I’m lying there and the first song starts:

And now the end is near...
And so I face that final curtain

This does not bode well

But the surgery goes smoothly… five treatments over six months. After the last one, the technician takes me into a special room with an old fashioned bell. “You’re done with the surgery! Ring the bell.” he says. I grab the rope attached to the clapper and swing it back and forth… heralding in the start of my misery.

On the way home from that final surgery… on the subway… I piss in my pants. It’s only been worse from there. Hot flashes… always tired… farting up a storm… pubes fall out… it doesn’t end. I haven’t had a hard-on in six months. And suddenly, my left eye doesn’t see straight lines.

I look at the edge of a table, or the top of an elevator door and I see a bump… a flare… something that’s not there. My macular degeneration has… like my Depends... gone from dry to wet. Pow! Off to the eye doctor.

“Sorry, Mykel” he says, “it’s not my department. You have to see a retinologist... and you need to do it fast.”

Eyeball shots. I need eyeball shots. A hypodermic filled with some magical –unimaginably expensive– liquid… PACHOOKII! Right in the eyeball… and that fixes it right up… yeah right. Every 5 weeks another eye poke. Feels like I have a small pebble in my eye for a day… for the rest of the week it just itches.

I wonder if the Brooklyn Bridge still has space enough to let me climb over and jump. But I get on with my life.

Now, I should tell you about THE GIRL… but you need some context.

CONTEXT: Couch-surfing,org is like Air BNB for free. Well, you do have to pay a yearly membership fee. But after that, there’s no charge at all. You don’t need to pay to stay. You just flop on someone’s couch, or sometimes even a bed. It’s like touring with a punk rock band. You converse with with your hosts, make friends, maybe go out together. I’ve couch-surfed in at least 10 countries. And the best meal that’s ever been cooked on my NYC stove has been cooked by 2 couch-surfers from Lebanon. I don’t know how they found the ingredients here, but whoa boy… they got it right. They stayed five nights I think. The microwave got a rest.

Every Tuesday, there’s a couch-surfer meet-up at the Peculier Pub just down the street from me. I go when I’m not teaching. I like to sit at the head of the long table where the surfers meet, then go their separate ways to circulate among the crowd. It’s about fifty percent locals and fifty percent people from everywhere… Alaska to Saudi Arabia and most everywhere else.

It’s surfers and surfees… mostly 20/30 somethings… a couple of actual adults. I’m probably the oldest. The crew at our table grows and shrinks… people from Mexico, Croatia, Dusseldorf and the Lower East Side. As a natural show-off, I switch my vernacular when I can and offer to teach “cheers” in various languages. I usually lie. Ask your Serbian friends what Pitchka Ti Mate means. Those couch surfers think it means cheers.

A butch young woman… in her twenties comes to the table. Butch... young... woman… need I say more? If I weren’t just cyberknifed, my throbbing throbber would make me unable to walk from the table to the bar. “Is that a double-A battery in your pocket or are you happy to see me

But tonight, I can only greet her and entertain her with my German translation of “cheers”… Leck mich am Arsch. We talk in English and German. She plays guitar and loves punk rock. And I’m the most famous punk-rocker no one has ever heard of. I’m in heaven… except for the limpy. Her name is Lucie.

She’s surfing with somebody in Brooklyn, but she’ll meet me tomorrow for a punkrock tour of the lower East Side. FLASH TO THERE

“This is where CBGBs used to be”… we walk inside the fashion store.

I walk to the back, and make a broad hand gesture.

“This is where the stage was… yes, I played on it… and around the side in the back was the dressing room. And the bathrooms… I never went to the ladies, but the mens room was a piece of art… The toilet was by itself.. no walls around it… up on sort of a stage.”


Then we go outside to Joey Ramone Way, and I take a picture of her under the street sign. We talk punk.

You know,” she says, “there’s a punk rock museum that just opened in Las Vegas. We should go there.”

I’m in love.

Bonus: I soon find that my old pal Fat Mike from NO FX is a big macher at the museum. AND he now lives in Las Vegas. Hooeeee I could impress her with that. Maybe I could even get him to take us on a tour… show us the Mykel Board Room… I could sign autographs for the other museum visitors.

Let’s do it.” I tell her. “You set a time. I’ll meet you there… in the desert. Las Vegas is a strange city. I haven’t been there in decades though. It’ll be fun.”

That’s what I say. What I think is: “Fuck you God. Here I am with a punk rock girl who wants to go to Las Vegas with me and I’m wearing diapers and couldn’t get a hard-on if a 1976 Joan Jett and a 1979 Leif Garrett danced naked in my living room.” But still... Just to hang out with her. Spend some time talking punkrock. Hold her in my arms as I fall into a farting, get-up-to-piss, snot-dribbling sleep. Ah what a joy that would be.

Don’t worry Mykel,” she says, “I’ll take care of reservations and stuff.”

We split with a hug and the next day she returns to Germany. It isn’t long after that we connect on WhatsApp.

Hey Mykel,” she writes, “dates are fixed and I booked a place for us.”

Ahhhh… If it weren’t for the hormone shot… if… if… if…

So I book my round trip ticket to Vegas. I’ll stay a week… maybe once I can… well, even if I can’t. She’s just so cool, just sharing a bed will bring me dreams to dream about. A couple weeks later back comes the WhatsApp message: All booked, Mykel. Got us three nights at The Sin City Complex. We can walk to the punkrock museum from there.

Three nights?” I whine. “I’ve got a week!”

“I’m meeting a girlfriend,” comes the reply. “We want to go to Grand Canyon and stuff, sorry”

Oy.

The Sin City Complex is easy to spot. It’s across from a mural/painting of a girl puking into a toilet with a graffiti-esque caption “Vegas Night!”:


I go inside to check in. I give my name to the desk clerk and explain that Lucie booked the room. She looks it up.

“I gotcha,” she says. “You’re in room eight… bed three.”

“Bed three?” I ask.

She nods. “If you’d prefer a top bunk,” she tells me, “I think one’s available.”

After I download the room key on my phone, I trudge upstairs to the 8-bed (4 bunk beds) room, stick my backpack into a locker… hold back a tear or two and head downstairs to find some place for lunch. Lucie hasn’t arrived yet and I need some air conditioning. I’m having a hot flash.

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]

Admissions dept: It really wasn’t as bad as I made it sound, although we had a horrible snorer in bed number 5. Lucie was a terrific companion, and we did meet up with Fat Mike who gave us a tour of the museum. Mike was really great to us. Besides the tour he gave me a copy of the NOFX book… a NY Times best seller... really! We also got to the Double Down Saloon and saw the great band Franks and Deans… and they had a stripper… 2 strippers as a matter of fact. People were friendly, and Anil, my pal of 40 years, took Lucie and me out for a patty dinner. Delicious! I also went to the Mob Museum, to spend some time with Al Capone and some model electric chairs. You can see my Las Vegas pictures here.

Giving Good (Doll)head dept: Lucie introduced me to THE DOLLHEADS, a very young band (13 year old drummer) with a great sense of humor. We met up at the museum. There is a “jam room” upstairs. The band played up a storm, and Lucy joined in for a rendition of 99 Red Balloons. It was one of the many highlights of my stay. Actually, I had fun.

I missed this in Vegas Dept: After I got back home, I read a news story about what happened before I got there. Mysterious brown or black droplets fell from the sky on some Las Vegas homes. One resident said the droplets had rained on his home, cars, RV, basketball court, and just about everything else for three to four weeks.

"It could be grease? Oil? I don't know," said the home owner while looking at the hood of his mystery liquid coated SUV. "It's very hard to maintain my vehicles. It's very very difficult to be outside in my backyard knowing that I can't even cook or barbecue or anything like that because of droplets on my food."

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 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.

Just when Bill Gates has almost rehabilitated himself, here’s more information about how he’s working with Big-Farm on genetically modified seeds that help destroy small farmers in Africa.

And Sascha Cohen writes about a new law that supposedly helps “sex-trafficked” people, but actually endangers them.

And I just found an old (2018) article that questions the believe the woman focus of #MeToo# and shows how things can be different (better) without the pre-conceptions.


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


MB

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