Sad Song: You're Still Wrong: Mykel's October Blog

 

A Sad Song: You're Still Wrong: Mykel's  October Blog

 

You’re STILL Wrong

or

Mykel's 

October 2021 Blog/Column 

A Sad Song

by Mykel Board

There are two types of people in the world: those who prefer to be sad among others, and those who prefer to be sad alone. 

                                                                                  --Nicole Krauss

Staring at my picture book, she looks like Mary, Queen of Scots.

She seemed very regal to me, just goes to show how wrong you can be. I'm gonna stop wastin' my time. Somebody else would have broken both of her arms. Sad song, sad song. Sad song, sad song.

                                                          --Lou Reed

The way sadness works is one of the strange riddles of the world. If you are stricken with a great sadness, you may feel as if you have been set aflame, not only because of the enormous pain but also because your sadness may spread over your life, like smoke from an enormous fire.

                       – Lemony Snicket

It starts in that no man’s land between your belly and your chest. It’s a pressure… something on your diaphragm. You struggle to breathe...  your chest rises and falls in deep sighs. Slowly it creeps up… deep in the back of your throat… the spider in the old lady who swallowed a fly… then you feel it in your nose… your eyes… those little parts of your eyes closest to each other… wet… they fill ever more... soon you can’t see… you squeeze your eyelids shut... tears pour out... dripping down the side of your face… You look to the right and left to see if anyone’s watching you… Your nose runs. You wipe the tears… the snot… on your sleeve.

Sadness is inexorably… though understandably… linked with death. People cry when someone close to them dies. It’s the same everywhere. 

I ask my Kenyan pal, Albert, if men cry in Kenya. He says, “Sure, men cry when someone dies. It’s normal.”

Sometimes, we’re sad when people we’ve never met… but have admired… die. I cried when Thurman Munson died. I’ll cry when Jimmy Carter dies. Okay, got that. 

But there’s a kind of sadness that’s not about death. A kind of sadness that doesn’t reach up the throat… doesn’t end in the nose or the eyes... a kind of sadness that is like a giant press, squeezing your lungs… squeezing the air out of you… making you feel like shit for no reason except the sadness itself. 

FLASH TO THE SECRET KOREAN BAR; It’s above a deli on the corner. There are no signs for it… you just have to know it’s there. You enter through the deli, walk up the unmarked staircase in the back and POW! There you are. 

I’m walking up those stairs right now. 

“Yeoboseyo!,” I shout from below. It’s Hello in Korean, but only for answering the phone... never as an in-person greeting… except by me. 

“Mykel!” shouts Jenny from upstairs… behind the bar. 

“How’d you know?” I shout back. 

When I get upstairs, Jenny has poured me a mug of Hite beer. She pushes it over the bar to me as I sit in front of her. 

Andy, an ABK (American Born Korean), hangs out in the bar and is a friend. 

“Andy,” I shout at him from the other side of the room. “Come and sit next to me. We’ll talk. Have a Hite!”

Andy sits on the next stool. “Mykel,” he says, “nice to see ya! I’ve been feeling like shit for the past week.”

“I hope I didn’t make it worse,” I tell him. 

It takes him a second. Then he laughs. 

“How’s the deli job?” I ask. He works at a Korean deli, chopping salad, preparing the take-it-weigh-it-and-pay-it food that Korean delis invented. 

“You know, chop chop,” he says, his right hand making a fake karate move. “So close to Grand Central, lots of tourists and businessmen. Not my favorite people.”

I talk to the bartender, “Jenny,” I say, “give Andy a Hite on me.” 

She pours him a beer. “Mong chung eeee” we say in a fake toast. (It actually means You Moron!) 

“You look unhappy,” I tell him. “Did something happen today?” 

“Something happens every day, Mykel,” says Andy. “When I look in the mirror, I feel like shit. I want to cry. It’s….”

“Huh?” I say, nearly choking on the beer, “You’re a smart, good-looking guy. I wish I saw what you see when I looked in the mirror.”

He smiles halfheartedly… and puts the tips of his index fingers at the edges of his eyes. 

“See these? Slanty eyes!” he says. 

“Come on,” I say, “you speak perfect English… Well, I mean you tawk like a New Yawka.”

He looks at me… very close… fixing his eyes on mine. Then he says… very slowly and very LOUD.

“WHEN… PEOPLE... SEE... ME... THEY... TALK... LIKE... THIS... LOUD... AND... VERRRRRRY…. SLLOOOW. THEY... EXPECT... I... CAN’T... UNDERSTAND…” He speaks, staring directly into my eyes projecting  profound pathos.

“But…” I start.

“You don’t get it, Mykel,” he says. “I know you. Sometimes you play the outsider, the one who never fits… but you CAN fit if you want. I have no choice… I’m ALWAYS the outsider… always the foreigner… no matter how American I am.”

He slaps his own cheek. “I hate my face. I hate being born this way. And sometimes it feels worse than ever...”

I feel a giant press, squeezing my lungs… squeezing the air out… making me feel like shit for no reason except the sadness itself. 

My adventure with Andy took place at least 15 years ago. But all these years later, the sadness still creeps up on me when I think about it.

FLASH TO NOW… RECENTLY: TVs, newspapers… The New York press is filled with… stop the press. A restaurant worker is assaulted… cellphone videos prove it… punches traded… three against one… all girls… a catfight. 

What happened? The worker politely asked for COVID vaccine proof. It’s required by law, you know… can’t eat inside a restaurant without your Covid-card. And for that she gets punched? For that, she’s wounded and has to be saved by patrons pulling the evil Texans off the helpless young lady. 

New Yorkers know that Texans are violent anti-vaxxers who don’t care if the whole world comes down with the plague. Just like them to attack a helpless girl only following the law… doing her job. 

It’s all too pat. The video shows the attackers are black women. The attackee is invisible. Facebook is alive with posts… those evil Texans. Not only do they want to make the rest of us sick with their no-vaxxing, but they attack a hostess who’s just doing her job. 

The news always describes the attackers as Texans. The minions… especially the New York minions… some of the most conformist people in the world… build on the anti-Texas outrage. Ted Cruz… Trump supporters… No respect for other humans... They only love guns and their version of God. 

Looking at the rage in the three black women… looking at the reports with no comments from the attacking side… Seems as clear as a knee on the neck that there’s an unreported racial side to this. 

How could you say that Mykel? They’re from Texas. They just want to kill people… unless those people haven’t been born yet, you know, fetuses… They’re the only ones with a right to life… get it? haw haw haw.

BLEEP! BLEEP! BLEEP! The news unfolds… the waitress wasn’t white. She was Asian. The attackers were all vaccinated. They were being pestered a SECOND time to show their proof… Did someone else’s cellphone catch the word Niggers among the crowd… the staff? 

Yes, I was right. I should be happy. I should be shouting I TOLD YOU SO from the top of the Empire State Building… dancing naked with a suck this you dumb New Yorkers sign hanging from my penis. 

But I don’t feel that way at all. Instead, I struggle to breathe...  my chest rises and falls in deep sighs. Slowly it creeps up… deep in the back of my throat… Being right makes me sad. The news: all lies… the people… my friends… true believers of those lies. So sad.

Some movies are called tear-jerkers. Usually chick flicks, they’re structured to make the viewer cry. I remember one called Once Were Warriors… a New Zealand story about the Maori. I cried at that one and then was pissed off at myself for being manipulated into tears. Now that I think back on the movie, I realize I cried from the film structure, not from sadness… like I laugh at Moe, Larry and Curly. 

Tears can come from pain, laughter, anger, frustration… as well as sadness. Sadness can only come from reality… from the realization that something is really wrong. 

There are people in the world who don’t feel the sadness…. who aren’t aware of the pitiable pain of our lives… who watch the TV news and are outraged… but not saddened. That, in itself, is sad. 

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]

–> The Way Out dept: 

Seems to me, when the government requires creative people to be creative for those they don’t like, the answer is to do lousy or offensive work. This web designer doesn’t like homosexuals? Ok, make a website where every click on every link will bring you to queerbait.com. You want to prove a point by hiring someone who doesn’t approve of you? Have your gay wedding cake with an icing picture of a little boy impaled on a devil-dick. It’d serve you right.

–> My kinda school outing dept: Mass Live reports: Students in Boston rode a party bus, complete with a stripper pole and neon lights, on a school field trip. Why? There’s a national school bus driver shortage. They have to take what they can get from private companies.

Eleventh grade Language teacher, Jim Mayers tweeted about the experience on Sept. 17.

“It is a funny story, but there actually is a real bus shortage and it speaks to major flaws in our education system,” said Mayers. “This in no way is a reflection of anyone involved in planning the trip. We were trying to have a fun day with the kids and that’s exactly what happened.”

I say: the only way to top “a fun day with kids” in a stripper bus with poles and neon… is to have actual strippers. 

–> Rising rents dept: The LA Times reports that a family owned crypt with neighbors Hugh Hefner and Marilyn Monroe is taking bids for a luxury deathplace. Bidding starts at $2 million for the no-bedroom… er… flat. 

–> Shaving lifespan dept: CNN tells of published research that says that eating a single hot dog can take 36 minutes off your lifespan. Joey Chestnut, one of my few heroes, has won the Coney Island Hot Dog Eating Contest for the past several years. He estimates he’s eaten more than 19,000 hot dogs. He’s not dead yet, but the clock is ticking faster than for most people. If he’s buried next to Hugh Hefner, I might visit him one of these days. 

-->Speaking of Death Dept: I just wanted to give a sad nod to the death of Michael Evans... long time ARTLESS drummer and drummer around town (God Is My Co-Pilote, False Prophets, and a ton of others). One of the few people who switched easily from punk to avante garde to jazz to Afro-Caribbean... and just a great guy. 

See you in hell, redux, but I expect Evans will not be there to greet us. He's jamming with Ginger Baker.

MB

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 here... 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's a few 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 too 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

Life after Death or Mykel's Post MRR Column no 58

Mykel's

Post MRR Column no 58

or

Life after Death

"If any doctor tells me, as I like in my hospital bed, that my death will not only help others to live, but be symptomatic of the triumph of humanity, I shall watch him very carefully when next he adjusts my drip” --Julian Barnes

“You’re shorter than I thought you would be.” I tell her. “You too,” she answers. We both laugh.

So I’m hangin’ out with God at the Purgatory Bar and Grill… known locally as The Purg. Drinks are on her… I don’t even know if they take cash here… let alone my United Airlines Mileage Plus card.

I’ve been dead about two weeks... came here to drink first thing. Now I’m a regular, but I hadn’t met the big boss until just a few minutes ago.

“I like to visit the celebrities,” she says. “I just left Tom Wolfe… and I gotta tell you… you’re looking better than he does.”

“He was 88 when he kicked the bucket,” I remind her. “I was almost 20 years younger.”

“Yeah,” she says, “but he stayed a natty dresser to the end….” She looks me down and up… from my holey army boots to my bad transplant comb-over. “What happened to you?”

I look her up and down from her brown feet in Greek-wrapped calf-length sandals to her naked thighs, to her bright colored bikini (I expected leather) over a muscular-- but not six-packed stomach …. to her cascade of braided black hair.

God

Okay,” I say, “You win.”

“But I was nearly right in my earthbound imaginations,” I continue. “I knew you’d be a colored girl.”

“THAT’s one of the reasons I wanted to meet you,” she says. “No one else would have the balls to call God “a colored girl.” You get ten punk points for that.”

“I call most females girls,” I say, “unless they’re feminists who’ve completely lost their playfulness or ability to be cute, whimsical, laugh easily, or delight in a kitten. Women are mature in the worst way. Women have no sense of humor, no ability to enjoy blowing the pollen off a dandelion, no thrill in wondering why grass is green or why men like sports. Girls ask about the universe. Women demand an end to the patriarchy.”

“Yep,” says God. “I’m older than the universe and I’m still a girl. I HATE that word woman! It’s almost as bad as man. Boys can light farts. Men talk about the stock market…. just disgusting.”

“Agreed!” I shout, slapping her open palm with mine… She orders another round of beers. Yes, there is Founders Breakfast Stout at The Purg.

“Speaking of farts...” she starts.

“I know,” I answer. “It was a pretty dumb move.”

[NOTE: I died while trying to light a fart. It was a giant beer fart... the morning after my last night on earth. The accident involved some nearby flammable liquid and an explosion… from the inside, that left my half-naked body in pieces.]

“It wasn’t dumb,” answers God. “It was boyish! That’s what I like about you.”

I smile at her compliment… an aw shucks kind of smile.

“Then there’s the colored part,” she says.

I raise my eyebrows to show that I don’t know what she’s talking about.

“I mean the colored part of colored girl.”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “ I always liked that… from Lou Reed, ya know. The colored girls go Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo dooooooo...”

“Yeah, that’s almost worth it on its own,” she says. “By the way, I just saw Lou last weekend. Sometimes, he has trouble getting along with the other recently deceased. They say he’s got an attitude problem.”

“Maybe that’s why I never see him here,” I say.

She nods, “but back to the main point… the word colored… I love it. Rainbows are colored. Flower gardens are colored. African clothes are colored. Check out this bathing suit.” She runs her hands along the skimpy material that hides the good parts.

“I am not BLACK,” she continues. “I’m auburn, with tinges of pink on my palms… on my tongue.” She shows me. “Look, hold out your arm.”

I do.

“See, It’s just an ugly gray pink. Not really white, but no color in particular... a rather boring hair-covered nothing. Sorry, but it’s not attractive. Now look at this...”

She holds out her arm, “Every color from the earth beneath your feet to a deep night sky. BLACK is an insult!”

“I’ve met two REAL black people in my life,” I say. “And none in my death!”

She nods. “I know. And that African American shit! Give me a break! You know when Nelson Mandela became president of South Africa? A CNN reporter went down there to introduce him to the American people. She said, ‘Here’s Nelson Mandela… a great African-American.’ You should have seen the look on his face!”

I laugh.

“Yeah,” she continues, “but it wasn’t her fault. CNN rules said she had to use the word African American for any colored person. It was crazy.”

The beers follow one on another. Maybe your alcohol tolerance increases after death… I dunno. I’m feeling good, but not soused. I don’t want to make a fool of myself before God. You know what I mean?

“And how ‘bout them Yankees?” I ask…. not knowing her team preference, but unable to imagine God as a Red Sox fan.

“Yeah,” she says, “they started slow, but picked up really quickly…. And how ‘bout that Ohtani guy? Pitching? Under a 200 ERA. Hitting? Over three hundred. Boy those Orientals are finally catching up.”

“Orientals? You said Orientals? I’m in love!”

“Of course I said Orientals,” God answers. “Waddaya think? Asians? People from Siberia are Asians. Pakistanis are Asians. Arabs are Asians. Goddamn Australians are practically Asians.”

We raise hands and slap palms again.

“Besides,” she continues, “Oriental means from the East the same as Asian means from the East. But Asia has taken on the meaning of the continent… and it’s useless as a description.”

“You’re telling me,” I say to her, emptying my glass. “You got a room full of all kinds of people. Guys from India, Russia, Afghanistan, even Israel for fuck’s sake…. Is it rude to say FUCK to God?”

God laughs.

“Anyway,” I continue. “In that room is one guy from Japan. Someone asks you how to find him…. So waddaya say, ‘He’s the only Asian in the room?’ They’re ALL Asians.”

Asians

I still have a little Founders left in my glass. I gulp it down.

“I love Founders beer,” I tell her. “It's the best brewery in America.”

“And that's another thing,” says God.

“Founders?” I ask.

“No LOVE!” she answers. “It's total horseshit. People love beer, love their parents, love their paramours. What crap! Love and marriage go together like a horse and carriage? Are you gonna marry your beer?”

“I think it means a different kind of love,” I tell her. “Like the Greeks had. You know eros, philia, agape, that kind of thing.”

“You guys don't even know what love is... and marriage has NOTHING to do with love,” she continues. “For men, marriage is pussy insurance... a trade of freedom for the guarantee of getting laid. For women, marriage is nanny insurance... a trade of freedom for the guarantee she won't be on her own to take care of the brood. The institution of marriage is just giant insurance agency.”

“Bingo!” I say waiting to slap her hand... but this time she doesn't offer it. “That's why gay marriage is so stupid. Why bother? Do homosexuals need pussy insurance?”

“You're forgetting something,” says God. “The institution of marriage is so ingrained in the culture. To encourage it, the culture offers a bunch of perks to those who embrace the institution. Tax breaks, hospital visitation rights, legal joint ownership of property, more. Gay marriage makes sense for the social benefits... not for LOVE.”

“Still, it isn't fair,” I say. “What business does the government or the rest of society have in encouraging marriage?”

“It's the business of money, of course... saving money,” she answers. “The pussy insurance isn't so important. But the nanny insurance IS important. It saves the government from having to be the nanny... or at least from having to pay for one.”

I shake my head, simultaneously unable to answer-- and in awe of-- the brilliance of God. I thought she'd be an airhead.

God smiles, walks over to the bar. I stare as her netherparts sway away from me. She’s gone to order another round of drinks. She looks over her shoulder at me and asks “Another one of the same?”

I consider for a moment... then figure... since God is paying… “I’ll have a Space Barley this time.”

The bartender, a man looking much like Mr. Whipple, laughs hard through his nose. I'm afraid he might splash God with his mucus. She could get sick.

She doesn't seem to notice, but just turns, smiles and talks to me.

“Yo Mykel,” she says. “This is The Purg… not The Elysium… How ‘bout an Ommegang Three Philosophers?”

“Great!” I answer.

When she returns, I raise my glass and click it to hers. “L’chiam!” I say.

“Sawa!” she answers.

“Now where were we...” I start… but don’t continue. There is a disturbance in another part of the bar. My back is to the noise… sounding like breaking furniture. God looks over my shoulder at something going on behind me. I turn around to check it out.

It’s like a scene from an old Western: the bar brawl. A table is on its side. Broken glass and doused candles litter the floor. Flat against another table a man-- late twenties I’d guess…but what the fuck does age mean if you’re dead? Jockish-looking, with a millennial beard… he lies on his back... pinned. On top of him, a brawler kneels on his chest… slamming fist to face… right… left… right… left. A rivulet of blood drips from the corner of his mouth down to the table… puddling under his neck.

The puncher is a woman... slightly stout and matronly…. a bit overweight... but with a set of those arms women get when they lift weights instead of protest signs.

“What happened?” I ask.

“The usual,” says God. “Some newbie comes here with a chip on his shoulder. Thinks he can just be Mr. Macho. They learn fast. Death does not mean you’re immune from a beating. That guy tried to hurt an old man... muscle him out of the way. The girl now mauling him came to his defense. Girls here know how to take care of themselves... and everyone else.”

“You mean there’s no violence against women laws? “

God laughs. “There are no laws at all,” she says. “We help each other… and we help ourselves….” She shakes her head, “That’s one of the many things I don’t get about your culture… Women-- not girls-- complain about inequality. They ask for the same benefits... salary... positions... respect... as men. But then they whimper that they’re NOT equal. In every country on earth (and most in places you don't know... but I do.) There is a shitload more violence against men than against women.”

“What do those women want?” she continues, pronouncing the word WOMEN with heavy italics.

She answers her own question. “They want a law against violence against women? Like they’re a difference species… a kind of dog or cat... American Society Against Cruelty to Women... ASPCW!” She clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “Where we are now, God helps those who help each other.”

“I’ll drink to that!” I say hoisting my Three Philosophers again and clicking her glass of something darker. Then we drink up.

I look at the empty glass. “I was afraid there would be no beer in heaven,” I tell her.

“In heaven?” she asks… then breaks out laughing. “In heaven???” she shakes her head. “Hahahahahaha! Heaven! That’s a good one.” She calls over her shoulder. “Get a load of this guy,” she says. “He thinks he's going to heaven.”

-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. Subscribe to the MYKEL'S READERS Yahoo group readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

-→Right again, of course, Dept: Last month I wrote about how the only evils people acknowledge in the modern world... are evils related to SEX. No matter how awful someone is, it only counts if somehow there's sex involved.

Now we have the news that Wikileaks hero Joshua Adam Schulte has been arrested. He's the guy who revealed how the CIA was breaking into iPhones and smart TVs to turn them into spy tools for the government. Of course the CIA folks are pissed off... so they arrest him.

On what charges?

Child pornography!!

Yep, somehow, someplace, on some server he administers for work, they found some sex pictures of some people who looked young. Bang! In jail, like that other Wikileak hero, Julian Assange. The government knows in order to make a good guy into a bad guy... you need SEX. Details, though a bit skewed, are here.

-->Yuck dept: The newest fad among oldsters is fecal transplants. That's right. Doctors take someone else's shit and shove it up your ass. At least, that's the basic part of it. Wikipedia says the transplant can be done by colonoscopy, enema, orogastric tube or by mouth. No further comment necessary.

--> It Had To Happen dept: The University of Utah became the first University to offer Video Gaming as a varsity sport. It's my guess that this came about as the administration felt the pressure from the snowflakes to avoid fat-shaming. Sports-- up to now-- have been all about fat-shaming. To do well, you have to be IN SHAPE... and that shape is not fat. Then, along comes video games.

-->Dust-biting time dept: They're dropping like Israeli-shot Gazans! Tom Wolfe, Glenn Branca, Steven Hawking, Margot Kidder, Philip Roth and a bunch more. Though it was last year, I just heard that Chuck Shephard, editor of the amazing News of The Weird has not died... but has retired... which is a kind of death. Over the years, I have cribbed tons of endnotes from Chuck. The website, however, appears to continue without him.

-->That's the spirit Dept: Craig Mitchell, a Scottish man, drove over three hundred miles... leaving Scotland and entering England... to avoid a new alcohol minimum price imposed by the Scottish government. In one of those moves that makes libertarianism tempting, the Scottish government imposed a new booze pricing policy aimed at discouraging alcohol use.

I bet the government is going to be plenty surprised at the INCREASE in traffic accidents caused by the law, as people leave the country for a cheap drink or three south of the border... and then come back drunk.

===========================================

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:

• David Goldberg's Busy Microbes Blog
• And another Goldberg: goldberg.wordpress.com
• I post a blog for Kyle Nonnemon, in prison for a ton of shit. He's a smart guy, with a passion for industrial metal and a general detestation of humankind. You can read his blog at: apothelema.blogspot.com
• Poetry and humor fans will like Justin Martin in The Latency
• Sometimes I contribute to an interesting multi-talented blog called OgFomK Arts see me there!
• And my friend Mike R has a nice site with recipe hits from the past! (He cooked for me once... great stuff.) Check out Yesterday's Recipes.
• And here's one by a member of ANTI-SEEN... a tour diary of sorts.
• Andy Shelton has an interesting blog here.
• Savage Hippie is a guy who has been YouTubing for a long time. Our opinions largely overlap... but he complains that I'm a Communist. I'm not! I'm a communist.
• Chris Stecher publishes a zine called PRECIS. You can see the back issue links there... and he promises a new issue soon.
• George Fertakis has a very nice graphics-heavy blog... with music and books featured prominently.
• And my long-term pal Sid Yiddish contributes with his Mishegas Master Blog.

See you in hell,

Mykel