A Tale of Two Ladies or Mykel's June 2025 Blog Post

   

You’re STILL Wrong
Mykel's

June 2025 Blog/Column

A TALE OF TWO LADIES

All weakness tends to corrupt, and impotence corrupts absolutely.
– Edgar Friedenberg

To succeed with the opposite sex, tell her you're impotent. She can't wait to disprove it.
-- Cary Grant

Worry is to human beings … what a condom is to a man with erectile dysfunction.

– Mokokoma Mokhonoana

Has anyone ever in the history of medicine ever uttered these words? “Through good sanitation and health care, men are now living long enough to develop erectile dysfunction?” Doubtful.

--Jennifer Gunter

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. In the early 80's, I remember thinking,  while masturbating to a William Burroughs book, how sad it was that Burroughs became a literary superstar when he was old. Probably too old to enjoy his own groupies.. That’s how it goes… fame comes too late to enjoy it.

And now, in my 75th year, post-prostate radiation… I find myself in a similar position. I just can’t do it anymore. My stiffy isn’t stiff. Sure I can flog a limpy… but it’s not very satisfying.

What’s all this got to do with Kenya? You’ll see… because I’m now revealing: A TALE OF TWO LADIES

But first, you need a little context. I pride myself in my ability to put… and my love of putting...myself in places where I’m the only white guy. When I lived in Japan last century, I lived in Soubudai. a small town in Kanagawa… the same prefecture (like a state) where Yokohama is, but far from that big city. I was the only white guy in the whole town. The owner of the only bar in town knew my name and my drink without asking. Normally I drank for free, but not as a gift from the owner.

See, in Japan (and I hear also in Tennessee or Kentucky… at least they used to) they have a system called a KEEP. The way that worked is: at the izakaya (bar) you bought an entire bottle of some whiskey. They put your name on it, and stored it in a special cabinet. You went to the izakaya where your KEEP was, paid 200yen (around $2) for “a set-up”… usually some peanuts or another snack. Then, the bartender would pour you a glass from your already-paid-for bottle and you’d toast with a KAMPAI!

I come in, someone in a suit, tie loosened, sitting at the bar, waves to me. I sit next to him. He then calls to the barmaid, “私の キープ をください!” She brings him the bottle and two glasses. One of those glasses is for me. She pours a drink for him and one for me and we toast each other. 乾杯! Usually we go through several glasses. This would never have happened if I weren’t the only white guy in town.

The scene is a little different in Kenya, I’ll talk about my bar adventures next blog. But, as I was in Japan, I’m usually the only white guy… and I love it.

So now I’ve set the scene : A TALE OF TWO WOMEN. But before I talk about the bar, I want to tell you about...

Chuki, The Sausage Seller: Albert and I are on the way back to the Sweet Bargain Hotel. We took a room there because it was too late to go back to Nairobi We got a single room with two huge beds… and a wall between those beds, so don’t get any ideas. I paid the $20 a night it cost us to stay there for two nights. The $20 did include breakfast… with Nescafe instant coffee.

We’ve just come from a bar, where, for the first time in my life, I bought the bartender and her galpal an expensive drink. I’ve found that not only do Kenyans think all white people are rich… but they make you FEEL that you’re rich. Like you’d assume Jeff Bezos would pay for you and your friends if you went to McSorley’s with him.

We haven’t eaten dinner, so we stop by a street stand where a young woman is selling various kinds of sausage: some with dry skin, some hot-dog looking, some looking hard and fleshy. Albert orders a hot-dogish one. I take one with dry skin… a bit on the gray side.

The attractive young woman behind the sausage stand casually hands Albert his sausage. Mine, she gives to me deeply caressing my hand as she pushes the sausage into it.

“My name is Chuki. Where are you from?” asks the young woman.

“New York,” I tell her. “I’m Mykel.”

“I mean what country?” she says, smiling coyly, looking at the street and scraping the toe of her flip-flop against the pavement.

“The US,” I answer, puzzled that she can’t figure that out for herself

She looks me directly in the eyes and rubs her hand against my forearm

“Do you like me?” she asks, bringing her face very close to mine.

“Sure,” I answer. “What’s your name?"

“Chuki,” she says. “Do you want to come home with me

I make a fist, raise my index finger as if I’m pointing at a star, then slowly let it go limp… until it points to the street below.

“I can fix that,” she says, making a fist of her own with a hard index finger pointing upwards.

I bend down and take the index finger into my mouth. Then I take her hand and bend the finger slowly until it is limp and downward pointing.

“It can’t be fixed,” I tell her

Albert lets a laugh escape through his nose. Chuki seems not to notice it

“I can help you. I know I can,” she says.

I smile, take the hand… still in a limp fist… kiss the hand… and head back to the hotel with Albert.

Esther, The Samosa Queen: My favorite bar in Nairobi… and next to The Peculier Pub, The Bleecker Street Bar and Otto’s Shrunken Head in New York… my favorite bar in the world, is a place in Nairobi called Kenge’s.

The bar has a kind of BBQ pit downstairs. Upstairs is pool tables, restrooms, and a bar area with low tables, a sitdown bar, and rowdy regulars… that’s us! Drinks at our table are on me… not that expensive, and they always include samosas… made by Esther… dubbed (by me) as The Samosa Queen. Her samosas are really great but Kenyan samosa culture may be a little tricky for foreign digestive tracts.

In fact, I posted about my digestive adventures with samosas and my professor friend Patrick Wafula Wanyama commented: "Mykel, you didn’t ask. Had you asked, I’d have forbidden you from eating those samosas. The meat used to make them is sometimes gotten from animal carcasses like dogs or cats that have been either knocked down by cars or killed by people. In Kenya, samosas are the most unhealthy snacks."

 Here’s our table at Kenge’s:

Still, I really like the food… and the food maker. “When’s our wedding?” I ask her when she comes upstairs to sit with us awhile.

“Let’s set the date,” she replies.

Uh oh.

It’s a week before my next visit to Kenga’s. When I walk in, Esther runs around to the front of the BBQ area and gives me a big hug,  

 “Mykel!” she yells, adding to the hug a wet kiss on the cheek.

I give her a return hug and make my way upstairs to the bar, where everyone waves to me. A few move to the table I’m at.

“Drinks for everyone at the table!” I tell the bartendress, “and samosas!” Some more people move to our table. We talk about my life in Kenya… and politics in general. They want to know if I can find jobs for everyone in New York.

Esther brings the samosas upstairs. She comes to the bench where I’m sitting and ass-wiggles her way between the couple sitting next to me… and me. The bartendress brings her a Kane (sort of a Kenyan vodka… ) https://jayswines.com/product/kane-extra-750-ml/.
I’m drinking Tusker, the national beer of Kenya, in a huge bottle.

Esther sits next to me and lets one hand casually rest on my thigh… the INSIDE of my thigh. She turns to me and licks the side of my neck. The people around the table pretend not to notice. I feel the young woman’s lips against my ear.

“Mykel,” she says, “I want you to give me a daughter.”

I take a big gulp of the beer in front of me.

“Can I see you tonight?” she asks. “Or maybe we can go someplace tomorrow?”

I take another gulp.

I’ve already mentioned to the group that I’m planning to go to a fancy shopping center called Village Market. My pal Willy, asked me to meet him there. We were going to eat and maybe go to a “rock show” (a rarity in the country).

“I’ll go to the Village Market with you,” says Esther.

“Sure,” I say, “I’ll text you when I get there.”

The next day, I’ve got bowel troubles up the ass. I text Esther that I won’t be able to make it… I may not be able to make it out the front door. In the evening though, I’m better and I do get it to the market. I don’t go to the rock show… and I don’t tell Esther where I am.

I guess it’s age as well as radiation, but sex is one of life’s greatest pleasures. These days, I can no longer share that pleasure, though I’d try Viagra if I got the chance. Until then, I feel like a chess player stranded on a desert island. I can play myself in the game… and always win. But I always lose too.

See you in hell,

MB

ENDNOTES:

–> HELLO FRIEND, ARE YOU NUTS? DEPT: In its craziness, modern psychiatry defines being too friendly as a mental disease. It’s called Williams Syndrome and I’m sure there’s a hostility drug in development now. I’d propose the name Fuckyoutrazine, but drug companies never listen to me. You can find out more about the syndrome at: https://tinyurl.com/BBC-Syndrome. Someday, I’ll need to write about psychiatry and its drug dependence. I’m glad that in the 1970s the pharmaceutical companies didn’t have the power they have now. If they did, there’d be drugs today targeting homosexuality and foot fetishism. Oh… wait...

→ ADVANCED CIVILIZATIONS DEPT: All these cities have life expectancies in the 80s. Only one is in the US. The others are in civilized countries with national healthcare systems. Click the list. I’ve often heard, in my world travels, when someone wants to indicate a nice idea, but it’ll never happen, in America people say When hell freezes over in Europe I hear When America gets a national health system.

→ ISN’T SCIENCE WONDERFUL DEPT: It’s not only psychiatry that determines our future. Take biology… please! It’s reported that MIT has found a way to “engineer bacteria” to track each other over long distances… similar to Google maps, though with microscopic precision. Even George Orwell didn’t think of that one. How long before the CIA and other government (and non-government) agencies will be using these bacteria as agents to track and mark “enemies?” There’ll be no hiding in the days to come…
Oh yeah, says the article The research was funded by the U.S. Department of Defense; the Army Research Office, a directorate of the U.S. Army Combat Capabilities Development Command Army Research Laboratory (the funding supported engineering of environmental strains and optimization of genetically-encoded sensors and hyperspectral reporter biosynthetic pathways); and the Ministry of Defense of Israel.

Hold on. Someone’s knocking at the door.

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.

AFRICAN LINKS:

My friend who told me about samosa meat, and who may be the smartest guy in Nairobi, is Patrick Wafula Wanyama, an English teacher who writes haiku in Swahili. He’s also an advocate for his school in “the slums of Nairobi” and has a GoFundMe to help buy computers for classroom use. Here’s a link to his GoFundMe page. Give him some money.

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.

Here's some non-African stuff:

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.

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

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