Mykel Divides it Right (MRR 338)

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You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
Column for MRR 338
July 2011

by Mykel Board

aka  Mykel learns how to divide the world.

“In his Petersburg world, all people were divided into utterly opposed classes. One, the lower class, vulgar, stupid, and above all, ridiculous people, who believe that one husband ought to live with one wife whom he has lawfully married, that a girl should be innocent, a woman modest, and a man manly, self controlled and strong: that one ought to bring up one’s children, earn one’s bread, and pay one’s debts: and various similar absurdities. But there was another class of people, the real people. To this class, the great thing was to be elegant, generous, plucky, gay, to abandon oneself without a blush to every passion, and to laugh at everything else” -- Leo Tolstoy in Anna Karenina

Maybe it’s a general semen buildup. Maybe it’s my prostate-- swelling a millimeter with each passing decade. In 2011, I find that the only way I can keep those final piss drops from oozing generously down my pants leg is by reaching back with the middle finger... right between my balls... pressing on the prostate ...slowly squeezing forward, like grinding the last bit of toothpaste out of the tube. I do that. Those last drops dribble out. PLOP PLOP PLOP. Into the toilet. No panty stains for me. This pipe-cleaning piss follows my daily semen spill, so I squeeze twice to make sure I get the last blocked drops. 

It was a pleasant masturbation... at TEEN SNOW, the best pornsite on the internet. Something new every day... guys who look as good as the girls... that’s pretty fuckin’ good. With just enough sick stuff to keep a multi-interested high riser like me, multi-interested. The only thing wrong is the name: TEEN SNOW?? What the fuck does that mean? Even Urban Dictionary doesn’t have a listing for TEEN SNOW.

FLASH AHEAD: I type this at Kennedy Airport while waiting for a flight to San Francisco. The airport: a place I like even less than an Apple store and only slightly more than a hospital or morgue. I sit by the food concessions near the departure gate. The smell of French fries forces itself into my nose like The Top forces one of those ball gags into the mouth of The Bottom in an S&M movie.

An obnoxious blonde 2 tables down shouts into her iPhone^TM You’re just gonna die... I mean did you see...

My computer is plugged into a bank of iPads^TM that offer buttons to press for food brought right to your table. Wow, just like a real restaurant!

For someone who travels as much as I do, you’d think I’d hate airports less than I do. You’d be wrong. Of course I hate SECURITY most, but there’s more. I hate the whole sterile atmosphere. The screaming babies. The smell of French Fries. The Americans... the kind you don’t see in New York: fat... screaming little bundles-of-joy in tow... soda-drinking, Whopper-eating... blond... Americans. White trash without the good food. Rednecks without the moonshine. Tourists without the innocence. At least a hundred people are within my vision. Not one of them is smiling.

I’ve been more or less nauseous since this morning. Is it the egg salad I had for breakfast? No, it started before that. It must be the tension. Dad is in bad shape. Every time I see him, I think it can’t get any worse. It gets worse.

Since he’s been in hospice (that’s a blog), he’s gone downhill fast. Last time I saw him, he weighed less than 100 lbs... was on oxygen... his voice so faint I couldn’t understand him.

“I have a trip planned for next week,” I tell the hospice nurse. “Should I cancel it?”

“If it were my father, I would,” she says.

“You never know,” says my sister. “We’ve got to play it by ear... see what happens.”

I guess she’s right, but I’m so nervous I shut off my phone... dreading THAT text or THAT voicemail. My stomach tense... my blood pressure in the danger zone... I can’t concentrate. In a way, it’s a good time to get away. In another way, it bodes disaster.

Still, Passover calls... I’ve got family and friends... and somewhat of a life... it’s taking all my concentration... except... over there, by the Supersize Me sign... I love the way her jeans curve gently over her buttocks... bulging directly back, like a full parenthesis... must be Hispanic. What other girls have asses like that? Ah, a relief... a distraction. She sits down. It’s over.

The guy next to me must’ve paid his $9.95 for Internet access. He’s reading the news on the iPad^TM. I look over his shoulder.

NYTIMES.COM  says it’s still up in the air whether California can prohibit the sales of video games to minors. Strange coalitions form on both sides. Rightwing and leftwing libertarians on one side. The religious right and leftwing authoritarian mommies on the other. I’m betting on the badguys. They usually win. (Actually I was wrong here. Since this column was printed, the Supreme Court ruled CORRECTLY!! Overturning the California law.)

It reminds me of a YouTube video I saw a few nights ago. I can’t figure out who the host is. Maybe he works for Fox News. In any case, he wears a tie and sits in front of one of those blue screens they use to show TV within TV. The studio is cheap-looking. On the bluescreen is a pair of Congressmen. He’s interviewing them about the U.S. war in Libya. They’re opposed to it.

They’re not talking about the morality of the war itself, but about how The President just went ahead and did it. The Constitution says only Congress has the power to declare war. The constitution hasn’t been important for the past several years... maybe more.

That would be mildly interesting. What turns it from mild to spicy is the two people being interviewed: Ron Paul, the most conservative Congressman-- from the hated state of Arizona... and Dennis Kucinich, the most left Congressman... and a guy who is right about almost as much as I am. What the fuck?

Here they are, both agreeing that Obama has usurped his power, declared war wrongly, and created an imperial presidency. Wow!

A great man (me) once wrote a song called CRASSDRIVER. It was about how the left and right were the same. But in that song, I was saying they were both full of shit. Now, they’re both RIGHT!

And then, take Tolstoy... please!

Actually, it’s not Tolstoy, but just a character in Anna Karenina. For him, lower classes are conservative, Christian, monogamous, and boring. Then there’s the rest of us.

In England 2011, the riots against the government are not corporate financed tea parties: conservative, Christian and boring. They’re anarchists, socialists... a bunch of them poor people. The government cuts in France aren’t being welcomed by the French equivalent of the Koch brothers. They’re being fought by the French equivalent of that construction guy who calls out Hey babe... anybody tell you you’ve got nice tits?

Even punk rock, that musical style that began in America as a middle-class reaction to White overblown rock music and Negro (and gay) disco. When it crossed the ocean, poor people took it over. When it came back, it turned from Skrewdriver to The Dead Kennedys.

What the fuck? Things aren’t like they should be. Who’s conservative? Who’s liberal? Who’s a lefty? Is punkrock rightwing or leftwing? What does that mean anyway? Fuck if I...

WAIT A MINUTE!! I GOT IT!! It’s not TEEN SNOW at all! It’s TEENS NOW! TEEN SNOW-dot-fuckin’ com is TEENS NOW-dot-fuckin’ com. How did I miss that?

I just divided it in the wrong place. I split the words where the words shouldn’t have been split. As usual, pornography answers life’s most profound questions.

It’s not a question of left or right, punk or non-punk, dead Dad or live Dad. I’ve been dividing the world where the world shouldn’t have been divided.

Kucinich-Paul makes perfect sense. Both politicians believe the U.S. should avoid doing harm in the world. Both believe that money spent killing people in other countries is not money well spent. Kucinich believes that money should be spent on people who need it. Paul believes that money should be returned to the people who had it before the government took it. THAT’S the dividing line. The idea of left and right is irrelevant.

Skrewdriver was just as punk as Crass. Working-class Sham 69 was no punker than middle-class Ramones. GG Allin is punk. Green Day is punk. Fast music and a fuck-you attitude... that’s the line. It’s not politics, popularity or personality. If you inspire people to throw themselves at one another, sing along, say fuck you to someone with power. It’s punk. Anarcho, pop, post, crusty... they don’t mean shit. You're dividing things in the wrong places.

Dad may indeed kick the bucket while I’m here in California. He may go before this plane touches ground. I could land, call Cousin Shirley from the airport and hear her teary voice on the other end. I have no control. Go or not will not change the end. People die. When they die, we do things (cry, go to funerals, cemeteries, figure out what debts to skip out on, where to go from here). Life and death is what happens. One is the end of the other. There’s no dividing at all.

ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (mykelsblog.blogspot.com) will get live links and a chance to post comments on the column]

--> I hate Obama so I’m safe from hell dept: In Greenville South Carolina, Rev. Jay Scott Newman distributed a letter to his congregation. The letter told them that if they voted for Obama or any other “pro-abortion” politician, they “place themselves outside the full communion of Christ’s Church... Persons in this condition should not receive Holy Communion until and unless they are reconciled to God in the Sacrament of Penance, lest they eat and drink their own condemnation.”

--> Recession? What recession? dept: The LA Times reports that the top executives of America’s 4 largest for-profit insurance companies got nearly $200 million last year. The insurance companies also forced double-digit premium hikes on their customers.

-->  Civil War redux dept: Tennessee Representative Zach Wamp said that states need to secede from the union if the Federal government continues in its current path. Says he, “I hope that the American people will go to the ballot box in 2012 so that states are not forced to consider separation from this government.” 
        I say, YEAH! America is way too big anyway. How ‘bout fifty countries? Then those guys can get what they deserve. Here, dividing lines are clear. Just look at a map.

-->  You want Palin with that? dept: Jim Hightower reports on the last week before the 2010 elections. Workers in a McDonald’s outlet in Canton, Ohio found instructions from their boss on how to vote.

    In a pamphlet with the McDonald’s logo, workers read, “If the right people are elected, we will continue with raises and benefits at or above the current levels. If others are elected, we will not.”
    Just in case the workers didn’t get it, the McDonald’s owner listed the Republican nominees for Governor, Senate and Congress, designating them as “the right people.”

-->  You want truth with that? dept: Republican ad-man Ben Mathis got famous actor Morgan Freeman to do an ad attacking North Carolina’s Democrats. Only he didn’t. Mathis hired a voice double to make the ad, copying Freeman’s voice.
    Says Mathis, “we, of course, never say that they are the actual celebrities, but voters recognize their voice and trust it.”

-->  I wonder if he got hard labor dept: Kyle sent me a clipping about a Swedish man who was sentenced to more than 2½ years in prison for stealing the Auschwitz ARBEIT MACHT FREI (Work Makes You Free) sign that was over the entrance to the concentration camp.

-->  One small victory dept: The 9th Circuit Court of Appeals struck down an Oregon law which criminalized giving or selling to minors “material containing descriptions or depictions of sexual activity.” This would have included material from sex eduction books, or Maximum RocknRoll when it runs my columns.

-->  Further on the censorship front dept: The Bible Literacy Project is a program for pushing bible-studies in public schools. It's gotten in trouble with Christian fundamentalists. Why? The group published a textbook called The Bible and It’s Influence using a picture where... gasp... Adam and Eve were NAKED! Fundamentalists complained. The textbook’s authors will soon make necessary changes. Besides, everybody knows that Adam and Eve were born wearing JESUS IS MY COACH t-shirts, right?

-->  Very End Endnote Dept: With nearly perfect timing, Dad died 2 days after my return to New York. He let me enjoy my time in California... both with my family and friends including early MRR founders and supporters: Ruth Schwartz, Jeff Bale, and Jello Biafra. I also hung with current MRR editrix Mariam, and a bunch of shitworkers. Though I missed a few important people (Adrienne and Martin among others) it was a great trip. I’m glad Dad let me enjoy it. Thanks Dad.

-end-

Mykel's homepage is here

Mykel Knows It From A Hole In The Ground! (MRR 337, June)

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column

Column for MRR 337

May 2011
by Mykel Board

aka  Mykel Knows It From A Hole In The Ground!

[This is the last column of my recent Mexican adventure. There will be probably be more on my travel blog. You can read it at: http://mykelsdiary.blogspot.com/]

"There is hardly anyone whose sexual life, if it were broadcast, would not fill the world at large with surprise and horror.” --W. Somerset Maugham

“The very core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure. “ --Christopher McCandliss

I'm not like other people. I love to watch naked-- or near naked-- people gyrate on stage, I love to poke my dollar in a bikini string, I love to stare at the flash of gash, a quiver of quim, or a dollop of dick. I love to watch naked nipples, and the pulsing spiral of an exposed anus. Yes, in that way I'm normal. But, I cannot get off on a lap dance. It's my curse.

No matter what the gender, age, endowment. No matter how hard or light the pressure. No matter if it's frontwards or backwards. No matter nothing. Rubbing my stiffened stub from outside my clothes will not give me an orgasm. It may even unstiff the stiffness.

Now: I'm in Guau Guau, a titty bar in Aqua Prieta, right over the border from Douglas Arizona. In one hand is a beer from my 180 -peso-a-bucket special. In the other hand is a single dollar bill.

AP is one of those cities that the US government issues warnings about. One of those places where headless bodies turn up on Main Street. Where the local drug cartels run the drugs, the restaurants, the shops and the government. One of those places where the U.S. State Department says DON'T GO:

 

Since 2006, the Mexican government has engaged in an extensive effort to combat drug-trafficking organizations (DTOs). DTOs have erected unauthorized checkpoints, and killed motorists who have not stopped at them. According to published reports, 22,700 people have been killed in narcotics-related violence since 2006.

Yow! Here I am!

At the end of the town's main street is a single mountain with an ominously cup-shaped top.

“My family told me it was a volcano,” says Gilberto. “Now, I don't think so... but you never know.”

You've already met some of the characters in this story. There's Gilberto, my best Mexican pal and organizer of this trip. It's for his birthday party that I find myself in this town.

There's Barichu, aka the Mexican GG Allin. He's been arrested by the police more times than I've paid for sex. That's a lot. When he went after the cops waving a plastic gun, they broke his nose. Newspaper headlines were (in translation): Drugs or Satan? What's behind the bizarre attack? Barichu's hobby is mashing up dried dog shit... and snorting it.

Then there's Ingrid, Gilberto's roommate in Boston. She's a pretty perky blonde with skin so pale you can almost see through it. Her visit to Aqua Prieta engenders erection impeded walking from every male between the ages of puberty and final decay. With me, she always talks about her BOYFRIEND back in Boston. For some reason, whenever I meet attractive people, they all immediately talk about their BOYFRIENDS... always in capital letters. Ingrid won't let me use her real name, so she gets Ingrid, for the blond hair and general sexiness.

But the real star of this story is Agua Prieta itself. A wry place with a sense of humor lurking on every corner. The local convenience store is Walmarcito. It's just down the street from the fast food joint, Burger Queen.

 

You won't want to eat there, though. Because Gilberto's uncle has “the biggest non-cartel restaurant in town.” I suggest you go there and try the cow-udder tacos. You won't find them at Taco Bell.

 

Ingrid is in town for the birthday party. It's a wonderful affair hosted by Gilberto's aunt and uncle... with a ton of kids, grand- dads, relatives, friends of every gender, age and description. Igrid, with her blonde hair, thin body, and gringa good looks, stands out like a beard at a lesbian bar.

 

She and Barichu hit it off pretty well. The only two smokers in the place, they have that special camaraderie that pushes social outcasts together in the most unlikely combinations. Like homos in a small town in Alabama.

Then there's Guau Guau, the strip club. Beautiful girls who give you a kiss when they pick up the dollar you leave on the stage.

Yeah, they bug you for lap dances. Walking around after their set, putting their hands on your thigh, asking if you want a private dance. It is a strip club, after all.

 

“I'll buy you one, Mykel,” says Gilberto. “You should do it.”

 

“No thanks,” I tell him, not going into detail about my personal... er... impairment. “I just like to watch.”

 

He goes off with one of the more attractive strippers. I keep feeding dollars to the girls on the stage. Each kisses me on the cheek after I slip a bill under an elastic band, near the good part.

 

In my 71 years, I must've gone to a hundred strip bars... but up til now, I've never been to one where the strippers kiss the patrons for tipping them.

 

The next day, I come back with Gilberto, Barichu, and Ingrid. It's great enough to meet a girl who likes a guy like Barichu. But it's even greater to meet a girl who likes STRIP CLUBS! In the 70s, even girls who WORKED in strip clubs didn't like them. Ah, change is not all negative.

 

One of Gilberto's friends gets us in for free. We huddle around the stage, nose-close to the dancers.

 

Ingrid lays those dollar bills down almost as fast as I do. She gets a flash for each one, and a nice peck on the cheek.

 

Gilberto brings one of the best strippers, tall, curvy in the special way that Latinas do curves. You know, ass-not-hips. Skin, the color of cinnamon. Breasts like twin Mount Fujis. Makes me want to erupt.

 

Gilberto speaks to Ingrid in English. “Hey Ingrid,” he says. “You want a lap dance? This one's the best. I'll buy you one.”

 

I laugh.

 

Ingrid doesn't.

 

“Sure,” she says.

 

By the time I close my gaping jaw, she and the Chicana walk off to the back. Brown and white, like a peanut butter sandwich made in heaven.

 

In twenty minutes Ingrid's back. Her face glows in the soft light of the club.

 

“They were watching me, Mykel,” she says. “All those bodyguards and bouncers. Back there... it's like an office... with cubicles... she sat on my lap and we were surrounded, these guys... those guys with no necks who work here... they came around to watch... you could see them jiggling themselves... their hands in their pockets.”

 

“YOU should have charged THEM,” I tell her.

 

By this time, another Mexican beauty is on stage. This one darker and lither than the first. Like a sexy snake, she slithers full length across the stage... crawling on her arms and legs to the edge. Her petite but proud breasts just touch the wood. She slides right in front of Ingrid and reaches down.

 

She grabs both of Ingrid's arms and pulls her on stage. But our Indrid isn't dancing. At least not in the normal sense of the word. She's lying on her back. The stripper is over her. Rubbing her brown body against the white girl.

 

Then the dancer reaches down. She pulls Ingrid's sweater up, over her head. In the soft light, Ingrid's breasts, as perky as her personality, sparkle bright and white.

 

I reach between my legs to make myself more comfortable.

 

Gently, the dancer takes one, then the other nipple in her mouth. Looking at the men in the audience, I can see sympathetic tongue movements on each of them. We're in this together.

 

Together we lick those nipples. We lick each and then lick down to a place between them. We lick in a line from breast to navel, back to breast. We lick downward again. We press our collective chins against her individual crotch and keep licking. We're collectively disappointed when Ingrid keeps her pants on. We're collectively inspired when she licks back at the woman on top of her. We become Ingrid as she takes those brown mounds into her hands.

 

All too soon, it's over. All too soon, we let go of our breath and applaud our collective appreciation. Ingrid puts her sweater back on and climbs down from the stage.

 

“Wow!” I say.

 

She smiles and we (Ingrid, Barichu, Gilberto and I) walk out to the car.

 

“I'm sorry you had to see my breasts,” she says.

 

“I'm 70 years old,” I tell her, “I've done more than people twice my age would have done if they lived that old. I've eaten Piranha in Peru, had sex under a Mongolian staircase, been in a threesome with one girl in Thailand, been kidnapped in Albania, but never in my life before has someone said to me I'm sorry you had to see my breasts.”

 

She smiles.

 

“Please don't be sorry,” I tell her. “I sure as shit am not.”

 

When we get back to Gilberto's Tio's place where the party is still going on. 

 

“Mykel,” asks Gilberto's Tia, “¿Mykel, porque andas todo pintarrajeado??”

 

Whoops. I forgot about that.

 

I wash my face as best I can. The various shades of lipstick on my cheek meld into one another, but never completey disappear.

We drink some more, eat some more, and somehow Gilberto ends up in bed with Ingrid. I sleep with Barichu.

 

FLASH AHEAD: It's Arizona. Ingrid wants to see the Grand Canyon. That's what you do in Arizona. I don't want to give the state any of my money... and I certainly don't want to do any tourist shit. But I'm out-voted and Gilberto has the car. So it's to Grand Canyon we go.

 

We pay $20 to park, then go to the guest house and souvenir shop. I can buy a Grand Canyon Collector Plate, a Grand Canyon Ceramic Cup, or a Grand Canyon Refrigerator Magnet. I don't.

 

The gift shop is in a rustic-looking shed. Log cabin-ish, though there aren't many logs in this area. One wall is Plexiglas. It overlooks the canyon.

 

A crowd of tourists presses against the glass, oooowing and ahhing. Being 5'3” tall, I decide not to compete with them, and walk outside for a direct look. I look. It's a hole in the ground. A big hole... and that's it.

 

Twenty dollars for a hole? I've paid that in Thailand and the DR, but in those cases I got a hole I really enjoyed!

 

Sometime ago... in the Wild West... some Indian stumbled on this place and said, “let's sucker the gringos. Tell 'em it's special. A really big hole. The rube's be lining up to buy fridge magnets. Those white folks. They can't tell their ass from a hole in the ground.”

 

I don't take one picture. I don't even stay and look. I head for the car and let Ingrid and Gilberto ooooh and aaahhh.

 

For me? Aqua Prieta was more ooooh and aaah than the Grand Canyon will ever be. Walmarcito, Burger Queen, the volcano at the end of the street, That's worth some oooohs and aaaahhs. Ingrid's own twin peaks, the lipstick all over my face, Gilberto's birthday party, that's what I'll remember from this trip. I can tell an ass from a hole in the ground. I'll take the ass any day.

ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (god@mykelboard.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get live links and a chance to post comments on the column]

 

-->The Tea Party is concerned about the debt dept: Ok, instead of taking the cash from poor folks on welfare or immigrants seeking a better life, how 'bout taking it from the pals of GWB?
    The BBC reports that more than $9 billion given to Bush's buddies in Iraq has gone missing.
     Stuart Bowen is the special inspector general for Iraq reconstruction. His task is to follow the paper trail-- and after more than 100 investigations-- his work tells a story of waste and mismanagement.
     Bowen says billions of dollars were shrink-wrapped in plastic and flown out of the US to Baghdad.

-->Sometimes you forget that Florida is THE SOUTH dept: The Dove World Outreach Center in Gainesville Florida has pastor Terry Jones. Jones is the author of the recently released book Islam Is of the Devil. He was also the proud displayer of a sign-- on church property-- against the city's gay mayor. “No homo Mayor” says the sign.
   I say they missed the important question: Is he white?

 

-->Obama's an improvement? dept: From the LA Times: The Democratic administration of Barack Obama, who denounced his predecessor George W Bush, as “the most secretive administration in history,” is now denying more Freedom of Information Act requests than the Republicans did.

 

-->Time to turn inward dept: Dean Allen, a Republican candidate for Adjutant General (whatever that is) held a “machine gun social” to raise funds. For a $25 donation, supporters got a barbecue and a chance to fire the machine gun of their choice. Too bad they didn't aim in a different direction.

 

-->Dying (or killing) for a job dept: Senior Pentagon official, Curtis Gilroy, said that a 10 percent increase in the national unemployment rate becomes a 4 to 6 percent increase in military recruitment. Last year, the Pentagon announced that it has met all of its annual recruiting goals for the first time in 35 years.

 

-->Sounds like a Christian Scientist with appendicitis dept: A 2006 Kentucky state law created The Kentucky Office of Homeland Security. It requires the state to post a plaque at the entrance to the Emergency Operations Center. The plaque contains a Bible verse and a statement that says: The safety and security of the Commonwealth cannot be achieved apart from reliance upon Almighty God.
   I ask: can you please post God's phone number so I can call directly next time a plane flies into a building? I'd rather skip the middleman.

-->God on the ass dept: It now comes out: Rev. Rob Schenck, Rev. Patrick Mahoney, and Grace Nwachukwu, all members of religious-right Christian groups, wanted to influence the hearings on Rightwing Supreme Court Justice Samuel Alito. They were worried that his views on church-state matters... and abortion... would keep him off the Supreme Court. So, what did they do? At 6 AM, they snuck into the confirmation hearing room and “anointed all the chairs with holy oil.” Thus they brought God to the (back) side of Alito. He was accepted to the court.

 

-->Speaking of God, my pal Kyle send me the following with the note “The gospel according to GG Allin?” This may just be my favorite bible quote:

   Hath my master sent me to thy master and to thee to speak these words? Hath he not sent me to the men that sit upon the wall, that they may eat their own dung, and drink their own piss with you? Isaiah 36:12

 

It's true! Check it out in your own bible!

 

-->Punk Rock dept: Gilberto asked me not to forget to mention a few of the notorious Aqua Prieta punk bands:
   Los Ke Siquen HC (that's the way he spelled it!), Pinakates (Barichu's band), and The Yerlekererem, a heavy metal band turned punk “'cuz it's easier to play.”

 

-->Not a gift, but a load dept: Many liberals, caught in the American ideal of giving is bad, lending is good support so-called charities that make small loans to help poor people start businesses. Somehow this LOAN is supposed to be better than an outright gift.
   Well, the BBC reports "Interest on repayments begin at around 15%, but it is a flat rate and can soon rise to anything between 40% and 100%," Dr Ahmad says.
     Many people lose their businesses-- and their homes-- when they're unable to pay back the loan.

-->I'm so healthy dept: HDL cholesterol is known as the "good" cholesterol because a high level of it seems to protect against heart attack. And the Harvard Health Letter says: "Alcohol increases HDL. The more people drink the higher it goes. Alcoholics tend to have great HDL numbers."

 

-end-

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