My First Cover Story 1977

CAVALIER MAGAZINE August 1977

 This is the first cover story (admittedly a shared cover with a lot of others), and it was, the editor Nye Willden who set me on my way.

You can see my current blog at:
https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com

New York Press April 21, 1989

I didn't make the cover here, but it was a kind of letter to the editor:

The week before columnist/editor "Mugger" wrote a story bragging about his trip to apartheid South Africa... detailing the wondrous food and drink of the place, and the lavish life he could lead there.

So I wrote my answer about another African country. Detailing my trip to Ethiopia... all lies, of course.

If the print's too small, you can see a bigger version at:

https://photos.app.goo.gl/xwFqKgkATjrkBFnM6

and don't forget my current blog at:
https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com

MRR 2/01 (#213) The Lottery

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
Feb 2001 MRR issue 213
by Mykel Board

     Chosen by lottery, she stands in an open
field. She wears a thin cloth dress. Brown
corduroy. She faces away from us. Glancing
over her left shoulder, head down. The skin
around her deepset eyes hangs in dark
circles.
     A breeze blows two strand of her hair
straight up. One on the right, the other on
the left. I stand in the middle of a long
single line of people. There are at least a
hundred of us, maybe more. We're heading
toward the field where she stands. As we
walk, we pass two immense piles of rocks. On
the right are large stones. Each is twice the
size of a brick and twice as heavy. On the
left, the stones are smaller, about fist
size. Some have jagged edges. Most are smooth
as if from a beach.
     During the march toward the front, each
person briefly leaves the line, going to the
right or left to pick up a rock. The person
at the front of the line, a jockish looking
young man, throws the first rock at the woman
in brown. A small one, it hits her square in
the middle of the back. Her shoulders fly
backwards. Her body bends, snapping her neck
back. The next rock, just grazes her right
hip, apparently doing no damage. A third
catches the back of her head. A dark stain
seeps from point of impact and creeps
downwards.
     Behind me stands an earnest young woman,
about 19. Wearing pointy glasses and a white
fake-fur jacket. She holds a small rock.
     "Which rock are you going to pick?" she
asks me.
     "This is sick." I tell her. "I'm not
going to hurt that woman. She didn't do
anything."
     "She was chosen," says the girl. "Even
if you don't throw a rock. She was chosen."
     The next rock, a big one, slams into the
woman's left shoulder, spinning her
completely around. Immediately, another
smashes into her face. I can see her lower
jaw, completely askew, like a parody of a
gangster, talking out the side of his mouth.
     That doesn't last long. The next rock,
small, but thrown hard, slams into the same
place. The woman's lower jaw is nearly
knocked off. It hangs by a sliver of cheek
skin, dangling from underneath of what's left
of her head.
     Somehow the woman remains standing. On
line, the girl and I continue talking.
     "I can't participate in that," I tell
her. "It's making me sick."
     "You're a citizen," she says. "It's your
duty to participate. I know both the big
stones and small stones are evil, but we have
to choose the lesser of the two evils."
     "I don't have to choose," I tell her.
     "If you don't choose, then those big
stones are your responsibility. You should
let people see your small stone. It'll be an
example for them."
     She runs out to the pile of small stones
and brings me back one not much larger than a
big pebble. It's smooth on all sides.
     "Here," she says, "take this one. You'll
be doing the right thing."
     By the time I get to the field, the
woman lies in a heap. A pool of blood, more
like a pond, rings her body. It's not longer
possible to throw the stones directly. Each
person has to fling her missile high and
watch it arc down onto the body. Our target
is not quite dead. Every stone still brings a
twitch, like a severed frog's leg shocked
with an electrical current.
     Then my turn comes. I look at the
mangled pile of flesh and cloth lying on the
field. I look at the small stone in my hand.
     "No!" I shout as loudly as I can,
tossing the rock against the pile.
     "Stop!" shouts the girl who gave it to
me. "Don't do that! You're throwing away your
stone!"
     *************
     As I type this, I find myself distracted
by the skin peeling off my nose. I can hardly
breathe. My lungs feel like they've been
washed in snot.
     I'm sick. A relapse brought on by a New
York tradition. Drink Club. Once-a-week, a
new bar every time. Me. Some Japanese
students. Teachers, Punk pals. Whoever shows
up.
     Once a year I get a severe bad cough.
Awful hacking. Lung spilling. So strong it
pumps my stomach. Can't keep my food down.
Hack. Hack. Hack. SPEW! Alcohol makes it
worse. I shudda known.
     There we are, at Otis bar. An art-on-the
walls place on the border of Hell's Kitchen.
I'll have just one more drink. Then go home
early. Hit the bed before the clock strikes
one. Toast. "Kampai!" Aaargh! Hack. Hack.
PUKE! Projectile. I try to cover my mouth,
but the evening's drinks, snacks, and
vitamins spew through my fingers. It's a
spray. Over everything. The table, the
luxurious arty couches, the floor, my pants,
the Americans, the Japanese. Recycled
alcohol. Tiny tacos. The day's lunch and
snack. Yellow liquid. Great gobs of red and
brown. Meat and vegetable.
     Again. More coughing. More spray. They
jump. Everyone around me. Up on their feet.
Pushing away. Trying to hide their horror. I
keep my vomit-filled hands cupped to my face,
trying to hold back the multi-colored tide. I
run down to the bathroom. Let the liquid drop
from my hands into the toilet. Am so
nauseated by the sight of it dripping down my
arms, pantslegs, on my coat. It makes me
sick. I puke some more. Again. I think I'm
safe. Nothing more to go. Empty.
     I wipe up as best I can and sheepishly
return to the crowd upstairs. Many have left.
(What a surprise!) The others stand up and
back off when they see me.
     "It's okay now." I say. "I'm..."
     I feel a piece of something inhale
itself into my left lung. A tiny prod to the
alveoli. Bang, another coughing fit. More
puke. Onto the Japanese students. I'm like a
junior version of George Bush Sr. vomiting
onto the Japanese Prime Minister.
     George Bush Jr., that's me. That's also
my segue into what I really want to write
about.
     As I type this, the legal wranglings in
Florida continue. We don't yet know who will
be our next president. It seems most likely
it'll be Bush, but you never know. I want to
write about the election. Who won doesn't
matter.
     Actually, it's not the election itself I
want to write about, but the bravery and
cowardice in the voting (and not voting)
public. That means YOU, buckaroos.
     My highest admiration goes to the non-
voters. Those who threw away the stone,
saying, "there are some sins I cannot
commit." Bravo to you. You are the great
keepers of the moral world.
     I voted. It's in my blood. I've been
doing it for nearly 30 years. It's fun to
pull those levers. No hole punches here in
N.Y. I wanted to help Ralphie Nader get his
5%. I like the idea of the government
(Republicrats) giving money to someone who
wants to destroy it... at least in its
present condition.
     While not as moral a position as
refusing to vote at all, voting for Nader at
least allows us to avoid throwing stones at
innocent people.
     But I don't want to waste my precious
column inches defending. I want to condemn. I
want to haul that bloody corpse of an
election out of the field and make you look
at it. I especially want to condemn those of
you too cowardly to throw your rocks away...
or just throw them someplace else... not at
the victim.
     Mostly, I condemn the girls, the
females, the vaginated class who were so
afraid that somehow the next president would
loose them the right to abort. Those little
cuties, quivering in their Doc Martins. They
threw the stones.
     Though I don't yet know the outcome of
the election, I do have some facts.
     The safe states all went as predicted.
N.Y., Texas, Utah, California, Massachusetts,
Washington DC, New Jersey, Alabama,
Mississippi and a bunch of others. Anyone in
those states who voted for Al Gore is a
traitor. Pure and simple. Even if you
preferred him to Bush, he didn't need your
vote. The winner-take-all electoral system
assured him of those electors. You knew this,
but you still voted for him. You voted for
the only candidate who voted against Federal
funds for abortion. You voted for the only
candidate who voted for Justice Scalia, the
bozoist of all the Supreme court bozos. You
voted for him because you were afraid.
Because you let Democratic party propaganda
scare you into thinking Bush would hurt you.
That Bush would "reverse Roe vs. Wade." That
Bush would appoint Jerry Falwell to the
Supreme court.
     Does fear make you that stupid? Is your
brain lodged between your legs? Are you
unable to consider anything without labia or
a g-spot? Don't you know that presidents
can't appoint Supreme Court justices? They
can nominate them, but Congress has to
approve them. With an almost 50-50
congressional split, NO president is going to
be able to successfully nominate anyone more
controversial than Donald Duck.
     Besides, the need for abortion is
gradually disappearing. The abortion pill is
only the first of a series of medical changes
that will make abortion as rare as lobotomy.
I only wish some of the Gore-voters got the
latter, instead of the former. Abortion will
become a medical problem, not a legal
problem.
     That might take five years. It's right
now that counts. Right girls? It's the
chance. The chance that Bush might... I don't
know what, force you to wear a twat recorder
that automatically measures input and outgo
and sends the results to Washington? Why are
you so frightened??? Why are you willing to
vote for a man who supports teaching
creationism in school? whose wife is the
biggest enemy music has ever had? Whose vice-
president (until election time, of course)
supports school vouchers and more religion in
government than Pat Robertson? who voted for
the cellphone wiretap bill? Who helped
prevent AIDS drugs from getting to Africa?
The list goes on. What is with you, that
you're willing to throw such a large rock?
     On the off chance that Al Gore will win
this election, we're even worse off. Because
of the antagonism brought by the closeness of
the race and the torturous recounting, the
next president will be inefficient, and a
one-termer. Mid-term elections usually give a
loss to the presidential party. This year,
because of the built-up hostility, it'll be
worse.
     A Gore victory means strengthening the
Republican hold on Congress in 2002 and a new
Republican president in 2004. And we have YOU
to thank for it.
     If we're lucky, Bush wins this. Due, in
some part, to those of us who voted principle
over fear. Then, we'll have a Democratic
Congress in 2002, and a Democratic president
in 2004. Doesn't that sound better?
     Of course it would, if you had a shred
of logic in that womb-consumed mind of yours.
But you don't. Somehow you'll see Gore as a
victory and Bush as a defeat. Somehow you
make me sick. Excuse me while I get a drink
and cough it up.
   

ENDNOTES: [Visitors to my website:
www.MykelBoard.com or subscribers (email to:
god@MykelBoard.com) will receive a few extra
endnotes. There are just too many to keep up
with.]

-->Al Gore isn't the only one who profits
from fear. Groups like the Jewish Anti-
Defamation League, GLAAD, anti-racist groups,
and others live off of fear. If hate suddenly
disappeared, they'd have to invent it to stay
in business.
     It's in the best interests of these guys
to see a racist around every corner, and a
homophobe hiding in every closet. That's why
it's so exciting when one of them has the
balls to say that things are really not so
bad. The following is a report from WIRED
online.
     "There are no statistics showing an
increase in [hate-group] membership because
of the Internet," says David Goldman,
president of HateWatch, a nonprofit group
that monitors online hate. "Groups are moving
away from the idea of constructing these huge
Web pages that have very little payback."
     Goldman argues the Internet has
increased the visibility of hate groups, but
not their power. In fact, the heightened
attention has instead been more of a burden
than a boon for these once-secretive groups.
     "It's been extremely bad for hate
groups," he said. "They've been exposed,
scrutinized, and poked at. Hate groups have
always relied on anonymity and secrecy to
keep their activities
hidden from the public eye," he said. "But
the Internet is now publicizing their every
move."
     Goldman says people who visit hate sites
are usually looking for racist material or
organizations. "The Internet is not very good
at getting that uninterested, uninitiated
person to commit to an organization," he
said.
     Well, that's almost an admission. A fuck
of a lot better than Simon Wiesenthal and his
fear mongering.

--> Still wanna get married? dept. A North
Carolina law lets people collect big bucks
from the person their spouse ran off with.
Recently, the N.C. Court of Appeals upheld
one of the largest verdicts against a
spouse-stealer--the $1 million Dorothy
Hutelmeyer won from her ex-husband's
secretary.
     "The message it sends to folks is very
clear: Don't break up the marriage," said the
president of a pro-family group in Raleigh.
"It upholds the idea that marriage is
something special and needs to be preserved
and protected."

-->Related to that dept: My pal Dallas writes
me that, in Hong Kong, a betrayed wife is
legally allowed to kill her adulterous
husband, but may only do so with her bare
hands. The husband's lover, on the other
hand, may be killed in any manner desired.

-->But consider the alternative dept: Also,
according to Dallas, the penalty for
masturbation in Indonesia is decapitation. He
did not say which head they cut off.

-->Wow dept: I thought you had to be dead
before you were reincarnated. Apparently not.
Iggy Pop is back. More like one of The
Stooges than today's crooner. Add a touch of
the MC5 and... well, it's enough to make Jeff
Bale shit. This is IT! The Flaming Sideburns
from Finland. On the amazing Danish label,
Bad Afro Records www.vow.dk/badafro. If
you've got any taste at all, you'll dig up
this CD. Now! Energy as high as the fi is
low. Wow!

-->A little bit of good news dept: The Kansas
school board members who voted to take
evolution out of the state's curriculum were
defeated by other candidates. These new
candidates pledged to return the monkeys-to-
men ideas. Of course, the ousted schoolboard
members prove that evolution is not a
condition which effects everyone equally.

-->If you're in New York, you can subscribe
to the drink club email list. Send a request
to drinkclub@mykelboard.com. Every week,
you'll get a notice about the time and
location of the next drink club. It's usually
Wednesday at 9:30, but you never know. I'm
almost always there. Even if I'm sick.
 
-->Welfare cheats dept: Folks are up in arms
about government welfare programs, and well
they should be. Make those guys work, I say.
Take the Sunkist corporation. Please! The US
taxpayers have given them $71 million dollars
since 1986 to promote their oranges in Asia.
That's MY money going to sell oranges to
people who should be growing them themselves.
Stop it now! Make those Sunkist execs WORK
for a living.

--> That'll teach them dept: A Pakistani
court sentenced a man to death the murder of
100 children. But death alone was not good
enough. The judge ordered that the man be
strangled in front of the victims' parents,
cut into pieces and the pieces thrown into
acid.
     Three accomplices, including a
13-year-old youth identified only as Sabir,
also were found guilty. One accomplice,
identified as Sajjid, 17, was found guilty on
98 counts of murder and sentenced to death
plus 686 years in prison. The second,
identified as Nadeem, 15, received a 182-year
sentence, or 14 years on each of 13 murder
counts. The third accomplice was sentenced
to 42 years in prison.

Freedom Anarchist Weekly 1970

Here's one I wrote while I was living in London in 1970. Before Mike/Michael became Mykel. This will soon be available on eBay.

You can read my more recent self at: https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com

Batteries Not Included December 1998

BATTERIES NOT INCLUDED
DECEMBER, 1998

THE COVER

PAGE ONE

PAGE 2

DUDE Magazine Jan 1981

Here's one from 1981. I wonder if it would be allowed in today's political climate:

For more, more modern, Mykel Board try:

https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com

Letter to the Editor 1966

I was 16 years old:

From MRR 177

[I'm reprinting this here. It's from MRR 177, probably late 1990s]

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board

     "Property is theft." --P.J. Proudhon
     "Intellectual property is mind theft." --Mykel Board

 It was weirder than bailing Ian MacKaye out of the drunk
tank. I walk into the medical building where my doctor has her
office. I've got an appointment for a prostate check. Pissing
every 45 minutes, I figure something's wrong.

When I enter the building, this fat little man with a
walrus-style mustache sidles up to me. He's wearing a green
uniform with a matching officer's hat. On the hat is a picture of
something that looks like a brain. There's a red circle around it
and a diagonal line through the middle.

"That'll be twenty-five cents, please." he says, holding out
his hand.

"For what?" I ask, "you don't even know where I'm going."

"It doesn't matter," he answers, "I'm collecting
royalties... For the architect. You use the building. He gets
paid."

The urge to argue is less than the urge, so I fork over the
quarter. Inside the doctor's office, I check in with the
anorexia-thin receptionist and go to take a seat.

"Hang on there," she says, "you've got to pay the seat tax.
Ten cents, please."

 I reach in my pocket, taking the opportunity to stroke my
problem area a few times.

"What's this one for?" I ask.

"Five cents goes to the carpenter and the other five goes to
the guy who designed the chair."

I sit down and wait until the doctor calls me.

When I'm in her office, she asks me to strip and lie on the
table face down. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her reach
into a box of latex gloves. She puts one on. Then she goes for
the KY.

"After I finish," she says, "in addition to my regular fee,
you'll have to pay a dollar in royalties."

 "Royalt..." I start to ask before the finger penetrates.

"That's twenty cents to the guy who invented latex gloves,"
she explains," another twenty to the inventor of KY Jelly, thirty
to the guy who discovered the manufacturing process and another
thirty to the family of the first doctor who ever stuck a finger
up someone's ass."

     ***********************************

Of course, none of this really happened. But it's the
logical extension of our system of "intellectual property."
Normally, when you do a job, you get paid for it. When you want
more money, you do another job.

 I'm not a fan of work. I'd like to see a pay system for
doing nothing you don't want to. 100% unemployment, that's my
goal. But if we're gonna have a bad system, lets have an equally
bad one. A book-writer or a musician does a job. Instead of
getting paid for it and going on to the next one, she continues
to get paid, though the work is long finished.

  Not only musicians and writers, but publishers, labels and
hundreds of others. That's not all. Anyone who patents a medicine
or an invention or trademarks a brand name, puts in their claim.
You've got a lot of "intellectual property" there. You've also
got a lot of folks manning intellectual shotguns to protect it.

Denise Dingbat writes a song and records it. The Hairy Balls
sing a new version of it. The Hairy Balls pay to record their
version. The Hairy Balls pay for the record pressing. The Hairy
Balls sell the records. The Hairy Balls put Denise's name under
the song, so everybody knows she wrote it. The Hairy Balls still
have to pay Denise Dingbat! For what? What work did Denise
Dingbat do for The Hairy Balls? None! It doesn't make sense.

It gets even dumber. Take t-shirts. Please.

What is a band t-shirt? It's an ad! It's a commercial for an
entertainment entity. Wearing a T-shirt with Earth Crisis on it
is no less commercial than wearing one with Calvin Klein on it.

How logical is it that a person PAYS to advertise something?
A t-shirt says "I like this band. I want you to know." How
logical is it that a person CANNOT advertise what they like.

But that's the law-- and the policy of most bands. Your t-
shirts must be licensed. That is, you have to pay the band to
advertise them. What work did the band do in making that t-shirt?
How did they participate? Yet they get paid for it. The idea is
somehow theirs. That idea has a copyright. It's lucky no one can
read your thoughts. Otherwise they'd charge you every time you
THINK a band's name.

If the copyright/patent/royalty system were only stupid, I
wouldn't object to it. Tamagochi, day-glow condoms, and The X-
Files are stupid. BFD. But the evil goes deeper than just
stupidity.

The scene: a street market in Thailand. It's Pat Pong during
the day. Too early for the sex clubs, bootleg Levis, Doc Martins
and Gucci bags are the attraction now.

 Tables filled with cassette copies of big-selling albums
cater to both the traveling tramps and the local Thais.

  EEEEEEEEEEEEEE AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW EEEEEEEEEEEEEE AWWWWWWWWWWW

Sirens howl down the street. A small white police car
screeches to a halt in front of the Pat Pong gate. The door
opens. Three cops get out, followed by an American. The American,
dressed in a black suit, with polished shoes and very dark
sunglasses, passes the cops. He walks through the gate and down
the street. The cops follow.

At the first stand, the American reaches into the jeans
piled in front of him. The Thai stand-owner and his wife strain
to cover the look of horror on their faces. The American picks at
the clothes, examining the seams. He throws them back onto the
cart, motioning to the cops like you might call a dog.

The cops pull the jeans off the table and stuff them into a
huge burlap sack. Tears well up in the owner's eyes. The cops say
nothing to them.

Under American direction, the police clear most of the
clothing stands and all the cassette tables. Everything, packed
into a sack. The merchants try to save their livelihood. At a
pocketbook stand, an old lady grabs the American by the sleeve.
She cries, pulls on him, begs.

  He turns to her and removes his sunglasses. His small eyes
squint in the bright light.

 "I'm sorry," he says, aware that she can't understand his
words, "but my job is to enforce the law."

The next day, the newspapers print a picture of a giant
bulldozer grinding cassettes into plastic dust. The newly jobless
are gathering paper cups to beg on the street.

 Let's hop on a private jet with the American inspector. We
watch Thailand disappear from beneath us as we head for Delhi.
When our plane lands, we follow the inspector into town to the
local drug store.

Inside, we see the American inspector looking at the local
brands, made by Indian drug companies. These drugs are cheap and
readily available to the poor Indians. This time, a single Indian
cop moseys in behind him. The cop, a young man with a thin
mustache, wears a curiously calm look.

"They're copies," says the American. "These are drugs
invented by the world's great pharmaceutical companies, made
without license, here in India. They are frauds. Confiscate
them."

"No," says the Indian cop, "our people need these drugs. The
drug companies who invented them are already rich. We are not."

 "Fine," says the American, "then you don't get any more
drugs."

He storms out alone. We can follow him as he walks to his
satellite-modem connected computer. We'll watch as he emails
World Patent Central.

"India refuses to respect intellectual property laws." he
types. "In violation of international agreements, it is removing
legitimate profits from international pharmaceutical companies. I
suggest it be put on the `non-cooperative' list. It's no longer a
`most favored nation.' We need to subject its goods to the same
high tariffs and international boycotts as other non-cooperating
nations. We can bring India to its knees."

Clicking SEND, our inspector huffs back to his plane and
takes off for Africa.

These are not fictional incidents, buckaroos, they really
happen. Intellectual property laws cause poverty and death as
well as simple annoyance. Remember, Clinton threatened sanctions
against China, not for human rights violations, but for bootleg
CDs.

There's another reason that intellectual property is evil.
That is, it prevents innovation-- or building on past ideas.
Suppose the inventor of the typewriter took out a patent on the
keyboard. Every other make of typewriter would need to pay to use
the layout-- or come up with one of it's own.

You'd have as many keyboard layouts as you have companies.
People wouldn't be able to move from one machine to another
without relearning the typing process on a new keyboard. Someone
comes up with an improvement on the old keyboard. They electrify
it, or attach it to a computer. Whoops, no good, gotta switch the
letters around again.

Well, you ask, don't writers, authors, inventors, and other
creative people deserve to get paid for their efforts?

 The simple answer is NO ONE deserves to get paid for their
efforts. We should do things for results, not pay. Given our
social system, however, people NEED to get paid for their
efforts. But they don't need to get paid differently from anyone
else.

When a record label signs a band, they're hiring them to
make a record. They should pay the band for making the record and
that's it. Some bands will sell more records, make more money for
the label, and therefore should be paid more. But once paid,
that's the end. If you want more money, you make another record--
or perform and get paid for that.

If a drug company makes a drug, they should sell it, like
any other product. If someone copies that product, then the
company has to compete with the copier. Maybe they can improve
their product, make it more attractive, sell it at a cheaper
price. Whatever the case, only the THINGS they create are theirs
to sell, not the IDEA of the creation.

The same goes for you musicians, writers, and performers.
When you perform for others, that performance is THEIRS, not
yours. The audience should have the right to do what they want
with it, including copying it, pressing it and selling it at
Bleecker Bobs. They paid for a ticket to see you. You gave them
something for that payment. How can you own something after you
sell it? Especially an idea: a song, a logo, a band name. How can
you own these anyway? Ideas need to remain free if we are to do
the same.


ENDNOTES:

--> Missing the point dept: MRR printed a couple of letters in
response to my bike column. In that column, I parody the anti-
smoking hysteria. The letter writers missed the parody, but
that's not the point. They also challenged the statistics: deaths
and sexual disfunction. They're real. I checked them myself. I
didn't make them up.
     Personally, I've had three bikes since I've been in NYC.
I've kept each for an average of a year and a half. All of them
were stolen. I've owned one car in my life, for a total of 6
months. I've never seen a cyclist given a ticket, though one
letter writer has. Maybe he was lucky.

--> And it's not even California dept: "Thursday, Dec. 4, at
6:30: There will be a panel discussion and open forum on
flirting. There will be no charge to attend."
     Yow! I'll be there, wearing my pheremones. It's the Society
for Human Sexuality. They seem to have a good attitude, except
for "anyone over the age of 18 is welcome to attend." More info
comes from weber.u.washington.edu/~humsex/

--> Gotta match? dept. The National Environmental Trust reports
that between 1988 and 1992, there were more than 34,000 toxic
chemical accidents in the US. Corporate accidents, they were. The
same organization also reports that microwaving food in plastic
containers releases a carcinogen called DEHP into the food. There
is no plan to inform consumers.
     Cancer rates are skyrocketing. What is industry going to do?
Now that you're not allowed to smoke anywhere, who are they going
to blame the deaths on? Fear not. If there's one thing industrial
PR men DON'T lack, it's creativity.
     BARBECUES! Yes, now they say barbecues are responsible for
air pollution and increased cancer rates. Not only are your lungs
held hostage to second hand smoke, but they also suffer from
spare ribs!
     Like the smoking smokescreen, it's all lies, of course. NET
says "all 97 million American households would have to barbecue
14 hours a day-- every day-- just to match the pollution from
industrial and transportation sources."
     Pass the beans, please.

-->Good deed dept: A West PA promoter jumps out of a plane with a
parachute that doesn't work. OK, what else is new? The guy
splatters. No surprise. What IS the surprise, though, is that he
asked people to establish a music fund for kids after his death.
     Instead of turning people into junkies or Christians, this
guy wants to die to turn 'em into musicians (an overlapping, but
not congruous category). Strange thoughtfulness from a promoter!
     The guy's name is Mickey Chalick. You can email
jrogan@voicenet.com for information about the fund. It's worth a
couple of bucks.

--> Q. If there's a punk and a skinhead in the back of a car,
who's in the front?
    A. A cop
     That is among the punk jokes in Atrophy Zine where their
motto is "Motto's Are For Sissies!" It's a fun little punkzine.
You can get a copy for a dollar from Atrophy Zine. POB C-11, New
Rochelle NY 10804.

--> Christians on the rampage dept: Dave Price, who does a music
zine (he didn't tell me the name) sent me a copy of a Christian
rant-poem he got in the mail. It's about how "all shall be laid
to rest, for the lion of Judah shall open his mouth and roar."
The poem was hand-written in alternating red and black pen. As a
postscript it says "Read the Bible, The Proof is all There. Come
to the Cross. Do it Now! Mykel Board IS WRONG. Christ Jesus is
Right PERIOD! LOVE PAUL (capitalization is the authors)"
     This would be weird enough, but Dave never sent Paul his
zine. It was only listed in the "other zines" section in the MRR
reviews. Did EVERYBODY get a hand-written copy of this. Yow! This
guy is dedicated. Ah well, idle hands are the devils work...
Reminds me, I'd better jerk-off.
   
--> Can't get enough of me dept: If you'd like to read some of my
back columns, you can visit the column archives now in three
places:
www.killcreek.com/devolution/mykel/index.html
www.worldchat.com/vic/wwp/mykel
www.ecs.csun.edu/~aquiroz/columns.htm
Thanks to Scott, Vic and Mels who're maintaining these sites. My
own fledgling homepage is at:
http://www.freeyellow.com/members2/seidboard/

-->Speaking of the web dept: There an interesting site at:
http://www.freedomforum.org/first/resources.asp
It's THE FREEDOM FORUM, a first amendment group made up of
Gannett/USA Today formers and presents. It has some good
reporting and presents lots of information about first amendment
issues. It's interestingly one-sided though.
     When The Dallas Morning News printed lawyer-client
information in the Timothy McVeigh case, they supported the
newspaper, favoring Freedom of the Press over the guarantee of a
fair trial. There are other cases there where they claim a
"public right to know" overshadows any other rights, like privacy
or presumed innocence. In a way, it's an unintentional wake-up
call, reminding us there is more than one amendment to the
constitution.

--> I know most MRR readers don't get what you deserve-- and boy
are you lucky! But on the insurance front, it's another matter. I
have no health insurance. But folks going to school or suffering
the horrors of employment might. I also know that many readers
here are more comfortable with natural medical therapies, saving
their drugs for recreation.
     Enter Insurance Reimbursement for Alternative Therapies
Equity (2 Executive Blvd., Suite 404, Suffern NY 10901, 914-368-
9797). Aptly named IRATE, this group will fight for you if your
insurance turns down payment because your doctor is
'alternative.' Information is free, but they take donations.
     My doctor listens to Smashing Pumpkins, is she alternative?

-->Spam o' the month dept: I don't know why there's so much
complaint about unsolicited email. If you don't like it, delete.
At least it doesn't kill trees. Besides, there's always so much
interesting stuff.
     I just got an email message about a new phone card that will
put me in God's graces. You see, 5% of their profits go to anti-
abortion groups. You might be interested in the details. You can
call them directly and toll free at: 1-800-636-6773 ext 4492. You
don't have to tell 'em I sent you.

-->Sucker for Parodies dept: I love bands that make fun. THE
TUBES, ALBERTO & LOST TRIOS, you name it. The new kid on the
block is a metal parody band called: Heavy Flo. See 'em! They're
funnier than a burning church!


-->Ad of the month dept: This one's from Opportunity World, a
magazine aimed at suckers who fall for chain-letter and related
scams. This is from the Classified Personal Ads:
     $1,000 WEEKLY- GIRLS pay you for your Intimate Services.
(Your area) Money never stops!!! Details $2.00. Brandies, 5187
Island Club Dr., Tamarac FL 33319.
     OK, who's got the two bucks to check it out? Let me know
what happens... sucker.

Read more modern me at: mykelsblog.blogspot.com

--Mykel Board

Written in High School, 1967

Just found: Poem I wrote for a High School lit magazine in 1967! Maybe my first published thing?

Particle 1967

For more recent non-poetry works, check out my blog at mykelsblog.blogspot.com

Starwars in Zineland (Downtown 10/26/88)

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