I'm as crushed as an anorexic at a chubby chaser's convention. I'm talking with Jeff Bale about him and Timmy Y talking about me.

"We both like you, Mykel," says Jeff.

"But we both agree that YOU DON'T ROCK. You like bands or music because it's weird or outrageous. You like GG Allin, The Dwarves, or Osgood Slaughter, for God's sake... anything that's sarcastic, violent or otherwise extreme.

But for you, it doesn't have to rock. We like you too, Mykel, because you're sarcastic and otherwise extreme. But you don't rock."

Though that conversation took place more than ten years ago, it still rings with pangs of disappointing truth. I don't rock.

I'm an old fart who would rather see GWAR disembowel a unicorn than a bunch of guys stand behind guitars and play. I'd rather hear lyrics about anarchy in the bathroom, than about loosing a girlfriend. I'd rather see GG Allin fling a handful of shit at the audience, than listen to another garage band that rocks exactly as hard (and exactly in the same way) as the last one.

No, I don't rock. I don't even like music all that much. Visit me at home and the stereo's off. I'll walk out of a restaurant if the muzak's above a whisper. The tiniest "tick tick tick" from someone else's Walkman annoys the shit out of me. Nope, I don't rock.

I especially don't rock now that I'm just about to go on a mini spoken word tour. Yes, SPOKEN WORD, that refuge for old punks who don't rock. Lydia Lunch (who, although great, NEVER rocked), Henry Rollins, Jello Biafra, Jennifer Blowdrier and dozens of others. Is it boring old fart land? Maybe, but more on old farts later. Is it because we're tired of having to carry around the baggage of a band?

Put up with the fights? The competitiveness?

The split payments? The groupies who go for the guitar player or the roadie?

In part, yes. When you do spoken word, no matter how ugly or old you are, you're always the cutest one on the stage.

Of course, there are other, higher class reasons. Spoken word lets you hear the lyrics.

Music usually doesn't. It lets you reach a different, usually more intelligent audience.

It lets you communicate and respond to people without the intervening wall of rock'n'roll.

Finally, it's easier on the eardrums. I lose less audio ability standing and talking for an hour than being blasted out by guitar players who turn up the volume to make up for their own increasing deafness. I've already lost a good chunk of my hearing. I wear earplugs to shows, but I wouldn't on stage. I may not rock, but I'm not a dork.

Of course, lost hearing isn't as bad as it used to be. The Walkman generation will ALL suffer from deafness. That means the volume of everything electronic will increase to

compensate. No one will know that they have a problem. "Normal" will change, that's all.

Birds? You say birds make noises? You're crazy!

Back to the spoken word biz. For the Canadian shows, I wrote a new piece on my quest for Viagra. I wrote about the beginnings of that adventure in an earlier column. A lot of semen has flowed under the bridge since then.

It isn't easy getting a prescription for those pointy blue pills. Two tests! In one, a technician injects a fluid directly into my limpness. In the other, I strap on a machine and wear it to bed. You're not getting the details... yet. I'm saving them for the Canadians.

Instead, what I'll give you another spoken word piece. Maybe some day you'll hear it in person. Originally, I wrote it for Jennifer Blowdrier. My five minutes at a smut fest. Clothes kept on. She wanted me to apologize.

Apologies are so fashionable these days.

Clinton apologizes to the Negroes who were given syphilis and not treated for it. He also apologizes to the Hawaiians for taking their islands. Switzerland apologizes to the Jews for keeping money and gold stolen by the Nazis. The list goes on.

With these apologies in mind, Jennifer asked me to play the part of a white

heterosexual male. I was to apologize for all our sins throughout history. I wrote an apology and then worked with Ms. Blowdrier to touch it up. Here's what we came up with:

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

Hello people. Hello real people, whole people, people with a purpose in life, with goals, with culture, with feelings. Hello Latinos, Asians, African and Peruvian

Americans. Hello people of color, differently- abled, Inuits, People with AIDS and People with Wombs. I come before you tonight as a white heterosexual man.

I come before you tonight because no one else will. I come before you in humility because others lack the humility-- or the humanity to do so. I come before you to apologize. Not a formal, political, "it is regrettable" apology. Not a throw away "my apologies" apology. Not an "it should be apologized" apology but an on-my-knees- as-sincere-as-my-race,-gender-and-sexual- prison- will-allow apology..

When I first decided to do this, I was going to talk about WE. How WE caused war. How WE withheld food from the hungry, love from the loveless, help from the helpless. But it is not we. It is I. I as a member of my wretched minority. I as the owner of this skin, this penis, this privileged preference.

What I'm saying is that I, personally, am just as responsible as the worst Bob Dole, Bill Gates, or Michael Bolton. I, me personally, war-monger man, sexual harasser man or

tasteless dresser man. I am that man. I'm the one who makes up for my lack of natural rhythm by letting my nosehair grow. Me, Mykel Board. I am the one who napalmed Vietnamese babies and invented too many bad TV sitcoms to mention.

Mea culpa! Mea culpa!

I don't know how my brothers in guilt can live with the knowledge of what they've done in the world. How can they get their hairy bodies up in the morning? How can they eat their morning toast, knowing that the very white bread that's destroying their health, was invented by a heterosexual?

Ah, the litany of our crimes. If written on grains of rice, they'd fill a Chinese restaurant. The wars we've started. The diseases we've spread. The farts, we thought were funny. The Mussolinis, the Jerry

Springers, the New Kids on The Block. There's no forgiving us. I don't expect it. I'm not here to be forgiven. I'm only here to say, "I'm sorry."

I'm sorry for making the business suit a fashion. I'm sorry for taking sports seriously.

For taking sex lightly. Ah sex, a beautiful, and holy act. Something to celebrate, worship.

Joyful, sweet sex-- we've made it a joke-- or an obsession. How much more important are your Riot Grrrrrrrrrrrrrl glasses and Bikini Kill records, than my latest issue of JUGS MAGAZINE.

That doesn't stop us. That doesn't stop me. For the white hetman, everything is sex. [At this point I begin to cry.]

It's hard to do this... hard? See, I can't get around it. I not only think with my penis, I AM my penis. I'm a worthless worm of circumcised flesh.... I can't escape what the goddess made me. I can only escape the

ignorance of it.

Let me tell you a little story. I was walking down Christopher St, in New York, ogling, belching, talking on my cellular phone, letting my testosterone ruin other people's lifestyles. A fashionable person of androphilic orientation was ahead of me, looking into the window of The Pleasure Chest. He pined away, breathing in short, breathy breaths.

And I thought, "How wonderful! What an exciting world of different orientation. One, that I can never be a part of. I can never know the thrill of shopping for a leather harness or the excitement of the petshop gerbil

department."

I cried as I passed that the young victim of hundreds of years of oppression caused by me, ME! ME! and people just like me. If I could invent a bomb that would only destroy my kind, that would leave a sane world, once my insane kind left-- I'd invent that bomb. If I could eliminate all the wars, all the humiliation, all the bad jazz I've caused, I would.

Unfortunately, I can't do that. What's done is done and the evil will not disappear. The best I can do is say "I'm sorry." I don't expect you to accept the apology. It's superhuman of you to listen to it. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

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

Okay, it doesn't rock, but it nails the point better than a dozen songs that do rock.

No, you can't slam to it. It's not quite as much fun when you're too plastered to be coherent. But you're probably not plastered right now. After all, MRR doesn't rock either, does it?

I mentioned before that I wanted to talk about old age. That's a time and place that you might be lucky enough (and the world unlucky enough) to reach.

It's strange that most punk rockers, and most young people in general, hate oldsters.

You're impatient with the woman creeping along in front. You laugh at the drooling granddad, struggling with his walker. You don't get it.

Instead of identifying with these people, you lump them in with ADULTS. Somehow you figure old people are part of the same breed as businessmen and housewives. Another kind of grown-up. You're wrong

After having to deal with my parents in an old age home... after visiting weekly... after seeing what others call "the downhill slide..." I'm convinced that old age is punk.

Scene one: Magda is sixteen years old: purple hair, so many piercings her face sets off the K-mart theft alarms. "Trenchcoat Mafia" t-shirt, torn jeans twenty sizes too big, doc Martins and a chain wallet. She's with mom, shopping for school supplies. Mom is a normal young hip lady. She smokes weed with her daughter, but still makes her do her homework.

They walk down the K-mart isle, Magda poking through the notebooks, looking for one that's just enough out of fashion to make her cool. Something with a fifties-ish look.

Henrietta Housewife is also there. She's with her daughter, Jennifer. Catholic school uniform, with a pleated skirt and blue

kerchief. Mom's slacks are so tight you can see her cellulite. She's got big hair and a bigger suburban attitude.

Glancing at Magda, Henrietta clucks her tongue and shakes her head. Magda's mom responds.

"Watsamatta?!" she asks. "You see

something green?"

Magda smiles at her mom sticking up for her, but is annoyed that anyone cares in the first place.

"Aren't we all just people?" she asks her mom. "Why do they look at me like that?" Despite her clothes, Magda want to be normal.

Just like Jennifer, only dressed differently.

Magda is not punk.

Scene two: My new pal Ms. M visits my folks in the old age home. She's the new girl, over to make an impression.

After the initial introduction, dad lets loose the loudest windblast this side of an Oklahoma tornado. BFFRRRRRRRRRRT! A full pantsful of turds. A full-fledged explosion.

Piss spurting through the front, dribbling down the furniture. A gagable odor fills the room.

M is quiet, with her head tastefully looking down, pretending it's all as innocent as a nosepick.

Dad's embarrassed, I can tell. He makes his way onto his walker and creeps toward the bathroom. Mom follows him quickly, ignoring the wet trail behind. M and I sit in stunned silence, neither of us mentioning what

happened.

That was a year ago, maybe two. I forget.

Dad does the same now. Often. But he's no longer embarrassed. "I yam what I yam! If my piss and shit bother you, then move!" Can you get punker than that?

Now, my father farts loudly in the middle of a Broadway show. My mother takes her teeth out in a restaurant. Both of them are liable to crotch dribble-- or flood anytime anyplace.

They don't give a fuck about what you think.

Who's more punk? Magda who just wants to be normal in her punkatude, or my parents who don't care? The answer is easy.

Dripping snot, pissing anywhere, shitting more publically than GG Allin. What could be MORE punk? If punk, is saying "fuck you, I'll do what I want and I don't care if it disgusts you." Then you can't be punker than being really old.

ENDNOTES: [Thanks to your protests, sit-ins, marches and church burnings, there are no longer length restrictions at MRR. All power to the people! Yeah! Still, visitors to my website:

www.freeyellow.com/members2/seidboard/index.html, or subscribers (email: MykelB@ix.netcom.com) will receive a few extra endnotes. Just my way to get rid of the crud that builds up on my hard drive.]

--> Rising to Viagra dept: It's one of the best articles I've read about the implications of Viagra: David Steinberg in the January issue of "Batteries Not Included." (Send $3 to: BNI, 130 W. Limeston St., Yellow Springs OH 45387).

The author compares Viagra to breast implants. He says it "ups the ante" for sex. No more polite caress and "Don't worry. It happens to everyone."

From now on, it DOESN'T happen to

everyone. You pop a pill and POP! It's a new standard. A bought-and-paid-for standard that one time or another will fault those who don't pay. Viagra has changed expectations, and there's no going back.

-->In a band dept: Wow! The folks at

www.aversion.com offer free webspace to any band who asks for it. They've set up a link list and instructions on how to set up tour dates and even how to put your website up in the first place. Ten points to these guys.

Twenty if it works!

-->Looking for love dept: Lou Galluch, (DE 1806, 1600 Walters Mill Rd., Somerset PA 15510) is one of two million folks in US prisons. He's lonely and bored. You would be too! He's also looking for some punk rock girls to write him to cheer him up. I don't think you can send him photos, but a nice letter... well, you know. ME, you can send photos-- and videos.

And you don't have to be a girl.

-->Maybe work isn't so bad after all dept: The Thorazine website http://www.thorazine.org  reports on strange employment. In Guam some men work full-time traveling around and screwing young virgins. Those virgins pay for the service.

Why? Under Guam law, virgins are not allow to marry. A wise and sensible law, if you ask me. I wonder what the unemployment rate is for virgin-screwers. Any vacancies? When's the next plane to Guam?

--> Good reason to shoot dept: My pal Kirk goes to boarding school in Connecticut. He's gonna be in a school production of "The Pirates of Penzance." In that operetta, he'll have the only non-singing part. He's a funny, sarcastic, boy with no singing ability. Sometimes I wonder if we're related.

The guy that was playing the lead, now isn't. The school threw him out four weeks before graduation. Here's why:

The young man is walking with a friend. He complains about how a student or a teacher makes me so angry, "I could kill 100 people."

A teacher overhears this. BLAM! The kid's gone in an hour. On indefinite "medical leave." If he comes back with a gun, I hope he's a little more selective that the last bunch of teen shooters.

-->Good idea dept: SLAMDANCE

Http://www.slamdance.co.uk/slamdance/home.htm  is a terrific start at an international directory of shows. Dave Mac, who puts it together wants info from around the world. He'll organize it into a central database. If you're travelling, you'll always know what's going on. Contact him through his webpage or at

davemac@slamdance.co.uk.

-->More from the Evil Empire: One of the least publicized aspects about the Melissa computer virus is the way they caught the guy who (allegedly) did it. Microsoft embeds a code in Microsoft Word. It allows police (or anyone else who knows how) to identify and trace any document created by that program.

Now, Intel has announced that the new Pentium III chip will also have a traceable code embedded in it. That means, anything you do with your computer, anywhere to you travel along the information superhighway, the supersleuths can follow you. My advice: DON'T USE MICROSOFT WORD (besides, it's a lousy program) DON'T USE OR BUY A COMPUTER WITH A PENTIUM III CHIP.

"Where do you want to go today?" asks Microsoft.

I answer, "Wherever you choose, they'll be following you."

-->Even more on the evil empire: Mike W.

reports: The setup routine for Microsoft's Windows 98 operating system deliberately disables files used by competitors' software.

It then installs different versions of those files for the use of Windows 98.

Windows 98 includes a new utility, the Version Conflict Manager, or VCM, to keep track of the disabled files and provide a way for users to switch the files back. But the Win98 setup routine does not provide any notice to users that the files are being changed or that the Version Conflict Manager is available if a competitors' software no longer operates properly...

If the Windows 98 setup routine detects that a competitors' program has installed a newer shared file than the version that comes with Windows 98, the setup routine moves the file to a new location, thereby disabling it.

Win98 then installs an older version of the same file into the proper location. The application that depended on the newer version of that file may no longer work properly, or it may no longer work at all.

And to think, I used to make fun of people who used Apples.

-->It's all in the marketing dept: Carrying on the grand punk tradition of "it ain't in the show, it's in the marketing." I made t-shirts for my spoken word shows. With my face on the front, the words say "Old punks never die..." On the back it says, "they just do spoken word."

Besides plugging the shirts, I wanna plug Todd, the silkscreener. Great quality white-on- black, I don't know how that guy managed to make me look ugly. That's talent! Check him out at (718) 389-7803.

You can get a t-shirt from me for $12 including postage. Check me out at the usual place: (PO Box 137, Prince St. Station, NYC 10012). Speaking of the usual, what happened to those videos you guys used to send me. It's been MONTHS!

-->Sometimes too late IS never dept: Italy is expected to host up to twenty-five million Catholic pilgrims celebrating the 2000th anniversary of the birth of Christ.

As a BBC story reports, "In what some correspondents are calling the 'ostrich approach' to the Y2K problem, the Italian government did create a panel of unpaid experts, but gave it no support staff to carry out its recommendations."

However, "When the BBC tried to call Italy's millennium compliance enforcers on Monday for further information, the operator said that there were no telephones and the office was still under construction."

The full story's at:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/hi/english/world/europe/ newsid_279000/279929.stm 

--Mykel (mykelB@ix.netcom.com)

http://www.freeyellow.com/members2/seidboard/index.html