Diary

Farting to Peace or Mykel's India Blog Entry 9

2018-11-11T12:56:00.000-05:00

India Blog 9

Farting to peace & quiet

It was the fart to end all farts. A massive monster of a fart. Not a rifle shot… but a spinning rumbling bubbling… burbling… growling… slightly oozy monster fart… a never ending fart… rolling like thunder… each wave of sound and pressure building building to a crescendo… a symphonic far… giant… awe inspiring… deafening… audible for blocks… a collective Was that what I think it was? from the scores of people within earshot. It’s only a prelude of things to come.

Ahh, now I feel better.

I’ve got the rest of today and three more left in India. It’s been an adventurous trip… I’ll need a month to recover fully. I wonder if I lost weight? I don’t feel thinner, but I’ve contributed so much to the Indian waste disposal system… those pounds have to go somewhere.

With half of my truckload of Immodium gone, I think I’ve developed a resistant strain. Thanks to Anant’s mom and her prescriptions it doesn’t hurt like it did before. (At its worst, I couldn’t go an hour without screaming pain.) But the sanitation system suffers… as does DAX my poor host whose toilet was already broken even before I got there. Water doesn’t fill the tank, so Dax runs a hose from the cold-water shower to fill the back of the tank. Quite often, I fear.

Then there’s the cough. I’ve long since used up my supply of Fisherman’s Friend. I’ve discovered an Indian brand: Koflet-- that works almost as well and is even MORE foul-tasting. But it works.

Today I went to what was to be my last Hindu temple. It’s a relatively new temple-- built this millennium… immense… really beautiful from the outside… within pissing distance of a Metro station. So what could be wrong?

Yeah right…

When you enter there’s a sign that says BAG CHECK. Ok, that’s convenient. I can leave my daypack there and see the place easier. Nope… The bag check is not for YOU to check your bag. It’s for THEM to check your bag… explosives, time bombs, guns, knives… you get the idea.

Inside, a crowd waits at the entrance. Just in front of the entrance is a COAT CHECk. I expect, they want to check your COAT for explosives, knives, etc. But I don’t make it that far. In front of the coat check is a sign listing things you cannot bring into the temple: among them: bags, cameras, cellphones, video cameras… Everything you need to document the visit is NOT allowed.

That sign, along with the massive crowd gathering in front of the entrance (probably for more security goodies) turns me around. I head for the exit… fast. Back to Cafe Coffee Day, where I sit now... typing this… but am unable to use the “free” wifi because it requires an Indian phone number to log it. I don’t have an Indian phone number.

PLAN B: I’ll go to the botanical gardens. I hate zoos, and botanical gardens are just zoos for plants, but somehow I like them. We’ll see….

Yes! The only real peace and quiet I’ve seen in India… at times I feel like I’m the only one in the park… apart from a couple playful puppies. I just sit and read… a park ranger comes over… stands right in front of me… Openly looking at me… silent as the night before Christmas… staring at me with deadly eyes… I smile and wave. He gives a military turn and walk away.

Back to peaceful quiet. The only problem is the air… Ah the air in Delhi. The air.

Oh yeah, back in the metro…. ready t go someplace NOT Cafe Coffee Day for dinner… I’m pleased to find that they still use feet and inches.

I thought they were metric!

--more to come

--You can read my non-travel opinion pages at: https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com

--More Mykel at https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com

DAX or Mykel's India Trip Entry 8

2018-11-08T03:24:00.002-05:00

Mykel's India Blog Entry 8

I write this while lying on a hard thin mattress on the floor of an apartment in a south Delhi apartment. It’s the night of Diweli-- a Hindu holiday celebrated like the mutant offspring of a Christmas/July 4th mating.

Locals stay home for the day. They give each other presents. Houses, stores and streets are strung with colored lights… there are some lasers. Click on the link below to see some of the decorations… but you cannot HEAR the fireworks.

https://photos.app.goo.gl/CXbZhQnqPjSCmFxi6

Fireworks.. crackers, sparklers, those twirly things that give off sparks, the whole kit and caboodle… a lot more big ones… my fading brain forgets the name of them… ashcans maybe... Huge explosives… like gunfire.

I remember my father once telling me… on Independence Day…. “Hear that Mickey?” he says (That was years before I became Mykel). “That’s what it’s like to be at war. It never stops though. And there are no kids laughing.”

In parts of India-- as in parts of America-- fireworks are illegal. Some places restrict them to non-rockets… Exploding is okay… flying is not. The laws don’t matter.

A conservative pal reported that some capitalist think tank said India’s low standard of living was due to “government over-regulation.” And there are rules and bureaucracy up the wazoo. But the reality is, though there’s are thousands of petty regulations… most are routinely ignored.

Alcohol sale is prohibited during Diweli. My host is sleeping on the couch right now… boozed out. I myself am on shaky ground. Last week, my hotel didn’t have a liquor lenience… they went out... brown bagged it and served me from the kitchen.

Flash to more generalities:

I don’t think I’ve had as many young men run their hands up and down my legs since my days in the backroom of The Stud in the 70s. Every shrine, every museum, every movie theater has an airport style baggage x-ray, a metal detector and a guard who feels you up.

There are women guards too, but you don’t get your choice.

Security, security, security…. check into a hotel, they ask for your passport number, your home state, your cellphone number, where you’re coming from and where you’re going. Then they make a copy of your passport.

All this information is studiously written down, double checked, and kept forever. Yet a terrorist could run a tuk tuk full of fertilizer explosives into the parliament building on Diwali eve, and people would think it was just part of the celebration. No one ever looks at the books. Few police are on the street… and they are so crippled by diesel exhaust fumes, that they couldn’t catch an errant puppy.

Flash to now:

I am feeling a bit forted/palaced/templed/mosqued out. It’s my last week in India, and I have the feeling I’ll be spending most of it making up for lost sleep. I like museums… and they’re in-doors. A necessity in this most polluted (in the world?) city I’ve ever been in. Maybe I’ll go to the Gandhi museums (musea?) One for Mahatma, one for Indira… both assassinated… did you know that?

I arrived in Delhi (which I consistently misspell as Dehli) via a 5 hour bus trip from Jaipur. In Jaipur, I developed a bad cough, which turned into bronchitis by the time I arrived here.

I’d planned to splurge on my first few nights (stayed in a hotel!) but I was too sick… feverish… chills… fuzzy brain… to do anything other than cough… I felt sorry for the people in the next hotel room.

I was back texting THE DOCTOR (aka Anant’s mom). She recommended some stuff. I went to a pharmacy and got one of her recommendations and something else the druggist promised me “is just as good.”

The cough remains, but I don’t feel sick any more. There are daily smog reports… always in the red zone. The local paper shared a list of air-cleaning houseplants a must for every resident. It’s like smoking ten packs of cigarettes a day… worse.

Speaking of which, my host has a cough worse than mine. A near-death sounding hack. And he may be the heaviest smoker I’ve ever seen. Except when he fell asleep from our beer-prohibited beer party (yes! I did beer… and pizza (but NOT Dominoes) in Delhi). He had something smokeable in his mouth from the time we said hello until the time he kicked me off the floor last night… and gave me the bed. Then again, until he passed out for a second time.

Then, this morning, the first thing in his mouth (no, not that… he’s not my type)… is another self-rolled something or other. As far a I can tell, he’s the most hardcore chain smoker I’ve ever seen. But, it makes sense, if you’re living in Delhi. Why not CHOOSE what makes you spit green in the morning.. instead of being a helpless victim?

DAX is his nickname, and he’s a sound engineer. We trade CDs… even though we have completely different musical tastes.

He introduces me to this African Reggae guy who can sing in 4 languages… (Africans are amazing for a lot of reasons… one of them is language ability). One of those languages is HEBREW!!

Holy shalom batman.

Check out JERUSALEM… I need India to find this stuff. By the way, ANI in Hindi means AND. In Hebrew it’s I, as if you didn’t know that:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WcqK9Ls7Eos

DAX is also a fan of The Beats. He’s a painter... and a writer. I hooked him up on facebook with my Moroccan pal El Habib… the first guy to translate beat poetry into Arabic They should “meet” each other. They need to talk in a quiet place together.

FLASH TO A TIDBIT:

Dehli is the only city in India with an extensive Metro (subway) system. It’s crowded, but not as crowded as the express trains in Mumbai. I’ve taken it several times. The patrons are like New Yorkers, forcing themselves into the cars before other people have a chance to leave. In a double dose of sadness-- TWICE in a Mumbai subway-- young men have stood up to give me their seats. Oy vey.

By now, I think I have more Indian friends than Tonto. That New Years Card list keeps growing.

Mata, Mykel

And don’t forget my regular blog…

https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com

Black Privilege or Mykel's India Trip Entry 7

2018-11-03T05:13:00.001-05:00

Black Privilege

The cliché about privilege is that you don’t know you have it because it’s just part of you daily life. The only way you can learn about it is when you see someone who DOESN’T have it. That cliché is half right. There is, however, another way of finding out about privilege… when you discover that YOU don’t have it.

It’s like driving on the highway. A classic example of white privilege is the number of times the local black guy is stopped “randomly,” versus the number of stops for non-white guys. (My Japanese friends get stopped all the time.)

I write this lying on the top bunk of a double decker bus. Parked to load up on its second crew of people. Vendors walk in and out selling water and chiplike snacks. I have both in my bag and don’t need any. One guy just dropped a bottle of water in my little compartment, then came back a few minutes later asking for money… like those guys on New York streets who hand you a CD, then follow you down the street demanding money for it. I gave him back his bottle.

The constant barrage of aggressive vendors and beggars is what I hate most about India. If someone asks me for money.. fair enough. I give when I have it… when I don’t, I say sorry. The vendor/beggar moves on to the next person. That’s how it should be… and how it is... unless you’re white in India.

One after the other they latch on to you… refusing to leave. If you’re walking they follow you. If you’re sitting they just don’t leave. I’ve had to resort to growling, barking, howling like a dog… taking out the camera and shooting multiple pictures… with flash… in the middle of the day. They’re like mosquitoes. Pity, empathy, quickly vanish when you find yourself followed and pestered every time you step out of the door… just because of the color of your skin. It almost makes me understand how horrible life must be for beautiful women who have to face this pestering every day-- almost anywhere in the world. Pass the burqua... please!

Attractions, especially old forts, palaces and museums in India all have a two tiered admissions price. The price for Indians is between 10% and 20% of the price for “foreigners” (sometimes they say “tourists”). At first I resented this, then I saw the reasoning that says locals are enjoying the sights that belong to them. Anyone who has the money to travel to India has the money to pay more to see the sights. Those sites belong to India, and it’s not bad if they’re supported by others.

Some places (like the Taj Mahal), offer benefits to the higher price payers. A separate/quicker admissions line… better seating at events like waggah… etc. (More about that later, I hope.)

Flash to the rooftop lounge in the hostel in Amritsar… where the mostly young hostelers gather. Tom (I don’t know his name yet) is sitting at the table. They’re chewing the cud about their adventures in India…. I’ve walked in in the middle of the conversation.

As words pass, hostel conversations always circles back to Where you from? I answer New York, never The US… and not even America.

I’m anxious to talk to Tom. He’s interesting, because he reminds me of Esty… a great friend I made (and stayed with) in my trip to The Gambia. I’ve never met an African traveling in India, and want to find out his story… and surprise him with a bit of walof.

“My name’s Mykel,” I say, extending my hand.

“Where you from?” asks Tom with an accent more like George Harrison’s than Fela Kuti’s.

“I’m from New York,” I tell him. “And you?”

“I’m from Liverpool,” he says.

“Famous for The Beatles,” I tell him.

“Football,” he answers.

“This guy gets all the breaks,” says a twenty-something Indian guy at the table with us. “Tell ‘em your stories, Tom.”

Tom smiles a fake-sheepish aw-shucks kind of smile, “Yeah, people think I’m South Indian. Folks are darker there. I always get the Indian admission prices. Then, when I get inside, I shift to the foreign lines. At first they stop me… ask what I’m doing there… I wave my British passport. They shuffle me over to the foreigners’ line. Best of both worlds.”

I laugh.

At the time I don’t think to ask him if he gets beggar bugged or vendored out by guys offering to be tour guides or by tuk tuk drivers following you around asking if you need a ride… when you’re obviously walking. But I bet he doesn’t get half the bugging I do. He probably can say “no thank you” and people leave him alone.

Black privilege, I say.

--More Mykel at https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com

Top Bunk or Mykel's India Trip Entry 6

2018-10-31T10:25:00.000-05:00

India Blog

October 19, 2018

I write this on my Chinese laptop lying on the top bunk of a triple level sleeper car traveling from Pune India to someplace whose name I forget. It’s noon, and I haven’t eaten today, though I have just taken my malaria medicine which includes the taped-on instruction: TAKE WITH FOOD. The car is filed with the noise of screaming people… girls… mainly ages 3 to 16… screaming, crying, chattering, nagging. It’s lucky that guns are illegal here.

I had been amazed at the deference shown to women in India. You’re not supposed to touch them… when you say hello or good bye you can hug them gently, but you can’t touch cheek to cheek. In commuter trains-- like in Japan-- women (with their children) have their own cars… sometimes their own trains. Frankly, I resented it.

Now, it suddenly occurs to me that there is an added benefit to women having their own place: QUIET ELSEWHERE!

As I write these words we pull into a station. the upper berth is the only one where it’s impossible to sit straight up. Even my 5’3” self cannot sit without twisting my neck into pain. Three guys-- early twenties-- have twisted themselves into the birth opposite me. Another sits in the top berth on the opposite side of the car. All with bent necks. A chiropractor’s dream car!

The guys are shouting at each other… in Marathi, I think… breaking into laughter… guy laughter… guffaws, belly laughs… a few giggles. More shouting… not in anger, but in eagerness to get their point across… tell a funnier story… Then the guffaws! Are they talking about me?

It’s awful! Worse than the girls… Ok, I get it. God is intervening. Showing me she’s pissed off…. teaching me a lesson in the equality of assholitude. What the fuck? I’m 70 years old and God is still teaching me lessons? Gimme a break!

Where last we left me… after an opening of the birth of a massive steaming pile of offal… the mother of all offals… we flashed back to my stay in Mumbai with Anant and his family (Aunt & Uncle) where

I’m staying for a few days.

Uncle is about 80 years old… in great shape… shorter than I am and more dexterous on the street. Aunt is like a Jewish mother… non-stop food with a dose of guilt if you don’t accept seconds… thirds… It’s a vegetarian household, and… as anyone with vegetarian friends know… vegetables mean cooking with… er... eating with gas. Add to that the non-stop spice… in everything… and you get a bellyfull of problems.

[NOTE: Here is the tension… the dialectic… of eating in India. The food is great! Even the vegetarian stuff. It’s eaten mostly with your right hand… the left hand reserved for dealing with the remains of the food AFTER it’s been digested. I have never had a bad-tasting meal in India.

BUT, my stomach, large and small intestines, and colon disagree. They rebel. They fight tooth and nail… spleen and liver… against any enjoyment of the of the spice-laden invaders. It’s the main tragedy of this trip… but there are others.]

Now, to continue with our tragic comedy… After breakfast, Anant’s uncle accompanies me to the bus station to catch bus number 85… aka ८५. He suggested it as an alternative to the city… more views of the cityscape. Today I have two goals: see the aquarium, change some money. [The Lonely Planet Guide says it’s easy. There are money changing stalls everywhere. The Lonely Planet Guide is wrong.]

Because of the oppressive Mumbai heat, the bus waiting areas (outside) are covered with a tin awning. Because of the angle of the sun, that tin only covers the last two rows of the area. Think airports, those lines that snake around ropes and poles on the way to security x-ray. We get on line at the stop for bus numbers बयालीस, चौ, रानवे and of course, ८५.

We stand in the shade of the tin roof, behind a long line of people waiting for bus ८५ or चौरानवे

or निन्यानवे As the buses come and go we slowly move up in line, until finally we're first and second. First position is directly under the sun... outside in the heat. Second position is slightly covered, but not shaded. Uncle takes first position.

And we wait. 10 minutes pass and it gets hotter. 20 minutes. 30 minutes.

"I think maybe we just missed a bus," says Uncle.

I nod.

40 minutes.

"Maybe I should ask at the front and check the schedule," he says, walking out into the sun and heading toward the front office.

I expect this will act like lighting a cigarette... encouraging the bus to come when I don't know how to pay for it, or where to sit, or how to get on. Uncle will be gone... at bus enquiry, and I will miss the bus. One trick in God's many bags of them is to remain unpredictable. If I can tell what her actions will be, I can prepare for them. So predictibly, the unpredictable happens and Uncle returns before the bus comes. He's sweating from the walk in the hot sun.

"Ten minutes," he says.

"Don't you want to come out of the hot sun?" I ask him.

"No, you stay there... the bus will be here soon..." he answers.

And it is.

"Remember," he says, "the women sit in the first six or seven rows on the right. The first six or seven rows on the left are reserved for the aged. You can sit there if you like."

I thank him, get on the bus and head into town.

Very slowly... Mumbai traffic is Bangkok traffic, New York traffic, Dakar traffic all rolled into 1... with curry sause added. It runs on horns... constant blasts from motorcycles, tuk tuks (called "auto rickshaws" or just "autos"). It runs on people running... the way to get across the highway... or any street is to play dodgem with the busses, motorcycles, and "autos."

It's a scramble with the result... so I'm told... that India has the highest pedestrian (or is it ALL street accidents) fatality rate in the world. The bus takes half an hour... to go a block. It isn't near the aquarium for 2 1/2 hours.

Google maps says the aquarium is 850 meters away. Google maps is usually right... but sometimes... In this case, I follow it. The sun beats hotter. Someone on the bus says it's 40^o. Translated into Fahrenheit , that's fuckin' hot!

I've been using the same handkerchief to blow my nose, wipe my hands after a hand-eaten meal, cough my GERD into, and wipe my face in the excessive heat. It's pretty rank.... but it's all I've got.

Walk this way… walk that way… turn in 20 meters… how far is that? The hankie grows stinkier.

STOP:

October 31,

So much has happened since that last story, that I don’t know where to begin… except here. On the top bunk of a double decker train, on the way from a border town (spitting distance to Pakistan) to Jaipur. The train was about 2 ½ hours late… poor Anant and his brother who accompanied me to the station got more than they bargained for…

So the 8:00 train to Jaipur leaves at 10:30. Right ahead of me are my cellmates… a couple maybe a few years younger than me with 4 suitcases, each a few sizes larger than my torso. They take up the whole compartment. In a few hours, they get everything situated… we have a where you from chat.

The man, “Where are you from?”

Me, “New York.”

The man, “Oh, the US! We’re going to Seattle.”

Me, “When?”

The man, “Seattle. Seattle. It’s in America.”

Me, “When are you going?”

The man, “My son works there… a very good job.”

Me, “I see.”

The man, “You know Seattle?”

Me, “Yes, but it’s very far from New York.”

The man, “Seattle, yes. It’s in America.”

I smile. The woman smiles and waves up at me.

Lights out… then the snoring begins. Earplugs… They don’t work. But somehow I manage to drift off to a dream-filled sleep, dreaming, for some reason, about lawns.

Not for long.

6AM The phone rings, not my phone, but the woman’s. (For some reason, cellphones here do not seem to have VIBRATE mode, but all ring on the loudest volume with a 30 second ringtone, supposed to bring up images of Bollywood.

The woman answer and shouts into the phone. This lasts about 10 minutes. Then she passes the phone to the man who shouts into it for another quarter hour. Then, they start a non-stop conversation… with each other... fastest chatter in the world… like it’s a TV game show where the one who can say the most in a fixed time wins a chance at a new washing machine.

I moan. Fart loudly. Nothing helps. They go on non-stop… I pound the wall, the volume of their conversation lowers... for bout 10 seconds. I fart loudly again. Get up to piss, not looking at them at all… realize we’re in the station and not allowed to piss until the train starts moving again… I return and climb up to my bunk. They continue to chatter. I stare at the woman. The guy is directly beneath me so I can’t see him.

Arms folded... the evilest eye I can give to the woman in the lower bunk. She sees me… Lowers her voice… a bit… her phone rings.

Flash to 9:30am

They have left now. But it’s already morning… no longer late night. The whole train car is awake.

--more later if I have time… maybe I can sleep for 10 minutes--

The Start of a Huge... one of those days or Mykel's India Entry Number 5

2018-10-16T12:54:00.000-05:00

Oct 16, 2018

Breathe… Breathe… Push… Breathe… Push.. Yes! Yes! Yeesssss!It’s the mother of all shits… a vast pile… bigger than a basketball, though less round… not a shit brickhouse… no turds to speak of… just a huge pile… consistency of a Big Whopper. This is what giving birth is like. An expulsion that instantly turns unimaginable pain to unimaginable pleasure.

Keep that image in mind… I’ll get back to it. But first let’s see how I got there… some background.

I forget if it’s Mama-Dada or Dada-Mama…. Actually, it’s probably both. Anant’s Aunt and Uncle along with his Aunt’s sister. I could never get this kinship relationship right. There are firsts and seconds.. and once removed and twice removed. And in-laws and out-laws… Me? No clue after Mom, Dad, Brother, and Sister.

I’ve left my first homestay, with Anant’s long-term friend, Jocel, and his wife and child. (Jocel’s wife and child not Anant’s.) With the exception of the general wonderfulness of the couple-- putting up with me for 10 days, making me breakfast, dinner and usually lunch every day-- it was a familiar stay. They live in a big apartment… I had my own room… no AC but the fan was really enough. They lived at the end of the local trainline, so if I traveled local I could get a seat.

The whole family lived in New Jersey for some time, so they were prepared for me. They worried if I liked spicy food, and how much milk to put in the coffee. They ate meat, fish, goat… maybe even beef… I’m not sure. They did not give me a key (would you?), but usually there was someone home, so it wasn’t a problem. Mom used to be a teacher. Dad works in an IT company. The kid is rambunctious… could be Levittown.

Except for the ever-present oppressive heat (98^o today), life in Mumbai wasn’t much different than New York or Tokyo or some combination of the two. It was just exotic enough to keep the camera shutter fluttering, but not Whoa… look at that… like minute in Mongolia is… (I bet there’s nowhere as Whoa… look at that! as Mongolia.)

Life with Dada-Mama and Mama-Dada is different from life with Jocel. First, they keep Hindu kosher. That means no meat, no eggs, no alcohol. Dairy products are okay. (Milk doesn’t stop life. The others do.) The three of them have moved into one room for my sake. I still have my own room (this time with mosquito netting!… though my first night there I forgot to tuck it in)… with a fan, but the apartment layout is different.

There is no hallway between the rooms. The living room opens into “my” room which opens into the other bedroom, where my three flatmates crowd together to give me a private place to sleep. In the morning-- that is about 8:30AM (slightly past my bed-time in New York), is tea and some biscuits… we’d call them cookies. Then half an hour later, Mama-Dada (or Dada-Mama, whichever is the female) and her sister have cooked breakfast. I have never seen the women eat, but Dada-Mama (or Mama-Dada, whichever is the male) and I always eat together in front of the TV that’s usually showing an India soap opera… or comedy, where the words coming from the actors mouths never quite match the lip movements. I’m guessing the original was in Hindi and the local version in dubbed into Marathi for the Mumbai audience.

While the show is on, both Mama-Dada and Dada-Mama are on their cellphones-- either watching OTHER shows, videos or talking with the family in Texas. All the meals are great, even if they’re vegetarian. I clean my plate… some kind of rice with spice… everything has spice in it. My guess this started for health reasons… maybe to induce sweating… the so-called natural cooling system of the body. (I could never figure this out. Maybe it works in DRY places, but sweat in a country like India… where it’s as wet as a sloppy simile… It just doesn’t work.)

Mama-Dada (or Dada-Mama) comes by with seconds. I make the universal thumb and forefinger sign for just a little. I get a scoop. I’m getting really full, now.. and the spices are beginning to work their magic on my digestive system. I can just about squeeze that last spoonful in.

Mama-Dada (or Dada-Mama) is back as soon as I put that last spoonful in my mouth. (They got spoons as well as toilet paper for me.) She holds a bowl with more spicy rice.

“Some more?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I’m full!” I tell her. “I can’t eat a bit more.”

“What’s the matter? You didn’t like it?” she asks.

“I didn’t know you were Jewish,” I don’t answer.

From there… it’s to the bus station. Dada-Mama (or Mama-Dada) suggests I go by bus so I can see more… I’ve never taken a bus in Mumbai.

So, it’s off to the bus station. I know I need to take bus 85… The buses don’t use Arabic numerals. (I guess it’s that Arabic thing.) Dada-Mama accompanies me to the station, and we wait in the heat for bus number ८५.

The shit hits the fan in the next entry.

---more soon---

You can read my more political/social/punk stuff at: https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com
And you can join my Mykel Goes to India facebook group at: https://www.facebook.com/groups/224707731492653/

Indians! Mykel Goes to India Entry 4

2018-10-12T08:46:00.000-05:00

Indians!

Mykel's Travel Blog
India: Entry 4

Oct 12, 2018

I love Indians… and yeah, I’m talking red dot… not feather. I don’t know any feather Indians… The Navajo I’ve met have all been pretty nice… but I don’t know enough of them to say I LOVE them. But the India Indians???

Holy Guru batman! They are terrific.

As a visitor… well, let me tell you their motto… I’ve heard it several dozen times…

GUEST IS GOD

In America, guests begin to smell like fish after three days. Like fish, they should be canned.

In India… they’re annoyed with you if you wash the dishes! “Why did you do that? You didn’t have to do that.”

My best houseguests are the ones who wash the dishes! It’s almost a test of guest value Ten extra points for washing the dishes. (That means you Gavin… my last guest who washed the dishes.)

Washing the dishes is for hosts. God never washes the dishes.

So what happened? I guess I’ll take it in sort of reverse order. This was last night:

You might have guessed that they’re old (not as old as me) punk-rockers. Members and hanger-oners from the great-named Mumbai punk band: TRIPWIRE. Amey, the guitarist, I met on facebook, introduced by the great Luk Haas.

Now we were meeting in person for the first time-- along with friends, promoters and the bass player. We hang out all evening. First they take me to this ROLL place… not bakery rolls, but real Indian crepe rolls. I forgot to take a picture of the really fat guy who owns the small chain. It’s something like a Kushner Roll… but not exactly that name.

“Say it’s an Indian Burito, Mykel,” says Sagar, the bassplayer.

Mmmm sure is good-- spicy with just enough sweet in it to make it a WOW. It sure hits my lingual G-spot. But that’s only the beginning. From there it’s on to THE PAGODA… sort of.

On the way, I casually mention that my boots need fixing. The sole is separating from the rest of the boot. For some reason (the heat?), since I got to India everything seems to be falling apart. A handkerchief I brought with me shreds on its own. My camera front pulls away from the camera back. My shirt loses a button. My body is suddenly filled with itchy blemishes. And more.

“Yo! Yo! Yo!” I say. “You guys know where I can get my boot fixed?”

“Mochi! Mochi!” They tell me.

“I wasn’t asking about Japanese food,” I start tell them… then grip the sides of the car door as Amey pulls a U-ey and drives down a side street, then screeches to a halt.

“Give me your boot,” he says. I unlace it and hand it over. He takes it and bounds out of the car. In a quarter hour he’s back… sole firmly glued in place.

“Ok,’ I tell him. “That’s great. I’ll take care of the Japanese food.”

He frowns.

“You said you were going for mochi,” I say. “You know those chewy rice cakes.”

Laughter.

“Mochi, in Maratha means cobler.” he spits out through the laughs. “I just took your boots to a mochi.”

Bang! Back into the car and off to the pagoda.

That’s another thing about India… it has so much stuff to look at… And we do… can’t go inside but do get to see it lit up… and walk around late at night. The night had a perfect crescent moon with one star… like the flag of a (non-Jewish) Middle Eastern country.

I try to take a picture of it, but the camera refuses to see what I see. So you’ll have to imagine it in stark black and bright white.

After the pagoda, it’s on to a bar. (Who me?) We sit at a table on the side, and order beer. My stomach is beginning to rumble... I am in India after all.

I excuse myself to go take care of it. I follow the signs that say TOILET! Then end in a little room wtih two urinals. No toilet that I can see. I try to make good with just a gas release... and then I return to the table.

That's when I notice it. There are only men in the bar. Tables full of men. Old men, young men, groups of men, men sitting alone... just men.

"Is this a gay bar?" I ask Amey.

"No," he says, "why do you ask?"

"There are no women here," I say.

He looks around and laughs.

This is a lower class workers bar. Heavy jobs... construction... cleaning... you know. Women don't do that kind of work.

I shrug.

"But don't men shit?" I don't ask... And I do get through the rest of the evening.

R.A., the promoter, has a whiskey. On Saga’s suggestion, I order a LONDON PILSNER-- STRONG.

“I wanted an INDIAN beer,” I say.

“That IS an Indian beer,” says he.

I shudda known. INDIAN PALE ALE is the most popular style of American beer. So why not have LONDON PILSNER as a good Indian beer?

Yeah! Another good choice.

Aside: I need to explain Indo-Chinese… For Americans Indo China is the peninsula where Thailand, Myanmar, Cambodia, Vietnam and Malaysia hang their hats. For Indians, Indo-China is a food style. Chinese food with an Indian twist! [Note: Every country in the world has its own version of Chinese food. Why should India be any different?]

So we have the spicy chicken and the spicy shrimp… and another LONDON PILSNER PLEASE? And another……

11:30… In New York, I’d be just starting, but I’m worried about waking up my Indian family. So, soused and ready to go home… (more about my HOME in Mumbai later)… Amey drives me back.

That brings me to Jocel, Karin… and Lael… my family here in Mumbai.

This is a trio who have put up with me for 11 days and counting. (I THINK I’m leaving tomorrow, but I have learned that PEOPLE PLAN… GOD LAUGHS here in India even more than other places).

Jocel works… leaves at 10AM returns at 8:30… Karen takes care of their cute but rambunctious (just like me!) offspring Lael… is a job and a half in itself. Plus, they both take care of me. I don’t mean they give me a bed… and a room to myself… They do that. But they also feed me-- breakfast in the morning… dinner at night... entertain me with Bollywood on the large screen TV… ask me about my day… suggest places to go… make sure I’m okay… (I’m okay)… do I want this or that? All while taking care of an ever-moving 4 year old!

PLUS! 10 days of this so far. I even try to take them out to dinner to say thank you…. my credit card is declined… THEY PAY!

GUEST IS GOD!!!!

Ok, as God, if I have the choice, you guys get straight to heaven… that’s for sure!

Then there’s Narantha:

No, she doesn’t have half a Salvador Dali mustache… that’s a lock of hair hanging low. I don’t have photoshop in this computer, so I can’t remove it.

Another couch-surfing discovery. Namratha (and I hope I spelled her name right… those Indian names are killers!) was hostessing when I first inquired through couch-surfing in New York. She can’t hostess me. But, she says, she’ll have me for dinner.

“I don’t taste that good,” I warn her.

We meet near where she works: Akruti Trade Center. The auto-rickshaw driver (auto-rickshaws are like Thai tuk-tuks… If you don’t know what that is… ask Google… She knows.) leaves me off at the Akriti STAR Center, which is right across from the Akruti Enterprise Center. I go in and show the concierge the address on my phone.

He shakes his head and gestures moving his hands every which way.

“So I have to leave the building and go somewhere else?” I ask.

He nods his head. I leave and cross the very busy street in front of the building. (Crossing the street in Mumbai is an adventure that deserves it’s own entry. The closest experience I’ve had to it is crossing the street in Dakar. Think, dodge ‘em!)

Across the street, I enter Akruti Enterprise Center and show the concierge the email message. He makes exactly the same hand gestures as the previous concierge. I point to the other side of the street. He tilts his head in that ambiguous way which I think means yes. I sigh deeply and cross the street back to the other side. Then I text Namratha.

I look around for a landmark.

“I’m in front of the Chinese restaurant,” I tell her.

“There?” she says, “I know where you are. I’ll be right there.”

And she is… and it’s all uphill from there. Great dinner. Great conversation. More introductions… Dinner again in two days with her and the Brahmins of Juhu… no meat… no booze… but great company.

Wow! Do I love Indians!

--end--

If you’re interested in my non-travel, more political, social, satirical, scatological, punker writing. You can read more at: https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com

The Trains Mykel Goes to India Entry 3

2018-10-08T13:27:00.000-05:00

Monday October 8

A week in India. I've decided to keep these reports small, singly focused, despite the time I have, things happen so fast, internet access is spotty, and life takes twisty turns.

I want to write about THE TRAINS. But before I do it I have to explain my first impression that Mumbai is in the same group as New York and Tokyo. Hot and sweaty in the summer.

Filled with people. A strange combination of helpful, careless, self-centered, beauty, and ugliness.

I’m staying in Borivali, a northern suburb of the city… about an hour and a half by train from the old town… where the tourists go… no tourists in Borivali.

As in Tokyo, most of the streets don’t have names… the buildings do. So, for example, I in the Bolivali section of Mumbai, in the AD Colony and in the Titanium Building. [Names changed slightly to protect my friends.] The autocab drivers that get you from place to place (think Tuk Tuk)… station to Titanium Google maps… they just plug in the name and find it with the press of DIRECTIONS button. This is India… tech capital of the world, right? Yeah right.

Maybe they’ll know AD Colony… but that’s a big area. Titanium? Isn’t that some Marvel super-hero?

But lets talk about the trains. Like in other countries, there are express and local trains. Some of the local trains START in Borivali. The express trains start who-know-where… Beijing? All trains have first and second class cars. The difference being the price and air conditioning. I have not (yet?) taken a first-class ride. Express and local trains are the same price.

You’ve probably seen pictures of the white-gloved guards in Tokyo whose job it is to stuff the people people into the cars… tight enough for the doors to close.

“We don’t need guards with white gloves,” says Karin, my hostess. “We stuff ourselves.”

The express trains are as full of people as any Odakyu rush-hour train… the only difference… the doors don’t close. So the train comes into the station with half a dozen upper body halves… hanging out… getting air conditioning from real air.

It’s my first trip downtown. Karin takes me to the station. Translates my needs to the railroad clerk. Churchgate Terminal, round trip for one, second class, which platform?

I hand her the money… around a dollar for the round-trip. I get a dot-matrix printed ticket, completely unreadable, except for the all-caps white on brown logo wishing me HAPPY JOURNEY. The picture is for a ticket to a different location, but they all look the same.

We’re off to track 9. Karin walks me to the track, confirms it’s the right place with the shoeshine boy, then asks, “Are you okay Mykel? Can you take it from here?”

“Of course,” I tell her. “I’m a New Yorker.”

She leaves and I wait. Not long… the train approaches. It’s packed… Japan packed, but with open doors… people hanging out… gasping for the polluted air of the station…. barely hanging on to the door frame… maybe there are no actual doors at all… just open spots for people to get on and off.

No one gets off.

There is absolutely no space… no one to push me in. No way I can add myself to the crowd… I let the train go.

Next train’s in a few minutes. The doors open… Yes! There’s some space… maybe even a seat… then I notice it. There are only women in this car…. beautiful women in saris, old women with faces as gnarled as their walking sticks… mothers with little kids (yes, some of them boys… but no older than 8 or 9 years old…. I can’t pass.) I’m in the women’s car. Just like in Japan, I suppose, the tightness of the quarters leads to some unwelcome tightness in the crotch of some random guy’s pants. Some extra lumps for the long ride… the girls would rather not. So that have their own car… this is it.

I get out of the car. All the others are as crowded as a poetic metaphorical sentence with way too many different words to be poetic or metaphorical in it. I wait for the next train… about 10 minutes… no I don’t.

Clutching my ticket, I decide to try to try something different. Take the local… It’ll take longer, but it’ll start from here. It should be empty when it starts, right? I ask half a dozen people, most of whom shrug and keep walking. Finally, I find the track… track 2 with one of those huge train stoppers on one end meaning exactly THE END OF THE LINE.

Yes! The train pulls in and I rush in with the others, snag a seat by the window. Right under a fan…. I take off my Bay Stars hat to enjoy the coolish air on the top of my head. The train fills almost to seating capacity… and then starts. The seat I’m sitting on is made for three people, as are most of the seats-- except the benches along the wall. I sit next to a chubby guy. Next to him is an attractive young woman… very sporty looking. Across from me is a white-shirted guy who put his briefcase in the overhead rack. Next to him is a tall skinny college-looking guy. Next to him is a slightly shlubby looking old man… with middle age spread long since spread.

Next stop the car fills more. Another businessman walks up to the seat across from me and-- with his ass-- bumps the slub on his arm. He pushes the others on the bench to slide down so he can get 6 inches of space to rest a single buttock on. The trip continues and I see this repeated… every stop… sometimes between stops. On one of the benches... the end guy… butted over to make a tiny bit of half-sitting space… Except my bench. No one butts the woman at the end of bench. No matter how crowded it gets, the woman has an invisible buffer around her than no one breaks. Separate cars… no ass bumping.. the women have it made here. Even when it gets crowded.

And it does get crowded… hanging out the door crowded…

You can’t imagine:

An hour and a half later, I’m in Churchgate.

No one checks the tickets… either on the way in or the way out.

On the way back I, find that I can’t really tell which trains are local and which are express. The station is filled with cryptic messages… at least the English versions are cryptic.

Okay, here comes the train… what luck! It must be a local. The car is pretty empty… One guy in the corner… with a cane… I sit on an empty bench, near the window. There is some shouting. Some tap tap tapping. Half a dozen blind guys walk in… single file… hands on a shoulder in front of them. Yeah, it’s the blind leading the blind… and they do it perfectly. Right to the back bench… where they sit in a single row and converse loudly in a language I don’t understand.

In totters an old man… looking much like a classic guru… long beard, white robes, and a heavy limp. A couple with a child sits on the bench in front of me. The man has no eyes… I don’t mean he’s blind… I mean he has no eyes. Two empty sockets… his wife and child lead him to the seat in front of me. I smile coochy coo style at the kid. Then notice that mom is missing a hand.

Note: those who know me well know that handicapped people do not freak me out. Actually, I enjoy their company and feel them to be some of the bravest people I know. My father lost an arm in the Second World War. He worked for an agency that found jobs for handicapped people… I used to visit him at the office near the Chrysler building. I grew up with handicapped people. Even now, one of the most important people in my life is blind. And yeah?

What freaks me out here is ME!! This is clearly the handicap car and here I am taking up space in it! I can’t move, because the other cars will be packed by now. I just have to sit here and feel guilty. I’m wondering if I should leave with a limp. Nobody says a word and I get off at my stop.

Whew!

+end+

Mykel Goes to India Entry 2

2018-10-05T03:33:00.000-05:00

Entry Two ,

October 5, 2018

I lost it yesterday… on the street… not far from to the world famous train station. I was already pissed off. My Indian pals… the ones I’m staying with… AND the Lonely Planet Guide say it’s the most famous “modern” landmark in India.

[Note to Millennials: A guide is a book that lists important points on where you should visit and what you should avoid. A book is a bunch of paper pages, bound on one side with printed words on most of the pagers. There are also some pictures. To scroll from one part of a book to another, it is necessary to turn the pages. Check YouTube for instructions on how to open, read, and bookmark a book. Control-D does NOT work to bookmark a book.]

I’m talking about Victoria Terminal, the most famous building in Mumbai. Built in the 1800s when India was a British colony, it is huge, beautiful and still in use. I took the train from Borivale (a sort of Brooklyn of Bombay) to Churchgate… then decided to walk the rest of the way to Victoria. Google maps was not cooperating with my phone, so I decided to ask strangers for directions. [If you don’t know what asking for directions is, you can also check YouTube for instructions.]

I ask a young guy who removes one of his headphones. I ask again. He shrugs. I ask an old woman, sitting on a bench, wearing a beautiful Sari. She doesn’t even look at me. I ask and ask again. I get shrugs. I get sorry. I get I don’t know. I get a double tilt of the head… like the Bulgarian body language for yes. But here it either means I don’t know or Fuck You! The most famous building in town and they don’t know? It would be like a New Yorker in mid-town saying she doesn’t know where the Empire State Building is. They just don’t want to tell me, that’s what it means. It’s a goddamn World Heritage Site!

The streets are crowded. Most people walk on the left, like in Japan, but there are jostlers who walk any which way and push you out of their way if you are too slow for them. For the last few blocks, I’m pushed more than I like.

The crowd thickens A fat guy… even shorter than me... shoulders me aside and walks on ahead. I run to catch up with him. Put both hands on his back and shove him hard enough to make him stumble. He turns his head and glares back at me… I’m the whitest person in the tunnel so I’m hard to miss.His fist tighten… but he’s in a hurry… I hold back. He decides his train is more important than my chin… and keeps walking.

“Culture! Culture!” I whisper to myself. “Don’t make judgments without context, Mykel. Cultures are different.”

I keep asking random people on the street. “Where Victoria Terminal?” They shrug Or tilt their heads in a completely ambiguous gesture… the kind people use to shake water out of their ears when they come in from swimming.

I’m mad! They know! They’re just not telling me. Pretending they don’t know English… What are they, French? Is it my skin color? That I don’t speak the local (of over 200) language? Bad breath? Shrug after shrug.

A few cops… older guards at government buildings… they give me vague that way directions. It takes an hour or so, but I find it. An extremely spectacular building that you can enter through a tunnel underground.

Pretty hard to miss, don’t you think? Those assholes must’ve known. They were just fucking with me, the fuckin’ fucks! Jeez! What’s wrong with you people? When I get to the building… people push past me to enter to buy train tickets. It’s really a cool-looking place, and, I hear, one of the only World Heritage Sites still used for the purpose it was built. That pisses me off even more.

THEY KNOW!! THEY ALL KNOW!! THEY’RE JUST NOT TELLING ME.

Then, I see the plaque… black on gold:

The name was changed in 1996. Nobody born before 1975 is gonna know what Victoria Terminal is? They know it as Chhatrapati Shiva Maharaj… I can’t even say that.… Victoria is from 2 centuries ago! Before I was born! They we’re fucking with me, they just didn’t know what I was talking about.

Sometimes, I feel like such a jerk.

-end-

If you want to read more of my, you can read my punk, social, political, writing at: https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com. Comments are welcome. You can also contact me at: god@mykelboard.com or find me on facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/mykel.board

Mykel Goes to India Day -1 and counting

2018-10-02T19:43:00.000-05:00

Entry One , October 1, 2018

I’m in the train from Penn Station to Newark Airport. Newark is usually my airport of choice from New York. Physically, it’s the furthest, but it’s only three stops on the train... Nine dollars for the comforable miles (old people’s discount)... so here I sit. A medium sized backpack and an over-stuffed computer case at my feet.

Next to me… to my left… is an attractive young woman-- mid twenties… sweatshirt.. jeans. In front of her are two huge suitcases. Next to her is a slightly macho guy over 6 feet tall, with decent shoulders, and an intense focus on the cellphone in his right hand... Not much to look at for me… but as I look at the young woman… she shifts in her seat moving further away from me, closer to the other guy… she leans over and talks with him…. He laughs.

The woman reaches into her purse and pulls out a small bag of Riccola. She offers one to the macho man. He shakes his head. Then she takes one wrapped Riccola opens it... slowly... fold by fold… as if relishing the reveal.. Once opened, the brown lozenge lays in the middle of the wrapper a brown square stark against the white. She holds it up to her face. Her pink tongue darts lizard-like from between her full lips. Bending her head, she touches it to the lozenge on the paper. Withdrawing her tongue, she pulls the paper to her lips and sucks it into her mouth.

Suddenly, the woman turns and looks at me… then shifts even closer to the macho man.

Scene shift:

Newark airport: Some hugely fat guy has been talking non-stop on his iphone. I now know where Florence’s birthday gift is, what to tell Albert when he calls, and that Marty is a money grubbing asshole. I’m at the gate 2½ hours early as is my custom. Lots of trouble with SECURITY-- as is my custom.

“Thanks for your passport. I need your visa,” I pull it out-- the visa that is-- and hand it over to the woman on the other side of the Air-India counter. The not Indian woman smiles as she takes the paper. Then she looks at it... her sculpted eyebrows move closer together. Her non-botoxed forhead wrinkles. She squints... raises a finger in a just a minute signal (which these days could mean anything from Jesus is the one way to White Power.) Then she runs down to another clerk-- this one Indian-- to check with her. There is some conversation and she heads back to me... trying to force a smile.

“I’m sorry,” she says. (How did I know?) “But that isn’t a visa. That is only a confirmation of application. Your actual e-visa should have come in an e-mail.”

I open my phone and go to the email app. 10,345 emails. I search on INDIA. 653. But wait! I fiddle about in my wallet. I find ANOTHER printout… It say E-VISA on top. YES!

I hand it over to the agent. She holds up a finger again and runs off.

NOTE: I do NOT hold up a finger.

She returns with another woman… much more supervisor-looking. The other woman manages to make her smile look almost authentic.

“This is not an e-visa,” she says. “It is only an email telling you that your e-visa has been granted.” She points to the blue CLICKABLE text on the page. THAT’s where you have to get your visa from.

I remain non-violent.

“Don’t worry,” she says, “we can print out your visa for you… just move down to the last agent and she’ll print it for you.”

I moved to the last agent. She (you guessed it) holds up a finger and disappears. She returns with a small cart. On the cart is a printer.

“Just a minute, I have to set this up.”

She plugs in the printer… turns it on… connects a cord from the printer to something on the desk in front of her… flips a printer switch…

It takes awhile. I use the time to practice deep meditation and breath control.

BRRRRRR ZIP BRRRRR ZIP BRRRR ZIP

The paper comes out. I hold in my hand… an e-Visa. I think.

“Have a nice day,” says the woman handing it to me.

“You too,” I say.

-proofread on the plane… so I got this far-

Postscript (written on the plane): Is this the world’s only airline without a magazine in the magazine holder? In any case, the lights, stewardess call, movie volume are all exclusively controlled by a remote tucked into the armrest. It don’t work. The stewardess has asked everybody to lower their window shades, but only two people in the cabin have figured out how to turn on the overhead lights.

We had dinner… curry of course… not very good. I ate the salad and drank the water… I figured on the plane it must be okay, right? We’ll see. In the meantime, I opened my window shade… we’re over a sea of clouds. That’s all. We’ve been in the air about 2 ½ hours. 11 more to go.

In Tahiti Pt. 1

2018-01-06T19:57:00.000-05:00

Tahiti First Entry

by Mykel Board

I transfer this from my hand-written notes to my computer. It's 1PM. I'm inside the $30-a-night hostel in Pape'ete Tahiti. I've just returned from a visit to Mo'orea, “the most beautiful island in the pacific.” Hot, but rainless skies, mountains, beaches, friendly people... I hated it.

All my fault. I shudda known.

The plan? Take the 7:20AM ferry to the bus. Take the bus to the Sofitel. Have breakfast at the hotel. Walk through the hotel to the beaches on the other side. Swim in the nice/safe waters of the hotel for a few hours... eat lunch at the restaurant... once more swimming, hitch back to the last ferry at 4PM.

The reality? Take the ferry: Check. Take the bus to the Sofitel... a high end tourist trap where the rooms are “bungalos” with thatched roofs... and a jump to the sea... Got there: Check

Find the hotel restaurant: Check.

I'm sorry sir, you cannot eat here. We are full today and need the tables for our guests.

Is there a place nearby I can get something to eat? I haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon?

There is another hotel, five minutes... by car.

Can I walk it in 15 minutes?

The receptionist smiles a smile reserved for idiot tourists who can barely speak French.

No sir, you cannot walk in 15 minutes, but I can call you a taxi.

Are you sure they're not also full?

She picks up the phone. I can hear her getting switched from desk to restaurant back to desk. Then I here the merci. and she hangs up.

Good news, you can have breakfast at the other hotel... for 4500 francs. (About $45 dollars.)

No thanks, but thanks.

I walk out. $45 for bacon and eggs???? Maybe coffee??? I don't think so. I can go a day without food. I'm a Jew. We do it every year. Ah, but this sun... and the humidity!

Hungry, thirsty I head for the highway to THE NEXT PLACE

There's a little beach. No food or drink anywhere in sight... we'll a small yellow building a few hundred meters away... I go. It's a post office.

I struggle to the beach, change to my bathing suit under a towel.... Lie in the sun.. but don't go into the water. No sandals and I might step on a STONE FISH. After a half hour, hitch back to the boat (easy hitch). And take it back here.

Now to the transcription started yesterday:

I write this in an outdoor cafe in Pape'ete Tahiti. It's the rainy season... January... rainiest month of the rainy season... Guess the weather now.

The cafe is decorated with movie posters-- all obviously creased and unfolded... all French versions of American movies: Star Wars is the only one with the name not changed.

As I write, I eat a baguette sandwich... one of the cheaper things on the menu... about $5. It's a “Thon” sandwich.

I thought “Thon” meant “tongue.” You know, like you get in a Jewish deli, Hispanic taco truck, or Japanese Yaki Niku shop. Nope, I shudda known. “Thon” means Tuna.

It's a strange place here in Tahiti. I SHOULD like it, but I don't. It's like a puzzle with all its pieces:-- but they just don't fit together... at least not for me. It's tropical, relaxed, nominally Catholic, but with a history and culture steeped in mahu culture... and sexually tolerant. .

The mahu, for those who didn't click on the link, are usually the youngest boy in a family of all boys. This boy is raised as a girl. Mahu are an integrated part of society... more than accepted... just normal... everywhere, but most noticeable in restaurants, bars, and other service jobs. One of the receptionists at the hostel is one. They are everywhere, and-- like girls or “girls” everywhere-- are uninterested in sex with me.

Still it's a friendly culture, with people saying bonjour on the street... and greeting each other with a French style kiss on the cheek. They won't approach you, but will go out of their way to help if asked.

EXAMPLE: When I was looking for my couch-surfing hostess-- I had only an address and I couldn't find it. I hailed a guy on a bike. He stopped and I showed him the map on my dying phone. He shook his head and shrugged. Then, there appeared a couple of joggers. He waved them off their path and asked them in French if they knew where I needed to go. They huddled around the phone, tried to match landmarks... had a bit of trouble... One of them hailed a passing car. The car stopped. The joggers asked for the street I was looking for... the driver got out of the car... There were, then, half a dozen people huddled around my phone.

One spotted a landmark, another turned the phone properly to orient it to the street we were standing in. The bike driver said the French equivalent of Ah-hah! Then thanked everyone and took me to the building where the hostess lived. Outside was a complicated doorbell, where we had to electronically choose the apartment number. The cyclist couldn't figure out how to do it. As someone was leaving, the cyclist asked him in French. He not only explained in French, he manipulated the electronics and called the surfer. (Her name is Dominique.) VOILA!

Oh yeah, the bike guy's name was ANGEL, pronounced in French like New Yorkers pronounce the word orange. I gave him a big hug in thanks. He was not embarrased.

Maybe it's the rain... coming down like tigers and wolves now. Maybe it's the language. I try to speak French, but I do a poor and admittedly half-hearted job.

Maybe it's the contrast with New Zealand, where I stayed mostly with friends... while here I know no one.

It's not really bad... but I don't think I'll be coming back.

--More later

Mykel's more political and controversial columns are here

Journey to the Center of New Zealand Part 3

2018-01-05T03:56:00.000-05:00

Journey to the Center of New Zealand

Final Part

by Mykel Board

So after water-blasting the seaguls while eating organic food, we're off to the local park... Before we get there, we need to go downstairs in the bug museum where there is a scary exhibit on a notorious Mauri-British confrontation. Created in twigs and dried cloth, it's as creepy as a loose floorboard in the middle of the night. These zombies greet you when you open the door to the WELLINGTON (non-bug) section of the museum.

OK, not soooo bad, almost civilized for sticks and rags... but check out the OTHER side of the floor.

And it gets heavier:

Coming out of the museum, we go to a park, another museum, then outside, I pull out the map and ask Kael... “where to next?”

He looks at the map.

“Can I help you?” comes a grandmotherly voice with a distinctly German accent.

The woman is indeed grandmotherly looking. About my age, she has that trust me, I only want to take care of you look that makes me wary.

“I don't think so,” I said. “We're just deciding what to do next.”

The woman looks at my army boots... my trenchcoat, by Bogart fedora. “Are you from New York?” she asks.

“You talkin' to me?” I don't say.

“I was thinking of going to the library,” says Kael.

“You instead should go to the Center of New Zealand,” she answers, slightly out of syntax.

“We don't have a shovel,” I don't say.

“Good idea,” says Kael. “I know where it is. But it's a walk. Is that okay Mykel?”

“I may be old,” I tell him, “but I can still walk.”

“Thanks for the idea,” he tells the woman.

“This way, Mykel,” he tells me, pulling my coatsleeve.

We bid the woman auf wiedersehen, and we're off... down a bunch of side streets, up a fairly flat hill.

“There!” says Kael, pointing to a sign.

“Fifty meters?” I tell him, “I can spit that far.”

“It's kinda uphill,” he says.

Then we come to the map. That bright orange line is the way up. A winding worm of narrow paths... and uphill? Think King Kong scaling the Empire State Building.

Starting on the hike... it seems like we've walked an hour when we come another sign.

Kael says (scampering ahead), “Come on... we're almost there.”

TWENTY MINUTES! That's not almost ANYTHING... except the time for pressing that snooze alarm ONE MORE TIME.

“Hang on,” I say, trying an exercise called BREATHING. “Okay, let's go.”

Up... up... Whenever we come to a turn... a choice between two paths... one side is steep... the other impossible... there we go.

Suddenly I have more sympathy for the Israelites leaving Egypt... it must have been a similar hike.

What's even more frustrating is meeting people who are on the way down from the trek.

“Don't worry. It's only five minutes.”

For YOU maybe. You're on the way down!

Kael scampers up ahead. He disappears from sight... then scampers back to see if I'm still alive.

“Don't worry Mykel,” he says. “It's right up there!” He points vaguely in the direction of the sun.

And finally, there it is. And what is IT? Is it a plaque on the ground saying YOU ARE AT THE CENTER OF NEW ZEALAND with a dot in the center? Is it a huge needle pointing to the spot that is the exact geographical center of the country?

Yes! That's exactly what it is.

The Plaque

The Giant Needle

Reaching the spot, I collapse on a hard stone bench and watch as a family of a dozen or so people try to fit themselves into one cellphone picture. “Can I take a picture for you?” I ask the woman struggling with the camera.

“Are you from New York?” asks the woman.

“Fugeddabouddit!” I say.

They laugh.

After the picture, it's a couple minutes rest and conversation with the Aucklanders who are in Nelson for a family reunion with their 80 year old patriarch. I tell them if they're ever in New York, they should come to drink club... And they can stay on my couch, though with 13 of them, it might be difficult.

We bid our adieus and head down the hill. Yes we're going pretty fast as Kael and I have begun to feel some bladder pressure. After the restroom, we head into town. On a side street, we pass a woman, her husband with a toddler riding his shoulders.

The guy says HI and they pass us... the baby's hat falling from its head. Kael picks it up runs ahead and hands it to mom. Then mom and dad turn around.

“You're Kale,” says the guy “... Aleister's son.” Kale nods.

Then the guy looks at me. “And you're that punk rocker from New York.”

“You talkin' to me?” I don't say.

-end-

More later, check out earlier entries in this blog and my more offensive political blog mykelsblog.blogspot.com

Journey to the Center of New Zealand Part 2

2017-12-29T06:16:00.000-05:00

Journey to the Center of New Zealand

Part 2: A latte with a side of water bazooka

After the bug museum we head off to eat.

[ASIDE] I forgot to mention that entry to the bug museum was free for Kael because he was a Nelson native... and free for me because I was accompanied by a Nelson native.

“Let's go to the kitchen,” suggests Kael.

“We're already in town,” I explain. “The kitchen is back home...” I gesture with my thumb over my shoulder, “through winding roads, over mountains... past llamas.”

“No,” he says, “The kitchen... THE KITCHEN. Connor said it was good.

“Where is the kitchen?” I ask Google, confident it would tell me “next to the dining room.”

I was wrong. It gave me an address and a little map... so off we went. Not far from where Alistair, Kael's dad who I'm probably spelling wrong... has his downhill bike office.

I could see why Connor (Kael's older brother) recommended it. Plenty of vegan choices for the vegan siblings... Tolerent Kael didn't flinch when I had something nice with salmon in it. I ordered a ginger beer and Kael wanted some fruit thing.

STOP: Let me explain the system in New Zealand... It's similar to a few places in the US... and the same as MosBurger in Japan. You go to the counter, and order your food. Then you pay and get a number at the end of a metal pole that looks like a giant old-fashioned bill-spike. You pay for the meal and take the numbered spikey thing to your table. The waiter/ess finds you by your number.

I like to eat/drink outside. Kael was accommodating. We took a seat. Near us was a small cart with two shelves. On the top shelf were dirty dishes, probably just cleaned from the tables. On the second shelf, were two large green water pistols, and a huge water bazooka.

“Can I order a water bazooka on the side... like ketchup or hot sauce?” I asked Kael.

“They're called BLASTERS,” he tells me. “Sure you can.”

“Do kids come home... soaking wet... after going out with their friends... saying Hey Mom, I went out with my friends and got sooooo BLASTERED?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says, “happens all the time.”

Here comes the waitress with our food. Kael has ordered a vegan tart with his vegan sandwich.

“Can I get you anything else,” asks the waitress... one of those darker pretty women whose short shorts reveal that her legs go all the way down from her hip to her ankle.

“Yes please,” I say. “I'd like some hotsauce and a water blaster.”

“Sure,” she says, “you want a plain or a bazooka.”

“Uh...” I stutter. “I was kidding. Why exactly do you have water pistols in an outdoor restaurant?”

“For the seagulls, of course” she answers... like I'd asked why they serve food in an outdoor restaurant.

“The seagulls shoot water pistols?”

Kael kicks me under the table.

“It keeps them off the tables... we like to shoot them without actually hurting them.... They steal food and make poo over everything.”

[NOTE: POO is New Zealandish for SHIT. I've also heard the word in American places outside of New York... But I think it's an affectation.]

I open my mouth to say something else, but Kael kicks me again.

Okay, Mykel. Time to go to the OTHER MUSEUM... and the park. But what's this CENTER stuff? You'll find out!

--- next time: Is That The World's Longest Freshwater Eel in Your Pocket or Are You Happy to See Me?

This is chapter 2. Check out chapter one here

Journey to the Center of New Zealand Part 1

2017-12-28T04:21:00.000-05:00

Journey to the Center of New Zealand

Part One

by Mykel Board

There are two central characters in this true adventure. Mykel, your narrator, who you should already know. If not, I'll introduce you. Here's a picture with the Nelson butterfly man:

The photographer is also my guide. The intrepid Kael, ho has agreed to lead me through adventures on my last day in Nelson.

Here he is showing off his green rock... a traditional gift of Maori tradition, that cannot be bought for oneself, but must be given in recognition of some specific trait... like bravery, or skill in wild bore hunting. Kael won his for his HARD WORK ability. I don't think they have one for my special skills.

That's Aleister... aka “Dad” in the background.

We hadn't originally planned to trek to the geographical center of the country. I mean, who visits Lebanon Kansas, right?

My usual goals in any city adventure are:

1. Something “in nature”
2. A local restaurant
3. A museum
4. A brewery
5. A strip club

Since Kael is 11 years old, I figured we might skip the last two... at least for a year or two. Kael wanted to include THE LIBRARY in the trip. (NOTE: Kael and his older brother Connor are kinds of superstars in my book. They're both under 15, yet do not spend their sparetime liking “friends” facebook posts about sneakers.

Both of them READ (I mean books... you know, things with pages, and ears that you can dog) and both of them follow mom into music. (NOTE: my connection to the family is through Mom who played guitar in an all-female band SPITBOY... in the 90s). When the kids have nothing to do and there are no books handy BLAM!! They're off to the soundproof room, on guitar and drums... sometime with mom sitting in.on bass or they switch instruments. Mom did it right!

Back to the trip. Dad... a cool guy and professional moutain-biker (it's complicated, but a great story in its own right) drove us into town from their place on a back road on top of a back hill in the foothills of the local local mountains. He dropped us off at the bike center.

“Call mom when you're ready to come back,” he says. “There's not much to do.”

Boy was he wrong!

[NOTE: Right now the boat has begun rockin'. Up and down. Side to side. Passengers are staggering like drunks. This is so much fun... ]

FIRST STOP: The information center, where Kael takes my picture with the butterfly man, and we get maps (yes! He can read a map that is NOT an app! And that rhymes.) and ask how to get to:

THE BUG MUSEUM! says Kael. “We gotta go to the bug museum.”

A kindly local information officer knows what he's talking about and marks it down. The other famous museum in town is the Suter Art Gallery... the info man makes an X on the map. And we're off... following the map to the streets to a trail on the floor:

You guessed it. THE BUG MUSEUM.

I can't say I know a lot about bugs. Even the word BUGS conjures up-- for me-- a different image:

At first the museum looked like a piece of Andy Warhol pop art. Just a copy of what you'd see every day anyway. Can you say Mykel's Kitchen?

Other displays though, were weird, interesting... surprising...

Forensic Entomology?

Just filled with MUST KNOW information that I'll put it to work as soon as we get to land.

Then there was this... encouraging people to EAT bugs:

And Kael, being a vegan, wasn't interested in the animal protean.

I found it interesting that the museum has tried the same It's just protein. It's good for you. line that I've tried unsuccessfully for the last 50 years-- in a different context.

Maybe it works for them.

Leaving the museum, we stopped to take pictures before being devoured.

Coming up: A Latte with a side of water bazooka.

For a more offensive/opinionated read, check out mykelsblog.blogspot.com

Pacific Blog Entry 3... all over the place

2017-12-23T20:53:00.000-05:00

Starting out in CHRISTCHURCH, NZ

I awaken naked... under a heavy blanket in the guestroom at Vera's place. Last night was shower night... There's something refreshing about sleeping nude when your body is clean and your mind isn't. I have no idea what time it is... there is light outside, but as this is the longest day of the year it could be 5AM or 9PM...

Wristwatches, as obsolete as human contact in 2017, I reach for my phone and press the turn-on button. PLEASE CONNECT YOUR CHARGER... it says. The time 6:36AM. Why?

I'm suffering a kind of jet lag...not from jets, though. Maybe I should call it social lag. Things stop here at 10... 9... 8. Two nights ago Vera and I went out to drink. We started looking for a place by the beach at around 8:30. Our first stop... a nice little restaurant/bar with outdoor seating... was closed... The waiter and waitresses were arranging the furniture for the next days' breakfast crowd.

At 9, we found another bar/restaurant... again with outside seating. (I love to eat and drink outside. People are more open, natural when there're no walls. You look up and see far... the sky. Often there are smokers, naturally friendly people... and facing nearly universally approved discrimination... joined together... with a greater solidarity than any ethnic, religious, or gender group. Smokers are friendly, often meditative, social in away that phone obsessed millennials cannot be. I often wish I could be one of them, but a bad lung and an over-active mucus system prevents it.

There are about ten others in the outside area. They all sit at a single long table. Their conversation is loud, but not unpleasantly so. Vera and I take a table close... but not too close. A single strand of cigarette smoke comes from someone at the other table.

Two or three minutes after we sit down. One of the guests-- a woman wearing a checked kercheif-- stands with that watch-looking gesture that means... Time to get out of here. I wonder if she really has a watch.

In two or three minutes, the table is empty and Vera and I are the only ones left drinking in the vast outdoor space. At 9:30 we leave.

So my jet lag comes from changing from a night to a morning person. From one who starts his night-crawls at 9:30... to one who ends them at that time. From one who sees the sunrise as a signal for bedtime to one whose sleep ends with the rising sun.

FLASH TO NOW: I sit at the library... the Manchester Central Library... but it's not in Manchest, it's in Christchurch. I've had adventures, but they've been (mostly) solo adventures. Tiny things I've done or felt. And feeling is the key.

My bad lung is acting up and my continual cough keeps people at a distance. My bowels are also acting up and that too keeps people at a distance. A massive dose of monolaurin has prevented a sore throat from following its usual 8 day progress into snotfilled nostrils--> sneezes--> runny eyes--> fever--> cough... and gone directly from the sore throat to the cough.

I sit at a long table with outlet extension cords placed every 2 yards or so. The table is poorly located in front of large open windows that require you to look directly into the sun... This being Christchurch... there is rarely sun.

ASIDE: There is a cliché in England that goes: If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes and it'll be something else. Here in Christchurch, it's more extreme. If you don't like the SEASON, wait five minutes and it'll be a different one. Mid-day, you go out in short sleeves. The natives walk around barefoot (but I think they do that every season), in shorts, t-shirts. Fall comes about 5PM... by 6:30 it's winter and those in-the-know put on the downcoats they've brought with them to the beach.

In the morning... at least at 6:36 this particular morning, it's early spring. Comfortable under the covers, but shriveling cool lying naked on the bed. I try to get back to sleep... but my 67-year old bladder needs emptying. Likewise my overactive bowels.

ASIDE: These days I can rarely go more than 90 minutes without having to shit or piss... usually both. I can postpone fecal exit by carefully controlled gas leaks that confuse my body into thinking it has produced an honest-to-god offal expulsion.... But before long the piper has to be paid.

Some days, when I have a specific adventure in mind... or when I'm planning on meeting old friends, strangers, or those with whom I hope to exchange bodily fluids... I take a morning Immodium with my daily vitamins and monolaurin. Today is not one of those days.

So I look out the window at the Rolling Thunder/Harley Davidson sale shop... the Honda/Ducati shop... and the powertools rental shop I can't see the name of. For the second time since I've started writing this, I fill the urge to relieve the gas slowly building in my bowels.

AND OF ASIDE: In many places, people go to the mountains... or to “the country” to feast on the peace and quiet of a non-urban landscape. As a city boy, the peace and quiet of Christchurch was country-enough. I couldn't imagine enjoying a trip to a place where the bars close even earlier. So when Vera suggested a ride out to a farm, I was less then enthusiastic... I was wrong.

The cityside does not have Bison, Llamas, or older German couples living an organic life... wearing Grateful Dead t-shirts. The countryside does... and it was great. I didn't manage to get the Bison, but here are the Llamas:

There are also sheep, cows, and horses. More cows, than sheep... this was something much different from the last time I was in New Zealand.

“Blame it on the changing economy,” Vera told me. “There is a dairy company... based in New Zealand... the largest in the world. And they give subsidies to farmers who change from sheep to cows. So they change. Herders become farmers. Cows... not native to New Zealand replace ... the native sheep. It's very sad.”

“I'm usually a fan of immigration,” I tell her. “but I see your point.”

ASIDE: New Zealand is very sensitive to the issue of invasive species. Sometimes, I think it's a codeword for HUMAN immigrants. Everywhere you look you see veiled references... you tell me if this (from the Wellington Museum) isn't something right out of Donny Trump's instruction manual on immigration:

FLASH AHEAD Today is Xmas Eve day... I've left Christchurch and am now in Nelson... Not named after the TV family, but after the British admiral who defeated someone or other. I'm in a park... there are bright yellow and red flowers. Birds are chirping...This morning... breakfast way the fuck up in the middle of nowhere. The kid of the family... 8 years old, I'd guess... first words at the table.

“Gee, I hope it rains today.”

Not something you usually hear at breakfast in a place by the ocean. But it hadn't rained for 3 months. Yeah, that's past perfect there, buckarooS! I did it!

--More coming

for my more controversial non-travel writing check out mykelsblog.blogspot.com

6th Day of Hanukah-- Pacific Blog Day 2

2017-12-18T05:23:00.000-05:00

MYKEL'S PACIFIC BLOG
Entry 2

I restart this entry after a computer crash that wiped out my previous attempt at an update..

I'm now on a bus traveling from Picton to Christchurch. It's been an event-filled couple of weeks, including Los Angeles, where Julien in the midst of several personal crises... still had time to attend to his friend on (mostly) and off (once for a long time) for 30 years. Waiheke island, where Reneta made me several meals a day and the only payment expected was my changing into a bathing suit to help wash the porch screens. Wellington where Mr. (and Mrs) Sterile took care of me like a long-lost punkrock friend.

Right now, the computer is on the blink. It shuts down and loses everything if the bus goes over a bump... and bump is the name of the game. The Internet is spotty in this mountainous land of 4.5 million people who walk barefoot on public streets. Where all the signs are in English, with an abbreviated version in Maori... which had no written language until the English transcribed it using English letters.

I don't think I've heard Maori spoken on the street, though I have heard German, Chinese, Swedish, some unidentifiable Slavic language and New Yorkese (“You talkin' to me? Fuhgeddabouddit!”). I've made it to Christchurch, the biggest city on the South Island. I hear there's a synagogue in town... it's long been my dream to take a picture of a synagogue in Christchurch. The irony is just too good to pass up.

I've been on the road for 18 days now... one in a hostel. It's the kindness of friends that bed me down every night (not THAT WAY!) and from start to now I have to thank:

Julien (LA in the fire)

Renata (Waiheke & Aukand)

Kieren & Chrissy (Wellington)

Vera (Christchurch)

I've been traveling in New Zealand using the INTERCITY BUS SYSTEM. It works like this:

You buy TIME in advance. For example, I bought 45 hours. Then you reserve a bus from Y to Z and they deduct the time it SHOULD take to go that distance. When you get to zero, you can “top off” buying extra hours.

The buses are more comfortable than Mega or Bolt... but they have no electrical sockets. (Which are weird here anyway. They look something like a facebook SURPRISE emoji.)

The “wi-fi” on board is pretty spotty, but that's what you get most places with a lot a mountains and few people. Most annoying, however, is the bus schedule. Yesterday, on the trip from Picton to Christchurch, the bus left at 7:30... AM!!! Oh yeah please be at the busstop at least 15 minutes early to check-in with the driver.

From Christchurch I go to Nelson, and the leaving time? 7AM??? Are they kidding? That's bedtime! What? Do we have to milk the cows before we leave?

I booked a hostel the night before so I could be close to the bus station.

“Don't worry,” says Vera, “I'll take you. You can cancel your reservation.”

“But that means getting up at 5:30 in the morning!” I say.

“No problem,” says Vera.

Like the others... I owe her big time.

Ah well, today was the sixth day of Chanukah. Vera's maternal grandmother was Jewish, so that means she's a Jew. Her friend Susan... visiting for dinner is also a Jew... a doctor! Vera had a menora... probably gotten in New York. No Chanukah candles in sight, but the age-old birthday candle trick worked like a dream. Waddaya think?

--more later

If you're interested in my nastier, more political writing, you can read me at:

mykelsblog.blogspot.com

Pacific Trip: Entry One LA... ENTERING FROM THE REAR

2017-12-09T19:29:00.000-05:00

ENTERING FROM THE REAR

Los Angeles Day One

Saturday Dec. 1, 8:18 probably Central Standard Time: The map in the seatback in front of me puts us over Kansas, 2 hours 54 minutes from LA. I've got a window seat... no one crawling over me to get out to piss. No baby screams behind me. Out the window, faint lights from the town below make an outline somewhat reminiscent of the Misfits skull logo.

Behind me there are two empty seats. In the middle one is a woman with a tubercular cough. I've already offered her a Fisherman's Friend .^® She rejected my offer. Maybe because it was unlabeled and unwrapped. .

Her cough continually worsens. And while I'm not a gun-control advocate, it's times like these that I feel lucky in not carrying one. The woman behind me still has her cough... and her head.

“It's just an allergy,” she tells me... as if that's a good enough excuse... Same excuse I used in Mongolia when I tried to pick up girls in the midst of a bronchitis attack. I forgot how to say Yeah right! in Mongolian... but I used to know.

I got to the airport, as usual, 4 hours early. Spent most of it in a facebook spat about sexual harassment® where I was called a shit, an idiot, and warned don't hurt your knuckles as you scrape them along the sidewalk when you walk. I love the intelligence facebook brings to discussions, don't you?

My travel reading is a thick book called A Gentleman in Moscow. It's got about 500 pages, and I'm about 10% through it. So far, an older aristocrat has befriended an 8 year old girl who want to be a princess. It's set right after the Russian revolution. Today, it would probably get the protagonist thrown in the clink for pedophilia. But so far, if there were a writers clink for boring the reader that's its crime.

I know. I know... I'm putting myself in a precarious position writing about writing.... but I've spent 70 years putting myself in precarious positions... what's one more?

December 7 I sit at gate 156 at LAX airport, closer to LA than Kennedy Airport is to New York. Of course, gate 156 is at the end of the gate path. The last gate. I remember a Jewish comedian (Jackie Mason?), who said that he had heartburn from childhood.. When, it once went away, he thought he was sick. So too, it would be if my gate were NOT the furthest one. I'd worry that something's wrong.

My pacific journey is 1/6 over. One week out of six. My looooong term pal, Julien Nitzberg has couched me for the entire trip. He's chauffeured me around in my Hertz Car, taken care of the dinner invitations, and dealt with my intestinal and sanitary peculiarities.

I've been treated to dinner by Julien's Dad. 4 nights of Oriental delight (nope, not THAT kind... I mean food) were orchestrated by Julien and attended by people I've known for longer than my beard has needed Just For Men.

Right now, I sit comfortably-though-slightly-chilled in the airport. There was a screaming baby-- suddenly silenced. One can only hope it was thrown to the tarmac. In the meantime, Los Angeles burns. What was a faint gray tinge on the horizon, has changed to half a skyful. What was a trickle of people leaving the park to escape the smoke, has changed to an evacuation of tens of thousands.

People stream out of LA to friends, relatives, Red Cross stations less comfortable even than airports. I wonder how the burbs will treat the refugees. Will they be deported into the flames? Meanwhile, against this outward flow of panicked Los Angelens, I drove my Hertz-Hyundai INTO LA, toward the airport... entering ...what most were leaving.

The first night is Thanksgiving. No... it's not thanksgiving, but somehow Thanksgiving was postponed and reincarnated. This being Los Angeles, the food has to accommodate, vegetarians, ovo-lactoites, vegans, non-glutens, organics, recovering alcoholics, feminists, turkifiles.

So, what's the food? Milk-free cheese, gluten-free crackers, meat-free pate, AND a bunch of terrific good stuff! Hooeeey! A friendly party! I brought the beer... a collection of weirdstuff from a beerstore with a bar in back. (What a great idea!) Here's one of my contributions.

The beer wasn't as bad as it sounds.

The party people weren't either! In fact, I had a great time. The food was good... though I skipped most of the vegetables. The crew was fun to talk to... laughed at the same things I laughed at.

There were more girls than boys... for some reason that never happens when I host something.

Among the conversations, several people talked about an era when I was in my 50s. They referred to that time as back in the day.

Oh yeah, the Turkey! Get a load of this!

Yeah it's a real turkey, but topped with.... CHEETOS AND DORITOS. Ho ho!

Great night ONE! No jet lag.

Postscript: I'm writing this from the library in a small town on Waiheke Island. (Google it!) Internet is spotty, and sooooo much has happened. It's December 10... I'm sunburned... spent the day so far washing... plastic drapes... in my bathing suit... (I was in my bathing suit. The drapes were not.)

Just 10 days out and the stories pile up... more later

PLUS: If you're interested in my contrarian opinions and other things, check out mykelsblog.blogspot.com.

More to come!

--Mykel

BELOIT 2017 Just a typical Long Weekend in Boardville

2017-07-10T22:29:00.001-05:00

GOT ANY DRUGS?

or Mykel's 45^th Beloit Reunion

by Mykel Board

I hate it when things go right... especially before an out of town trip...Smooth packing, not forgetting anything.... quick subway connections... sailing through security... plane on time... Waiting seat next to a working socket.... beautiful passenger sitting next to you in the waiting area... thrilled that you speak the exotic oriental language... and you're going to Chicago... 私もそこに行くよ！ セックスコンベンションのために。 あなたは滞在する場所が必要ですか？

Those perfect leavings use up my entire stash of trip good luck... leaving nothing but broken mirrors, black cats, and inside opened umbrellas for the rest of the journey.

I write this from Gate 37 at the American Airlines terminal at Kennedy Airport in New York. From the way things have been going so far, this will be a great trip. An unclaimed backpack sits ominously alone by the window. I reported it an hour ago... no one has come to look at it. That's the least of my problems.

But let's begin at the beginning... this morning? Last month? 45 years ago? 72 years ago? 5777 years ago? Okay, forget that. Let's jump around like an avant garde novel.

1972: I graduate from Columbia College in Chicago. I've only been there a year and a half, but that's where my BA is from.

1991 It's the SPEW festival of fanzines in Chicago. I'm there as an observer, trading my just budding underground notoriosity for some free zines and beer where I can find it. What a crew. I meet Larry Bob, Dennis Cooper, the editors of a bunch of zines, including the best sex journal BATTERIES NOT INCLUDED. (He asks me to write for him.)

Then, there's this guy, somewhat shlubbish, somewhat just over the edge... on my side of that edge. He hands me a folded zine, xeroxed... so DIY-looking it reads itself. COPS HATE POETRY is the name.

“Hi,” he says, “I hear you're Mykel Board. My name is Charles.” We shake hands.

1968 I travel from the riots at the Chicago Democratic Convention to my first year at Beloit College... a small mid-Western liberal arts college that has yet to see the likes of me... or the dozens of others fresh-from-Lincoln-Park warriors. Though I wanted to go to NYU, my father said NO!

“If you go to school in New York,” he said, “you'll think the whole world is New York... you'll have no idea what the real world... or even America is really like.”

So I go to Beloit.

I spend three years there... including a 6 month “working experience” term in London, where I write for an Anarchist newspaper. I return to New York in 1971, quit Beloit and move on to Columbia College in Chicago.

2016 I get the notice in the mail... Time for your 45^th College Reunion. It's a big one, Mykel. If you knew how few times in my life I've heard It's a big one, Mykel You'd know how enthusiastic I was in reading it. Even though I didn't graduate from Beloit I feel closer to it because I made more friends there and it was so isolated from urban America during my time there...except for the occasional riot in Madison. Plus, I can fly to Chicago, see Sid Yiddish who used to be Charles Bernstein, who I met all those years ago at the Spew fest and who I've stayed in touch with, traveled with, adventured with through the 25 years since.

2017 January or so. Arrangements are made. The plan: Visit Sid on Thursday June 8... He meets me at the airport around 7 and we go out Thursday evening. I rent a car on Friday. Drive to Beloit... Couch-surf there then go back to Chicago for a day the next week. Smooth as an Oriental's leg. Yeah, right.

2017 Thursday June 8 10:30PM: I now sit at the WORLD OF BEER in Evanston IL. I'm drinking a Sweetwarder Hash Session beer that that one of the Beer Citizen reviewers says has “definite notes of week.” It's not as good as my first beer here, the Ale Asylum Madtown Nut Brown (misspelled Adtown Nut Brown on the menu)... but it'll do. I arrived at 9:30. Sid's last text was he'll be here at 11.

June 7 earlier today: Packed, just leaving home... I check the gas on the stove... all burners off. I rap my knuckles on the wall. The pain will insure that I checked. I pick up my bags, struggle to turn around in the narrow hallway. Then go out the door, locking the door behind me , this time biting the middle nuckle of my right hand to remember the action.

I go down to the street. Cross the street. Still feeling the pain of the stove and door lock.... FUCK!!! I forgot the folder full of stuff I had for the library. Old papers, threats of expulsion.. clippings of condemnation from the dean...

Should I get the folder.. or just go to the airport... I still have time and I do want to bring that stuff.... Damn... I turn around and go back.... Crossing the street... up the agonizingly slow elevator unlocking my apartment door... suddenly overcome with the ferocious stench of natural gas.

I check my stove again. One of the burners is on... unlit and leaking gas into the apartment. I must have brushed against it when I picked up my bags. If hadn't gone back... who knows?

Gas turned off I go look for the folder for the archives. I find it. It is empty.


Sid's Mom

2017 January-Feb: I'm in Arizona visiting Sid's parents with him. He's become a part of my family over the years and met my parents shortly before they died.. He's friends with my sister, my cousins, their kids... one of the family. Now it's my turn.

Sid is a big guy but his parents are not. They small... fragile... look to be in their mid-80s. Dad walks with a cane... Mom seems in better health with a loving sense of humor. Her Spanish isn't bad either, though I was forced to go to Walmart to help her shop. She made a cake for Sid's and my birthday... close on the monthly calendar... about a decade on the yearly one.

It's nice to meet mom, I've been sending her my duplicate quarters for years.. and she knitted me a TUKE with my name on it. During this trip... I bought her a couple books to put the quarters in.

2017 Earlier today. I'm pissed off... I have TWO American Airlines frequent flier PLATINUM credit cards. That's supposed to be me group one booking on their flights. My Delta Goldcard gets me that... and Platinum is hoitier and toidier than gold! When I print my boarding pass from home, it comes out with the stamp GROUP FIVE.

At the airport I walk to the PRIORITY line that says its for ELITE PASSANGERS there are six attractive check-in girls servicing the fast-moving line. According to the sign, PRIORITY Includes first class, business class, and Platinum card holders. I show my drivers license and Platinum card to one of the two guards making sure only the priority-worthy can get on the end of that line.

“Sorry, sir,” says the male guard. (I HATE being called SIR! It always means trouble.) “You have an ordinary Platinum card. The priority line is for Platinum SELECT members.”

“I just have an easy question,” I tell him.” I need to speak to someone about the boarding group.”

“You can just go to that line next door,” he tells me. “No problem.”

(I HATE being told NO PROBLEM. Of course it's no problem for you, asshole. But it's a fuckin' problem for me.)

I move to the other line-- three people in front of me, including a lady with a small dog. . One unattractive woman at one check in counter. She's talking with a family showing their passports. She's laughing. They're laughing. They talk some more. The line grows behind me. 5 minutes in one place on line is a century. 10 minutes is an eternity. 15 minutes later they're still talking. The line has grown to half a dozen... a dozen... a dozen and a half. The man at the counter thanks the woman, the little kid... who has been passing in front of his parents like he was on line grabs his little suitcase... they're off.

“Next,” she says.

This goes on for the next person... another 15 minutes. Then the woman with the dog. 45 minutes for 3 people.

The guy behind me looks like Ron Jeremy without the mustache.

“Next,” she says.

One person before me, another woman comes to an empty counter. In 10 minutes I reach her.

“I know it's not your fault,” I tell her, “but there has been only one person here for the past hour.”

I show her my credit card and drivers license to prove who I am. Then, I explain my group 5 problem.

“The groups go up to 9,” she tells me. “Five isn't so bad.”

She pushes some buttons and prints me out a boarding pass. Boarding group 5.

Then I walk through the gate toward SECURITY. If there's anything I hate it's SECURITY. More than people who stand on the escalator walk side. More than subway riders pushing into the car before everyone gets out. More that drivers going the speed limit in the left lane... that's how much I hate airport SECURITY!!!

This time I'm prepared. I've only got a backpack and a small computer bag. In the computer bag is a folded trader Joe's shopping bag. I take it out... open it up... take off my boots (they always set off the metal alarm) and put them in the bag. Then I take off my belt... empty my pockets... wallet... keys...cough drops... ying-yang hankie... spare change... comb.. dump it all in the shopping bag.

Then I take out the computer.... the one I'm using now... a gift from Jody... a Eiiiiiiii... made it Taiwan. I put it in the shopping bag. Hah! I'm ready. I reach in the bag, pull out my wallet take the drivers licence out (ID, don't you know)... grab the just printed boarding pass (GROUP FIVE) and head for the security gate.

“Excuse me Sir,” says a very butch-looking colored girl at the gate. “You can't go through security with three bags. It's against regulations.”

I don't hit her.

She looks at my boarding pass.

“And Sir!” she continues... (if she says it again I WILL hit her)... “You have priority boarding. You don't have to take your computer out or empty your pockets. You can leave you shoes on and just go through that short line over there.”

I don't cry.

They make me take off my shoes when I get to the gate... the metal sets off the alarm.

EARLY JUNE: Message from Sid. His Mom just died. She's been in and out of the hospital... had a pacemaker... “called to say good-bye”... all very sad. I was lucky enough to meet the fine woman on a trip to Arizona last year. She made a dual birthday cake for Sid and me. Now tragedy hits... and here memorial service? You guessed it... the day of my arrival... just too late for me to attend, but close enough that Sid has to be there when I arrive.

So, I just have to go to World of Beers... drink... and wait until he shows up.

He shows up... things go... and here's a picture of us at the Diner the next day... with the waitress.

MONDAY JUNE 12: Back in Evanston returning the car. The Beloit weekend was over. Of course, it went well. So well, in fact, that I could stay on campus free... (a friend who didn't show up for his room). One night with a spectacular couch surfer.... and a trip to the great Rock County Beer Company in Janesville.

The highlight of the trip was on campus. I'm walking with Arthur Thexton and Jim Long... back to the dorms we're staying in... through the campus familiar to us from 45 years ago. Some girls are sitting on the wall by THE COMMONS. Their nametags say CLASS OF '07. This is their 10^th reunion. They come over to us... talk to us... small talk. Then:

“We've got a little bit of money... you know where we can get some weed?”

YES! YES! YES! We're a John Holme's penis length more than double their ages... and they're asking us for drugs! WE'VE STILL GOT IT!! We still look like we could bring them drugs... or something equally alternative. YES! YES! YES! I may be old, but they still ask me for drugs!! HOOOOEEEEY!

JUNE 12: 3:32PM: Now I'm waiting at Portillo's Hot Dogs in Evanston. Ten miles away from the car rental place. Sid has been taken to lunch, so I have to wait until he returns. I sit at this old-style-order-at-the-counter-but-not-fast-food place, having just finished my giant chili dog... eaten with the first coke I've had this year. I'll wait until the food moves south a bit... finishing this blog... and giving Sid time to finish his lunch.

Too not be continued now... but with new adventures soon!

if you want to read more of my writing (more political, more controversial, grosser) check out mykelsblog.blogspot.com

Eskimo Food & TARDCORE or Mykel's Journey to the North #8

2016-10-05T16:41:00.000-05:00

Eskimo Food & TARDCORE

The Eighth Entry:

by Mykel Board

My first morning on Disko Island, Greenland: I came in last night and was treated to incredible cookmanship. My current host, Georg-- like Inuaraq, my host in Aassiaat-- is as good as any high-class chef in any hoity toidy bar in New York. My cod & rice dinner was prepared so expertly, that I felt like leaving a tip! (I didn't.) Maybe its native. Maybe it comes from the Danish FOOD CHANNEL, on TV everywhere here. But lemme tell ya... New York needs an Eskimo restaurant! Thank you Georg! You're hired!

Right now, I sit in a large livngroom on a plush brown leather couch. My computer rests on a hard wooden table... Danish design... To my right is a large screen Philips TV. It rests on a wooden cabinet with one open shelf and a drawer. On the open shelf are video game controllers, old cartridges and other-- unidentifiable-- electronics.

To my left is a bookcase.. On the lower shelves are mostly cookbooks.. Kom og Spis (Come and Eat), Supper & Grydersetter (Soup and something I don't know in English) and a few others. There's also a delux version of the Guinness Book of Records-- in Danish-- and a coffee table book of ZEN. On the upper shelves are a few family photos, what looks like a framed bedtime prayer (in Greenlandic), and some Tupilaks... a unique-- and my favorite-- sculpture style that belongs only to the Inuit people.

On the walls are paintings and prints. Possibly done by my host, Georg. Lots of orange... small brush strokes... very Van Gough-ish. In the corners are plants... two hanging, two potted. The floor is natural wood smooth as a baby's ass. Two lights hang over the coffee table. They look cheaply installed, each on a single cord with the connecting cord to the ceiling wrapped ugily in the center. But the lamps themselves are frosted glass, elegant, with silver fittings. They probably cost as much as my plane ticket to Greenland.

The whole house has an air of San Francisco suburbs about it... tasteful in an expensive way. Except the bathroom. And not the whole thing, just THE TOILET! ...

It's a camping toilet... a plastic-lined bucket in a gray casing... with a lid. When the plastic bag fills, you put a baggie tie around the top, take it out of the bucket.... take the offal somewhere, dump it and put in a new plastic bag.

Yes, it's disgusting:

To be sure, my musician pal Georg only lives here part time. It's a September rental. Though he's originally from here in Qeqertarsuaq, this town of 800 people on Disko Island, he and his girlfriend have since moved to northern Iceland. His girlfriend, who's also the singer in his band, is still in there.

I can't figure out who exactly lives in this house. I think it's Georg, his girlfriend's sister, his girlfriend's sister's boyfriend (a friendly giant of a guy), a very attractive Eskimo girl who sleeps in Georg's bed. “She's just a friend... not a girlfriend.” And me.

Various people walk in and out of the place at various times of the day. Most asking for Georg. It's something I've seen in other places in Greenland. People know their neighbors, leave the doors open, neighbors walk in and out like customers at a Korean deli... AND Greenlanders have guns! They sell 'em at the equivalent of 7-11. Wow.

I make coffee... enough for myself and the other three people who I think are living here.

Drinking the coffee I'm again reminded of my intestines. Besides the coldsore, I've been farting and shitting up a storm. I can't walk a block without letting out a blaster. It's not from the food, that I can tell you. It's been this way ever since I started taking my stomach medication again. I quit tomorrow. I can't stand 2 minutes without having to evacuate bowel or bladder or both. Hold on while I...

WOW! A monster... in this unflushable camp-style toilet. A thick brown potato soup of a turd pile-- in a black plastic bag... like being pregnant and giving birth to a huge loaf of liquifying pumpernickel. I pop an immodium. But I know I'm not done yet.

In ten minutes, I'm back on the plastic bag... neither as productive nor satisfying as the last time... but necessary nonetheless. I take another Imodium.

Still, no one around... I guess they all left for work. It's about 10AM, I want to see the town. I write a note to Georg:

I have no key, so please don't lock the door. I also don't have your phone number to test. My number is +1[sorry, private for you readers], Text me so I'll have your number. Thanks, Mykel

I bundle myself up and go outside... just a few steps... then it hits again. I force myself to go on. I find the “tourist center” Georg told me about. It's closed. A restaurant next door... closed too. Some sort of office with a sign like LYGGITEEMIT on the outside. It's open. It looks like a restaurant, with one guy in there working on a computer. A chubby native woman sits behind a terminal.

Can I get breakfast? I ask.

“Until ten o'clock,” comes the answer.

“What time is it now?” I ask.

The woman stares through me. I pull my phone out and check the time: 10:26. The pain in my bladder increases. I leave. I pass a several named buildings that start with the letter P. I remember that the town's supermarket (there is one) starts with P... I try the door. One opens.

It's a kind of convenience store with some supplies for the cold and some Dorito-like snacks. I speak to the woman behind the counter in bad Danish. I translate here for those few readers who don't speak bad Danish.

“Is there a restaurant near here?” I ask.

“There's one down the street,” she replies.

“Is it open now?” I ask.

She stops, seeks guidance from God and answers, “No, it isn't.”

“Where can I get something to eat?” I ask. “Maybe a shop that sells wienerbrod.”

She nods and gives me detailed instructions in Danish. I understand about a third of what she's saying. I think she's directing me to the supermarket. Meanwhile, the pressure in my bladder builds. I thank her and leave. On the way out I see another door. A toilet? I try the handle. It's locked.

FLASH AHEAD TO THE FERRY FROM DISKO ISLAND BACK TO ASSIAAT: No whales, but several beautiful icebergs. I was in Qeqertarsuaq a day and a half. No aurora. No dogsled. A couple spectacular meals... a lot of shit.

Here's an iceberg while you're waiting. It's hard to get a sense of scale, though. Figure it's as tall as a 20 story building.... and they say it's only a third above water.

I make coffee... enough for myself and the other three people who I think are living here.

In ten minutes, I'm back on the plastic bag... neither as productive nor satisfying as the last time... but necessary nonetheless. I take another Imodium.

Still, no one around... I guess they all left for work. It's about 10AM, I want to see the town. I write a note to Georg:

I have no key, so please don't lock the door. I also don't have your phone number to test. My number is +1[sorry, private for you readers], Text me so I'll have your number. Thanks, Mykel

Can I get breakfast? I ask.

“Until ten o'clock,” comes the answer.

“What time is it now?” I ask.

“Is there a restaurant near here?” I ask.

“There's one down the street,” she replies.

“Is it open now?” I ask.

She stops, seeks guidance from God and answers, “No, it isn't.”

“Where can I get something to eat?” I ask. “Maybe a shop that sells wienerbrod.”

Here's an iceberg while you're waiting. It's hard to get a sense of scale, though. Figure it's as tall as a 20 story building.... and they say it's only one seventh above water.

FLASH BACK TO AARHUS

Pedro works in a home for retarded criminals. What better job for a punk rocker? But it gets even better. Denmark, being a civilized country, uses jails to rehabilitate not to punish. So, what do you do to help the inmates? You ask them what THEY want... to make their lives better... how to let them function in society so they won't get in trouble again... This would never occur to Americans who believe that torture is the way to handle transgressors.

It turns out in Aarhus, several of convicts want to make music. What better music for the aggressive retarded than PUNKROCK? Yes! With Pedro's help, they put together a band. Here's a video.

I have since found there are several other bands... one in Finland, one (the most famous, called HEAVY LOAD) in England. It's a genre, that I immediately christen: TARDCORE.

In the 1980s, there was an American fanzine made by a Mongoloid. I read about it in Maximum Rock'n'Roll. The zine was called TARD. It was exhilerating to be so direct... so non-PC... so punk. I wrote for a copy, but never got one. (If you have one and are willing to copy it... or have any information on it, email it to me at god@mykelboard.com.)

Lately, I've beenso inspired by Pedro's work and the bands he introduced me to, that I'd love to start a network... a series of venues... that specialize in Tardcore bands. Right now, this is a side project, but anyone interested, please contact me and we can get the ball rolling. Oh yeah!

Speaking of Tardcore... Pedro has asked me if I could record a cover version of BEER with his band THE CLEAN BOYS. I've done this song so much, with so many different bands, it should be easy, right? Yeah right. I'm senile... I forget the words.

Sid Yiddish has a copy. He sends it to me and I immediately go about remembering the lyrics with all kinds of mnemonics. A beer will always give you good head. It goes down easy in bed. The label comes off with no fight. It never says “headache tonight.” Okay, I picture the label as a huge blanket on the bed, and a corpse... headless... lying bloody on the blanket... nah, that won't do it. I'll work on it.

Meanwhile, in Aarhus, Pedro talks about a guy named Ut. Strange name... though there was a band with that name in New York in the 80s. My old band, ART, was often confused with them. UT was all girls, as I remember... and they could actually play their instruments. Much different from us.

So, it's Pedro's day off., we're going with Ut to meet his (Ut's) friends in the countryside. Pedro drives... first to pick up Ut, then to Graceland. I shit you not.

It's in Randers rather than Memphis (though the place calls itself Memphis). It's an augmented-reality copy of the original Elvis home. Through hidden speakers, In The Ghetto welcomes you to the place. There's a statue of The King himself in front, and a huge gift-shop as you walk in.

My sister is such an E.P. fan, that she named her daughter Presley. I've got to find something small but relevant as a gift for her. What a terrific souvenir from Denmark... something Elvis.

Ut, Pedro and I enter the gift-shop. Hundreds of records, CDs, Elvis beer, Elvis combs, Elvis condoms. Oh yeah.

“I've heard about this place for a long time,” Ut tells me, “but I've never been here. It would take something really special to get me to enter this kitchy place. You did it Mykel. But I don't see any Elvis Hitler CDs.”

I smile.

After Graceland, we go to an old hippie farm to meet some of Ut's friends. The distance from Graceland to the farm is short in space, but very long in time... about 45 years... backwards.

At the farmhouse, Pedro introduces himself and me to Ut's friends... people my age... with more flannel than a pajama factory. There is a real record on the real record player. It's not punkrock... but folk music. American folk music from the 1960s.. The Weavers.

There are a few other sixties albums... mostly soft... I think they played Country Joe and the Fish. There were several albums... maybe Ut brought them... that no one had ever seen before.

“See,” says Pedro, “he really is Ut.”

“Okay,” I say, “now, I'm really going to ask. What the hell does Ut mean?”

The whole crew looks at me with wrinkled foreheads and noses.

“It's an English word,” says Pedro. “You know it. It means strange, weird, unusual... UT.”

“Holy shit,” I say. “You mean ODD?”

Pedro nods. “That's what I said: UT.”

On the farm, we take a tour of the land, share some very 1960s vegetation, then pack off. We drop ODD off, pick up Morks and Frugie and head for the studio.

The four of us drive to a studio someplace also in the countryside. It's a live-in studio, where you can work on a record for days in a row, without traveling... eat-sleep-shit-piss-record. A great way to make a record. I hear my friends in MDC stayed there when they were in Denmark.

Frugie, a big blond tattooed, jolly guy... is the drummer and youngest of our group. He may not be out of his twenties... let along his forties... or fifties... like the rest of us. He has no smartphone, no facebook page... he's the least techie of all of us.

Morks is the guitarist and engineer. He's a Polish-Dane with great technical skill and an artist daughter who's proud her dad is a punk rocker. Morks sets up the mics, and gets the sound levels. Then the rehearsal starts. I just hope I've got the BEER lyrics in the right order.

“Hey guys,” says Frugie [Note: everybody speaks English... even to each other... for my benefit. It doesn't help my Danish, but it sure is considerate.], “let's forget the cover version. Let's make a completely new song.”

I'm flummoxed.

“It takes a month to write a song,” I say. “I gotta come up with lyrics. You gotta come up with music. Then we have to make 'em fit. I can't stay here a month.”

Pedro laughs.

“It's punkrock, Mykel,” he says.

I shrug, pull out my notebook and start scribbling lyrics. The name of the song? It's punkrock.

In the meantime, the gang is working on a suitable tune. They're working by themselves, having no idea what my lyrics are. I have no idea what my lyrics are.

When they're finished... maybe an hour or so... I “sing” along with what I have and everything matches perfectly... yeah, right.

Make that several hours.

Finally, after writing the lyrics in ever-bigger print... smoothing out a few chord changes... cutting a measure here... a measure there. We get it. As often with my songs, this one ends in a little story, the last line of which is BEND OVER BOY.

So, THE BEND OVER BOYS becomes the instant name of our band. Quick! A publicity photo:

--to be continued

FINAL NOTE:

Pedro has provided several TARDCORE references for me. I think you'll agree how great they are. Here's his list:

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

John D Band | Facebook

www.facebook.com

John D Band, Harlev, Arhus, Denmark. 310 likes · 6 talking about this. Handicap garage-rock band fra Østjylland! Opkaldt efter en flot grøn traktor ;)

Video: https://youtu.be/_xSzID-sBe8

John D Band - FEE FEST - offcial video 2015

youtu.be

"Fee Fest" med handicap garagerock orkester "John D Band" Text & musik - John D Band - fra CD'en "Harlev rødderne kører uden airbag" produceret af fede Frede...

Pertti Kurikan Nimipäivät (Finland)

Video:

https://youtu.be/v4Y0HOPL5GU

Pertti Kurikan Nimipäivät - Aina Mun Pitää (Finland) - LIVE at Eurovision 2015: Semi-Final 1

youtu.be

Live performance in the first Semi-Final of Aina Mun Pitää representing Finland at the 2015 Eurovision Song Contest.

Heavy Load (UK)
Video: https://youtu.be/fiEfkNtpYCM

That's Not My Name - Heavy Load

youtu.be

Heavy Load's first single off the third album 'WHAM' - a cover of The Ting Ting's hit single changed to deal with disability hate crime. Featuring guest appe...

http://www.disabledinfo.co.uk/dis/1945-the-story-of-wild-things.asp

The story of Wild Things - DisabledInfo.co.uk

www.disabledinfo.co.uk

Heavy Load's Wild Things project - showcasing the work of musicians with learning disabilities from all over the world. The story of Wild Things

The "Stay up late" campain started byHeavy Load:
https://www.facebook.com/StayUpLateUK/?fref=ts

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Notes:

If, for some reason, you like my writing and want to see more (opinionated, political, punkrock), you can check out my other blog here.

You can also subscribe to my writings (get email when something new is posted), by sending a subscribe email to: readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com.

The Best Worst Day of the Trip or Diary Supplemental

2016-09-27T09:15:00.000-05:00

Mykel's Journey to The North

Supplemental Entry:

The Best Worst Day of The Trip

by Mykel Board

CAPTAIN'S LOG STARDATE 23 September 2016... Supplemental:

AASIAAT, GREENLAND

Blog entry 8 will introduce you to Inuaraq, my couch-surfing host here in Aasiaat. Right now you only need to know that he's a musician (quite well-known in the country) and an Eskimo. (Western hemisphere language police require INUIT... but the locals don't care.)

I've just arrived back on the ferry from DISKO Island. You'll read about that adventure later. First, I need to get this one out... while its still fresh in my ever more senile mind.

Inuaraq's house is close to the port/ferry terminal. Straight ahead from the boat... across the street and up the wooden staircase. It's a massive blue house, over-looking the harbor. You can see whales from his living room window.

Inuaraq gave me a key to the house, so I can let myself in... the lower entrance... closer to the room I'm staying in. I take off my shoes, as they do in Greenland.. and Japan... and France... and in an increasing number of places around the world. I enter “my” room and hear a shuffling upstairs.

A voice: Are you there?

“Yes,” I shout back, “I just got back.”

“Come upstairs,” says Inuaraq, “dinner is ready.”

It's muskox fajita: heated tortillas, salad, ready for self-folding. No hot peppers... but this is NOT Mexico. Best muskox fajita I've ever had.

“You want a beer?” asks Inuaraq.

“No, I hate beer,” I don't say.

“Sure,” I say. “What goes better with fajita?”

He laughs and brings me my first beer of the evening. I finish dinner, showing my satisfaction with escaping gas... fore and aft.

“Sounds like you're ready for another one,” says Inuaraq.

Before I can agree, a second Carlsberg is on the table in front of me. Inuaraq gets one for himself, and we toast to Greenland, Eskimos and Aasiaat. Cheers in Greenlandic, by the way is KAZUTA!

The second beer disappears even more quickly than the first.

I guess there's a beer surplus in town, because when I've finished that one... Inuaraq is on cue with another. He prefers a glass. Me? I'm a bottle drinker.

One more... then it's time to go to bed. Not that I have to do anything special tomorrow, though I do want to contact a great Eskimo lady I met at the local Tourist Information Center. Turns out she's Inuaraq's cousin. I want to ask her to rub noses with me. That's one of my goals in Greenland... to rub noses with an Eskimo.

After emptying the last beer, I slam the empty bottle down on the table... beer drinker talk for That's all she wrote.

Inuaraq gets it immediately.

“Last one?” he asks.

I nod.

“Okay, then get dressed... we're going out,” he says.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

”To a bar,” he says, “the one I was telling you about. The one we plan to overtake.”

“You mean take over,” I say.

He nods.

“Can we see it now?” I ask. “Isn't it abandoned or something?”

He shakes his head.

“No,” he says, “it's just a regular bar. We plan to overta... er... take over next year and turn it into a music bar. Come and take a look at it.”

It's pitch black outside. I'd been hoping for an aurora, but so far none on this trip. Inuaraq leads me via cellphone flashlight through “a shortcut”... over ice-covered rocks, up and down rickety wooden staircases, across unlit streets. I think we're walking in a straight line from the house... any barriers... we just climb over them. A pair of very slippery boulders in the way... we climb them... a rickety wood stair case... we climb it... swamp grass next to a highway guard rail... over we go. Over to the other side of the “highway”.., there it is: TULUGAQ.... it means raven. And it's a bar. Here's the local airport ad for it:

It's around 10pm. There are fewer than a dozen patrons. The bartender is a rotund Danish-looking guy. Grey hair and beard... could be a bartender anywhere in the world. Inuaraq speaks to him in Danish. Two beers appear on the bar in front of us. Inuaraq pays for them.

“Min Dansk er ikke ret god,” I tell the bartender. “Kan vi snakke på Engelsk?”

“Sure,” he says, “English is fine with me.”

He looks like a story-teller. He is a story teller. Telling about his hotels in Illuset and his other property here and there and how he can't wait to give up this bar... It's just too much at his age.... His wife is annoyed that he's away from home so much.

Two more beers come.

An Eskimo-looking guy-- tough oriental face, hint of a mustache, thinner than most of the Inuit persuasion-- comes into the bar and sits next to Inuaraq. It's unclear whether they know each other but they strike up a conversation... in Greenlandic.

Inuaraq tells me the guy is from Illuset and he's been hunting. He just shot 3 caribou,,, two of them died instantly, but one was hit “in a bad place.” So the hunter had to kill it by hand. He couldn't shoot it because that might scare any other approaching animal. So he slit the beast's throat... then sliced through the back of the neck to cut the head off. He says he has a video, but doesn't know if I'm... er.

“I don't know the English word,” says Inuaraq.

“Check squeamish in the dictionary,” I suggest.

He does.

“Yep,” that's it.

“No,” I tell him. “I'm not squamish.”

I order three more beers. Give one to Inuaraq, one to the hunter, and keep one for myself. I pay for this round.

Sitting at the end of the bar is a rather chubby girl, wearing an orange INUIT t-shirt. Nice design-- and I want to make conversation. Maybe get my chance to rub noses.

“Nice t-shirt,” I tell her.

“Thank you,” she says and smiles like a heart-breaker. She tells me her name... which I immediately forget. I tell her mine. Inuaraq taps me on the shoulder.

The focus returns to the hunter. Here's the video: A snow-covered field... two dead caribou, one other... bleeding from the side... raising and lowering its antlered head... Big doe eyes looking pleadingly as the hunter lifts that head and plunges a long knife into the spine. Then, he again plunges in the knife... slicing around, snow turning red... a full view into the throat of the almost dead animal. Like a medical textbook...Wow!

This is it! It's why I travel. I can see buildings and landscapes in photos. But I can't meet the people. I can't see saftig girls in INUIT t-shirts. I can't see homemade videos of silent caribou killings. Yes! Yes! Yes! This is exactly it! My best night in Greenland. Better than rubbing noses.

By now, I'm completely plastered. Six... or is it seven... bottles of beer in two hours. I close my eyes and begin to drift off in thoughts of bloody caribou and the terrific beer-shit I'm going to have tomorrow morning. I'm not sure I can walk.

“One more for the trip home,” says Inuaraq, putting a 200 krona note on the bar. The bartender gives us one each.

We talk more about caribou hunting. I show I'm a member of the tribe... dropping big words like rifle and antler. Oh yeah, I'm in on the hunt. We three promise-- next time I'm in Greenland-- to take a hunting trip together. We shake hands. The hunter and I are almost teary in our parting. What an adventure... a drunken night with the locals... as local as you can get. Pure non-tourism, THIS is what I travel for. Oh yeah.

The only problem right now is figuring out how to stand up. The bar has started to swirl around me. The bartender has begun to look less like a bartender and more like a polar bear. I feel a pressure in my bladder, but can't get the energy to trek around the corner to the men's room. Even if I could manage that, I'm sure-- after opening my fly-- I'd be unable to find what I'm looking for.

“Okay Mykel,” says Inuaraq, “shall we go back?”

I nod... I think. The trip back is a blur. Maybe we teleport. I can't remember one second between leaving the bar and arriving back downstairs where “my” room is. It's about 1PM, Iguess.

I'm ready to pass out when I hear a clumping on the spiral staircase that leads from upstairs to downstairs. It's Inuaraq.

“Do you mind if I invite two girls over?” he asks.

“Do what you like,” I say. “But I'm drunk. I've got to go to sleep.”

“Ok, Mykel,” he says. “See you tomorrow.. ah... today.”

“See you,” I say, closing the door and dropping onto the bed, fully-clothed-- except for my boots. How I found those, let alone removed them-- I don't know. I wonder if I'll be able to find them in the morning.

4AM: The pressure in my bladder awakes me... at least I think it's the pressure in my bladder... It could be the noise upstairs. It sounds like a political debate... two loud male voices... the a female's screaming laugh... more voices... another scream. I'm gonna have to walk into the middle of this. In a contest between embarrassing myself and relieving my bladder-- the bladder wins, every time.

I check to see that my pants are really still on. They are.

I pad upstairs and see the gang at the diningroom table. There is Inuaraq, two pretty Eskimo girls, a big guy I've never seen before, another guy who may have been in the bar (not the hunter)-- and the fat girl with the Inuit t-shirt.

I wave to them and head to relieve myself. On the way to the bathroom, I trip over a case half-filled with beer. No doubt it started all-filled.

From inside the bathroom, the noise is louder now. There's some kind of sing-a-long... in Greenlandic... top of the lungs... everybody knows the words. A boisterous, drunken choral... a roof-raising worthy of a German beer-hall.

Downstairs, the sound is slightly muffled... no it's not... it echoes off the hard wood... rings like a church choir. I scramble for my toiletry kit. There are a pair of earplugs there. I'm sure.

No there aren't. There is ONE earplug.

I shove it in... deep as it will go. I pile pillows on the bed, put my plugless ear against them...pull the blanket over my head And fall asleep... Yeah right.

6AM Gunshots interrupt my attempts to doze. BANG! Laughter. BANG! More laughter. I drift from semi-consciousness to full. BANG! BANG! Okay, I'll clean up the blood later. Right now, I need to get to sleep.

8AM Again awakened by my bladder. I debate getting up. The bladder, as always wins. It's quiet now. No sounds. I go upstairs and it's empty. No blood, no bullet casings. On the table is a YATZHI pad and dice. THAT was the BANG! BANG! The sound of dice being slammed on the table.

I can see into two of the three upstairs bedrooms... they're empty. The bathroom door is closed... from inside I hear the sound of running water. I'm guessing Inuaraq is trying to shower off the night's excesses. I'll give him some time.

8:15AM I try again, same sound from the bathroom. Sounds like a long shower... with a strange lack of movement.

8:30 AM I try again. The same sound. It doesn't seem like anyone is moving under the shower. The shisssssh of the water is steady... and unbroken stream. I knock on the door. No answer. I try the handle. It's locked. My bladder's gonna explode. I'm gonna die.

9 AM This is it. Do or die. Back to the silent upstairs. Everything's the same. Door locked. Water sound. Otherwise... er... the sound of silence. I don't know what to do. There are no trees in this whole country. Where can I piss outside?

I walk through the house, tracing where I think the bathroom is. Behind it, is the laundry room... makes sense because they both need water pipes. There's a window... not to the outside, but, from what I figure, to the bathroom. It's open... probably to let out the shower steam and the smell of beer shits.

The window is way above my head. There's no way I can look through it... or is there? Maybe if I climb on the washing machine, then lean way over to the left-- I can see something.

I put my palms on the washing machine and boost myself up. I see a bit of the bathroom. I can see a wall rack, and a piece of the floor. Water sloshes on the other side of the window. On the floor, lying on his side-- apparently naked-- at least from the nipples up... that's all I can see... is Inuaraq. Unmoving, as the water splashes over him. Skin pale. He's dead. Alcohol poisoned... the shower water washing away his death liquids.

Damn, I'm dealing with the first corpse in my travel career-- human corpse, that is. We're not counting caribou. Think fast. What needs to be done? I know what's most important.

I run downstairs past my bedroom... to the recycle room. There, placed neatly in a box on the floor... are various jars, bottles, other glass containers. Here's a juice bottle... maybe a little small, but we'll burn that bridge when we get to it.

I piss into it. Just make it without overflowing. Ahhh.

I screw the lid on, put on my jacket, take it outside to try to find a place to hide it. I don't want the cops to find a bottle of piss and start asking questions. I put on my coat, and walk outside, piss-bottle in hand. I walk onto the wooden porch. Shit, there's someone coming up the stairs. I gotta ditch this sucker now.

Fffftunk!

I throw it under the staircase, where it probably lies to this day.

Then, back upstairs to deal with the corpse.

I know... I'll go downstairs... stop someone on the street... ask them to call the cops for me. What do I know? I've never dealt with a naked corpse before... let alone a naked corpse in Aassiaat Greenland. They're gonna think I did it? Check fingerprints with the FBI... find my stomach medicine and think I'm a drug dealer. This is just awful! The worst day of my life.

Back at the bathroom door. I try the chain punch I learned in my Wing Chung class. POW-POW POW-POW POW-POW POW. One after the other... like a machine gun. Loud enough to wake the dead... I hope.

No response.

Ok, time to transfer this to a higher authority.... ah... there are my shoes. I put them on... hear a door open.

“Hello? Hello?” It' Inuarq, leaning through the open doorway, using the door to hide his lower nuditute.

“Fuck,” I say. “I thought you were dead.”

“No,” he says, “just in the shower.

9:45 I go back to bed

11;30 I get up, the sun shining through the curtainless windows as it does every day. Usually at 7:30! [ASIDE: It's amazing how few people here have curtains or shades on their windows. Besides providing a show of intimate adventures, the lack of curtains is a soundless morning alarm-- in the fall (and spring, I guess). But in the summer, it's never dark. In the winter, it's never light. So how does lack of curtains help with that?

Upstairs, Inuarq sits on the couch watching a soccer game on his huge TV. The maid is mopping the floor in the bathroom. Just another quiet day in Aassiaat.

“You had a wild night,” I say to him.

“You could say that,” he answers.

I head for the bathroom to take care of what old men have to frequently take care of. The maid is now washing the kitchen dishes. After bleeding the hose, I flush and leave the bathroom.

A stirring comes from Inuaraq's room. I figure he's changing clothes, or cleaning up after the rough night. I figure wrong. Out of his room come two girls--- the two pretty ones-- from the party last night. They're barefoot... slightly disheveled.

“Good morning,” I say to them.

They smile at me... wave... go down stairs... and before long I hear the back door slam shut.

Wow!

--To Be Continued

Special note about Inuaraq: As you can guess from reading this, he's an amazing guy! I feel like he's my long lost Eskimo brother. Besides his bar-- that'll feature live music-- he's organizing a festival-- twice a year (summer and winter)-- in Aasiaat. If you're in a band... or know a band... that'll be in Europe touring, especially Northern Europe or Germany, you should contact him at: inussuit@gmail.com

If, for some odd reason, you like my writing and want to see more (opinionated, political, punkrock), you can check out my other blog here.

You can subscribe to my writings (get email when something new is posted), by sending a subscribe email to: readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com.

Concrete or Mykel's Journey to the North Part 7

2016-09-23T07:34:00.000-05:00

Mykel's Northern Exposure

Seventh Entry: Concrete

by Mykel Board

I start writing this in a Thai coffee shop housed in a large wooden shack in Aasiaat, Greenland. This town is so small and obscure that Google maps don't show the streets. And here am I, eating sweet ramen, and saying Kup Kun Crahp. Hey, an Eskimo friend has joined me. I met her in the tourist info center just down the street. (Everything in this town is just down the street.)

Her name is Silly... at least that's her nickname. She's an artist, a theater lady, and a tourist information giver. Here we are-- not rubbing noses... yet:

FLASH AHEAD: I sit in another ferry-- much smaller than the vessel I took here (Aasiaat) from Nuuk. No beds on this boat. Only a sitting lounge, and an outdoor cargo/smoking deck. We're docked here in port waiting to set sail.

I'm waiting to go from Aasiaat to a disco. Actually, to DISKO ISLAND about 3 hours away. My instructions are: when I get there, I'm supposed to go to a soccer stadium... THE soccer stadium... on the other side of town. There, I'm supposed to look for a guy filming the installation of new AstroTurf. His name is Georg (no E at the end). He'll “take care of me” from there. This blog will self-destruct in 1 minute.

For me, waiting for public transportation is as much fun as listening to a JOURNEY concert... or any of those progressive bands. They're as progressive as Hillary Clinton... and as irritating. YES? No! GENISIS? I exodus. JOURNEY? I'll take Greenland, thank you. That's journey enough for me.

It's 1:28... and we should be off in 2 minutes. We'll see.

FLASH BACK TO DENMARK

I've arrived at Pedro's super out-of-the way domain. I'm staying in his girlfriend's room. On the wall is art:

Pedro tells me the artwork is called GITA S. It's named after Sylvester Stallone's famously endowed paramour ex-wife. The girlfriend/ owner of the art is off in Copenhagen... having a pancreas transplant: the fourth ever performed in the country.

Today, I'm going to visit Johnny Concrete, my very long time pal, punk rocker, train-lover, and... er... different kind of guy. I plan to spend some time with him. Then join him and his friends at the rehearsal studio-- to get down to some music business. The old punks of Aarhus have joined together to make The Snotty Old Punkband. They'll be playing soon. That means they've got to rehearse.

After we get up and eat-- Pedro drives up to Johnny's place. There... on the door... above the mail slot is:

It's about noon-- on Monday. Johnny's day job is a school teacher. I hear the kids love him.... doesn't surprise me at all. If you had a punkrock teacher in third grade, you'd love him too. Right now school's out... doesn't start again til mid-September.

Pedro knows on the door. No answer. Knock again. A shuffling comes from inside. The handle turns. There's Johnny, half awake... in the middle of dressing... putting on a CBGB t-shirt.

“For a New Yorker,” he says, “I should wear something New York.”

We hug. It's really good seeing him again. There's no one like him. While some punks are angry, some are funny, some are rebellious, Johnny's is grumpy. He sits on the couch in front of the TV. There is a soccer game on. Pedro and I glance at it. Johnny is paying it more attention. Pedro and Johnny are civil, but not exactly palsy. After a few minutes of chit-chat, he leaves.

“That's the first contact I've had with that guy in months,” Johnny tells me. “He was in our band and just quit. We had a whole tour set up and he just walked away.”

“I did it again!” I think. “With The Sods in Copenhage and the Dream Police here in Aarhus. Oh yeah... that's Mykel. He brings people together.”

“You wait here, Mykel,” Johnny tells me, “I'm going out to get some beer.”

I check my cellphone. It's 12:30. [I never drink before noon.] “Sure,” I tell him. “You want some money?”

He waves me away with a PSHAWW gesture. Then he leaves and returns with a shopping bag full of beer.

I again offer money. He refuses. He'll make me pay in another way.

With an open beer for each of us Johnny settles to watch to the boring soccer game (a pleonasm?).

“Let's go out and eat something,” I suggest.

“No Mykel,” says Johnny. “This is my holiday. I'm not leaving home if I don't have to... besides I want you to see some things.”

He switches the TV to YouTube.

“Look at this, Mykel,” he says. “Unbelievable musicianship... and more than 40 years ago!”

You've probably guessed it: JOURNEY.

What you haven't guessed is FIVE HOURS of it. JOURNEY. YES. GENESIS. By the end, I was longing for an ingrown toenail or an anal fisher to distract me from the pain.

“You want another beer?” Johnny asks an hour into the skin-peeling.

“Several,” I tell him. “Why don't we go out and get something to eat?”

“I don't want to go out, Mykel. I told you that,” he answers.

Then he disappears into the kitchen and comes out with a couple pieces of smorbrod... a Danish-style open faced sandwich... thin brown bread topped with fish or liverpaste or something like that. [In Greenland, I have it topped with reindeer pate.] The snack is delicious... just right for my hunger... but on TV...

“Look, there's Peter Gabrielle... as a young man... wasn't he terrific?”

I did get a couple breaks. One DEAD KENNEDYS with a very young Jello Biafra singing Holiday in Cambodia... and one clip of Rodney Dangerfield on Johnny Carson. You know the rest....

At about 6 o'clock, Steen from the Zero Point shows up with the rest of the band. We're off to the rehearsal space. There's a lot of people... mostly old guys... and then there's me.

Here we are again, in case you missed the picture last time. That's Johnny making the Devil's Horn gesture, Steen, with the black shirt and hideous grin, me you know. The others... all fine guys, but I forget their names. I think there's a Michael in there somewhere.

--To Be Continued

If, for some odd reason, you like my writing and want to see more (opinionated, political, punkrock), you can check out my other blog here.

You can subscribe to my writings (get email when something new is posted), by sending a subscribe email to: readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com.

The Other Side (of the Arctic Circle) or Mykel's Journey to the North Part 6

2016-09-18T13:51:00.000-05:00

Mykel's Northern Exposure

Sixth Entry:
Nuuk & Seamen

by Mykel Board

] start this sitting in the SEAMAN'S HOUSE in Nuuk, Greenland. I feel a bit strange, spending time in Seamen's House... especially after my exciting visit to the Penis Museum in Rekyavik. Nuuk, Penis, Seamen, it's a bit much, don't you think?

Luckily, I have no internet connection here. I could pay 200DKR ($33) for half an hour... like I'm gonna do that and betray my race. Besides, having no internet encourages me to write, rather than spew about Hillary Clinton on facebook.

I look out the window and see stacks of shipping containers, a rather large ship (the one I'm going to take?), a half circle of snow-dusted mountains, a small road that leads to the end of the port. In the cafe here, a few glass fish hang from the ceiling, a few employees: (one of them Greenlandic, I think), several with Danish accents. One girl I said hello to in Thai...turns out she's Filipina, lots of smiles, and the Orientals who look Japanese... but are the natives here. They converse in Greenlandic which... as it should... sounds a bit like Mongolian.

It's cold outside. (Waddaya expect, this is Green-fuckin'-land!) I had an interesting day in Nuuk yesterday... Mostly hung out at ATLANTIC RECORDS... Met Marianne, the Danish proprietress. (What is it with the name Marianne? Does just having that name make people into Super-nice Superstars?)

And I also met the bass player from one of the most popular Rock bands in Greenland, called (what else?) NANOOK.

The store is a combination instrument, CD, and music supply store. Right now, there's this big bearded Danish-looking guy and his girlfriend looking at basses. He buys a fender. Marianne helps lug it to the counter. The guy comes up to me... He's even bigger than I thought. He stands directly in front of me. If I walked forward... without leaning... I could bite one of his nipples. I don't.

“I heard you speaking English before,” he says to me with a perfect American accent. “Where are you from?”

“New York,” I tell him. “And you...”

“Virginia,” he says. “I grew up in Richmond.”

“Do you know GWAR?” I ask.

He laughs. “I used to live right next to 'em. One of 'em stole a guitar from me.”

I knit my eyebrows in a huh?

“Well, not exactly stole,” he says. “But borrowed, and then repainted the body... oil paint over water color. Wrecked it completely. So sticky I couldn't play it.”

“For me, sticky is an invitation to play,” I don't say.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I tell him. “I stayed with Gwar once... in Richmond in the 80s. There were body parts hanging all the place. I loved it.”

“I hope it wasn't sticky,” he said.

There's plenty more to tell about my first day in Greenland. Maybe I'll get back to it. But now I want to...

FLASHBACK TO DENMARK:

I've just left Copenhagen... great time there. My last night was spent eating pizza. Yeah, I know... I go to Denmark to eat pizza. But this is hoity toidy pizza... $20+ personal pizza in all kinds of exotic tastes... No, they don't have Rødgrød med Fløde flavor, but they do have chocolate and some other stuff I can't remember. They were things that would get those anything-but-anchovies pizza wimps to whistle a different tune.

I ate with two pals-- Simon & Peter-- I've known since last century! (I've known ALL my Copenhagen friends since last century.) We waxed (or waned, I'm not sure which is more appropriate) nostalgic about people we knew... who've since gone to that great wienerbrod in the sky.

FLASH AHEAD: I'm riding on Eurolines, the Megabus of Denmark. (I'm not sure if they operate in other countries.) It cost 100Dkr (about $15) to get to Aarhus from Copenhagen. The train is 4 times that. Unlike the real Megabus, Eurolines does not require masochism for transportation. They have more legroom than a train's first class and wifi that actually works. They travel even if a seat... or twenty seats... are empty. You get electrical sockets... everything you need... except toilet paper. That's their singular fault. BYOT

Oh yeah, another fault with Danish long-distance buses... whatever the company: there's no bus station in Copenhagen. Is there another capital city in the world with no bus station? There's a bus station in Banjul!

Here, you just walk up to a bus-waiting street and run around... checking all the buses until you see the LINE you want going to the PLACE you want. It's the same in NYC, but in NYC there is a bus station.... only the cheap buses just don't use it. In Copenhagen... there's no station at all.

I find my bus, and get in... it's 2/3 empty. Oh yeah!

I'm going to Aarhus to meet some old friends and make some new ones. First there's the notorious JOHNNY CONCRETE. I still remember meeting him in the 80s. A big guy... met in a club where I went to see his band... DREAM POLICE (though maybe it had a different name then).

ETHNOGRAPHIC NOTE: The Danes-- like the Japanese-- are delicate in their eating and drinking habits. They'll use a fork and knife to eat a hamburger. When drinking from a bottle, they'll put just the lower edge into their mouth and gently pour the contents in. They are not like Americans who suck down to the neck and guzzle it out.

So it's 1983 or so. I'm in an Aarhus club, guzzling a beer in the American way. A loud, already raspy voice comes from somewhere close-by... in English.

“That's not how you drink a beer,” it says. “It isn't a penis.”

“Too bad,” I answer.

Johnny Concrete and I have had our first conversation.

Then, there's Steen, singer/guitar player for THE ZERO BOYS. I liked his band so much I put them on the WORLD CLASS PUNK cassette (later CD) I produced for ROIR in 1984. A big guy, he's joined us at DRINK CLUB in New York a couple times. He's got a great laugh and is friendlier than a Thai prostitute.

Now, I hear, he's in an old-punks band called the SNOTTY PUNK BAND, with Johnny Concrete. Oh yeah!

Finally, there is Pedro and friends... THE CLEAN BOYS. We haven't met in person, but thanks to facebook, SID YIDDISH... and GG ALLIN, we have a history.

Here's the story:

Pedro discovers GG Allin in some German record store. It's the split LP with ARTLESS. He falls in love with GG. Unable to contact him due to his (GG's, not Pedro's) being dead... he searches YouTube for me. What he finds is Sid's version of Mykel Board Weasel Squeezer. So he contacts Sid. It's all facebook hill from there.

The bus arrives in Aarhus (pronounce OR-HOOS by the Copenhageners and AH-HOOS by the locals). I'm supposed to meet Pedro at the bus station. (Yes, there is one in Aarhus.) The bus is as punctual as a Japanese businessman. Pedro is not....

Not that I know it right off. I only know him from his facebook picture... and a few shots that Sid took. He could be anybody... I'll have to guess. I go into a cafe by the bus station, get a hotdog and message Pedro on facebook.... no answer. I sit down and write a bit... connect to facebook, text again. No answer.

Outside is 30-ish, slightly chubby, clean-shaven guy with chipmunk cheeks. He's looking around-- for me, I guess. I leave my computer... run to the door... wave,,,,jump up and down... point to myself... make faces. The guy frowns. His eyes widen... like all 5' 3” of me is going to attack him and... I dunno... bite his leg... I guess this isn't Pedro.

I see another guy, bearded, around the same age as the first guy... scruffy in the best sense of the word... reminds me of Harris of Letch Patrol. I go to the cafe door in a more subtle way this time. I lean against the doorjamb... sort of slinky... like James Dean without a cigarette. I'm trying to look like Lou Reed... before he died. I cough loudly once or twice. The guy looks up at me.

“Mykel?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “I've been trying to facebook you forever.”

“I don't have a smartphone,” he says. “I can't get facebook messages.”

I give him a big hug... like we've known each other for years... And the Aarhus adventure begins. Here's a picture of Pedro and me on our quest to satisfy the OTHER Danish food must.. WIENDERBROD. In America, we call it a DANISH.

I get in his car and he drives out of town... down a country road... past a sign with an arrow that says NOWHERE: CENTER... THIS WAY. We take a small dirt road off the little road. We're not headed for the middle of Nowhere. We're going to the Nowhere suburbs.

A few old farmhouses cluster around a courtyard.

“Home,” says Pedro.

I take my bags out of the trunk. Pedro helps me bring them inside. I settle in Pedro's girlfriend, Camilla's, room.

“I guess she's going to stay in your room,” I say with a wink in my voice.

“She's in the hospital... in Copenhagen... having a pancreas transplant,” he answers.

Boy, do I feel like shit. Pedro... doesn't even notice it.

More on the wild times with Pedro in a later blog

TEASER: Somewhere there exists a recording of IT'S PUNK ROCK by The Bend Over Boys. It may eventually see light as a 7”. I'll keep you informed. In the meantime, check out The Clean Boys on YouTube and on facebook.

In the future, you'll read more about my Aarhus adventures. I'll leave you with a picture of me with THE SNOTTY PUNK BAND... featuring both Steen and Johnny Concrete... Pretty sexy, huh? You know what you have in store.

--To Be Continued

[Extra note: In order to catch up, from now on I'm working haphazardly in time, trying to get in as much as I can before my ever-more senile mind loses.... er... what was I going to say?

If, for some odd reason, you like my writing and want to see more (opinionated, political, punkrock), you can check out my other blog here.

Disneyland or Mykel's Journey to the North Part 5

2016-09-15T16:14:00.000-05:00

Mykel's Northern Exposure

Fifth Entry: Hell Is Other People

by Mykel Board

Hell is other people. --Johnny Sartre

Hell is other white people who take over foreign cities and think they know more than the locals. --Mykel Board

I write this waiting for the bus to the bus to the Reykjavik airport. As in most cities, the airport is far away from the center. As in several cities, it's expensive to get from Downtown to the airport. As in Iceland, a bus is not a bus, but a bus TO a bus that may either go where you want... or... to another bus.

FLASH AHEAD

Now I'm in the actual plane on the way to Nuuk... Greenland Air. There are 9 of us on the plane, including the stewardess and the pilot. It was pouring rain... wind... Faroe weather when we left. As I look from the window of our propeller plane, it's a solid mass of clouds beneath us.

This morning, Google told me the weather in Nuuk was 3 degrees Celcius. That's about 38^o in real temperature. The plane's bucking like a humpback whale.... hold on... immigration forms are coming now.... not immigration, just customer survey-- you may win a free ticket. The survey? Basically... why the fuck are you going to Green-fuckin'-land.

I'm glad to be out of Reykavik... an ugly city... too full of tourists... expensive... with no benefits that I could see... except THE PENIS MUSEUM and BAD TASTE RECORDS. More on them later.

FLASHBACK TO REYKJAVIK:

Reykjavik is Disneyland... without the rides. There are twice as many tourists as “natives”... and I don't even know what a native is. The people working at the bars, hotels, and souvenir shops are all Eastern Europeans. (I'm getting the feeling that East Europe is the Mexico of Scandinavia.) Signs are all in English. Every car is a rental. From what I saw last night, the most popular bar in town is THE AMERICAN BAR. Excuse me while I puke.

I'm staying in the ODDSSON Hostel, a bit away from the center of town... by the port. As an island-person myself (first Long, then Manhattan) I like seascapes, boats, land that goes into the sea. Oddson gives me that.

It's a newly-built place... with the last floor (the 5^th) recently added on to accommodate the increasing hordes. The elevator only goes to FOUR.

The hostel is huge... anonymous winding halls. Reminds me of that Tom Hanks movie THE GREEN MILE (I think that's the name), where the convict has to walk past jail cells on each side... cell after cell... just closed green doors... until he gets to the electric chair at the end.

As you walk you hear the wind whistle through the windows like a banshee howl. The dorm rooms open with easy-to-forget key cards... tap and open. My room has 8 beds. The first nights (Friday-Saturday) they're all filled-- mixed genders... at least two, anyway. (Genders, that is. The are 8 people.) After the weekend, it's only me. You think it's the farts?

Almost a dozen years ago, Marilyn gave me a pair of flannel pajamas. I hate long underwear-- too tight around my legs-- but I need something to wear under my pants when the weather is cold enough to drive my testicles back where they came from. Since I'm going to Greenland, I brought the pajamas with me. In the hostel, I wear them at night when there are others in the room. I may be old... but still.. in the mornings... I … er... show myself off.

It's lucky I'm wearing those pajamas when the urge (not THAT urge) hits me and I have to run to the single-gendered bathroom in the hall. You guessed it. I forget the keycard... So downstairs to elevator to the fancy lobby I go... in my pajama bottoms and Heattech® t-shirt.... begging for another card.

The clerk, probably of Slavic origin (Icelandics don't work in the Hospitality Industry, except one per job as required by law.), does not even crack a smile as he computers another keycard and sends me... barefoot... on my way back to the room.

Two nights later, I'm the only one in the room. I have the luxury of sleeping in my somewhat soiled boxers. The urge hits again. I make sure I have the card with me when I run out in the hall in my underwear to take care of the need. The hallway is freezing... Everywhere in this hostel is freezing... except the rooms.

Running back to the room... I fish out the keycard to let myself in... the keycard is not the keycard. It is only the FOLDER for the keycard. The keycard is... who knows where. I'm out in the hall... in my underwear... locked out of my room... Five floors above the reception desk. And it's cold.

Half-naked, I walk through the Green Mile... then down the stairs to the cold elevator... then down to the cold door to the lobby.

It's closed... locked... No way in... I'll; just curl up... sleep at the threshold... arrested later in the night... or found frozen stiff in the morning... full body hard-on.

Then I see it. LATE NIGHT: RING BELL FOR SERVICE... and a button. I lean on it. The same Slav with the same this-happens-everyday face comes to the door and lets me in. He sees me standing there in my underwear... and asks.

“Can I help you?”

“Could you send room service up with an order of Eggs Benedict and a mimosa?” I don't say.

“I locked myself out... again,” I do say.

Without laughing, he makes me another key card. In less time than it takes to campaign for the US presidency, I'm back under the covers... in my pajamas.

THE NEXT DAY:

I have the worst meal of my trip. It's a vegan restaurant, recommended by the only Icelander in town. I shudda known! The last vegan meal I had was a free one... and it wasn't worth it. Prepared by the political group FOOD NOT BOMBS... bombs would have been better. At the restaurant, they say you have a wrap choice... veggie, or veggie with salad. Just the wrap would be enough, I thought. The salad is $7 extra.

“Can I choose what's in the wrap?” I ask the girl behind the counter.

“Of course,” she says, “these are what's in the salads.”

She shows me different combinations of green things, grainy things, some onions, and a few tomato pieces. It all looks barely eatable, but I choose three. for the wrap... I thint. Nope, the whole $18 kit and caboodle comes... a huge wrap, plus three mounds of salad. The wrap itself is barely edible... the salads are not as good.

Trying to Linda Lovelace my gag reflexes, I manage to down the wrap. The salad... I hope they compost.

Redeeming a bit:

The Penis Museum has dozens of phalli ripped from their animal roots and displayed in formaldehyde. And yes, there's a human one... once attached to a male of the species. They also have a penis phone, a penis lamp, a penis hatrack, a penis candelabra, and a penis bottle opener. I felt like a dick going there. (Sorry, I couldn't help myself.)

Besides the museum, the only other great place in town is BAD TASTE RECORDS-- further down the main walking street. My pal Jan Sneum told me about it. Bjork (can you name TWO Icelanders?) invested in it. It's got a great vinyl and CD selection.

AND, ______ one of the proprietor is someone I “met” in 1983 when I was putting together the WORLD CLASS PUNK CD. He was the owner of the label for the Icelandic band PURKUR PILLNIK. He signed the contract allowing the band on the CD.

At the store, he gave me a bunch of CDs, a few records, took me to a cafe... a cool guy. But that's it. The only Icelander I had social intercourse with on this whole trip! I did meet a cool Brit couple from the Northland-- both of whom hate Jeremy Corbin.. and (in the same Irish Pub) a Turkish Communist who loves soccer. Go figure.

At Oddsson met a really cool girl, Amana, I think her name is... from Sierra Leone. Smart, well-traveled, in Iceland from for 2 days on a Ł90 deal from WOW! airlines.

“It's my birthday!” she tells me.

I buy her dinner. Curse this cold sore!

Reykjavik itself is one souvenir stand after the other, punctuated by Irish Drinking Bars, Italian Restaurants, and American Sports Bars. For this I had to go to Iceland?

I took two trips out of the city. One to ________ on the recommendation of the hostel staff lady (the only Icelander working in the place). When I get there , I get out of the bus, and follow the signs to the INFORMATION CENTER. That there is an INFORMATION CENTER with a sign in English is a bad omen. That there were street signs pointing to THE VIKING VILLAGE is a worse one.

The information center looks like a bank with travel brochures. At each teller's window is a computer screen. The tellers, however, are not sitting at their computer screens. They're congregated around a table chatting about something in Icelandic. They're surprised to see me.

I walk up to the closest window. An attractive local breaks herself away from the coffee clatch and walks behind the computer.

“How do I get to the Viking Village?” I ask.

“It closed on September first,” she tells me.

'Then how 'bout the natural history museum... or the art one?” I continue.

“Closed,” she said. “Everything closed September first.”

“It's like the city closed?” I ask.

She nods.

“There's a hotel where the Viking City used to be,” she says. “You can look at that. It's called The Viking Village”

Yeah, that's a thrill.

My next trip is a 6 hour $200 Golden Citcle trip. The bus driver/guide complains about the Icelandic Government, the falsehood of global warming, and the excessive amounts of speed bumps in the country.

The tour is okay. Nice scenery-- but not as exotic as the Faroes. (You can see picture from the Faroes one here.) Yeah, it's pretty, but not $200 worth of pretty. I do not go to the Blue Lagoon. From what I hear, it's a tourist trap. I've been to onsen in Japan. I love 'em. But in this one, you have to wear a bathing and just soak hot water with a bunch of other gringos. No thank you.

Greenland, here I come. (Here I am.)

--To Be Continued

[Extra note: In order to catch up, from now on I'm going towork backwards and meet in the middle. You WILL want to hear about the BEND OVER BOYS... my big adventure in Aarhus. I promise.]

If, for some odd reason, you like my writing and want to see more (opinionated, political, punkrock), you can check out my other blog here.

Finally, if you want to subscribe to ALL my writing... and be notified when any new screed appears. You can subscribe to my reader's list at:
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Poetry or Mykel's Journey to the North Part 4

2016-09-13T17:59:00.000-05:00

Mykel's Northern Exposure

Fourth Entry: Poetry

by Mykel Board

Poetry is like a good beer shit. --Charles Bukowski

A good beer shit IS poetry. – Mykel Board

[This entry was started on my last day in the Faroe Islands. I sit at a cafe near the harbor. It's raining, as it often is in the Faroes. The cafe is nearly full, mostly women and babies... a chubby one of whom (baby, not woman) seems fascinated by me. He looks at me, smiles, drools, looks at me again. It's not happening with the women in the place.

My plane for Copenhagen (transit to Iceland) leaves in about 9 hours. Why am I going back to Copenhagen in order to get to Iceland? I'M STUPID, THAT'S WHY!! Bad planning.

On top of it all, I have a 14 hour layover in Copenhagen... and I can't go into town because I stupidly left the key in the mailbox when I checked out from Marianna's house. So it's 14 hours at the airport with no sleep on top of not much last night.

This is not going to be fun. More later, when my WRITING gets to the Faroes.]

The story continues here:

The book, What Your Poo Is Telling You says that “normal” shitting is from three times a day to three times a week. I don't know about you, but I'm usually a three-a-day guy... punctuated by a bunch of earth-shaking LBH farts that can--- and often do--- wake the dead. That's the fart in my becoming an old fart. When I was younger, my SBDs could clear a building faster than an Olympic applause bomb scare.

My travel shits are different from my usual shits. They maintain a pattern in size and shape as well as frequency. When... er... on the move... my bowel products go from wisps of air, to raisins, to grapes, to fuzzy caterpillars, to potatoes, to never-ending rope twists. Travel with me and you'll get a daily report... just ask my pal Sid Yiddish who's had more than his fill of my shit.

Voice from above: Mykel we've ALL had more than our fill of your shit.

Yeah, right.

This trip has been different. I've maintained my 3-a-day ness... right from the beginning. Sometimes four. Healthy full-bodied cucumbers... right from the start.

It may have something to do with the beer. To the Danes, Beer is food... as well as drink. If you go out, you have a beer. If you have dinner, you have a beer. If you go out for drinks after dinner, you drink beer.

The old Danish custom of snaps (Aquavit) seems to have disappeared. On my first trip to Denmark, in 1972, my new friends taught me how to drink the stuff. (It tastes like very alcoholic liquid rye bread.)

You put a coin in the bottom of a coffee cup. Then fill the cup with coffee until you can't see the coin. Then add snaps until you can see the coin again.

The headquarters of snaps was the city of Aalborg. I made a special trip there to visit the factory and ARTLESS played there in the 1980s.

Since then, the factory closed. I don't even know where they make the stuff anymore... probably China. Now everyone in Denmark drinks beer... always.

In the US, it is a self-imposed rule never to drink before noon. I do it for my digestion, though it doesn't work. In Denmark, I've had to change the rule slightly to: Never drink before noon... someplace in the world.

Where last we left, I was meeting my long-time friend Knud Odde at Peder Oxe-- a famous somewhat hoity toidy place where Oxe does not mean OX, but cow... I think. Knud has invited me and will wind up paying a pretty penny for the whole night.

[Note: Danes are among the most generous people in the world. You'll read about others... and you already met some. It's my favorite country in Europe... but maybe I've said that before.]

Right now, I'm sitting on a bench in front of Peder Oxe with Peter Peter who-- with Knud-- was in THE SODS, one of Denmark's first punk bands... and my first punk contacts in the country (1977).

Since that time, the band evolved into SORT SOL (Black Sun), and then split up... under not very friendly conditions. Two of the members went on to form a new band. Knud has become an internationally famous painter. Peter Peter is a music producer and masters LPs for new bands. Knud and Peter Peter haven't seen each other in twenty years.

Here comes Knud now... walking across the cobblestone square in front of the bench. He doesn't see us yet. Now there's the look of recognition on his face... but I can't tell which of us he sees first. By the time I stand up to give him a hug, he's seen both of us. I brace for acrimony.

I get my hug. Peter Peter gets a fist to the jaw... I lie. It's not a hug, but a very warm two handed hand shake. They say something in Danish... a lot. Jeg kan ikke forstor det. But it's friendly. And I'm thinking YEAH!!! Mykel the match-maker.... the fixer upper. I smile so hard my face hurts. Then I fart... a loud trumpet blast... a Jericho wall knocker-downer. I can feel my face redden. The two former Sods don't seem to notice.

Side note: There are 17 people in the world who are not on facebook. Peter Peter and Knud are two of them. They exchange emails.

Peter does not join us for dinner. He limps home, holding his stoned kidney. Knud and I sit outside the restaurant enjoying the unseasonably warm Danish summer weather. Knud as has been his custom forever, orders wine. I order beer. It's a great meal. Afterwards, we head off to the library. (WTF?)

There's a concert tonight celebrating the opening of the library's new vinyl collection. It's also to celebrate some long-standing Japanese-Danish connection. Knud invited me, I guess, because he knows I lived in Japan... and have had almost as much of a love-affair with that country as I've had with Denmark.

“Nihonjin desuka?” I ask the only Oriental in the place.

He smiles and nods.

We talk Japanese a bit. He tells me where he's from. (I forget.) I tell him about my history in Japan. He compliments me on my Japanese.

[NOTE: In the U.S, Americans expect everybody in the world speaks English. If you don't, it's because you don't WANT to. The Japanese believe they are the only people who can speak Japanese. If you know just a few words, they're amazed and impressed:

SUSHI. “You said sushi! Your Japanese is really good!”]

Then the show starts. First a video of these Danish guys (two of 'em in the band), who were waylaid by a Japanese TV crew, followed around as they discovered Japan, and then had their adventures turned into a YouTube mini-series.

Then the band played:

After the band (long very involved playing with 4 guitars weaving in and out over and under each other), I figure the shows over. I figure wrong.

The librarian takes the microphone:

“We have with us tonight, Mykel Board,” who lived in Japan and experienced the Japanese experimental music scene first hand. Let's welcome him here so he can tell you about it.”

Huh?

Applause.

I get up and stand in front of three or four dozen Danes, and one Japanese guy... all Danish-Japanese music enthusiasts. Can I bullshit my way... completely unprepared? Can I be calm and present the face of authenticity where behind that face is complete ignorance?

Come on! I'm Mykel Fuckin' Board, of course I can. I do.

Dropping the name of every Japanese punk band from the 1980s. Gism, Nuky Pikes, Genbaku Onanes, Hijokaidan, Hanashtari, Lip Cream, Guitar Wolf, SOB. A few well known labels: Alchemy, 666.. a touch of completely made up shit: Manko Sashimi-- the all girl electronic band from Nagasaki, The Baca Vaca, Shin Ketsu... complete bullshit. I've got them eating out the palm of my hand. Five minutes of talking, then applause, then the questions.

“What do you think the relationship of Haijokaidan to modern American noisebands like...” and then some weird name that sounds like a Norse God... or a computer programming language.

Uh oh!

“It may have been a mistake at the time,” I say. “But I did nothing illegal. No classified material was ever kept on my server.”

They didn't get it, but it got me out of the questions... and then it was out with Knud and this local record nerd who pleased me by uttering my favorite words (unless they're spoken by someone with a weapon).

“So you're reallyMykel Board?” he says.

I nod.

“That Swanic Youth record... I have three copies....”

He joins Knud and me as we close a half dozen bars. I get “home” at 5AM. Then I throw up.

The next day... er... the same day, they all get mixed up. But one of the days I go to a weird art opening with Marianne, Malene (I met them together in the 80s), and a bunch of completely non snobby artists... The art features a repeating video of some naked Danish girls hitting tree trunks with other tree parts. It makes a mess, but it's only dirt and leaves... doesn't give me a hard-on.

But it's another night of drinking and more drinking... meeting people... and more drinking. I feel like I'm in the ART FRAT at some State University. A pyramid of beer bottles and a street full of blonds and blondes. Ah, Denmark how I love you.

The next day? The day before? Some day... finally.... the summer house where Marianne makes my Danish dream come true. Here she is in her full Rødgrød glory:

Did we forget something? I don't think so... here comes the fløde.

Oh yeah!!! Then it's on to Århus, recently renamed Aarhus.

--To Be Continued

[Extra note: I'm only on my 3^rd or fourth day in Denmark with this blog, but in reality I'm ready to leave Iceland for Greenland! From now on I may work backwards and meet in the middle. You WILL want to hear about the BEND OVER BOYS... my big adventure in Aarhus. You will.]

If, for some odd reason, you like my writing and want to see more (opinionated, political, punkrock), you can check out my other blog here.

The Yawn Ride or Mykel's Journey to the North Part 3

2016-09-05T05:37:00.000-05:00

Mykel's Northern Exposure

Third Entry

by Mykel Board

[This entry was started at Copenhagen Airport on September 1, 2016. I'm here waiting for the plane to Bergen, Norway. That's the transit point to Torshavn in the Faroe Islands. The Faroe Islands are between Denmark and Iceland. There are more sheep there than people (like New Zealand). The Faroes are a Danish colony. They use Danish coins. Danes still have a big say in their foreign policy. Local police are trained in Denmark. Most people can speak Danish... but they don't like to. Their language is Faroese. and it's closer to Icelandic than to Danish. They have their own flag, and, I expect, their own postage stamps. You'll here more after my perfectly smooth trip from here to the Youth Hostel where I'm staying.... Yeah, right.

FLASH: My flight was canceled. I shit you not. The gate was posted, I went there, sat to wait. At the “boarding time”... nothing going. I asked one of the few guys sitting at the gate if I was in the right place.

“Right flight,” he says, “but it was canceled. You'll have to fly to Oslo (at first I think he says Moscow), then on to Bergen.”

“But I have a connecting flight in Bergen,” I tell him.

He shrugs.

I run out of the gate and check the departure board. There it is:

Right now I'm on a flight to Stavanger... look it up... I'll tell you the rest later.]

HERE'S THE REAL START OF THE BLOG.

Date August 20, Saturday:

The word is gabe, rhymes with BABE. It's pronounced like the long time newscaster, Gabe Pressmen. (Is he dead?) I guess it's short for Gabriel. In Danish, it means yawn... a big open-mouthed sign of fatigue or boredom.

As I was leaving the plane at Copenhagen airport, I was surprised to overhear a conversation that included the word. But before I tell you more, I need to tell you about Tivoli Gardens.

You could probably guess from the final “i”, Tivoli is not a Danish word. Actually, it's the name of a town in the middle of Italy. But it is also the name of the world's second oldest amusement park: Tivoli Garden. (Number one is also in Denmark.) It's like a slightly more old-world version of Coney Island. Lots of lights, famous rides including some wild roller-coasters, and plenty of tourists

I've only been there once. Not for lack of desire, but other things have pulled me away. It's still a spectacular place and should be nice for controlled thrills So you can guess my surprise when I heard what I thought was a discussion of a new attraction in the garden. The Yawn Ride... if my Danish serves me right.

That's something I can't figure out. Would it be boring? Or maybe YAWN in Danish has the English meaning of WIDE... like a yawning chasm. Maybe it's a ride that springs over a deep ravine.

Ok, keep that in your mind's back closet as Marianne drives me from the airport to her apartment in the middle of Copenhagen. It'll be my private apartment, as she's staying in her summer house. I have the keys, I can come and go as I like, and it's close to a subway station. It's also 4AM, and she's chauffeured me here and needs to get back to her summer house. I tell you that woman is a goddess. AND the day after tomorrow I'll eat the first of my must-eats:

RǾDGRǾD MED FLǾDE!

Today, it's off to see Peter Peter. Peter is one of the first people I met in Copenhagen... after Kim Schumacher. I'll take the Metro to a familiar stop and try out Google maps on the smartphone... first time.

I get off the Metro at Kogns Nytorv. (pronounced “Cohen's New Tour). In the oxymoronic near distance, I hear people screaming and the BOOM BOOM of dance music. If this were an airport, they'd close it in a heartbeat. Terrorist bazooka attack!

I turn on my smart phone and push Google Maps. The phone asks me to shake it. Turning it up and down, side to side, back and forth and the whole thing again.

Got it... I think.

Pulled along by the phone, I'm heading directly for the commotion down the street. I see the buildings are decorated for a special occasion. It is a festive look but I have no idea what the occasion is.

There are certainly a lot of flags. I recognize the white-on-red Danish flag. And there's the red, white, and blue American one. Two guys are holding them... One of them I recognize from a picture in the Norwegian Air magazine. He's the US Ambassador to Denmark. The other... huh, he's holding the Ambassador's hand. Here's a picture after they let go to wave to the crowd. (The guy in the middle is the Ambassador.)

Then, I recognize the rainbow flags. Then, more America: Ms America... or a large-fronted version of her... riding on what looks looks like a parade float.

Then I understand.

GABE RIDE... GAY PRIDE... Oh yeah. It's not about the Tivoli at all. I get it. (But not often enough.)

Google continues to pull me along the parade route. Until I get to Peter's street. I turn and ring the doorbell, expecting no one to be home so close to the chaos.

Above me, a window opens. Peter sticks his head out, sees me and shakes his head.

“Never answer the door. Never answer the door. Never answer the door,” he says both to himself and me. But he's smiling and buzzes me in.

“I'm a cripple,” he tells me after we hug at the apartment door. “I've had this kidney stone for a hundred days.”

“Jeez,” I say. “What's a kidney stone like?”

“It's like being kicked in the balls by an elephant,” he says, slumping onto the couch.

“Never had either experience,” I tell him.

I look around for the long-term girlfriend, Lulu. [You know how when you're friends with someone, and they get a girl/boyfriend... you usually can't stand their choice, And often question their sanity? Not this time. Lulu is great! I love her. She's smart, funny, pretty, adventurous. Absolutely terrific. The only problem with her is that she's not here!!! She's off at the Gabe Ride celebrations!]

“She's not here,” Peter tells me. “Besides, she's not my girlfriend anymore.”

I'm crushed.

“She's my wife,” he says. “For a long time.”

We talk horror movies, our mutual love of Screaming Mad George, what's new in Danish movies... and how-- with a kidney stone-- three drops is a victory.

Then we talk about how members of his old band, The Sods/Sort Sol have become estranged. “I haven't seen any of them for at least ten years... maybe more.”

“I'm going to meet Knud (the bass player) after I visit you,” I tell him. “At a place called Peter Oxe.”

“I know where that is,” he says. “I'll walk you half way and point you in the right direction. But first I want to take some pictures... for Ai.”

Note: Ai is a Japanese friend of mine who lives in New York. Peter met her on his last trip to the city. They got to be good friends... and joked about their future love-life together.

“How bought one showing a nipple?” I suggest. “It's better that one dripping 3 drops.”

“Okay,” he says, “one of us together, one solo-- just for her.”

Sorry gals/guys, I can't find the solo one right now... but Ai has it. Here we are together.

Then it's off to town. Following the now empty parade route. I hope I can find my way on the last half of the walk... I don't have to. Peter goes the entire way with me... and together we sit down in front of the restaurant to reunite with his bandmate... who he hasn't seen for ten years.

--To Be Continued

If, for some odd reason, you like my writing and want to see more (opinionated, political, punkrock), you can check out my other blog here.

Mykel's Journey To The North: Part Two Day THREE

2016-08-31T08:08:00.000-05:00

Mykel's Northern Exposure

Second Entry

by Mykel Board

[This entry was finished up (I hope) on my last day in Denmark proper. It's been two weeks since I posted entry one. I've been busier than a pharmaceutical PR man. A lot of seeing old (amazingly old!) friends and blasting out what's left of my hearing at punkrock shows... and in the studio. I recorded a new song with my new friends and bandmates in THE BEND OVER BOYS. Details MAY come later. Tomorrow, it's Torshavn. To find it, check a detailed map for NOWHERE. It's right in the middle.

For now, we'll return to Kennedy Airport in New York. After a 36 hour delay.]

It makes perfect sense that HELL is a city in Norway. I start this blog in the air of Norwegian Airlines... just left Kennedy Airport-- 38 hours late. (I ain't shittin' ya.) I guess I've flown with at least 50 different airlines in the course of my long and sordid life. My favorite: Royal Jordanian Air. They gave me TWO DINNERS (yeah free) on a trip from London to New York.

Norwegian Air is THE WORST... worse even than Ryan Air... worse that Spirit Air. The first flight was canceled completely... no notice... no text... no nothing until I called the airline and... oh yeah, by the way your flight is canceled. You can read that in the last blog.

So I'm getting ready for the same flight the next day. I leave at 11:30 at night, just like I was supposed to last time. Nice time... cooler and I get into Copenhagen in the afternoon... convenient for Marianne who's meeting me at the airport. Right? Yeah, right.

That flight too is canceled... er... rescheduled to 11AM the next morning. I get in to Copenhagen at half past midnight. I can't expect someone to meet me that late. Okay, I'll take a cab... I text Marianne. She says she'll meet me just the same. Amazing! So I wake up at 5AM... my time.*

(*40 minutes earlier than “real time.” Details in last blog.)

I again go through leaving checklist, return to the airport via the same too-narrow subway... they're running slower at this time in the morning. I guess there are fewer travelers, so fewer subways, right? But why do they stop and sit between stations?

We are delayed because of train traffic ahead. We'll be moving shortly.

Train traffic? It's five in the morning and we're delayed because of train traffic? Okay, I have plenty of time. They plane doesn't leave until 11... yeah, right.

Finally, the train starts again, gets me to Sutphin Blvd (I'm trying a new route), where I switch to the Train-to-the-Plane which continues to the airport... effortlessly... not a glitch in the entire $5 12 minute ride.... transit perfection.

That's it for transit perfection...

So where was I... oh yeah... leaving the AIR TRAIN Terminal One. I again check the AISLE sign. Norwegian Air AISLE H. I head to H, knowing exactly what to expect. I look for some guy in the now-familiar uniform. He's standing in a little booth at the back end of Aisle H.

“Excuse me,” I say, “Could you tell me where...”

“Aisle E,” he says. “Norwegian Air is at Aisle E.”

I nod... trudge off to Aisle E.

There is no one in Aisle E. No lines. No people behind the counters... not even a wrong airline to entice me to a false line. Nothing.

I ask another guard, this one standing a bit closer to my current position.

“Where is the check-in for Norwegian Air?” I ask.

“Check that sign over there,” he says pointing to the AISLE H sign.

I shake my head. “That sign says Aisle H,” I tell him. “The guy in Aisle H says it's in Aisle E.”

“Then check the screens there.” He points to a TV Monitor. “The information should be there.”

I check the monitor. It has my flight... to Copenhagen... listed as leaving at 11AM from gate nine. Unlike the other airlines on the screen, this entry is market--- in red... CHECK-IN CLOSED.

I look for a guy in uniform.

“Excuse me,” I ask him. “Could you tell me why almost all the other check-ins on the monitor are open, but this one says Check-In Closed? What does that mean?”

“It means that the check-in is not open,” he says.

I don't hit him.

“Give it a little while,” he continues. “It will open.”

I head to the food court for breakfast. I haven't had much of an appetite lately, but I should eat something. Ok, here's a Duncan Donuts. Bagel with bacon and cream cheese. I donno, but that just seems WRONG! I'll have a croissant. It's awful.

Then it's back to Aisle H. I know what to expect when I get there... yep, a uniformed guy asking if I want Norwegian Air.

“No,” I tell him, “but I have no choice.”

He doesn't get it, but he sends me to Aisle E again. It's about ten minutes before I find out that the actual check in is Aisle A.

Quicker than it takes to reach the tech support guy when your new TV doesn't connect, I'm at the front of the line. I put my bag on the scale.

“I'm sorry,” says the very non-Norwegian looking (unless Norway has moved to South Asia) check-in clerk. “You are only allowed 20 kilos. Your bag is 22 kilos.”

“Okay,” I tell her. “I'm allowed one check-in bag. It's part of the travel agent deal. Besides I've been delayed 36 hours on this flight. I'll just check this bag.”

“Of course,” she says with a smile that'd make Ilsa She Wolf of the SS seem saintly. “I'll give you a food voucher to take care of your inconvenience. But I can't take your bag here. You'll have to wait on that line.” She points to a line of people that stretches from the counter to somewhere in Brooklyn. She then writes out a voucher and hands it to me.

“Hold on!” I tell her, pulling my bag off the scale. She takes another victim while I open the bag and take out a shirt and wrap it around my waist. Then, a book (one of my self-written books... brought as a trinket for the natives)... that, I put in the pocket of my raincoat. A couple CDs brought for trading for rare shit... in the other pocket. A sweater that I tie around my neck. (Remember this is August in New York.) Dripping sweat, I zip up the bag and put it back on the scale. 20.2 kilos.

“That's okay,” says Isla... with a wink.

Boarding pass in hand, I head for security. Of course, I'm stopped... my hands swabbed, the swab put in the explosive detection machine. I pass the test.

Then on to the gate. It's 9:30. My boarding pass says BOARDING 10:00. In an hour, I get on the plane... Yeah right. At about a half hour late, I decide to take a picture.

I should have waited. It's about 11:45 when I hear Thank you for your patience. We'll now begin board. All people who need help boarding or families with children under 6 can board at this time. By noon, I'm on the plane.

At 1PM the plane still sits on the runway. The pilot is on... perfect American English: “I apologize for the wait,” he says. “A plane ahead of us has had landing gear problems. We're waiting for a truck to tow it off the runway. Then, there are 10 planes ahead of us.”

I shit you not.

Once in the air, I pull out the slick NORWEGIAN AIR magazine. I'm happy to see that there is free wi-fi on board.

No there isn't. “Sorry sir, this flight does not have wifi.”

I don't ask.

After a couple hours in the air, the croissant has begun to wear off. I ask the stewardess (as “Norwegian” as the check-in clerk) for something to eat. I show her the voucher. She frowns and goes somewhere... coming back in a few minutes.

“Sorry sir,” she says, “that voucher can only be used in the airport before you leave. We can't take it for food here.”

“You can't take a Norwegian Air voucher on Norwegian Air?” I ask.

She nods..... excuse me while I strangle the screaming baby in the seat behind me.

Okay, already. You get the idea!

At 3AM I'm in Copenhagen. Marianne is there to pick me up and take me to her apartment... My private apartment for my time here. She's staying with her husband in their summer house. Now, the Northern Adventure^®really begins.

--To Be Continued

If, for some odd reason, you like my writing and want to see more (opinionated, political, punkrock), you can check out my other blog. here.