Wednesday, September 01, 2010

Mykel Board & the Mexican Punks MRR 328

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column
by Mykel Board

aka How Much Punk Rock Do You Hear In (From?) Mexico!

"Rock music should be gross; that's the fun of it. It gets up and drops its trousers..”--Bruce Dickenson

Last Week: “Do you like that?” She moves her mouth up and down pressing her tongue against the underside of the shaft. 

I moan. 

She takes her lips off just as my balls tighten, pulling themselves inside.

“How 'bout now?” She asks, licking the side.

I moan again.

“Talk to me,” she says. 

I don't want to talk. Sex is not a dialog. I don't want to hear what you like. I don't want to tell you what I like. 

You'll find it. Our bodies will talk. I'll suck your clit like a dick. You'll stick a finger up my asshole. We'll get there. 

The sex manuals are wrong. People should NOT tell each other what they want in bed. It destroys the passion... turns lust into academia. An adventure into a textbook. Sex into phone sex. No. No. NO!
Yes! Yes! YES!!!

Ahhh, wasn't that easy? Sometimes you just know. You don't have to say a thing.

Now: It's been a busy month for me. 70 years old and I have a new record! Sex 20 times in four and a half days. My prostate feels like someone sprayed it with chili sauce. 

That's not bad, mind you. But it's hard to walk. 

And now it's back to the Toshiba... where was I?

 FLASHBACK further: Last week we left me and 8 Mexicans in a rental van to Boston, on our way to Lucho's farewell party. I'm suffering from sudden severe leg pain. Nearly a cripple... but the thrill of the journey trumps a pain in the leg any day. Besides, I'm with Mexicans! And they're punkrockers!
Our “7-person” van has most of Verbal Desecration and others. Who exactly?

1. Alan, the 50-something drummer, also the original drummer of Solucion Mortal.
2. Faride, 17, the guitar player and Alan's current girlfriend
3. Carmelita, 40-something, Alan's former wife and Alan Jr.'s mother
4. Alan Jr., 19, Alan and Carmelita's son
5. Jessica, around 20, Alan Jr.'s girlfriend
6. Alex, 20-something, the bass player
7. Argel, around 30, and a mutual friend of Gilberto's and mine. A nice quiet guy-- the only quiet guy in the van.
8. Gilberto, 30-something, I think, the tour organizer and one of my best friends. During the trip I have a brain blip which makes me call him: Gustavo until the last day. Then, I begin to call him Herman.
9. Me, driving


“What's that noise?” I shout over my shoulder. “Sounds like someone being sick?” 

“It's just Jessica,” comes an unknown voice from the back. “She's sick.”

Then the stench hits me. Like a bathroom at any Punkhouse. A hard puke-smell, like nothing else but... puke.
Girlfriend? Suddenly sick? Young? Fertile? Uh oh!

“Is she....” I start.

“Oh no,” comes the voice. “It's just something she ate.”

Yeah right. The problem did not enter her body through her digestive system. I know that much anatomy.

I hear the vile sound of liquid splashing into a plastic bag. 

“Don't worry,” comes the voice again. “We have a big bag.”

In the rear view mirror, I see Alan Jr. help Jessica wipe a few glutinous strands from her chin. 

I see Alan Sr. making out with Farinda, his beautiful 17-year old girlfriend. And I also see Carmelita, his former wife, glaring death daggers at the couple. 

I need a break. My leg feels like it's gonna fall off. We're half way there. The van smells like a Parmesan cheese factory. Each bump brings the disgusting sound of vomit swishing around a large plastic CVS bag. 

This, mixed with the slurping of Alan and his girlfriend-- and the smell of the green-eyed monster from Alan's former wife-- makes a stop necessary. I just hope the bag doesn't break and that there's no murder.

We're at Burger King. It's a place I rarely eat at, but considering our budget, the time, and the abundance of plastic bags, it's the best choice. 
Fast Forward: Lucho's party is great. He'll miss us when he gets to Peru.

It's in a bar with a stage. Band after band plays in tribute to his majesty. On the wall is a cardboard cut-out of a large tombstone. R.I.P. LUCHO, it says.

There's Karen, a Boston goddess I've more than once spilled my seed in fantasy about. And... to my joy... I hear she's broken up with her boyfriend.

“Aww,” I tell her, my arm around her shoulder. “That's too bad.”

Erika and Citizen Philip are there, like they're still on a honeymoon. I try to convince Phillip to bring Citizen Fish to Peru next year with Mykel Board as a roadie. He thinks I'm kidding.

I meet Lucho's brother-- and tons of others

Lucho's the grand master. It's a hug and cry fest, worse than the World Trade Center. 

Verbal Desecration plays a fantastic show, as do all the other bands that night.

I wish I could give you the more details of the party, but I got so drunk I don't remember it. I have no idea how we got back to Gustavo's apartment aka THE PUNK HOUSE.

I remember walking in and seeing asleep, on a cushy chair, the MONSTER DOG FROM HELL. It's a giant Great Dane. Bigger than me. With paws massive enough to castrate you (or me) with a single swipe. For some reason, she's wearing two collars.

Dogs and I get along well, so I'm not afraid. In fact, I drop my pants and penetrate her anally on the spot. 

She tells me her name is Spot. 

That's not exactly true. 

Her name isn't Spot. It's Indica. But she does wear two collars. One is completely normal. The other has a small box attached to it. Weird looking. Like she's a punkrock Saint Bernard, carrying a boxful of cocaine to punkrockers stranded in the Himalayas. 

I later learn it's a citronella spray collar. Citronella is what's in those mosquito repellant coils. Evidently, dogs hate it. The box is programmed to spray it in the dog's face at every bark. 

It must work, because Indica is very quiet.

The only other thing I remember from that night is Argel-- the quietest, most unassuming, of our group-- asking me, “Mykel, the others want to know if it's alright to take cocaine in front of you. They don't want to be disrespectful.”

Unfortunately, I can't remember my answer. I'm sure it wasn't nearly clever enough, but I was drunker than a fratboy.
Next day: It's 11 AM. I need to get back to NY. They can sleep all day, but I need to return the rental van before I get charged another day. 

As I limp out of the punk house, I carefully open the door and go down to the van to get all the band's stuff. I close the building door behind me. Then, it opens again... and slams. MONSTER DOG FROM HELL has escaped. She romps through the grass, churning up flowers and lawn, cavorting dog-style across the grass. I try to follow. My ankle and leg feel like they're caught in a bear trap. 

I kneel. 

“Here boy,” I say, forgetting her gender. 

She looks at me, feints left, runs right, stops, wags her tail, runs directly at me. Jumps with both paws on my shoulders, pushes me to the ground. Then she takes off again. I get up, leap forward, tackling the air behind her. She wags her tail, having a grand old time. 

I leap again. This time, I snag her anti-bark collar. She struggles against me. She pulls. I pull. The collar comes off in my hand, spraying me in the face with mosquito juice. I don't bark.

Indica knows she's free of the curse. She barks. And again. She barks up a storm, romping gaily over the lawn, through the flowers, on top of another giant dog. That one belongs to the girl who lives downstairs in the punk house. Winner of the American Superbitch award, Herman later tells me her name is Abby. 

“What are you doing here,” she asks me.

“I'm trying to catch that dog,” I tell her.

“Who do you know here?” she asks.

“I'm friends with Herman,” I tell her.

“I don't know any Herman,” she says.

“I mean Gilberto,” I say.

“Oh him.” 

She says it like someone might tell you you've walked out of the bathroom with a piece of toilet paper stuck to your shoe.

“You know,” she continues, “you have to be careful if you open a door when there's a dog inside.”

How do you say duh! in bitchese?

“Thanks for the advice,” I tell her, making a final lunge, wrestling the dog to the lawn and getting her back inside.

“By the way,” I say. “Do you know how to get to the Mass Pike from here?”

“That way,” she says, gesturing with her chin. “Those people you're staying with are so irresponsible. What if I wasn't here to help you? Where would you be then? Huh?”

“I'd really be stuck,” I tell her. 

“You sure would,” she says.

I don't think she knows about gas stations. They give directions without the attitude.

Rather than answer her snidely, I smile and wave good-bye. Sometimes you don't have to say a thing.

ENDNOTES: [email subscribers ( or website viewers ( will get live links and a chance to post comments on the column]

-->For the gringos who don't know Mexipunk, Gilberto wrote a primer:
       Mexico´s first Proto punk bands from late 70s were Salida Falsa and Dangerous Rythm. Punk rock in full form started in Tijuana in 1981 with Solución Mortal and in Mexico City with Rebel de Punk. They were all influenced by The Dead Kennedys , The Adolescents and other US bands that came to the border city of San Diego. They brought that California skate punk sound to Mexico City in the mid 80s. That influenced bands like Masacre 68, Desorden Publico, Síndrome del Punk and Atoxxxico.
            Bands from other states besides Mexico City include: Suciedad Discriminada (a great funpunk band from Sonora who stayed in my apartment. They gave me the worst hangover I've ever had. --MB) El Sistema Feroz, Los Tres Cochinos, La Perra Vida, Grito, Alma Surfer, Estupidez Crónica, and Mexipunk pioneers and subjects of a soon-to-be-released documentary, La Merma.
            Then, there was Democracia Real, Reacción Cadena, Especimen, Disolución Social, Alcoholic Youth, Cabezas Podridas, and from Guadalajara, Faltas Del Sistema.

-->But wait, there's more dept: Gilberto wants me to mention these other Mexican bands that aren't so old, but are great: Garrobos, Los Sakas, Barra Brava, Verbal Desecration, Hijos Del Lechero, Seis Pistos, Los Ke Siguen

-->Too much too soon dept: So much more happened on that trip, I don't have time or space to tell it all. I do want to mention the La Merma documentary. It's going to be called 15 AÑOS DE CAMINO. Farida and I will both be in it. We recorded our parts in a basement studio in a Boston suburb. Adriana, the Venezuelan directoress, also plays in a band. Kind of avant punk, they're called Saxplosivo, and I think you can find them on YouTube.
I also wanted to write about Carmelita, the former wife, picking up this old rocker at some awful jock karaoke bar while inside, her son and I have a conversation that goes like this:
      HIM: You met Sid Vicious?
      ME: Yep, he had his arm around my shoulder the day after he killed his girlfriend. Right there in New York.
      HIM: And you saw Agnostic Front?
      ME: Yep, lots of times, at CBGBs.
      HIM: And you played with Minor Threat?
      ME: Well, I didn't exactly play with Minor Threat. My band, Artless, opened for them in New York. The bar loved us because the Minor Threat crowd was straight-edge and usually didn't buy any beer. But that night people bought pitchers-full. Just so they could throw it at us.
      HIM: You're just like my father. You lived in such a great time. I wish I was old.
I feel like a star.

-->Happiness dept: The American Pulse Survey company found that in 2009 56% of Americans are “happy or totally happy” with their lives in general. 35% are “happy or totally happy” with their jobs. Looks like life is NOT your job.
           Let's see, a week is 168 hours. You sleep (or are in bed) 8 hours a day. That leaves 112 hours. You work (at least) 40 of those, where presumably you're miserable. That leaves 72 hours. Breakfast, commuting, getting dressed/undressed for work , showering, bathroom obligations take around 3 hours a working day. That leaves 57 hours. Dealing with shit (paying bills, deleting spam, washing the dishes, answering email, dealing with parents/s.o./kids) takes at least two hours a day. That leaves 43 hours. So, even if you're happy ALL of those 43 hours, that's only a quarter of your life. And that's happy or totally happy? Ouch!

-->Take good news where you can get it dept: Hard to imagine but Hillary Clinton did something right. She signed orders that end the immigration exclusion of Professors Adam Habib and Tariq Ramadan. They are both scholars invited to speak to US audiences. They were excluded by the Bush censors, probably because of their names. I'm sure a guy named Barak Obama would've never made it into the U.S. during the Bush years. Well maybe he would've, since he was born in Kenya, not Syria.

-->Defense of marriage? dept: According to AARP Magazine: 57% of pet owners say their pets are more likely than their spouses to give them a welcome-home kiss. Gays say they want the “right” to marry because that's what we give to hets who are in love. I say, pet owners & pets should have the marriage right. Apparently, they love each other more!

-->A petition worth signing: Drink at 18 is a new website that has an internet petition to lower the U.S. drinking age. While I think there should be NO drinking age, lowering it is a good first step. The U.S. has the highest drinking age in the world. And more car accidents (the excuse for a high drinking age) than France. In that country, there is NO age limit.
          We all know the real reason for the high drinking age: CHRISTIANITY: if it makes your body feel good... it's BAD!

-->Should be obvious, but it's not dept: My pal Sid reminded me. With my rants against Arizona, and the world rants against Israel, especially its murderous attack on charity ships, we forget there are those who are not villains.
Yes, we need to boycott Arizona and divest Israel, but we also need to know that there are people in both places who are decent, moral and fighting the government as much as you and me. Terrorists on all sides (including the government terrorists of Israel and Arizona) forget that. You shouldn't.


Mykel's personal website is here.

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