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

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column

Column for MRR 337

May 2011
by Mykel Board

aka  Mykel Knows It From A Hole In The Ground!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

Yow! Here I am!

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

I laugh.

 

Ingrid doesn't.

 

“Sure,” she says.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

I reach between my legs to make myself more comfortable.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Wow!” I say.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

She smiles.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Whoops. I forgot about that.

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

-end-

See more than you'd ever want to at Mykel's home website. 

or READ more than you'd ever want to by ordering his book:
I A, Me-ist or The Portable Mykel Board

 

Mykel Checks To See If He Can Still Do It! (MRR 335, May)

You're Wrong 
An Irregular Column

Column for MRR 336

May 2011

by Mykel Board

aka  Mykel Checks
To See If He Can Still Do It!

 

"My prayer for the women of the next millennium: have hard hearts; and
learn how to kill.” --Andrea Dworkin

“Nursing is great, Mykel.” Donn tells me. He turns to Gwera.  Should we tell him the bowel story?” he asks, before going ahead anyway.

 “This is so wonderful,” he continues. “We had this guy... an old guy... street crazy... really just a poor street bum... never saw a doctor... no teeth... scraggly gray beard... came in screaming. Stomach pain... horrible nausea. Later we find out he has an obstructed bowel... like a knot in your lower intestines. The shit can't get through. It builds up... then backs up.”

I nod like it happens all the time.

“Course, the guy has to eat,” says Donn. “And if you eat, the food turns to shit. And the shit goes down the large intestines. But it can't come out... it just piles on the old shit already down there. The guy eats more. That turns to shit and piles more on the old shit. Pretty soon it backs up into the small intestine... like traffic in front of a bridge toll... in rush hour.”

 Uh oh. I think I know what's coming.

 “That small intestine is pretty long... about twenty feet... big as a house...still, there's a limit. It fills up...after the small intestine comes the stomach... This guy is there...on the gurney... dressed in hospital drag. He starts to gag... rumbling from the stomach... his neck muscles tighten... relax... tighten again... gray cheeks bulge... I get the puke tray... put it next to his head... Then it comes out. This huge brown turd... solid... like a junkie turd...right from his mouth... he's puking shit... backed up from his stomach...”

I feel like puking shit myself.

 “It's not only one turd,” he continues. “It's a series... each more viscous than the last... mixed with more stomach juices... digested... redigested... Gobs of brown coming from this guy's mouth.”

 I begin to taste my just-eaten tortilla... again.

The speaker is Donn, drummer of Sin Arte. He's a also nurse here in Arizona. Donn used to live in Connecticut. He's an old timer from the 80's hardcore scene. He tells me we met at The Anthrax, before you were born. I forgot his band then. Citizen something or other I think. He's a funny guy, with my kind of sensibility. Besides being a nurse, he's a punkrock drummer in Tucson.

Before we get to the plot, you'll need to know some other characters in this story. I introduced them a couple months ago. Here's a quick review. Gwera's real name is Berenice, she looks Irish and comes from Northern Mexico where the “GU” sound is pronounced like a W. (Like Where a?) Add to that, she's a great guitar player. Add to that she's smart and attractive.

 Then there's BEEF, a big white guy who's a great cook. You met him in an earlier column too. Beef is not in Sin Arte, my band for this trip, but he plays a part in the story. You'll see later.

Ivan is not Russian. His full name is something like Ivan Restokovich, but he's Mexican. More than one immigration agent accused him with the legal equivalent of “you're fucking with me,” when he gave his name. You also met him before, in an earlier column. He's the bass player for La Merma, maybe the most famous band from Sonora... the North Mexico state where the Sin Arte tour did not take place. (You can read about my Mexican adventures in my travel blog  mykelsdiary.blogspot.com.)

While I was in Mexico, Ivan got kicked out of his Nogales apartment and had to move in with Gwera. Not a bad had to, if you ask me. 


The original plan: My Mexican friends have decided to put together a tribute band. The tributee? Me! Or at least my old band ARTLESS. They'll learn ARTLESS songs. I'll sing. We'll play half a dozen shows in Mexico and a couple in Arizona. The
new band, called Sin Arte, will tour with Cojoba, a Puerto Rican band based in New York. Together, we'll play with a buncha Mexican bands, many of them on the revival circuit, getting
back together just for us. Yowsah!

Having encouraged a boycott of Arizona for its ethnic cleansing law...requiring the police to stop and ID anyone suspected of being an illegal immigrant, I'm a little hesitant to play in Arizona. My image is a place filled with intolerance. Anyone a different race? Ship 'em to Mexico. Different ideas? Ship 'em to California.


Gilberto assures me that I'll be playing with Mexicans, so it's okay. AND, in Southern Arizona I'll be playing FOR Mexicans, so it's even better. In the tug of war between ego and morals... morals loses. I agree to do the tour.

As it turns out, Sin Arte listened to ARTLESS songs only “once or twice,” and never rehearsed them. Also as it turns out, every show in Mexico is canceled. Why is a long story. It's in the blog.

That leaves two shows. One in Tucson. One in Flagstaff. The Tucson show is at The Dry River Collective. The one in Flagstaff is at The Infoshop. Both spots are alternative.

Being alternative, I figure both places will be pretty intolerant. That means I'll have the first chance to really piss off a live audience since Artless quit playing in 1998. I wonder if I can do it. Do I still have my chops? Maybe I lost the devil inside... like Mick Jagger in Performance.

We have time for one rehearsal. Four ARTLESS songs: Aahrg, We Want Nuclear War, Do the No, and Beer is Better Than Girls Are... The last is our “hit.” It's a satire on those poor guys who can't get laid and drown their sorrows with the sorry excuse beer is better anyway. I took the words from an old poster/t-shirt... been around for years... I just made it rhyme. That one, the PC folks should actually like.

I figure I gotta change the other song names. Make 'em more offensive. It's punkrock and nobody can understand the lyrics anyway. We Want Nuclear War becomes Bombs, Not Food. Aahrg! (that's the only word in the song) becomes Mata Los Gringos (apologies to NOFX). Everything else stays the same.

 

FLASH AHEAD: We enter DRY RIVER. It's empty... except for a not-so friendly women at the door. She's tall and skinny... died black hair and a severe Nurse Ratched face. I'm surprised to see that Beef is also here... hanging outside... having a smoke with some locals. 

“Yo Beef!” I say. “Wachu doin' here? Come to see us play?”

“Mykel,” he says, “I'm playing tonight... with Pop Gestapo. We're opening for you. Same band... only me singing instead of you.”

Walking up the street is Cojoba. Javier has a shopping bag full of Tecate beer. He hands me one. He hands one to Beef. He hands one to this sixteen year old kid with a skateboard. He hands another to this attractive boy in very short shorts.

Nurse Rached comes to the door and taps him on the shoulder. “Sorry,” she says, “but we can't allow drinking here. The police will shut us down.”

He stops... for a minute or two... then starts handing out the beer again. Aaaaaoooogah! It'll be a club full of drunken' 16 year olds. Yeah!

Inside, I set up the merch table, then look around the crowd. There are a couple femmy white boys in short shorts with skull make-up painted on their faces. I wonder if it's a local fashion. Then I remember today is Day of The Dead. For dead adolescents, they sure look good! Let's hope Javier can get them drunk enough.

Inside, there's no stage, just a floor area... marked off with amps at one end and a drumkit at the other... punkrock.

Slowly, more people come into the club. Another guy with a bicycle and skull make-up. Several girls in wool sweaters... torn at the sleeves. A group of youngsters: a girl with a short purple dress over bright red tights, a muscular blond boy, and the only colored guy in the place (besides Cojoba's drummer)... a good-looking skinny boy about 18.

By now there are about 50 people inside-- not a Mexican among them. At the door waits a jar for contributions. People pay (or don't) what they want for the show. It's voluntary... depends on good will. Not much goes into the jar.

Ok, it's time for Pop Gestapo... a buncha noise and Beef. Beef sings between sips from a glass of water. There's a little moshing. Then come the fire crackers... then the smoke bomb... rolling along the floor... spewing gray smoke... some people run... others laugh... there's shouting.

A guy... scraggly beard... long hair... young Jesus type... comes up to Beef and shouts at him.

“Okay,” he says, “the show's over. Pack up. Go home.”

Beef starts to argue with him. Nurse Rached joins the fray.

“You're jeopardizing the space,” she screams.

“It's only a smoke bomb,” says Beef, sipping from his water glass. “It's harmless.”

“YOU'RE JEOPARDIZING THE SPACE,” she screams louder.

Beef pours the remaining water, about half a glass, over her head. Then he walks out.

Next up is Cojoba.

Club Gestapo is already pissed at Javier for giving away free beer. But seeing as the band sings in Spanish, and has Hispanic (and one Negro) members, the Dry River politburo lets them play. And even thanks them. They do a fine set.

And then it's us, Sin Arte.

Mata Los Gringos has the crowd moshing, as does Bombs, Not Food. Then it's time for Beer, the paean to guys who can't get laid.

No matter how cunning their stunts... with a girl there's that time of the month... the difference of course with a beer... it's good every day of the year...

The crowd stops dancing. Over on the right, the young moshers are standing and smiling. Nurse Rached and her pals stand, arms folded. They are not smiling.

Beer is better than girls are... I don't care where their little curls are... when you're out with the boys at a bar... a beer will wait in the car... yes a beer will wait in the car.

The cool thing about this song is that it's orchestrated so you can hear all the lyrics. No music during the verses, light Omm Pah Pah, German bar music during the chorus.

A beer will give you good head... it goes down easy in bed...

Screaming comes from somewhere. I can't make out the words, but they don't sound very friendly.

Handle it, it won't say Stop it... You know if you're the first to pop it...

“Stop the song. Stop the song now!” comes the screaming voice. It is not from Nurse Rached, but from another girl, tall, skinny, wearing a black and white knit sweater and a tuke.

I continue, The label comes off with no fight... it doesn't say headache tonight.

“Stop it! Stop the song!”

 

I hand her the microphone. Creatively, she screams into it.

 

“STOP IT! STOP THE SONG!”

Then, the same guy who talked to Beef walks up to me. “Okay,” he says, “the show's over. Pack up. Go home.”

He must say that a lot.

I think, “Yes!! I can still do it. I can get us thrown off stage. I've still got it!”

Donn has it even better.

“Wow!” he says. “Thrown off the stage twice in less than two hours. Wadda great night!”

As we pack up, the three young moshers come over. The colored guy says, “You guys were great. Too bad those people can't put up with another point of view.”

Each of them shakes my hand and tells me what a good time they were having. I'm thinking, “maybe not all Arizona non-Mexicans are bad.”

“We're from Utah,” says the colored guy. “We want you to come and play. We won't throw you off.”

They came special to the show... to see us. From U-fucking-tah!! I love 'em!

But Arizona? Arizona is fucked. If you go there (you shouldn't!), hang with Mexicans... or Donn or Beef. Other whites are... I donno... just bad. Flagstaff will change my mind about the state... a bit. But I don't have space to tell you about that show. You'll have to wait for the blog.

The bottom line:

DO NOT PLAY at DRY RIVER in Tucson. They are worse than a bunch of Christians in their censorship. With the sense of humor of a cancer patient, they prohibit what they don't like... without even understanding it. If you play there, you will support intolerance as bad as any xenophobic Arizonan on the street.

DO PLAY at THE INFOSHOP in Flagstaff. Although in Flagstaff, I think of it as a kind of Navajo reservation. It is NOT really Arizona. The Navajos who run the place have a punk band of their own, Let The World Die. They are as open-- and friendly-- as a box of puppies-- terrific people. See 'em! book 'em when they come to your town! And if you're passing through Flagstaff, play at their club. Then get the hell out of the state.

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

-->Of course my last column, about the Jews and the blood libel was my annual April Fool's column. Don't worry George, I'll never reveal the REAL SECRET of the Jews.

-->He's right dept: Sid Yiddish, my pal and proof-reader, complained that I was being unfair to white Arizonans who oppose ethnic cleansing and are pretty decent people. These W.A.'s include Sid's parents. He's right. Roger Armstrong also lives in Arizona. And he's a pretty cool guy. The state still should be boycotted, but the residents should not be 100% condemned.

[Because of it's excessive length, (there's a phrase I rarely hear!) we've cut some endnotes from this column. They'll be in the next one.]

-end-

more than you'd ever want to know about Mykel Board can be found here

Mexico and Selling Out in Arizona (MRR 333)

If you want to comment on this, you should go to the BLOG version, that allows you to say whatever you'd like! If you want to read more about Mykel's adventures in Albania, The US South-- or life in General-- check out Mykel's Diary For a look at the weird, the scary and the funny in real life, check out Mykel's Article's and Propositions.     

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column

Column for MRR 333
by Mykel Board

aka Mykel Sells Out and Goes to Arizona... and Mexico

Imagine twin clown noses tightly squeezed together. Glowing red, so bright they seem lit from within. Those are my balls. Worse case of jock itch I ever had. Jock itch. I hate that term. How about jungle rot? Crotch mildew? I donno. I've got so much fungus growing between my legs that every time I take a piss, the air smells like mushroom soup.

I read on the internet that something called tea tree oil will fix you right up. It comes from Australia and costs $20 for 4 ounces. It smells like Eucalyptus... Halls cough drops, Dr. Bronners... I try it. Hurts like hell.

It makes my balls redder than ever. The itch... the pain has spread to my legs, to the taint. Used to be I couldn't go a minute without thinking about my dick. Now it's my balls that provoke even less noble thoughts.

And we three... my balls and I... are on a plane to Phoenix of all places. But let's zoom out a bit to get some perspective.

I'm glad I already wrote a column in praise of hypocrisy. Here I am... the month after urging my surging fandom to boycott Arizona. Here I am, Mr. Vivan Los Chicanos. Here, I am, Mr. Ethnically Correct. Sitting on a back porch in Tucson, waiting till Mr. Beef finishes the steak on the backyard barbecue grill. Do I get points that this house belongs to a Mexican American? That it's in a Mexican neighborhood? That the whole purpose of being here is Mexico... not Arizona? I don't think so.

Not by way of excuse, but by way of ego boost, I'll tell you why I'm here.

“Hey Mykel,” writes Gilberto, “some of your Mexican fans want to put together a band, learn your songs, and then have you come down and sing with them. You'll tour Mexico with Cojoba (a Puerto Rican band). What do you think?”

What the fuck do you think I think? I'm so there!

“Umm...,” he continues, “a couple shows will be in Arizona.”

“I'm boycotting Arizona,” I tell him.

“You're with Mexicans, Puerto Ricans. It's okay,” he says.

I'm convinced.

So the tour will be Sin Arte (the Artless coverband), Cojoba, La Merma in a reunion tour, plus shows with other groups in other places. It'll last 10 days, 4 shows in Mexico and 2 in Arizona. Every band will be Mexican or have Mexicans in it... except Cojoba. And they are half Puerto Rican, and a quarter each American Negro and Dominican American. Gilberto will be the tourmeister, pay for the van rental, take care of our special needs. He's also invited me to his birthday party... with his family in Agua Prieta.

Juarez is the most dangerous city in Mexico. Numbers two and three are Tijuana and Nogales. My pal Ivan, who lives on the US side near the Nogales border was awakened one night by the sound of a hand grenade. I will not be going to Juarez. The rest, oh yeah!

I wear my Greetings To Arizona from Mexico t-shirt. It shows a sunset behind a cactus... the cactus giving the finger to the gringos across the border.

I wear the boots I gave up because of severe leg pains. I can't tour Mexico wearing Payless sneakers. It's gotta be combat boots. Only ten days, what harm could they do in that time? Yeah right.

Flash to now: Medium shot inside the plane, still on the ground in New York: Me, my red balls and my combat boots. There are only a few empty seats. One next to me. Pretty good luck, I think.

Then they let on the stand-by passengers. A 30-something blond wearing a business suit. Her expression so stern and her demeanor so I-Mean-Business, that I don't even look at her tits. She sits down, crosses her legs, pointing the top one away from me. Then she begins to dribble snot.

Coughing, sneezing, nose blowing. By the time the plane takes off there is a Berlin Wall of snotty tissue between me and her. Fuck, just what I need on the way to Mexico, some dorky gringa to make me sick.

When the plane lands in Phoenix, I load up on vitamin C, but it's too late. The cough has already started and there's more to come.

It's three hours in the airport until the others show up: Gilberto, the best thing to come from Mexico since Texas, Pamela, a cute little Chicana whose got more balls than most guys and Ivan La Merma, a pal and the guy from Nogales who heard the grenade.

They're coming from Spain via Boston.

A recorded voice comes through the airport speakers: Welcome to America's friendliest airport. The current terror alert level is orange. When you proceed to the gates, please be advised that all liquids must be in containers of no more than three ounces each. They must be placed in clear plastic bottles, sealed in a Ziplock bag, and put separately in a tray. You will be subject to search at any time. Do not accept any gifts from strangers. Do not accept any ride offers from drivers inside the airport. The airport is equipped with surveillance cameras.... Welcome to America's friendliest...

Inside the airport are empty food concessions. A Starbucks. No. A McDonalds. No. I go to DICK CLARK'S for some too-expensive food and a beer to take care of my waiting time.

I remember Dick Clark's from a Michael Moore movie. Something about taking welfare mothers away from their babies. I can't recall the details.

When I walk in, there is no one on the floor. A blond bartender is talking with the only customer, somebody commenting on the football game on the TV. I'm trying to get someone to help me, but there is no one. The place looks deserted.

Behind the cash register is a bored-looking white woman-- as bland as daytime TV. Blond, mid-40s, completely forgettable. I ask her if I should just take a seat.

“See that sign behind you?” she says, pointing with her thumb.

PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED it says.

Couldn't she just say, “I'll be happy to show you to your seat?” Does she have to be an Arizona equivalent of Wassamatta you dumb?

She's the first of the Arizona White Girls. You'll hear more about them. One of 'em was elected governor. They are serious. They are nasty. I do not like them.

“Can I get you something to drink while you're waiting?” she asks when she shows me to my seat. I'm the only customer and it's 7PM. Maybe the boycott's working.

“I'll have a Sam Adams,” I tell her.

“Can I see your I.D.?” she says.

I'm 70 fuckin' years old, pretty bald, with gray chin hair. I can only guess she wants to check my ID to make sure I'm not an illegal Mexican.

I show her my driver's license. She nods and leaves.

The beer is okay. The food is awful. Before long Gilberto, Ivan and Pamela arrive at the airport. I meet them at the baggage collection area. Gilberto and I go from there to the car rental office. He hands his debit card to the woman behind the counter.

“Sorry,” she says. She's a white girl with a scrubbed face and an I'm gonna grow up to be Sara Palin smile.

“I see this is a one way rental,” she says, staring at Gilberto's DON'T WORRY GRINGO, I'M LEGAL t-shirt. “We can't rent one way to... I mean on... debit cards. Only real credit cards.”

“What do you mean...” starts Gilberto.

I kick him subtly.

“No, problem,” I say. “We'll bring it back here.”

He looks at me with wrinkled brow. I flash a wink, then rub my eye like it's got something in it. The white girl takes the debit card.

As we walk to the parking lot and the 7 person van, Gilberto speaks.

“You mean, all you have to do is lie?” he asks.

I nod... Then cough... uh oh!

“You tell 'em what they want to hear,” I say. “It's like speaking to the cops. Yes officer. I realize I shouldn't have run that red light. My mother is in the hospital I was just trying to reach her before she sucks in her last breath of air. I panicked, but it was wrong and I know it. I'm sorry. Just tell 'em what they want to hear. They don't care about truth anymore than your girlfriend does when she asks How do I look?”

I don't know what happens to Ivan and Pamela. I guess they take her car. It's only Gilberto and me who drive the 2 hours to Tucson.

“This is the only Mexican neighborhood I know that's right downtown,” says Gilberto.

“I wonder why?” I ask. “Don't they have any pretentious white artists to move in and kick out the Mexicans? In any case, we'd better lock the car doors and turn on the alarm when we get out.”

He knows me well enough to laugh. Others in the neighborhood, it will turn out, do not.

When we arrive, Güera meets us at the door. She looks like your typical Arizonan. Blonde, light skin, cute in a tough-looking country way. Weird that she lives in this Mexican neighborhood.

“Hi,” says I.

“Ola,” says she. She Mexican.

Also at the door is Mona. Mona doesn't bother with the formalities. She's all over me. Passionately kissing me, right from the start. Just on me like a dog in heat. In fact, she is a dog in heat. And she's shedding like a rattlesnake in the sun.

Then comes a rumble, a shake. Do they have earthquakes in Arizona? No. It's just the train passing. Right outside the front door. So THAT'S why the Mexican neighborhood is right downtown. It's next to the tracks!

On Güera's back porch is Ivan, and this huge white guy with jet black hair, combed Elvis style... Presley not Costello.

Ivan and I hug. The huge guy is broiling some meat on a tiny barbecue. Smells good.

“I'm Beef,” says the huge guy, shaking my hand.

I don't get it, but figure it must be Mexican-Arizona dialect that means I'm cooking beef.

“I'm hungry.” I say. “All I ate today was Dick... Clark.”

Then I cough some more-- God's punishment for breaking my boycott Arizona pledge. The bitch-goddess pays me back for my hypocrisy. After three hours next to the sick blonde on the plane, I've suddenly got a cough--- and I'm starting to drip snot myself. Are my glands swollen or am I happy to see you?

Beef takes the beef from the grill, carrying the hot meat in the aluminum foil it was cooked in. He does not offer it to me, but takes it past all of us into the kitchen. There, he delicately cuts the pieces, seasons them, rolls them into soft flour tortillas, and hands them to us: me, Güera, Ivan, and Gilberto.

“Here you are,” he says with more than a touch of modesty. “I really hope you like them.”

They're delicious. Such a big guy, but such a good cook, and so delicate with the spices. Such a meek and modest guy.

The next time I see him, he'll be pouring a drink over a white girl's head. He becomes one of two white guys I like on this trip.

Cojoba shows up: Taina, the singer and personality of the band, Javiar, boyfriend of Taina, guitar player and Hell's Angeles wannabe (long hair and a headscarf). They're both GG Allin fans. Then there's semen-inducing Moe, bass player and Dominican American, and Ray, the black drummer born in the USA. It's his first time on tour.

Those guys brought their sleeping bags. Me? I sleep on a mattress on the floor, covered with dog hair. Soon, I'm also covered with dog.

My cough gets worse during the night. And we have to leave tomorrow and drive all night to reach the show in Tijuana.

(By the way, the U.S. government has issued a travelers advisory against visiting Tijuana.)

It's the only Mexican show Sin Arte is not scheduled to play, and we have to drive 16 hours to get there. But that's grist for the next column.

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

-->You missed it department: I've been sick as a Chihuahua since I've been back in New York. I go to Mexico, two days after my return, go to some dumb sports bar in New York... eat bad nachos and get the shits. Go figure

     That, plus the cough and several other diseases begun on the plane to Arizona, persist in New York. Despite this, I drove to Philadelphia with the multi-talanted performance artist, Sid Yiddish and the punkrock Trididadian, Randy Ali. I don't want to spoil it for you, but think Shlomo Carlebach meets Gypsy Rose Lee. The audience was small, but the reaction sure as fuck wasn't. See Sid when he comes in your town.

 

-->There goes that e-books save trees argument: Citizens of the Dutch city Alphen aan den Rijn commissioned a study of the effects of Wi-Fi on trees. They found that all deciduous trees in the western world are affected by radiation from mobile-phone networks and wireless LANs.

      Over 70 per cent of trees in urban areas in the Netherlands are afflicted by Wi-Fi sickness They show significant variations in growth, with bleeding and fissures in their bark. That's compared with just 10 per cent showing these symptoms five years ago.

-->Basketball? That's what they do, isn't it? dept: President Obama needed 12 stitches on his upper lip after he was accidentally hit while playing basketball with friends and family at Fort McNair in Washington, D.C. The president was playing defense when Rey Decerega, an opposing player, turned into him to take a shot. His elbow hit Obama in the mouth. The president was given a local anesthetic for the procedure.

-->Milestone Dept: On Saturday Nov. 27, the US was in Afghanistan a day longer than the Soviet Union was in the same place. What's more, the U.S. announced during the NATO summit that it intends to spend at least four more years, and possibly longer. Even then, many Afghans -- perhaps even the president installed by the U.S. invasion -- appear to doubt that the Americans will succeed where their Cold War enemy failed.

-->Wadda surprise dept: New York Magazine reports study after study shows that having kids makes people less happy. Is that a surprise? Spending time and income on a drooling ball of wrinkled skin is supposed to make you happy? Yeah right.

 

-end-

Mykel's personal website is here.

OR you might be interested in Mykel's Travel Blog (more on Mexico)

OR random musings and collections