That's
what moving about, traveling, is; it's this inexorable glimpse of
existence as it really is during those few lucid hours, so
expectional in the span of human time, when you are leaving the
customs of the last country behind you and the other new ones have
not yet got their hold on you.
--Louis
Ferdinand-Celine
[NOTE:
This blog is late because I’ve just returned from 6 weeks in
Europe. (Fuck you UK, I’m including you in EUROPE! Wanna make
somthin’ of it?) A lot has happened on the trip, but right now I
want to focus on my last day.]
Ding
ding deedle ding ding ding ding. Ding ding deedle ding ding ding
ding. Ding ding deedle ding ding ding ding.
That
fuckin’ wake-up tune on the cellphone. I don’t need it. I’m
already awake. I can never sleep the night before a big trip. I try.
Younglezbos.com and a shot of bourbon (Scotch in London)… does the
trick most nights… except the night before the return trip to New
York.
It’s
freezing. The Brits believe in equality… not human equality, of
course. They have a royal family, for fuck’s sake. But temperature
equality. If God says it’s hot outside, then it has to be hot
inside. If God says it’s cold outside, then it has to be cold
inside. It’s below freezing outside… inside, my testicles have
pulled themselves up into my body… to their ancestral home…
anything to get warm.
I
feel the cold in my chest… my back… my muscles tense… fighting
it. I pull my pants up from the floor, underneath the down duvet…
and slip… one leg at a time... into them. I sleep in a t-shirt,
boxers, socks… with the heater on full blast... as close to the bed
as it can be. Now I slip on my new down vest... under the covers...
over my t-shirt. Then to the bathroom… even colder than the
bedroom… pissing snowflakes into the ecotoilet.
Downstairs
for a cup of coffee… careful not to overfill the kettle… a full
kettle takes a full minute more to boil… electricity is expensive,
don’t you know? Especially here.
My
hosts are more awake than I am. Already sitting around the kitchen
table… having tea not coffee. This is England, for God’s sake.
Looking
out the back window, I see frost and the remains of yesterday’s
snowfall. It would be beautiful, if it weren’t so damn cold. It’s
9 AM.
Anant
is due to pick me up at noon. He wants to take me out for Peking
Duck… my favorite food. There’s a place on the way to the
airport… sort of. It’ll be our last meal together for some time.
I’ve
got more stories about Anant. You might hear them later. He’s a
pal I met in New York... at least 10 years ago. I’ve visited him in
New York… in Bermuda…in India... now in England. About 30 years
younger than me, I feel like his errant uncle.
Anant
has a car. And, unlike my British hosts Claire and Alastair... who
are my age and smiling through their own ailments to take care of me,
Anant is as sound as a sitar. He runs marathons.
“Here
are your housekeys,” I tell my hosts, handing them the keys. They
trusted me this entire month... with their housekeys. There is even
one like in those old movies where you look through the keyhole. The
set allows me to come and go as I please. Would YOU trust me with
YOUR housekeys? Their house is my house.
They
want to cook me breakfast. Make me toast… welsh rarebit, cake from
Claire’s birthday party yesterday. I decline, settling for another
cup of coffee. I need to stay hungry for my duck lunch.
Right
now, it’s back upstairs… pack my computer, my medicine bag, my
dirty jeans now changed for a slightly cleaner pair… one not walked
through the muddy banks of the Rhine.
The
contents of my Ben Ten backpack (bought in India) and computer
bag have expanded to an extra bag… filled with goodies for the
folks back home. It takes me two trips to bring everything
downstairs... close to the front door. I also have my heavy winter
coat… an anathema here, as it is in tatters, and has a tendency to
crush houseplants and wreck portable heaters.
By
now it’s 11:45. Anant is one of the most punctual people I know. He
should be here any minute now.
I
open the front door… step out to look for him. He’s there,
waiting in his car.
“Close
the door, Mykel!” comes a shout from the kitchen.
“I
can’t,” I shout back. “I don’t have the keys.”
“Close
the door, Mykel,” comes a second shout from the kitchen… this one
punctuated by a rasping cough.
“I
can’t,” I cry again, feeling the pain I’m causing my host and
hostess. But what can I do? I have to greet Anant, then take my bags
out to the car and get in. How can I carry my bags through a closed
door? And I have no key if I close it behind me.
By
this time, my frozen hosts are pissed off enough to stomp into the
hallway preparing to slam the door shut. Then, Anant appears.
“Oh,”
says Claire, “he’s here. We thought you were just keeping the
door open to look for him. Hello Anant, it’s great to see you
again. Come on in and sit down.”
(Note:
Anant is the perfect guest and perfect host… we’ll talk about
that in a future blog. Everybody likes him, and he’s saved my ass
more than once when I’ve faced a… er… sticky wicket situation.)
“I’d
love to,” he says, “but I’ve got to get Mykel to his Peking
Duck… and then the airport.”
He
picks up Ben Ten and the computer bag. I carry the third bag… and
before you know it we’re in the car.
Google
tells us how to get to the duck place. Take the second right at
the roundabout. Anant has it set for an American accent, but it
still talks funny. What American would ever say “roundabout,” or
ever “fuckin’ roundabout?”
We
end up in North China… that’s the restaurant name. And, from my
Japanese, I recognize the Chinese character for North.
“I
know the second character means North,” I tell the waiter. “What
does the other character mean?”
He
looks at me… eyebrows narrowed… like I’m putting him on. Then,
he smiles and tries to act nonchalant, as if you met a really rich,
really stupid, person and had to indulge him.
“China,”
he answers with a straight face.
Lunch
is great. Peking Duck, and… an absence of vegetarian
options…right up my meat-eating alley. I noticed on this trip
that, even in Germany, there were more “vegetarian options” than
there used to be. It’s such a fashion… like torn jeans and Doc
Martins… except with more religious-type overtones.
After
Peking Duck, we’re off again. Ms Google, with her American accent
is guiding us past the lorries... through the roundabouts...
onto the motorway.
As
we drive, Anant explains my non-vegetarian options. “At the
airport, I can pay for short-term parking,” he tells me, “and
stay with you until you leave… or I can drop you off at the
terminal.”
“How
far will I have to walk with my bags?” I ask.
“We’ll
be at terminal 4,” he says. “That’s the Virgin Atlantic
terminal. If I drop you off, it’ll be right there. Even if you have
to change gates or terminals you can easily change… except to
Terminal 5. That’s the new one, British Airways exclusive... far
away from everything and a pain in the ass to get to… but you’re
not taking British Airways.”
“Okay,”
I tell him, “just drop me off. It’ll save you some money and I’ll
have less distance to go with my bags.”
“Terminal
4 drop off.” Anant tells Ms Google, “Virgin Atlantic.” She
continues her directions.
I
didn’t plan on taking Virgin Airlines. I HATE Virgin Airlines. I
took them around 1990. The service was so bad… (I had to walk to
the stewardess’s room to ask them for my dinner) and the flight was
so late, I vowed never to take them again. So I booked my return trip
from London with Delta… you guessed it. I got a ticket on a
“partner airline”: VIRGIN fuckin’ AIRLINES.
So
here we are, pulling into the parking lot at Terminal 4. There is a
sign:
£5
service
charge for drop offs…automatically billed to your license plate
Then
there’s, VIRGIN ATLANTIC in huge
letters on the side of the building. Anant helps me with my bags and
we hug goodbye.
Inside
the terminal is a line… a huge line… it snakes around the entire
building 8 rows deep when you finally get to the ribbons and
stanchions. Before that, the line passes some self-service machines,
then to the lounge stairway on the other side of the terminal, then
to the elevators where people exiting, just stand at the end of the
line, making it longer...… There are hundreds of people… maybe a
thousand.
I
hate self-anything, except pleasure. I never use self-checkout at
CVS. I don’t punch in my order at McDonalds. I use New Jersey gas
stations that don’t have self-service. But I’m 3 hours early,
and this line must be at least two and a half hours long. I head for
the self-service check-in machines.
I
slide my passport into the machine. It correctly identifies me and
bids me hello. It asks for my flight number… I enter it. It asks if
I’m checking any bags. I tell it NO. It asks me to wait. I wait.
SEE
AGENT
Says
the screen. I slam by fist against the machine, just missing that
screen.
“I
PUT MY PASSPORT ON YOUR FUCKIN’ SCREEN SO I WOULDN’T HAVE TO WAIT
2 HOURS TO SEE AN AGENT,” I yell at it.
A
big man in a uniform begins walking toward me. I pick up my bags and
walk to another uniformed attendant, standing and directing traffic.
“That
machine told me to see an agent,” I tell her. “How do I do that.”
“You
just get at the end of this queue,” she says, pointing toward the
elevators.
By
now the line passes the elevators and continues toward who-knows-
where. Two hours pass before I reach the beginning of the roped,
official line-standing line.
Another
hour passes, and I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll miss my plane.
There are still 4 long rows of people ahead of me in the check-in
line.
Then
there is a man… dark suit, white shirt and tie. He unhooks one of
the ropes from a stanchion… near the start of the line. He slides
forward… stepping sideways.
Him:
Anyone for the 6:15 flight to New York?
Me:
Me
Him:
Do you have a seat reservation?
Me:
No.
Him:
Come this way.
He
pushes his way through the winding lines. Open the connecting
ribbons.
“Please
go to window 2 or 3,” he says.
It’s
another line, shorter, but not moving. A young official-looking man
behind the window talks to an older touristy-looking man with
perfectly groomed gray hair.
I
can’t hear what they’re saying, but the gray-haired man looks
upset. From another window, a woman in a uniform comes to our little
line and talks to the people in front. I can’t hear what they’re
saying, but she runs off and returns several minutes later.
There
is a pile of paper in front of the next window. I grab a sheet:
Suddenly,
I find myself at the head of the line… talking to the guy behind
the window.
Him:
I see you’ve read the letter.
Me: Yes, but I don’t
understand it.
Him: You cannot take the flight tonight. The
plane is full.
Me:
(I swallow)
Him: You have a choice. I can put you on a British
Airways flight to Newark tonight. Or you can take a Virgin Atlantic
flight tomorrow to your original destination.
Me:
I’ve got to get out of here. This is crazy. I’ll go to Newark…
anything.
Him:
Just a moment sir, I need to see your passport.
Me:
(I hand it to him)
Him: (types into the computer. There is a
whirring sound. He hands me a piece of thick paper) Here is your
ticket sir. You have to go to Terminal Five. You have a new flight on
British Airways.
Me: Terminal Five??? How do I get there?
Him:
Just go to the elevator over there. (He points to where the line used
to start.) Instructions are on the wall.
Me:
Will I have to wait on a huge line again at the other terminal?
Him:
I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know the situation at other airlines.
The
signs by the elevators explain that I need to take an airport train
to terminal five. I can find the train by following other signs that
say TO TERMINAL FIVE. My shoulders ache
from carrying the bags and the backpack. Every step is painful… and
there are a fuck of a lot of steps… Tunnel after tunnel... fork
after fork... up stairs and downstairs. To the train… change
trains… I somehow make it toTerminal 5.
The
gate for my flight is not posted yet. I get a beer at the terminal
bar… paying a ridiculous price… and not caring.
Then,
a quick trip to duty free. A bottle of booze for me, and one for my
landlord. (I give him one every year… for Chinese New Year.)
I
check the schedule board. There it is, gate C62. I go through ticket
check-in, take-off-your-belt security and come out the other end.
“How
do I get to gate C62?” I ask a beautiful black woman, dressed like
a stewardess.
She
points to a tunnel in the opposite wall. Just follow the tunnels to
the train to the C-section.
I
do not make a C-section joke.
Through
tunnels... up stairs... down escalators… through more tunnels…
onto a train… two stops… through another tunnel… into the evil
TERMINAL 5.
Not
too long after, I’m on the plane. Way in the back, within smelling
distance of the restrooms. At least I’m sitting down. In a plush
seat… next to the window. A frail older woman sits in the middle
seat next to me. Next to her, in the aisle seat, sits a monster:
9-feet tall... fat as a sumo-wrestler.
I
know I’ll have to crawl over both these people to take a piss. I
can already feel my bladder filling. Okay, I’ll read… keep my
knees tight together... my book club book: The Unseen
Body.
It’s
about medical stuff most people never talk about: shit, piss, snot,
blood. Written by a doctor, It’s a revelation… I’m learning how
much doctors are disgusted by the same things normal people are. Did
you know your doctor does not like sticking his finger up your ass?
Wow!
I
try to turn on the overhead light. I find a lightbulb icon in the TV
screen in front of me. I press it. The light over the giant’s seat
turns on. He reaches up to try to operate it manually. I turn it off
from my video screen. He settles down, probably thinking he fixed it
himself.
I
try reaching up to turn the light on manually. There is no manually.
I reach across the old woman and tap the giant on the shoulder.
“Would
you mind trying to turn on your light?” I ask him. “I think it’ll
turn on my light. Just press the bulb icon on your screen.” I point
with my chin.
He
frowns, looks at the screen, presses the icon. Sure enough, the light
comes on. I start the MUCUS
chapter.
After
an hour, dinner comes. I’d promised myself not to eat it because
something has been making me sick every night around dinner time. I
eat. I cough. I cough more… I puke up dinner… rinse repeat. I
can’t figure if it’s the time of day, the eating itself or the
booze that invariably comes with it.
Talk
about disgusting! When I have these coughing fits, I run for the
bathroom. Usually, I make it to the toilet in a blast of gags, lung
loogies and more… the remains of a dinner eaten, along with beer,
whiskey,.. splash out of me into the toilet… in great gobs… then
again and again... every night… a little bit in the morning too.
But in the evening and later, it strikes with such vengeance I expect
it will kill me.
My
nearly 5 weeks in Europe, my 34 days... my 816 hours...there has been
scarcely an hour where by body hasn’t been bursting with the urge
to fart, shit, sneeze or cough… especially cough. Covid test
negative… had my flu shot… I’ve always had a weak lungs…
especially the left one… but why now? The cold? The damp? The
smokers? I don’t know but… excuse me while I fart….
So
I’m skipping dinner tonight. Airline food? Chicken or a vegetarian
salad? I like chicken, but airplane chicken? Besides, I feel sorry
for the old lady next to me. I’d hate to puke in her lap.
“What
would you like for dinner, sir? We have a choice of chicken or
moussaka.” The steward is big… fat with a red beard.
Moussaka?
Greek lamb and cheese? Oh yeah! Tasty as Peking Duck! I haven’t
had moussaka in years. Oh boy!
“I’ll
have the moussaka.” I tell him.
He
hands me the tray:
I eat it anyway,,, It’s awful… served with an ice-cold bun and a cup of something that looks like the toilet after I get through a coughing fit.
The plane lands in Newark with a thud. Being in the back, I have to wait for the aisle ahead of me to clear. It’s about 11:30 by the time I enter the airport from the plane. I expect I will be strip-searched by an unattractive customs agent... then questioned about my duty-free booze… two liters, not the officially allowed two quarts.
Pack on my back, computer bag, filled with books as well as the computer, headphones and other shit. Plus a bag filled with omiyage… mostly Belgian chocolate versions of the manneken pis.
I’ll
be busted for kiddie porn! I know it!
None
of that happens. The trip through immigration and customs is as easy
as taking a beer shit. From there, it’s a free train from the
airport to “the train station,” as if there were only one. From
the train station $8 (old people’s discount) to Penn Station in New
York. Then, a subway to Bleecker Street. Then HOME.
It’s
1:30 AM. I sit on my bed… coughing up a little vegetarian moussaka…
and without even a first New York self-pleasure… I fall asleep.
See
you in hell.
Mykel
Board
THE
NATION AGAIN
I’m
a long-time subscriber to the The
Nation.
It’s the only lefty publication that I find myself not only
agreeing with, but also getting
inspiration
from. There are
two articles in the current issue I’d like to recommend herel
Strangely, when I post this stuff on facebook, no one looks at it. My
“friends” would just rather call me a “Trumpist” or a
“Republican” for all the times I don’t follow the party
line.
One article
is
a great one.
It’s
about How
the courts keep the wrongfully convicted from proving their
innocence.
For
many people, the idea of innocent until proven guilty, has been
complete lost. You can find the article here.
ENDNOTES:
[You can contact me on facebook
or
by email at mykelboard@gmail.com.
Through the post office: send those... er... private DVDs..or music
or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to: Mykel Board, POB 137,
New York, NY 10012-0003. If you like my writing, you can be notified
when anything new is available. Send
me an email with
SUBSCRIBE in the subject line. Back blogs and columns are at
https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com]
→ A
big thanks and lots of love to my friends who helped me out in
Europe: Claire and Alastair Jackson Bruce and Anant of this story in
London, Randy with his piss-tour in Brussels, Rudolf and pal Nelma in
Hamont (where?), Walter and Maria in Aachen, Couch-surfing pals
Yechen and beau in London and Lucee and Nils in Germany, Claudio,
Doris, and Birgit, also in Germany. Then there was the spectacular
Carmella M and (separately, but also spectacular) Andy Martin of Unit
and The Apostles, and Jamie also in London. Yeah that’s a
fuck of a lot of people in a month. But that was the purpose of this
trip. PEOPLE more than places.
See
you in hell, redux,
MB
LINK
TRADE DEPARTMENT:
I
read that the search engines like lots of links... and it's also nice
to support my friends and enemies in their blogs. So facebook
me or email
me
if
you have a blog, webpage or something else to connect to. I add you.
You add me.
Here's
a start:
Video
of the week: My long-time friend Sid Yiddish appears on a YouTube
DatingGame-like
video.
Guess who wins the bachelorette!
Here’s
Richard Goldberg:
goldberg.wordpress.com
Poetry
and humor fans will like Justin Martin in The
Latency
And
my friend Mike R has a nice site with recipe hits from the past! (He
cooked for me once... great stuff.) Check out Yesterday's
Recipes.
And
here's one by a member of ANTI-SEEN... a tour
diary of
sorts.
Andy
Shelton has an interesting blog here.
Savage
Hippie is a guy who has been YouTubing
for a long time. Our opinions largely overlap... but he complains
that I'm a Communist. I'm not! I'm a communist.
Chris
Stecher publishes a zine called PRECIS.
You can see the back issue links there... and he promises a new issue
soon.
George
Fertakis has a very nice graphics-heavy blog... with music and books
featured prominently. If there’s no link here (I can’t find it
temporarily), then Google… er… Duckduckgo him for information.
And
my long-term pal Sid Yiddish contributes with his Mishegas
Master Blog.
And
connect to TRUST Zine, a long-running German punk zine… that STILL
PRINTS!!! Yeah, they have a website too… of course! It’s here.
Here
are a couple video links.
This
from Jon Cox https://squelchchamber1.bandcamp.com/album/down-so-low
And
this
one from
my very long-time friend Roger Armstrong.
Jim
Testa moved his long running zine, Jersey Beat, to the blogosphere
awhile back. You can read it here.
Jim also recommended a kind of unique album… in a style you don’t
see to much of these days… or any days. Neo-Hassidic Rock Opera.
You can stream the album here.
Kyle
Nonneman is in prison in Portland. At least he can’t be kidnapped
by the secret police… I think. I post his
blog
for him, he can’t do it from the klink. Lots of stuff about noise
metal… and some very weird politics that will either fascinate or
repulse you… or both.
My
long time pal, Jim Hayes rightfully complained about my leaving out
his blog. He’s a great writer, so it was a tragic omission. Here
it is.
Oh
yeah, then there’s me.
I have a blog of stuff I’ve written mostly from last century. You
might enjoy it. Then again, you might not. It’s here.
Let
me know if you have a blog… or a print zine… or a YouTube and
want to be added to the list. You show me yours… you’ve already
seen mine. god@mykelboard.com
