US and THEM or Mykel's Post MRR Column 23

YOU'RE STILL WRONG

POST MRR COLUMNS

POST MRR COUMN 23

Mykel Divides the World

by Mykel Board

At one extreme, a person might step into a social identity and BE it. Another might step into the same one and surprise you because they struggle against it or play it down in light of their unique biography. --Michael Agar

Ah, finally, he's here... visiting from Morocco... my pal El Habib. We met in Agadir, a city on the North African coast. He's coming to New York. In Agadir, he took me all over the place... cooked for me... great guy. All he gets in return is my couch.

When he told me he was visiting in July, it hit.

“Uh...” I profoundly start my email. “That's Ramadan. Isn't it going to be tough for you to hang out and not eat? In New York... in America... everything goes around eating and drinking... all day... every day. Ramadan? Most Americans think Ramadan is a city in India.”

He sends me back one of those laughing “stickers” that facebook uses to disgust readers.

“I'm tired of Moroccan culture,” he says. “I'm tired of Islam. I'm sick and tired of the whole thing. Let's eat!”

“What about drinking? Are you gonna drink alcohol?” I ask.

“Mykel, I'm gonna get drunk with you!” He says.

There is no facebook sticker with a grin wide enough to react. I love drinking with Muslims as much as I like eating ham with Jews... and that's a lot.

The plane was due at 3:30. I figure it'll take an hour to get through immigration. They won't know he isn't celebrating Ramadan. Then, if he comes by subway, that'd be another hour. He should have rung my doorbell around 5:30... It's coming on seven... no sign of him.

BEEP BEEP... the doorbell!

I buzz him in... take the elevator downstairs to meet him.

He's there... in the lobby... with someone else... two someone elses... each with a huge backpack... and instruments... a large conga drum... animal skin, Senegalese style, a guitar, and bags... half a dozen of 'em... two as big as my stove. They're all staying here... in my tiny apartment. We squeeze into the elevator and I reach around to push the button.

My apartment is now so crowded I have walk ON suitcases to get from the couch to the bathroom. The drummer sets up the drum in the only 2 square foot open space. It's the table for their stay.

“Hey guys,” I say. “I want the perfect photo. Mykel and 3 Arabs eating pork together. You up for it?”

They look at each other. I wonder if I went too far. [ASIDE: Actually, I NEVER wonder if I go too far.]

“Mykel,” he says, “I guess you forgot. We're not Arabs. We're Amazighs. You might call us Berbers. We were in Africa BEFORE the Arabs... before the Muslims. We're the Indians of Morocco.”

“Okay, Chief,” I say. “Let's you and me drink the peace pipe and eat some pork belly. And what happened to the word Berbers?”

“We don't really like it,” says El Habib. “It comes from Latin. From the Romans... You know Barbarians. Anyone not Roman was a Barbarian.”

“I see,” I tell him. “It's like Goyim.”

He doesn't get it.

One of the guys... the guitar player... speaks up.

“I donno, Mykel,” he says. “I am a Berber, but my name is Mohammed. Don't you think I should change it? How far will I get in America with a name like Mohammed?”

“You should call yourself Osama,” I tell him.

He elbows me in the chest.

He gets it.

We have plans to meet later that night at Bar 13 where El Habib will read poems of The Beats that he's translated into Arabic. He'll also read some poems he's written directly in English.

FLASH TO THE CLUB: We're at the door. Ready to go in and Rock the Casbah to Allen Ginsberg with guitar and drum backing.

The doorman, a huge black doorman-looking guy, sits on a stool outside the bar. We approach... Me in arm boots and black jeans. The Berbers in shorts, with Moroccan equivalents of yarmulkes.

“Ok, fellas,” says the doorman. “I need to see your IDs.”

They stop... freeze. The color drains from their faces. They look at each other... then at me.

Habib whispers to me, “Is he speaking Amazigh?”

“Somehow I doubt it,” I tell him. “Most doormen come from the Bronx, not the Sahara. Just show him your ID.”

I reach for my wallet. The three of them are somewhat panicked, conversing in Berber.

“Is this the American way?” asks the guitar player.

“This is America,” I tell him. “Everything is ID, ID, ID.”

“It must have a different meaning in English,” he says, shaking his head. “Aidee in Berber... er... Amazigh... means penis.”

I share this information with the doorman. He laughs.

“He's right,” he tells the guitar player. “Everything in America is Aidee, Aidee, Aidee.”

Inside the bar, Habib greets the hostess.. a short Semitic-looking woman who hugs him on arrival.

“This is Sarah, I met her at the Kerouac school,” Habib tells me. “We've stayed in touch ever since. She runs these poetry things here.”

Sarah turns to me, gives me a big hug... like I'm a family member.

“I'm guessing you're a poet too,” she says to me.

“I'm not exactly a poet,” I say, “but a lot of people consider me some kind of artist.”

“Poet. Artist. It doesn't matter,” she says... exuding such a love of life... of enjoying every second... I nearly cum. “Any friend of Habib's is a friend of mine.”

Then she hugs me again. I cum.

FLASH TO TIMES SQUARE: There is a big black guy... Not very black... more bank clerk black than club bouncer black. He wears khaki pants, a gray t-shirt, black moccasins with no socks. In his left hand is a piece of thick white paper... oaktag. He holds it high. On it... written in thick marker... is:

JEWS FINANCED BLACK SLAVERY... GOOGLE IT!

At first I'm pissed off... then confused... wondering if FINANCED means something different in Negro than it means in English.

I know the history. Some Portuguese and a lot of Dutch-- through the Dutch East India Company-- funded most of the slave trade in the West. Some major backers of the D.E.I.C. were Jewish. That's who lent money to the corporation at the time.

BUT, the D.E.I.C. controlled the tea trade, the salt trade, the furniture trade. They were a TRADING company, for G-d's sake! Why not say THE DUTCH funded the slave trade? Or The Dutch East India Company funded the slave trade? My ancestors in Kiev had nothing to do with it.

FLASH TO AUSTIN TEXAS: I gotta take a piss. BEERLAND is living up to its name. Shiner Bock... almost makes up for G.W.B. Shiner's a great beer, but it does what beer does and I need to get rid of mine before the next round.

I stagger over to this very Texas-looking (blond, large and jiggly on top) girl. Brushing against her prominent-though-covered nipples I slur, “Air da mess oom?”

“Excuse me?” she says, stepping back a bit.

“Men's room?” I say forcing my mouth into proper linguistic position. “This is an emergency.”

She laughs. “This is Austin,” she says. “We don't do men's rooms.”

A trickle begins its decent down my leg.

FLASH TO THE NEWS: Austin has become the first city in America to legislate gender-free bathrooms. When you gotta go... you find a stall and go. That's it. No penis-bound division. Just go... just restrooms... just toilet... stand... sit... or hover... no one checks the danglies.

FLASH TO THE THEORETICAL: You probably get it by now. I'm writing about the way we divide up the world: us and them... Jews and goyim... Romans and Barbarians... gays and straights... men and women... trannies and cis-men. This division does not only come from our view of the world... it CREATES our view of the world.

Some Saudis and a couple of their buddies fly 747s into the World Trade Center. KAPLOW! Suddenly, they become ISLAMIC attackers. Not Saudis. How come?

Israel with several American Jewish volunteers kill thousands of Palestinians in Gaza. The attack was an ISRAELI attack, not a JEWISH attack. How come?

Homosexuals try to show scientific evidence they “are born that way.” What way? Every time a new sex or gender group defines itself, another letter gets added to the LBGTQ alphabet soup, expanding US, but not changing the whole view of US vs THEM.

I'm a Jew, a writer, a punk-rocker, a social libertarian, a contrarian, a pansexual, a short old bald guy with a bad hair transplant. No, that's wrong. I'm NOT a (fill in the blank). I DO (fill in the blank). I write. I shit. I fuck when I can, jerk off otherwise. I fast on Yom Kippur and don't eat bread on Passover.

I want to suggest a wee change to the paradigm... I mean a WE change. It's about how WE divide the world. It's about how WE see US and THEM. It's about how there is only US. THEM is a myth... an artificial arbitrary result of picking a few characteristics and using those to draw a line between US and THEM. It's about identity politics... where the politics should be about erasing identity.

Humanity is a hodgepodge of individual characteristics, tastes, genders, religions, skin colors. There is only US.

White Pride, Black Pride, Islamism, Jewish Nationhood... they're all dangerous divisions that come from dividing up the world in into US and THEM. Take down those MEN and WOMEN signs from the toilet world. Learn that THE JEWS (White People, Africans, Germans, The Arabs) didn't do anything-- good or bad. PEOPLE did things. And that's all the dividing we need.

ENDNOTES: [You can contact me by email at god@mykelboard.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 by subscribing to the MYKEL'S READERS Yahoo group readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

-->Free means you don't pay dept: 11-year old Margaleet Katzenblickstein in Weston MA applied for a permit to hold a rally against the police murders of unarmed colored people. The police of that town said she needed to pay a hundred dollars (a couple hundred according to other reports) for the police presence at the demonstration.

Amazingly enough, the town declined the police request for cash and allowed her to hold the demonstration without charge... though I wouldn't want to be little Margaleet walking through the city on her own on a dark night. Look at what happened (6th arrest!) to the NY good citizen who filmed the police murder of Eric Garner.

-->Compassion trumps religion dept: This is the way it should be! Harman Singh, a Sikh student in Auckland New Zealand took off his turban (something forbidden by Sikh law) to aid a 5-year old who had been hit by a car. He tucked the turban under the child's head to help him ease the pain. That's the kind of US I've been talking about in this column.

-->Productive dept: Representative Steve La Tourette announced his retirement from congress by saying, “I'll go back and find something productive to do with my life... as opposed to the last eighteen years.”

Three days after that announcement, he joined a lobbying firm based in Washington DC.

-->It was on Fox News so it must be true dept: Thanks to D Keith Dobson Jr. for this Fox News Denver report: A Chinese man successfully sued his wife over “an extremely ugly baby girl.”

Jian Feng filed the lawsuit after his wife gave birth to the girl. Why did he win? Apparently Feng’s wife underwent more than $100,000 in cosmetic surgery before they met and never told him. He said she tricked him into thinking she was beautiful.

Feng sued on the grounds of false pretenses and a judge agreed with him. The judge also ordered Feng’s wife to pay him $120,000.

Since Fox News reported this, Snopes has investigated and found it to be complete fiction.

Fox, reporting fictional News? Who wudda thunk it?

My question: When will the viewers of FOX NEWS sue for being made stupid-- on the grounds of false pretenses?

-->Keeping the Pressure on Dept: I want to thank reader George Metesky for suggesting a continuing Bring Back Mykel effort directed at Maximum Rock'n'Roll for their firing me as their contribution to the world of censorship. Send your comments to mrr@maximumrocknroll.com (or post on their facebook page) with the subject line: BRING BACK MYKEL! Let me know how they answer.

-->And: I'm still on a massive clean-up/divest kick. I'm giving away DVDs, cassettes, VHS videos, CDs, posters, and a few 7-inch singles. Just pay separate shipping and handling. Details at: MykelsGiveaway

-end

(MRR 351) August 2012 Mykel Faces His Fears!

You're Wrong

An Irregular Column

by Mykel Board

Mykel's MRR Column for MRR 351

where Mykel learns about his predjudices

 

 

It conformed to my idea of Africa and Africans, an obvious contrast to the growing isolation of American life... the insistent pleasure of other people's company, the joy of human warmth." --Barack Obama

Imagine an old fashioned faucet. The kind with a handle on top... made of iron... the way it curves... bending downward three-quarters of the way toward the spout... an iron hard L-shape... the opening of the L pointing South.

 

That's the shape of the erect penises of African men. At least it's the shape of the one now in my mouth as I lie with a Gambian... in The Gambia. Lights off, my bed partner is as dark as the night. My hands and mouth explore the braille of his body.

He too explores me, but doesn't take me into HIS mouth. Maybe, he's afraid of getting something... maybe it's just fear... the unwelcome novelty of a white stubby. He does manipulate me... very well... I mean.. Yes! Yes! There we go... I explode white into the darkest continent. Aaahhhh!

 

Whew! Now that's over, we can return to last month, where I was in a somewhat less orgasmic position.

 

 

FLASH BACK: I'm in Tangier. I inadvertently insulted some Arab students... posted a picture of their girlfriends on Facebook... invited lascivious comments.

 

The boys are mad: TAKE THE PICTURE DOWN... WHY YOU INSULT US? WHY YOU MAKE FUN OF US.

 

Before this, I thought these guys were cool. I met them in the park... friendly as kittens. They invited me to join them on-line with the invitation: Can you give me your face? We were supposed to meet... see the town.

 

Electronically, I apologized for the pictures and removed them... no response.

 

The next day, I meet them by “accident” on my front steps... all friendly again. They invite me to go out with them. I can even bring my friend Zayd if I like. They'll take care of me. Yeah, I bet.

 

I soon realize that the meeting was no accident. They had it in for me... were waiting on the steps all morning, just for me. I insulted their women and would pay with my life... or at least my testicles.

 

In the morning, there they are: three very big guys in a car. Zayd and I get it. They take us to the chopping block. Zayd dies quickly. Me, they take a little extra time with... NOT!

 

They take us to The Largest Arab-African Manga Festival in the world. It's sponsored by the University. My friend, Soufiane, (how could I have doubted him?... He is one of the heroes of this

trip!) knows everybody. He introduces me around. Takes me to the kung-fu show..

 

The rest of the day is a non-stop tour of an amazing Arab city. I meet a dozen people. I can feel their interest... not because they want something, but because they want to KNOW something.

They love their city and want to show it off, but they also want to learn about the world, America, Obama, everything. These are some of the best people I've met... and only in a short time. We're instant pals.

 

I feel like shit for doubting them. I feel worse than shit for letting my America-induced anti-Arab anti-Muslim feelings get in the way of my real-life experience. Me, Mr. anti-America! Still carrying American baggage in my bowels! Expel that shit now! I think I do, but you never know what remains... impacted in the mental large intestine.

 

 

Right now, I LOVE Muslims. I LOVE Arabs. They are fun, generous, funny, and more open to discussion than most anyone I know in the US. Governments ruling in the name of Islam... like governments ruling in the name of Judaism or Protestantism... are evil shits. But the people? Wow! I could live here.

 

FLASH AHEAD 3 WEEKS... TO THE GAMBIA: Back in bed with the Gambian who won't suck me off. I'll call him Barbour. I can't use his real name... he might get in trouble... though I can't imagine how he'll get in trouble from a blowjob!

 

(FYI: You have less of a chance of getting a disease from giving or getting a blowjob than you have of getting anal warts from toilet paper... except for herpes. Getting Type II herpes from someone with an active cold sore is possible. BUT, type II herpes is easy to cure AND once you get it, you're immune from getting type I: genital herpes-- the much nastier kinds. That means, a blow job is actually an exercise in preventive healthcare!)

 

For someone old enough to be out of college and into the REAL WORLD of employment, Barbour seems inexperienced. What about my balls? He could at least do my balls! That won't get him herpes! Even the good kind!

 

Wait, I have an idea. Maybe if he only manipulates me, it won't really count as AN UNNATURAL ACT. Later, I find this on the BBC website:

 

“The Gambian Criminal Code states that any person who has or attempts to have, "carnal knowledge" of any person "against the order of nature" is guilty of a felony and could face imprisonment. The Gambian courts may interpret homosexual acts as falling under this part of the Code. The Code also states that gross indecency between men, whether in public or private, is a felony and anyone committing this felony could face imprisonment. Any private citizen has the power of arrest for these offenses. The police have recently been actively enforcing this code. On the 10^th and 11^th of April 2012, 18 Gambian men and two Gambian women were arrested accused of indecent practice.”

 

 

And it gets worse.

“Gay rights activists have condemned Gambian President Yahya Jammeh's threat TO BEHEAD HOMOSEXUALS.

Last week he told a political rally that gay people had 24 hours to leave the country.

He promised "stricter laws than Iran" on homosexuality and said he would "CUT OFF THE HEAD" of any gay person found in The Gambia.”

Wow! Maybe that's why Barbour didn't give the head he should have. Giving me head may mean losing his.

On a side note, the president of The Gambia is an interesting guy. Luk Haas calls him the Juju President because of rumors he rules by black magic.

Jammeh took the office in 1994 in a coup d'etat. Since then, there have been elections every 5 years. People are encouraged to vote... and they do. Somehow, Jammeh always wins.

Unlike in Russia, though, people don't complain when the dictator wins. Many celebrate it. A funny guy, he often travels the length of the country. (That's not very far. The country is about the size of Maryland.)

When he travels, he throws t-shirts to the crowds clustered around his car. Each t-shirt has a quote from (you guessed it) the president. The quotes are not very profound... on the order of EDUCATION IS GOOD or WOMEN ARE IMPORTANT FOR A NATION. But I see them all over. Most Gambians love them and the man who threw them. I expect Barbour doesn't. I don't either.

But, like in Morocco, it is the PEOPLE of The Gambia that make it great. Governments are as fucked as corporations. And that's pretty fucked. In the US, the government IS corporations. But, as in Morocco, the people here are great.

Flash ahead to a university classroom: I've left my faucet-shaped host and moved to another Gambian city. Abdou, my new host is not so intimate, but he is twice as friendly.

He's invited me to sit in on two of his university classes.

I walk into the math class.The blackboard is villed with equations.  Totally beyond me. Weird stuff... sines... cosines... square roots...

Students sit at long tables... about four chairs to a table... Gals and guys mixed... equal numbers. About half the girls wear headscarves, about half the guys wear African-looking robes.

The girls are beautiful. Thin, oval faces with high cheekbones, soupbowl breasts-- and asses! Such asses! The bulge in my pants is NOT faucet-shaped, I can tell you that.

The professor walks in... a young guy... early 30s... he looks like a grad assistant... Abdou introduces us.

“This is Mykel, my friend from New York,” he says.   

We shake hands.

“Please don't call on me in class,” I beg him. “I don't get any of this math stuff.”
   

 

“You're in the class,” he answers with a mischievous smile, “I call on EVERYBODY in the class.”

I sit in fear of being asked something quadratic.    

The fear is unnecessary. The girls in the class take up the slack. Raising hands, answering questions, challenging the teacher.    

Amazing. Another stereotype... dashed in the sub-Sahara... Muslims have no respect for women... girls can't get into university... Muslim guys do all the talking... IT'S ALL BULLSHIT!

Hand raising, question answering, question asking, teacher challenging. GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!    
  

I can't believe how American I am-- again. I pride myself on beating cliches. On not falling for anti-Muslimism or any other American prejudice. But I keep doing it. Headscarves and terrorists and burkas and... you know.

The Muslim countries of Indonesia, Pakistan and Bangladesh have or have had female presidents or prime ministers. How many women have sat in Washington DC's oval office? It took 200 years for our first Negro! (Africa has had 'em for decades.) Women? Fuddedaboudit!    
  

Here in The Gambia (and Senegal) women rule the roost. Husbands are there to fatten them up, to plant a seed and move on to the next wife. The home, the streets, the classroom are controlled by women.

Yeah! There's nothing like travel to show me when I'm wrong... when I'm American in spite of myself. This is stuff YOU'll never know. You're too attached to your own prejudices. You see a headscarf and you think slave. You see a woman carrying a day's groceries on her head and you think oppressed. You're wrong.

Your electronic i-chains oppress you more than a headscarf could ever do. You'll never learn about the world from Fox News OR Wikipedia. You'll never learn at all.


ENDNOTES:            

 

 

-->Tooting my own horn dept: Those who want to read the details of my trip to Africa... with more pictures but less sex than the columns, can follow me at: www.mykelsdiary.blogspot.com I've cut the sex in some entries because of the possible penalties for those involved. Me? I'm not shy.

-->Evils of Arizona part 2141032 dept: The public school district in Tucson has banned Mexican American Studies and taken books away from schoolchildren, teachers and libraries. The incredible censorship happened in a place where the ONLY decent thing is the Mexican influence. I'd love to see the Mexicans just pack up and move to New Mexico. Let the Arizonans trim their own gardens... and make their own tacos. See how far they get.    

-->Calves, pigs or women, what's the difference? dept: Georgia state Rep, Terry England was speaking in favor of a bill that would make abortion illegal even if the fetus is DEAD.    

Said England, “I've had the experience of delivering calves dead and alive. Delivering pigs dead or alive. It breaks our hearts to see those animals not make it. It's the same for women.

-->Frack that dept: With gas companies taking some heat for causing earthquakes in previously safe areas (like Oklahoma), it's ironic that Time Magazine has found that THE SIERRA CLUB “has accepted more than $25 million in donations from the gas industry.” Strange how the Sierra Club has embraced natural gas as a coal/oil alternative. Yeah, as strange as the Sierra Club's CEO's 6 digit salary.

-->Quote of the week dept: Alan Dlugash, a member of the 1% at the accounting firm Marks, Paneth & Shron complained

“People who don't have money don't understand the stress.”

 Aww, doesn't it get you right here.


-->Drip this dept: By an 8 to 4 vote, the Wilmington Delaware City council officially recognized the “personhood” of semen. Said their resolution “each sperm (person) should be equal in the eyes of the government

-->Let God pay 'em dept: Alabama state senator Shadrack McGill, says it's important to keep teacher's salaries low.    

“It's a biblical principle,” he says. “If you double a teacher's pay, you'll attract people who aren't called to teach. All these teachers that are called to teach, regardless of the pay scale, they would teach. It's just in them to do. It's the ability that God gave them.

-->Language flip-flop? dept: So Mitt Romney says he doesn't like the Obama healthcare program. That program was modeled after one instituted in Massachusetts by Governor... you guessed it... Mitt Romney. The Democrats point fingers and you see Romney's picture with FLIP FLOP sandals for ears.

But hold on! In an early debate among Democratic presidential candidates, Democrats were asked about their positions on homo rights. One candidate said, “I don't support gay marriage, I can tell you that much.” The candidate? Barack Obama.

So, what about Obama's recent statement of support for gay marriage?

“President Obama's position has evolved,” said a spokesman.

Yeah, like my shower sandals.

-end-

 

You can read about Mykel's African adventures in more details on his travel blog.

 

 



(MRR 350) July 2012 Mykel Goes To Africa!

You're Wrong

An Irregular Column

by Mykel Board

COLUMN FOR MRR 550

Christians raise the armies. Muslims raise the buildings. Jews raise the money. – Jeraldine Brooks

TANGIER, MY FIRST STOP? LAST STOP?: Before leaving New York, I'd planned to write: The first thing you notice about Africa is that there are a lot of Negroes here.

That's not the case. Tangier is whiter than Paris and only slightly more Arabic.

I'm staying with Zayd, my Moroccan couch-surfing host. We talk politics and religion.

“So,” I tell him, “Muslim's don't eat port. Women can't show their hair. Animals have to be killed with a slit throat and drained of blood. You need to pray several times a day. Men are snipped at the tip of the good part. Some Muslims don't follow all the rules. Kind of reform.”

Zayd nods.

“That means,” I say, “that Muslims are a kind of Jew.”

He laughs... puts a finger to his lip. “That's right, but don't say it too loud.”

More talk. How religion can be a prison... especially if religious laws become the laws of the land... like in Morocco, Israel or The United States.

“I don't know about Israel or the U.S.,” Zayd says. “But here, we have a law that says if a woman is raped, she must marry the rapist! It's incredible. Women kill themselves because they don't want to live with a rapist. Can you believe it?”

“Well,” I tell him. “among Jews, if a woman's husband dies, she has to marry her dead-husband's brother.”

“That's bad,” he says, “but not AS bad.”

I have to agree with him.

“What about Arab spring?” I ask him. “Aren't people getting riled up... demanding change?”

“Arab spring touched Morocco,” he says, “but then it went away. The king is too smart. The whole thing started in Tunisia and spread. Just one guy setting himself on fire. But in Morocco... the king knows how to handle it. Focus the problem somewhere else...”

We're out looking for for a couscous restaurant. Quick, name two Moroccan foods. Yeah, I can't think of another one either. It would be a pity to leave Tangier, my first outpost in the country, without trying couscous.

Couscous places: All closed, changed to fast food... or “sorry couscous is only for lunch.”

One last chance, in the Medina... the old city by the port... twisted streets, shady characters hidden in robes like ghetto boys in hoodies.

We head for a restaurant Zayd knows. There are cops everywhere. The streets are closed to traffic.

From somewhere far away comes chanting. Not religious, but like at a demonstration. A dumb chant... like

WHAT DO WE WANT?

JUSTICE!

WHEN DO WE WANT IT?

NOW!

“It's a manifestation,” says Zayd. I guess he means demonstration.

Down the street flags wave.

“What's it about?” I ask.

“I don't know,” says Zayd. “Let's go see.”

We do.

The demo is split into little blocks. One section, then a space... another section... another space.

I don't notice at first, but Zayd sees it right away.

“Look,” he says. “It's men... then woman... then men again. Not both together. Maybe it's a protest against the rape law. The women want their own space.”

Whatever it is, it certainly is vehement. Chanting, flag-waving... some dancing... in a big circle... like a man-only hora.

After a while, Zayd turns to me.

“Now I know why the men and women are separate,” he tells me. “It's conservative. Islamist.”

I raise my eyebrows... the universal language for just keep talking.

He looks at me and gives an oh-well-I-guess-I'd-better-tell-him shrug.

“It's an anti-Israel demonstration,” he says. “It's pro-Palestinian. I hate it.”

“Are you a Zionist?” I don't ask him, but he knows what I'm thinking. He shakes his head like a math teacher explaining calculus to a retard.

“Mykel,” he says, “Israel is on the other side of Africa. We can do nothing about it except make noise. That's what I was talking about. The government loves manifestations like this. It stops people thinking about what's going on here... what we CAN do something about... like the rape law...”

In disgust, he turns from the demonstration. We go to a restaurant for a fine dinner of Moroccan pea soup-- served so hot it continues to boil while you eat it-- and a sweet green mint tea-- the tastiest drink I've had on this trip.

After dinner, we return to Zayd's place. He hasn't let me pay for a thing! No food. No taxi. No nothing. Here I am the rich $20 an hour American and this Moroccan guy, an intern at an insurance company, zero salary... nothing... pays for me!

Yeah the streets are dirty... the air dusty... and they don't drink (in public, anyway)... yet these people are the quickest friends this side of Trinidad.

Friday is Zayd's last full day as an intern. On Saturday, he'll be home by noon... as a free man!

Flash to Friday 11AM: I'm in a park, near Zayd's place. I sit on a bench, soaking up the clouds, alternately writing in my journal and reading Tropic of Cancer.

I put stickers all over the cover of the book. It showed a breast. Most of my travel will be in Muslim countries where they're not too fond of breasts on book covers.

On another bench in the park is a young man(early 20s?) with two women about the same age. One of the women wears a headscarf. The other, has a freer, more bouncy look. I see them looking at me, giggling, looking away, then looking again. I look back and smile.

Both girls come over and start speaking to me... in French. The one in the headscarf asks, “Est-ce que tu es un philosof?”

“Philosof?” I ask, “Pourquoi?”

“Tu escris.” she says.

“Je suis ecrivain,” I say. “Mai je ne suis pas philosof.”

We talk a bit more. As soon as it comes out that I'm from New York, they call in the boy. He's a big guy, bad skin in an adolescent way, with a very friendly face and big smile. He introduces himself as Joussau.

I explain to the crew that I need to go to the train station to buy Sunday's ticket to Agadir. Only I have no idea where the train station is, let alone how to get there. They speak to each other in Arabic. The guy speaks to me.

“The girls will take you to the train station,” he says. “You can go by bus. They will show you.”

“Wow, that's great!” I tell them. Yeah, Moroccan instant friends.

We walk together to the bus stop. They're students, they say. They show me a text book. One book: science, math, French, English... two pages of irregular verbs.

“Before we go,” I ask. “can I have a picture of all of us together?”

They giggle, but agree and stop an old lady who takes our picture.

Joussau asks me, “Can you give me your face?”

“Huh?” I don't say. “I've only known you for half an hour. Isn't that a bit quick?”

What I do say, in French, is pardon?

“Your name on Facebook,” he says. “We should be friends.”

Not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, I write Mykel Board on a scrap of paper and give it to him.

“Let's meet again tomorrow,” says Joussau.

“Sure,” I say, really liking these guys.

I give them my phone number and point to the building I'm staying in. “I'm right over there,” I tell them. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

The bus shows up. The girls and I get on. They wave good bye at the train station and go on their way.

I buy my ticket, then go back to Zayd's to give some Face.

Flash ahead: Back at Zayd's apartment, I upload the picture to Facebook, add my new friend Joussau and wait for Zayd's return.

In the meantime, I start this column, keep up my travel blog, and check out my next couch-surfing host.

You know how those little numbers pop up over the Facebook tab? By the time I'm finished couch-surfing-- 15 minutes at the most-- the number is up to 37.

I go back to Facebook. It's the picture I posted from Tangier... with the tagline “Can you give me your face?”

There are a ton of comments.

• Those girls are hot.
• Mykel, you should give them all your face.
• “Wow, Mykel you move fast.”

and more.

There's also a message from Jousau.

TAKE OFF THE FOTO. TODEE! NOW! THE GIRLS ARE OFFENDEDED. THEY DON LIKE IT. WHY YOU DO THAT? TAKE OFF NOW!

One of the comments under the picture is from a friend of Joussau's.

Hey man. They make fun of us. You see man?

I immediately take down the picture and write a fawning letter of apology... I'm sorry... I didn't realize... I didn't mean to...

I don't get an answer. I guess they're still pissed.

Flash to Saturday: I was supposed to meet those guys today... hang out... but that won't happen now. They're mad because of the picture.

Ah well, Fayd will be back by noon, so I'll have something to do. Maybe find a couscous place.

I walk downstairs to get some coffee at the local cafe.

On the front porch, with two friends, is Jousau. He's all smiles... introduces me to his friends... we shake hands.

“Hey Mykel,” he says, “we still meet you at 4:30... after school.”

“Sure,” I say, a bit shaken, but happy I ran into him and saw that everything's okay. “I'll meet you right here in front of this building.”

I think about Zayd. “Can I bring a friend?” I ask. “He'd like to join us.”

Joussau is startled by the request, but agrees.

We part company. I go to buy a toothbrush and some water. He goes to school. Then I sit in a cafe and enjoy a cup of coffee with an omelet. I rip apart a piece of baguette, and use it to soak up the yolk. The yellow stain, slowly seeping through the bread, inspires the deadly insight. A finger snap: Of course!

It was no coincidence that Joussau was there on the porch... exactly when I walked out. What are the odds on that? No! He and his friends were there all morning... just waiting...talking... planning their day. They needed to be sure they wouldn't miss me... to trap me... catch me off guard... guarantee I'd meet them... no way to give 'em the slip now, right?

Are they working with Al Qaieda? Is there a bounty on my head? Sure meet me at 4, get me in a car, and Pow! Off with my head.

What doesn't make sense is taking Zayd. Maybe they didn't want to arouse suspicion. He'll be a sacrifice for the cause. He'll go quick. Not like my rusty scissors castration.

Jeezus! I'm gonna be murdered here... head shipped to Barack... maybe they'll name a war after me.

I finish my coffee and return to Zayd's apartment. It's time to get my affairs in order.

The phone vibrates. A text... from Zayd... Sorry Mykel. I won't be home until later today. Something has come up.

Fuck! He's in on it. Part of the conspiracy. Probably told them about my Is a Muslim a Kind of Jew joke. That should up the reward on me.

It's noon now. Joussau will be waiting for me at 4:30. At 3:35 he texts me: Don't forget about meeting me today!

Yeah, like I could forget.

Zayd is back by 4. Maybe he's not part of this after all. He's just in time to meet the carful of young men downstairs... waiting for us when we leave. He gets in the car. I get in the car. There are already three others inside.

Joussau introduces me to them. The ones who will do the actual beheading, castrating, or worse.

“This is Mehdi,” he says pointing to the driver. “He speaks English very well. He commented on the your Facebook page.”

Fuck! That's the guy who said, They make fun of us. He hates me! I shake hands with him.

Then he gestures to the guy sitting next to me... dark-skinned... extremely handsome... and a giant... six-six at least... hands bigger than my face.

“This is Rachman El Batoum,” says Joussau. The guy takes my hand in his. He can touch his thumbs to his knuckles on the other side. He does.

“Rachman is a boxer,” says Mehdi, “one of the best in Africa.”

So, he's trying to scare me. Well, I don't scare very easily.

I'm scared.

The car starts and we're on our way... to Al Quaeida headquarters? To the tree stump chopping block?... To the rusty castration scissors?

Maybe the cops will find something. I wonder if I'll make the history books... a footnote at least?

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

-->Told you so dept: In the last column, I wrote how boycotts are a bad way to deal with speech issues. If you use them, others will use them against you. So Starbucks supports gay marriage. And... here comes the boycott. The National Organization for Marriage is organizing it. Will Starbucks apologize like Rush did?

-->You should know dept: Couchsurfing.com is a great website. It has members from everywhere. You can stay with people around the world... for free. I've stayed with people in Italy, Morocco, Trinidad, France, and Australia. People from a dozen countries have stayed with me, including a pair from Lebanon, who cooked... on my own stove... the best meal every cooked there.

         Even with punkrock cred up the urethra, you still need couch-surfing. Give me your face there.

-end-

You can read about Mykel's African adventures in more details on his travel blog.