Mykel's Column for MRR 304 September 2008

Mykel Board sez
YOU'RE WRONG!
Column for MRR #304
September 2008

"Always go to other people's funerals, otherwise they will not go to yours” --Yogi Berra

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Mom died yesterday. Or the day before maybe. I don't know. In the morning I go to the gym. I come back home, take a shower, check my voicemail. Three calls. First, from my sister, Gayl. Tearful. “You gotta call me.”

Second, from the hospice lady taking care of Mom. “You gotta call me.”

Third, from the hospice lady taking care of Mom. “I hate to leave this on your voicemail, but I know it's the only way to contact you. Your mother passed this morning-- or last night-- in her sleep. She was very peaceful. They're coming to pick up the body at around 1 PM. I'm very sorry.”

I must be in shock. I don't cry. I don't do anything but think.

Why do you hate to leave the message on my voicemail? I'd LOVE to leave such a message on voicemail. Somebody dies? I don't want to break the bad news. I don't want to sit there while the embarrassed receiver chokes back tears to thank me for telling him something horrible.

Last time I cried for a death was when Timmy Yohannon bit the big one. George Tabb left the message on my voicemail.

Stutter dialtone. That's what they call it. Instead of a BAAAAAAAAAAAA, it's a BAH BAH BAH BAH BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. You know you have a message. Shock. Then the tears. Did George want to listen to that? I don't think so.

Leave a message. The truth. All the facts. Not some mystery that I'll agonize about until I finally reach someone.

Family wiped out in a terrorist attack? Leave a message. I've got cancer? Leave a message. End of the world? Leave a message. The last thing I wanna do is blubber to the messenger. Tell it to the machine.

I call my sister. Dad's alone with a dead body. Somebody has to be there. She has a car and is 20 minutes away. I have to rent a car and drive an hour. I call her cellphone. Before she speaks, I hear what sounds like an announcer over a loud speaker. Then her voice.

“It's me,” I say.

“Oh,” she says, “I'm at the ballpark. I took Josh (her son) to the ballgame. Dad's okay. I talked with the people at Sunrise.” (That's the old folks home where my parents have been living).

“You what?” I don't say. “You took the kid to a ballgame when your mother's lying dead and your father's 'sitting the body? You went to a ballgame? Holy existential batman! That's harsh.”

“Mykel,” says Gayl, “are you okay? You don't sound too good.”

I hang up, call the rabbi, get his voicemail. Whew!

“Mom died this morning,” I tell his voicemail. “I'm heading to Sunrise now. Could we meet at 1 or 2?”

I call Hertz and make an on-the-spot reservation. I'm in New Jersey in an hour. As I pull into the parking lot at Sunrise, the rabbi calls me. “I'll give you a few minutes alone with your Dad. Then I'll come over.”

On entering Sunrise, the receptionist gives me a hug. Then the attendants, one by one. “My condolences,” in Tagalog, Spanish, Chinese accents.

Each hug brings tears. I'm dry-eyed, in control, until I get a “my condolences,” hug. Then the tears flood and the snot drips.

Dad sits by himself in the corner of the group livingroom. He's slumped in his wheelchair. Maybe asleep. His blackening gangrene food is propped up in front of him. Multiple strokes, final stage diabetes. On and off dementia. I thought he'd be the one to go first.

I wake him with a kiss on the top of the head. He looks at me and smiles. Then come his tears. Then come mine.

“I feel like my whole insides are being torn out,” he says. “They woke me up this morning and said they had bad news. I thought they were going to tell me I died. They said, 'we're sorry, but your wife died.' I thought they must have been wrong. It was me who died. I've never felt like this in my life.”

One of the attendants comes over to me. “Your mother is in the other room. We took your father out right away. You want to go in?”

I excuse myself from Dad and walk into the room. Mom is the most peaceful I've seen her in years. Looks like she's sleeping. I expected the smell of death. The shit released from uncontrolled bowels. The piss from a useless bladder. But there's nothing. Just like she's sleeping. I heard that dead people are cold, but when I put my lips against her forehead, Mom's skin feels warm. Not hot, kinda neutral.

“Bye Mom,” I say.

Then I leave the room, not crying, but furious. I call my sister. Luckily her voicemail answers, “If you're not too busy at the ballgame,” I say, “your mother is dead and your father is in pretty bad shape. If you could make it over here, it would be much appreciated.”

“We called your sister this morning,” says Carmalita, Dad's favorite attendant. “We scheduled someone to pick up the body as late as possible, but they will be here soon. You have to sign some papers.”

She gently places a pile of papers in front of me. I look for blank lines and sign all of them. Who knows, they could be knocking on the door tomorrow to take this computer. Maybe I'm giving 'em permission. Show me a line. I'll just sign.

Dad and I just sit quietly for some time. Tear flow a bit. I get up to find tissues. Not finding any, I bring some paper towels from the kitchen. They'll do.

The body snatchers come at around 1pm. They wrap Mom in a red blanket-- head-to-toe-- and wheel her out through the livingroom where I'm sitting next to Dad.

“Is that her?” asks Dad.

“Yes,” I tell him.

They go out the back door. Dad and I sit quietly. What's there to say?

In a few minutes the door to the livingroom opens again. It's the rabbi. There, open arms. A big hug. I start crying again, pressing my head into his chest. Like that famous picture John McCain with George W. The rabbi is younger than me. He's a Chassid, with fringes and a long brown beard. No gray in it, unless he too uses JUST FOR MEN^TM. After we separate, he comes over to Dad. Hugs him. And sits with us.

“How are you feeling?” asks the rabbi.

“Like someone took all my insides out,” says Dad. “I've never felt like this. I want to yell, but who can I yell at?”

“You can yell at me,” says the rabbi. “If you need someone to yell at, you can yell at me.”

Dad doesn't say anything.

“Look at what you're using on your eyes and nose,” says the rabbi. “Don't use paper towels. You'll hurt your nose. I'll get some tissues. You shouldn't use that.”

From somewhere, he scrounges up a box of tissues and returns to us. We take the box and use it.

“I don't even know what was wrong with her,” says Dad.

“Maybe it was time,” I said. “Maybe it was time and she knew it.”

“You know.” says the rabbi,“we once had a neighbor. An old woman. One day, she went door-to-door... all over the neighborhood. She was just saying good bye. We thought she was crazy. But the next day she was dead. She knew. You know, I think. You know a few days before. You just know.”

“I feel like my insides are being torn out,” says Dad.

“Your wife's Hebrew name is Hannah, right?” asks the rabbi.

“That's right,” answers Dad.

“I remember,” he said. “When I visited before. Your wife was not always so happy. But when I called her Hannah... her face lit up. Like she suddenly recognized something.”

An attendant came over to us. She gave me a big hug. She gave Dad a big hug. Then she reached for the rabbi. He raised his hand to decline.

Orthodox rabbis are not allowed to touch women. I'm not sure of the reason. I think it's related to the Hebrew idea of building a wall around the law. Adultery is forbidden. But then, you need to avoid temptation... a single touch may be all it takes. A rabbi has to be especially careful. Can't even look funny.

This building-a-wall idea you see a lot in Orthodox Judaism. You can't say the name of G-d. Or even write: G-O-D. So The Bible uses only the Y.H. initials. But the initials are close to the real name. You know, like the J*h*v*'s Witnesses say it. Jew've got to say it in a way that means “our lord,” not using the original pronunciation.

When you're not reading the bible, you need to take an extra step back. Another wall of protection. You say “our NAME” meaning the name of the of the name of G-d, substituted for the REAL name of G-d that you're not allowed to say. Layers of protection, like DEPENDS under rubber underwear.

I'm not SURE that's the reason Orthodox rabbis don't touch women, but I THINK it's the reason.

The door to the common room opens. It's a family visiting a relative. It IS Father's Day, after all.

Time passes. Dad cries. I cry. The rabbi doesn't cry, but often puts his arm around Dad and I. More time passes. The door to the common room opens again. A man about ten years older than me enters. He's visiting his mother... for Father's Day.

Time passes. Dad cries. I cry. The rabbi doesn't cry, but often puts his arm around Dad and I. The door to the common room opens. It's my sister.

The care-givers around come and give her a big condolence hug. She walks over to Dad and me. I'm not so warm.

“How was the game?” I don't ask.

“I didn't tell Josh yet,” says Gayl. “Presley (my niece) knows.”

“They took Mom away an hour ago,” I say as icily as I can manage. Then she starts crying.

“You look like you need a hug,” says the rabbi. “I wish I could do it. Wait. Let me call my wife.”

He takes out his cellphone. There's discussion. The rabbi's wife knows my father, but not the rest of the family. I met her for the first time the week before at the local Torah dedication. You can read about that in my diary blog if you want.

In half an hour, the rabbi's wife arrives, giving Gayl a big hug. I don't know if I'm allowed to touch her or not. I don't.

[Aside #1: When Mom went into hospice I suggested that Rabbi Lewis officiate at her funeral.

“I don't want an Orthodox funeral,” my sister said. “My friends would feel uncomfortable. All that separation. My rabbi is on call. He'll take over when something happens.”

For the uninitiated, Jewish funerals have to take place soon after death. We don't embalm. Ashes-to-ashes, y'know? It's the original recycling program. Even the coffins are 100% biodegradable. No metal handles. They take too long to go back to the earth.

Without embalming, bodies, like fish, get pretty rank after a couple days. We need quick funerals. Move fast. Today is Sunday. Tomorrow would be best. End of Aside]

“I couldn't do it Monday,” says the rabbi. “I just have too much I agreed to do. My sister just had a baby. My own daughter is sick. Urinary tract infection.”

“That's okay,” says Gayl, pulling out her cellphone. “I'll call my rabbi.”

[Aside #2: Although I was raised a Reform Jew, I never felt comfortable in the sect. It's a kind of JEW LITE.

The movement started out copying the church. They changed services from Saturday to Sunday. The first prayer books said “Minister” rather than “Rabbi.”

Reform introduced choirs and organs. Most heinously, they installed an American and an Israeli flag right in front, where the Torah is, as if to prove their dual patriotism. Reform Jews are the most pro-Israel fanatics, but least JEWISH of the Jews.

It's weird. The most fanatic of the Muslims are the most religious: the prayer-mat-kneeling, robe wearing, play-music-and-die zealot. For Jews, the most fanatic are the LEAST religious. The I'm-a-Jew-because-I-eat-a-bagel folks. They are the flag-wavers. The kill-all-the-Arab bigots. Someday I might figure out why. Not today, though.

Another reason I dislike Reform Judaism is all that English. Hebrew is mystical, and cool sounding. But when you know what all that walla walla really means... all that CUT DOWN MY ENEMIES, EARTH SWALLOWS THEM UP, STONE THEM FOR WORKING ON THE SABBATH shit. Oy. I don't want to hear that! It's awful. The worst kind of religion is one you actually understand. I'll take gobbledygook any day. End of aside.]

My sister stands up and walks to the other side of the room. In a few minutes, she's back.

“He can't do it until Wednesday,” she tells us.

“Do you want me to do it?” says the rabbi.

“Actually,” I said, “my sister said she'd be uncomfortable with an Orthodox funeral. Our family has a lot of people raised in a Reform tradition... and...”

“The service is the same,” says the rabbi. “There's no separation. It's almost the same service as reform.”

“No, it's fine with me,” says Gayl, looking helpless.

“What do you think?” she asks me.

“I say yes,” I tell her.

“There are a few important things,” says the rabbi. “One is a ritual body washing, Tahara. The Chevra Kadisha will take care of it, but you must ask the funeral home. I'll do it if you like. They do it for free.”

Gayl hands her cellphone to the rabbi. She gives him the number of the funeral home. She's made all the arrangements earlier in the day. Handled the bookkeeping. All the phone stuff that needed to be done.

“It's the only funeral home in Rockland County,” she tells me. “Can you believe it? A third of the county is Jewish and they only have one funeral home!”

“You'd better check on the prices,” says Dad. “They always try to stick you with extra charges... and I thought it was ME who was dead. I thought they were coming to tell me.”

“Don't worry Dad,” I tell him. “The bath is for free.”

The rabbi makes the call and arranges for Mom's last bath.

(As it turns out, dad is right. Although the bathing is for free, the funeral home charges $500 for the use of the facilities.)

“And another thing,” the rabbi says. “I know in Reform the rabbis tear a piece of ribbon and give it to the mourners to symbolize mourning. But Jewish tradition is to tear a garment. A pinned-on piece of cloth is like a pinned-on grieving. I recommend you wear an old sweater or something that can be torn then thrown away. But you need the tearing, like your heart is tearing.”

“My insides are tearing,” says Dad.

The rabbi and his wife leave. My sister and I leave, dividing up the tasks. I arrange for the wheelchair van to pick up my father. My job is to set up the schedule for the next day. Gayl, the kids, the rabbi and my cousin Barb will meet at the old folks home along with the van.

Gayl does all the relative calling, and the arrangements for obituaries. She's got the hard part. I HATE the telephone, I don't think I could manage.

I don't have space to write about the actual funeral. My father collapsed in the middle of it and had to leave in an ambulance. I rode with him to the hospital.

“Yo,” I ask one of the EMS guys. He looks like a college jock: crew cut, muscles out to here, “you guys ever have a pick-up at a cemetery before?”

“Happens all the time,” he tells me.

Flash ahead: It's the Saturday after the funeral. Jews are supposed to go say a special prayer, the Kaddish, every Friday and Saturday for the year following a funeral. I originally had classes scheduled for Friday, but I decide I'll feel like shit if I abandon Mom right in the first week.

I cancel my classes, learning that “a death in the family,” can get you out of a whole lot. Friday night, I go to the local homogogue... the gay synagogue. It's the one I go to on the high holidays every year. Usually, I go with one of the many girls I've turned into lesbians. It's not exactly Reform, but it's like Reform, with the organ and the flags.

The homogogue has its temporary quarters in a church just north of Chelsea, the rich gay area of Manhattan.

I walk in, my shirt torn. (I did NOT go for the ribbon.) My face wears a suitably grieving look. Working hard to exude a Mom-just-died smell from my armpits, neck, anywhere I can exude, I choose a seat on the right, toward the back.

The only other person in the row is a large black human of indeterminate gender. Grief-strickenly, I smile at her/im and sit down. S/he flashes me a tight-lipped acknowledgment and adjusts her/is yarmulke.

A few seconds later, s/he taps the shoulder of the young attractive guy sitting in front of her/im. He leans back in his chair. They whisper for a minute. Then, my rowmate gets up and moves to the seat next to the good-looking guy.

For the first part of the service, I'm alone in my row.

Later, out of the corner of my eye, I see someone slowly moving up the aisle. I turn to look at the oldest human I've ever seen on two legs. Agonizingly slow, he shuffles one foot forward, then the other. He's bent nearly double at the waist.

SHHHHH SHHHH SHHHH SHHHH, he shuffles. The soles of his shoes never leave the floor. He won't make it another row. I'm sure. He'll die right there in front of me. Two dead bodies in a week. It's more than I can take.

I pat the seat next to me. He looks at me, smiles and sits down. At the end of the service he hugs me, giving me a big kiss on the cheek. That's the only human contact I have at the place.

No one spoke to me, let alone touched me in this open-inclusive house of worship.

Up to now, the only physical contact I've had since I got back from the funeral has been my two local bums, the homeless guys on the corner. They hugged me until I cried. Their comfort was worth more than all the quarters I've ever given them.

I walk out the front door, past a couple of very butch girls, and down the front steps of the de-goyified church. On the corner is a street sign reminding me where I am.

Holy Hoegarten Batman! I'm right down from The Blarney Stone, one of the two or three REAL dive bars left in the city. (As opposed to faux dive-bars, filled with punks or college kids.) I head right for the place.

Linda, the bartendress has been there eight years. The rest of the clientèle look like they were born there.

Linda is blond and heavily cleavaged. Her accent is so thick I understand less than half of what she says. For her, day and flea rhyme.

“Hello, Mykel,” she says, “yer not a-lookin' so feen t'dee. You be wantin' a beer?”

“I just buried my mother,” I tell her. “Gimme something stronger. Irish whiskey.”

She pours me one. Then puts one leg on a crate under the bar and fixes her body in a story-listening position.

“Wenn did she dee?” she asks.

I drink and talk. Soon the tears begin falling and the snot runs from my nose to my mustache. The woman next to me, about 50, big, black, rubs my back. The Puerto Rican guy next to her puts his hand on my shoulder.

I never saw these people before and here they are, worshiping with me at the synagogue of the bottle. They hug me, tell me their names: April and Roberto, and then tell me about their own losses, their parents, a brother and a sister. They give me their phone numbers. Tell me to call if I need anything.

Somehow, my glass is never empty. I just cry. Drink. Hug my neighbors. Repeat. Linda tells me my money's no good. She's taking care of everything.

“I learned something really important tonight,” I say, drinking up my fifth glass of whiskey.

“What's that?” asks April, her arms cradling me like a baby.

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

-->1984 in 2008 dept: Holy shit! They're trying to market it as a “cure for social phobia.” Yeah right.
Here's the (edited) Press Release:

A nasal spray which increases our trust for strangers is showing promise as a treatment for social phobia, say scientists from Zurich University.
They found that people who inhaled the "love hormone" oxytocin continued to trust strangers with their money - even after they were betrayed.
Nicknamed the "cuddle chemical," oxytocin is a naturally produced hormone, which has been shown to play a role in social relations, maternal bonding, and also in sex.
Lead researcher Dr. Thomas Baumgartner said: "We now know for the first time what exactly is going on in the brain when oxytocin increases trust. We found that oxytocin has a very specific effect in social situations. It seems to diminish our fears.”

Yikes! Wait till the government and corporate America get a little TRUST US spray! You know you're gonna put this in THE AIR. Fox 5 News'll spray it from the back of trucks. It's the beginning of the end!

-->Steal my number, please dept: Entrepreneur Todd Davis has dared criminals to try stealing his identity: Ads for his fraud-prevention company, LifeLock, offer his real Social Security number next to his smiling face and name.
Now, Lifelock customers in Maryland, New Jersey and West Virginia are suing Davis. They claim his service didn't work and he knew it wouldn't. It failed even him.
Davis acknowledged in an interview with The Associated Press that his stunt has led to at least 87 instances in which people have tried to steal his identity. At least one succeeded: a guy in Texas used Davis' Social Security number to dupe an online loan company into giving him $500.

-->At first it seems like a tough choice dept: Americans United for Separation of Church and State filed a friend-of-the-court brief when a Pennsylvania public school refused to allow a parent to read from The Bible for a "Parents Reading" event.
Seems like a violation of free speech, huh? That's what the right wing Alliance Defense Fund said when they sued.
Here's the test. You allow The Bible. I'll read from THE SATANIC BIBLE. Howie's mom will read from the Marquis DeSade. If all that is allowed, I say, why not the Bible? But if you've got any censorship at all, then the school is right. The Bible should go. It's the most dangerous of all those books.

-->Daddy's at The Office Killing People dept: Newsweek reports that Sesame Street has a video package for the children of soldiers. In one clip, "little Rosita asks how she can still dance with her dad even though his legs don't work like they used to." The answer? Rolling to the beat-- in Daddy's wheelchair.
According to Newsweek, "The DVDs leave out some of the complexities of war, such as where Daddy is going or who hurt him. Instead, Daddy Elmo simply tells his son that he must leave to do "grown-up work." Yowsah!

-->Another reason to stay free from K.I.D.S. dept: Bottom Line Health reports that childless men are 16% less likely to be diagnosed with prostate cancer than their progeny-encumbered counterparts. The reason is unknown.

To Mykel's Website

Mykel's Column for MRR 303 August

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Mykel's Column for MRR #302, July

YOU'RE WRONG
Mykel's column for MRR #302,
July 2008

"Without question, the greatest invention in the history of mankind is beer. Oh, I grant you that the wheel was also a fine invention, but the wheel does not go nearly as well with pizza.” --Dave Barry

When I was younger, I used to use my index finger. Maybe we all do. I see little babies, index fingers plugged knuckle-deep into a tiny nostril, fishing out a morsel. From nose to mouth. Dessert. A snack.

About 30 years ago, I switched. I discovered my thumb. Maybe it's a Jew thing. We've got more room. Can push that thumb right in there. Much more satisfying. I do that now, scouring the inside, the part away from the cartridge. Supporting the skin with my forefinger against the outside, hooking what's left of big-city soot, nose-haired filtered out of my lungs, now under the nail, scraping it downward. Out, examining it. Hard, part black, part translucent, like a gallon milk jug.

Re-insert.

I pick at the exquisite scab in the V where the nostril attaches to the rest of my face. I rip at it. A beautiful pain, like a tongue pressing a sore tooth. I tear the scab from inside my nose. This time my nail is black-- and red with fresh blood. A real chunk, built up through a day of slow bloody leakage. My reward for breathing the frozen New Hampshire air.

I'm here on a short trip to Fredericton, New Brunswick. Not in New Jersey. In Canada. Where nobody goes. Where I just happened to see on a map when I'm showing my students New England. Where I decide to drive, and stop along the way. Libraries to write. Micro-breweries to beer.

Right now, I'm in Quiznos in Manchester NH, trying to contact Jason. I have 40 minutes before they close. Soon, I'll be out in the cold. Manchester is VERY cold.

Jason's my couch-surfing host for the day. I called a couple times on the way from Boston, but just got voicemail.

Now there's some kind of electronic tornado. The vortex of the e-storm is Quiznos in Manchester, New Hampshire. Telecommunications is nigh on impossible. Maybe it's terrorists. Ssssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr. Ssssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr. All cellphone communication blocked. I walk outside Quiznos to try again. I pushed the JASON button.
“Ssssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr. Ssssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr. Hello youSsssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr. ...nally.”

“Hello Jason? It's Mykel. I don't know if you can hear me. But I'm in town, at Quiznos on Elm Street. They're going to close soon. You know where Quiznos is?”

“Ssssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr, I do,” he says. “I'll see ySsssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr.”

“Yeah,” I say. “See you.”

Then I return to type these words. During the next 20 minutes, three people enter the sandwich store. One is a very street-looking kid: big, black, in baggy jeans, baseball hat with a perfectly flat brim tilted up and slightly to the right. Something about the guy isn't authentic. Like he's a dean's-list student from the local university, trying to look ghetto. I don't know what it is. His lack of swagger. Some deep intelligence that shows through his walk. The way he doesn't swing his shoulders. I donno.

As I puzzle this out, two blond really dumb-looking white girls walk in, almost as if choreographed. They are authentic. Simultaneously, the two of them shift their weight. One skinny leg at a time. Step. Swing hip. Step. Swing hip. Step. Swing hip. Like sex soldiers, marching in tandem with puffed out chests.

Both chew gum. Both wear skirts much too short for the freezing weather. (Did I mention there's snow on the ground? And it's colder than a witch's twat... and twice as windy.)

“What can I get you?” asks the vaguely Hispanic girl behind the counter.

“We'd like an application,” says the girl with the higher hair. “We want to work here.”

The Hispanic worker looks pleadingly at her boss. He's also behind the counter, a mop in his hands. He shakes his head.

“I'm sorry,” says the counter-worker. “We're not hiring at the moment.”

“That's okay,” says the other girl. They shrug in tandem and walk out of the store.

Passing them on his way in, is a guy wearing jeans, a pink shirt, a maroon tie, with the best chin since Ai... the Drink Club goddess. I don't know what it is, but there's something about chins. Everyone I know with a really strong chin has a really strong personality. It's a good sign.
And yeah it is. It's Jason. He takes me from Quiznos to a great brewpub.

It's called MILLY'S TAVERN, and, like everything else in Manchester, is in an old mill. (Well, a few things are in old factories.) Before the bar, Jason wants to take me to the river, like Al Green. But it's just too cold.

Inside, I check out the beer menu. Neither of us has eaten dinner, so we also check out the food menu. Nothing special. Burgers, quesadillas, bar food. But the beer menu well....

Usually a good name suckers me in. But for some reason I order the boringly named John Stark Porter. The best name is Hopnoxious IPA, but I'm not a big IPA fan.

An IPA is supposed to have: high hop bitterness, high hop aroma, and high alcohol content. At least according to the internet. But mostly, you get the bitterness, and not much else. Sometimes IPAs taste spoiled... rotten. I usually avoid them.

The porter is excellent. Dark, not quite as thick as Guinness, but still filling enough to ensure I can't finish my quesadilla! I have two of 'em. Porters, that is, not quesadillas. It's the best new beer of this trip.

Over dinner we talk. Jason has just come back from four years of teaching in Egypt. He loved Egypt and the Egyptian people. Quite a different point of view from my recent guests from Lebanon! But that's how I like it! And why I like traveling. A few days confirms that everybody is wrong about everything.

After Milly's, we go back to Jason's place... a condo that used to be a shoe factory. They kept the girders, boiler oven door and smokestack. A cool place to live.

Jason introduces me to his roommate whose name I forget. I'll call him Shasta. He's a tall thin guy, about 20. Now, he bends over a computer looking intently at a photo of what looks like himself.

“Admiring yourself?” I ask.

The guy turns to me with a face splitting smile. The kind people fall in love over.

“No,” he says. “It's my brother.”

I hear a faint twinge of an accent. Like he's from Africa, but an English speaking part. Later, Jason tells me that he's from The Gambia.

Yes! Now I'll have a chance to solve one of my life's great mysteries. Why is the Gambia THE Gambia? I know why The Bronx is The Bronx. It used to be plural. Broncks. Plural places use THE: like The Bahamas, The United States, The Philippines. But Gambia??? That's not a plural.

By the time I think to ask him about THE, Shasta is off to bed. Me too, Then it hits me. NO! NO! NO! I am in New Hampshire. I MUST go to GG Allin's grave. I cannot leave the state without a visit.

I quickly check the internet. It's 103 miles away--- in the wrong direction. From there, it's seven more hours to Canada. Fuck-it, I'm going anyway. I'll pay for a motel one night-—in Maine. I saw an ad for one in a free magazine. Around $60 a night. In a town with a brewpub. Orono, Maine.
Right now, it's off to get rid of the day's beer, and then hit the sack.

I dream about visiting GG's grave. There'll be one person-- a beautiful skinny punk girl. She wears a used white wedding dress-- just starting to fall apart. The white dress is in strong contrast to her jet-black hair. She'll have flowers in her hand, white roses, laying them on GG's grave. I'll walk up to her. She'll be startled.

“He.. hello,” she'll say shyly. “Are you here to visit GG?”

I'll nod.

“I'm Mykel Board,” I'll tell her, “I was a pal of GG's. I produced his two ROIR CDs. I played with him in New York. I wrote...”

“Mykel Board!” she'll say. “Of course I know you. You're famous. Let's pay our respects, then go back to my apartment and have wild anal intercourse.”

Jason wakes me at 8AM. He offers me some fruit, breakfast cereal, tea. But he DOESN'T HAVE COFFEE. Oh no. It could be deadly. When I wake up, I NEED COFFEE. I'm a caffe-betic. My body is incapable of producing the coffee enzyme on its own. If I don't get it from the outside, I will DIE! I don't mention this to my host, but I strain against the pain and have a banana.
Jason's got to go to work, and his roommate has early classes. Same university. They ask if I'd mind driving them.

“It's on the way to GG Allin,” says Jason.

Of course, I don't mind, though I'd rather someone else takes the wheel. I haven't had my coffee yet.

I hand Jason the keys. He'll drive. Bags packed, the three of us navigate the factory condo corridors to the car. As we walk, I talk to Shasta.

“I hear you're from The Gambia,” I tell him.

“That's right,” he says.

“Could I ask you kind of a weird question?” I ask.

He looks at me warily, as if I'm going to violate some kind of taboo. Ask him about strange tribal rituals. The length of his body parts.

“Why is The Gambia, THE Gambia? I mean I know why The Bronx is THE Bronx, but Gambia. I don't get it.”

He smiles.

“Well, it's hard to know exactly. There are rumors... stories,” he says. “But what I heard is that there are other African countries. Like Ghana, and Zambia. The English colonialists put THE in so people wouldn't be confused. Gambia, Zambia, it's almost the same. You know the British. They love the word THE.”

Is he pulling my leg?

After we hit the university and say our good-byes, it's off to Littleton: the birth and final resting place of GG Allin. Then, an afternoon of wild sex with a goth punk in a wedding dress. Then back on the road to the special Brewery in Orono and the discount motel. Finally, on to NEW BRUNSWICK, which, according to my guidebook, is home to a soap museum. Something I sure don't want to miss.

Up until today, I thought GG was born and buried in Hooksett, New Hampshire. When we pen-palled in the 1980s, all his mail came from there. Too bad. Hooksett is just north of Manchester. Littleton is a hundred miles away. And I need some coffee!

Ah, here's a place. A little country Inn. Rustic with a capital R. Nice, but it could be Mr. Donut... as long as they have COFFEE!

I'm the only person in the place. The waitress hands me a menu and turns to leave.

“Er...” I say. “Could you bring me some coffee? Right away? Please?”

I guess it's the look of severe need imprinted on my face. In a few minutes, she's back with the coffee. I inhale it. What would the world be like without coffee? On this trip, I've been doing coffee more than usual, plus a Monster Energy Drink every day. Someday, they'll combine the two and heaven will lose its appeal. Why die, when you can drink heaven right here on earth?

This little roadside place doesn't serve breakfast. Lunch starts at 11:30. I'm here for openers. I order a salad. To drink? Just water. And more coffee! On the table, I notice a beer list. Wow!
A little place in the middle of who-knows-where, with an every day beer list like this? Guinness, Sam Adams White Ale, Woodstock Station Red Rack Ale, Stella Artois, Old Thumper...

Woodstock Station Red Rack Ale? Old Thumper? Holy He-Brew, Batman. These folks got something here we don't get down south where I come from. Yowsah!

I don't sample the Old Thumper or any other brew. But it's nice to know that folks around here care! A roadside place in New York would have, Bud, Bud Light and maybe a Coors. I pay the bill and head back toward Littleton.

My Neverlost(tm) GPS doesn't have directions inside the town. I guess it's too small. I'll have to find GG myself.

I pull into the first gas station inside the town limits. I know GG's in the Saint Rose Cemetery. I ask the guys in the gas station office. The Indian guy doesn't know.

The other guy tells me, “There are two cemeteries in town. One just up the hill here. The other down the road about two miles. That's the big one. Down the road.”

I thank him and walk out. Then... I'm really pissed at myself. Why didn't I ask? Why didn't I just say, “Which one has GG Allin?” Wadda wimp! I should be ashamed. I am ashamed.

I head toward the big cemetery, still annoyed at myself for not having the balls to ask. What would they have done to me? Called the sheriff? Yo sheriff., There's another one of those creeps looking for GG Allin. I think you better throw him in the clink where he can get gang raped by unemployed lumberjacks.

I don't think so.

The cemetery is right where the non-Indian gas station guy said it would be. There's a large statue at the entrance. Something to do with some war.

Then, there's a small driveway. At the end of driveway is a shed with a few gardening trucks parked around it. I get out of the car. Is this the right place? There are no signs anywhere... Saint Rose or not. And there are no people. There's snow, a ton of gravestones, some recently planted American flags. But no people. No mourners. No punkette in a white dress.

I wander around, looking at random tombstones. No GG Allin. Wait! There are a couple people over there. They look like gardeners. I WILL ASK!

I trudge across the remains of dozens of locals until I reach the guys. One is about my age, blond and husky. The other is in his twenties, lanky, kinda handsome. As I get closer, I realize they're not gardening. They're digging a grave. I've never talked to gravediggers before. They're a little scary. But I will NOT wimp out.

“Excuse me,” I ask.

They stop their digging and stand up, looking at me. Not sardonic, exactly, but not Laurel and Hardy either.

“Is this the Saint Rose cemetery?” I ask.

“Nope,” says the older one.

“Do you know where it is?” I ask.

“Yep,” says the younger one.

That's all he says.

“Umm...” I say.

“We were just jokin' with ya,” says the older guy, suddenly breaking into a smile. “It's right over there, next to this one.”

“Do you know where GG Allin is?” I ask.

“Oh sure,” says the young guy. He gives me directions to the tombstone, making a little map in the snow. It's weird he knows, I think.

“I guess people come here and ask you all the time,” I say.

“Yep,” he says.

“Has a punk rock girl in a white dress...” I don't ask.

GG's grave is a couple rows in from the street. It's a good size stone, easy to find. Who could miss ROCK'N'ROLL TERRORIST among the YOU'RE IN A BETTER PLACE NOWs? Next to the tombstone is a huge EMPTY bottle. The label is mostly gone. I'm guessing Jim Beam, GG's favorite. There's also a full airline-size bottle of JB, and an empty can of MONSTER! Hubba hubba!

There is, however, no goth girl in a white dress. There's no nobody.

I take out my camera, put it on the headstone across from GG, set the auto-timer and run around for the picture of me and GG. Then I notice that the tombstone is double duty. I've never seen anything like it before. It must be a discount brand. Half as expensive for half as much tombstone. Usually one side is blank anyway, right? Why not make a few bucks and sell the back to someone else?

On the front of the headstone is: GG ALLIN Live Fast Die! On the back is a picture of a praying Jesus and the name GUNTHER with the inscription Till We Meet and Never Part.

Poor Gunther. Little did he know who he was gonna never part with. Meet? I doubt it. Unless Gunther was a nasty guy, GG and he are in very different places.

I spend about half an hour with GG and Gunther, then head back northeast. Somewhere between Littleton and Orono, I stop for gas. There, in the window of the gas station office is an advertisement.

JAVA MONSTER ENERGY DRINK. NEW COFFEE FLAVORS: Loca Moca, Mean Bean, Russian, Irish Blend, Nut Up, Chai Hai, Lo Ball

Wowee!! GG was listening to me. Reaching up from hell, he manipulated the minds at Monster and they followed my bidding. Coffee Monster!

Thanks, GG. But why couldn't you have done it with the girl in the wedding dress?

Next stop: University Inn. My only motel of the trip.

They want to let me know they participate in this new environmental program. A co-op of mid-priced hotels is the sponsor.

It's promoted with laminated brochures with pictures of pandas and parrots. And the great way the motel is saving the world? They don't wash their linens.

That's right. In order to save the world's resources of soap and water, they use less of it. Of course, you can decline to participate. It's right there on the brochure. But if you don't participate, you're personally responsible for the destruction of the Amazon rainforest. You're personally wasting hundreds of gallons of water and fouling thousands of acres of wetland with the soap used to wash YOUR bedclothes. Yeah, right.

Look Mr. Hotel, if you want to save money on water and soap. That's okay. It's a business. If you want me to help, pay me for it. Give me a discount. But PUL-EASE, don't ask me to sleep in my own filth and then YOU go take credit for a hotel program to save the environment. Maybe the environment around your bank account.

The girls at the front desk are helpful, but lack some kind of spark. They don't joke around. They don't offer to change my sheets. I donno. I guess at a hotel you see everything, so nothing is funny anymore. All those spy cams behind the mirrors in the rooms. Not much left to joke about, is there?

“You a beer drinker?” I ask the chubbier of the two young deskgirls. “I'm looking for a famous brewpub around here. They make their own beer, and I wanna try it.”

“Oh,” she replies. “You're talking about the Bearmarket Pub. You can walk there from here. It's just over the bridge.”

“What's good there?” I ask.

“Oh, I don't like dark beer. But they make a great Peach Ale.”

“Thanks,” I say and head out the door, across the bridge to the pub.

It's cold, so a nice thick stout (pleonasm?) will do perfectly. Maybe I'll be adventurous and try the peach ale.

The place could be any country bar in any country college town. Lots of 20-somethings... kids saying hi to their friends, ignoring strangers. Especially strange guys who look like Inspector Gadget sitting by themselves at a table for four, writing on tiny cards. There are more beards and wool caps than you'd see in New York. In New York, they'd make you take off your hat.

As I enter, I hear the attractive waitress speaking with some guys at a table.

“We're out of stout,” she says.

The waitress brings me the menu.

The beer list is impressive: Chocolate Stout, Tuff End Porter, Crow Valley Pale Ale, Bearbrew Blueberry Weiss, Sacred Peach Ale, Pumpkin Stout, India Pale Ale...

“I overheard that you were out of stout,” I tell her. “So I'll take your Tuff End.” (I love saying “I'll take your Tuff End” to an attractive waitress.)

“Sorry,” she says. “We're out. We're out of all our Bearbrew Beers... except the IPA.”

One drink later, I'm back at the hotel. I climb into one of the two twin beds... with my boots on. Then I take a shower and use every towel in the bathroom to dry myself. Next, I take care of my ... er... personal night-time needs, cleaning up with the same sheet I wiped my boots on.

Then, since I'm only staying for one night, I hang the I will participate in the Hotel Conservation Program. Do not change linen. sign on my door, and go to bed. In the other bed. I sleep through the night... best sleep so far this trip.

In the morning, I use my thumb to pick the night's refuse from my nose, rubbing the bloody boogers on the sheet.

Eco this, baby!


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

-->My kinda protest dept: Utne Reader reports that American Indian students at the University of Northern Colorado are protesting a local high school's Indian mascot. Instead of stupidly asking that the name be banned, they've answered in kind.
The Indians call their own intramural basketball team THE FIGHTING WHITIES. The team's jerseys have the name of the team and the phrase, Everythangs gonna be all white.

-->Not Exactly Living, but Better dept: New Orleans voters approved a 'living-wage' referendum that raises the minimum wage for “private-sector workers” to $6.15 an hour. That's a buck more than the federal minimum wage. It's about time that corporations had someone to answer to besides the fuckin' marketplace! Eco that, motherfuckers.

-->Pay Because You Want To Dept: Radiohead made news when it allowed fans to pay whatever they wanted to download the band's album. Now, several restaurants are doing the same thing--letting their patrons decide how much their meal is worth.
At Terra Bite Lounge in Kirkland, WA, most diners slip cash into a donation slot by the bar. A few walk away without bothering to pay.
"If I forget to bring enough money, I can just give more next time," says a patron.
At Salt Lake City's One World Everybody Eats, you can deposit cash into a "treasure box" or use the customer-operated credit card machine. The 50-seat restaurant, decorated with Buddha statues, serves organic dishes from a buffet. There's also an edible herb and flower garden with outdoor seating.
"All we ask is that you put a fair price on the food you eat, based on your income," says founder Denise Cerreta.
At the Lentil as Anything chain in Melbourne, Australia, you drop money into a box by the kitchen. The first restaurant opened in 2000, and now owner Shanaka Fernando is working on his sixth location. The cuisine is a mix of Sri Lankan and Tibetan, but eggs and veggie burgers are also on the menu.
"When it comes down to it, we just want to promote the very underutilized concept of trust," says Shanaka.

-->The other side of the grave dept: I got a message from GG lover and guitar play, Justion Melkmann. He visited GG's grave as well as GG's mother. He was making a comic book about his obsession with the scum meister. It hit him after seeing what I posted in my blog.
Gunther, he says, is GG's mom's maiden name. So the tombstone must be a place-holder for her to be buried by her son.
Too touching for my taste. I've got the better story. Justin has THE TRUTH. Which do you want?

Mykel Board's Column for MRR #301 (June)

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column #301
by Mykel Board

"No solutions are proposed. On the other hand, would it be reasonable to berate someone who tells you there's a fire in the building because they don't lead you to the exits?" --Howard Andrew

“I see your point. But I still think you're full of shit.” --The Improper Newspaper

“Stop! Stop! It's killing me! It hurts.”

“You can take a little more. Just a little,” I say.

“No! You're killing me! I'm going to explode!”

“Just a bit... damn. The bag is empty! Fuck,”

I remove the tube from her tight brown hole.

“Hold it!” I say.

But holding is not to be done. An explosion. Brown and thick as Guinness. A massive squirt. Chunky. Filled with turds the size of golfballs. Of peas. Of baseballs. Brown snakes. Garter snakes. Pythons. Little brown worms with touches of gray fluff on the sides, wiggling in the soup, like something alive. Soft and mushy, over everything. Covering the back of her legs. A smell. Her smell. The fecal fragrance only hinted in a fart. Expressed full volume in this offal avalanche.

The brownness drips over my naked body. Paints my thighs. Out it pours. Splashing on my belly, my chest, into my mouth, up my nose. Furiously, I pump myself.

“Spray!” I gasp. “Spray some more.”

“I can't,” she says. “It's all gone. I'm empty. That's all there is.”

Damn! I knew it. Enema bags are for wimps. Wussies who say, “Of course I could have taken more. It's just the bag was empty. The water ran out.”

Yeah right.

If you had any balls, you'd go to the source. Plug that hose right into the faucet. One end in the pipe. One end embedded deep in that crinkled chocolate crater. Turn on the tap. Let 'er rip. Don't turn it off until YOU can't take any more. Until YOU give up. Feel the pain. From the pain to the pleasure back to the pain again. To the bursting point. Just before your guts split open to spew onto the bathroom floor. YOU decide. Don't blame an empty enema bag. Blame yourself. YOU can't take it. Not “the bag is empty.”

My attitude toward enemas is American. In America, I am in control... or should be. I make your own decisions, or should make them. I am captain of my own shit. Sink or swim in it. I'm an individual... the basis of power. More important than the group. THEY do not control me. I control me.

My attitude toward the rest of life is NOT American. In fact, it's that very illusion of each of us as individuals, controlling our own destiny that I want to rail against in this column.

It's 10:30 A.M. My first class is finished. I have 15 minutes to take a piss and get ready for the next class. In the bathroom, a new sign decorates the wall. A picture of a faucet. A single drip hangs off the end. Like that last drop that hangs off another end and goes down your pants after you zip up.

The sign says, “TURN OFF THE FAUCET. SAVE WATER. A DRIPPING FAUCET CAN COST OVER A HUNDRED GALLONS A DAY.”

Gee, a hundred gallons.

A single cornfield uses 40 MILLION gallons a year to produce its crop. That's more than 200,000 gallons a day during the 6 months from planting to harvest. Oh, but your 100 gallons a day. That'll do a lot!

200,000 gallons a day to turn food into fuel so obese mid-westerners can drive to the mall. 200,000 gallons a day, so electric-powered machines can change genetically-engineered corn to gas delivered by oil burning diesel trucks. 200,000 gallons a day to grow crops never eaten by hungry people, but stuffed into the hungry cars of the rich.

What can you do?

Buy Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream. Don't eat meat. Bike instead of using a car. Recycle your newspapers. Wash out that condom and use it again. Every little bit helps.

NO IT DOESN'T!

The world isn't going to change if you shut off the faucet, recycle your Sunday New York Times, bike to work, or stand on the street corner holding an anti-war sign printed by union labor on recycled paper. Your effort is like a grape-sized turd in an avalanche of enema-induced crap. It don't mean shit.

New York's billionaire mayor, Mike Bloomberg, tells us he unplugs his Blackberry charger every morning. It uses electricity even when it's plugged in, he says. Save a kilowatt here... a kilowatt there. It adds up.

NO IT DOESN'T!

Bloomberg Radio, broadcasting across America uses more electricity in 30 seconds than a plugged-in Blackberry charger uses in 30 years. Your Blackberry charger doesn't mean shit.

Can one person make a difference? Sure. Ask Lee Harvey Oswald, Mark David Chapman, John Hinkley or John Wilkes Booth.

I'm not advocating such action. See Mr. CIA-Man, FBI man? Homeland-security? I'm NOT advocating. I'm just pointing out. Okay? I'd never advocate such actions. Oh no, not me. It's illegal to do that. Terrorism. I don't do illegal or terrorist. I'm just a nice guy who enjoys a brown shower every once-in-awhile. Okay?

Who knows? Maybe brown showers are illegal. The governor of New York quit because of simple sex. Not even a brown shower. He just paid a shitload of cash to a pretty girl. If it were free... no problem. But to pay for it. Well, you gotta quit for that.

Of course, I enjoyed seeing him squirm. This was the same guy who fought for anti-John legislation. For tougher penalties for people who pay for prostitutes. Serves him right. BUT, morally, it's wrong. He got screwed for screwing. A victimless crime... except that the law makes victims.

Okay, back to the topic. One person making a difference:

It's the if everybody thinking that gets to me. If everybody turned off their faucet. If everybody stopped eating meat. If everybody was nice to colored people. Jeezus fuckin' Christ.

Everybody is not a nice person. Everybody does not read this column. This zine. This blog. Everybody does not subscribe to THE NATION or MRR. Everybody does not exist. People are individuals. They have no power.

Governments and corporations are NOT individuals. THEY do NOT act independently. THEY act for their own benefit. THEY have the power.

YOU are not responsible for the state of the world, the country, the environment. THEY are. You have no say in the matter. You have no power. Or rather, you do have power, but to use it is illegal and will have huge consequences. It'd probably cost you your life. At least, it'd cost you your freedom.

So don't try to assuage your conscience by donating that coat to Warm The Homeless Inc. Don't think your vote or your knocking on doors or your standing on the street with a clipboard will do anything more than annoy people. Your not flushing after every piss will do nothing more than stink up your bathroom.

So Mykel, what do we do? It is WE who are reading your column. It's not corporations that hang on every pubic hair caught in the effluvia of Mykel Board. It is individuals. World governments do not subscribe to MRR. It's people. We're the ones who have to act. We are all we have.

Answer: The first step in Individuals Anonymous is to admit that you're helpless. You can't do a thing. You have NO power. If you had it, you'd switch sides. After that, I DON'T KNOW.

The rain of shit that pours from the anus of the corporatocracy is browner, with greater chunks than anything you can clean up. And they don't stop when the bag runs dry.

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

-->Hubba hubba dept: You know how sometimes you see a girl who's so overwhelmingly captivating that you feel like running out and buying a dildo so she can fuck you on the spot?
Kissy Kamikaze is a band of such girls. They are so sexy. And so powerfully punkrock that you can't help but want 'em up your ass. Go see 'em next time they're in town. Take one up the tube for me.

-->Bully for you dept: Kyle N sent me a scary article from USA Today. It reports that schools are pushing for internet BULLY laws. That is, law punishing people who "harass" others over the internet. Right now, those laws are aimed at kids... but they involve the cops. Who knows where it could lead?
Seems inevitable, though. I mean, China has all those censorship laws. Yahoo! and Google help them by sending copies of citizen search records. Watch what you put in that search window... it may come back to haunt you!

-->Toying with reality dept: Also from Kyle is a report of a new Japanese toy: Gloomy Bear. The cute little bear has massive claws. In its cartoon ads, you can see it attack and bloody little kids. Claw them to pieces. A dose of reality for the tots who think life is gonna be a bowl of Tickle Me Elmos.

-->The real power of gas (companies) dept: You might know the Prius car. It's a "hybrid" that runs on electricity and gas. You can push a button and switch it to "electric only"... if you live in Japan or Europe. That button is not included on models made for the North American market. I wonder why. Yeah right I do.

-->What's this thing about feet? dept: The February 2008 issue of CHURCH AND STATE magazine talks about two incidents that go weirdly together.
The first is in South Carolina. There, the First Baptist Church of North Augusta provides shoes for the local children. Not so bad, right? Well, before giving the children shoes (on public school property), church members "wash the children's feet like Jesus did his disciples."
Says the Rev. Mark Owens, "We just feel like God's called us to reach as many children as we can with the Gospel of Christ and a pair of shoes."
I bet there's a line of priests from here to next week volunteering for that job.
But wait! There's more:
Officials at the University of Michigan at Dearborn plan to install special foot-washing stations for Muslim students. University officials said they started the program because some Muslim students say their religious beliefs "require them to wash their feet numerous times during the day." The university says it was moved to create the stations because of student injuries when trying to wash their feet in normal restroom sinks.

-->What color is green? dept: In their rush to green up their living rooms, Americans are running out and buying expensive curlicue fluorescent lightbulbs. These wonderful inventions give half the light for 10 times the money of a normal lightbulb. Yeah! And now, the greater catch.
Those florescent bulbs have mercury in them! Yep, like nuclear energy, they're real ecological... until they're used up. Then the mercury goes into a landfill where it leaches into the soil and enters your food-- or maybe the corn in your engine.

-->Another kind of prisoner dept: This girl's fiancè is in the clink. Someone with a psychiatrist license forced her into a “rehab” center. He didn't like her social behavior. They can do that, you know? THEY have power.
Anyway she's lonely, and mixed up and needs help. So if you can write to her, it would be much appreciated: Angela Myers, PO Box 1358, Spokane WA 99210. Tell 'em Kyle sent ya. Yeah, THAT Kyle.

-End-

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