Mykel Board & the Mexican Punks MRR 328

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column

FOR MAXIMUM ROCK'N'ROLL NO. 328 Sept. 2010
by Mykel Board

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

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

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

I moan. 

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

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

I moan again.

“Talk to me,” she says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 FLASHBACK further: Last week we left me and 8 Mexicans in a rental van to Boston, on our way to Lucho's farewell party. I'm suffering from sudden severe leg pain. Nearly a cripple... but the thrill of the journey trumps a pain in the leg any day. Besides, I'm with Mexicans! And they're punkrockers!
 

Our “7-person” van has most of Verbal Desecration and others. Who exactly?

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

OOOOwaaargh!

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

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

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

“Is she....” I start.

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

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

OOOOwaaargh!

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

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

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

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

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

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

We're at Burger King. It's a place I rarely eat at, but considering our budget, the time, and the abundance of plastic bags, it's the best choice. 

 

Fast Forward: Lucho's party is great. He'll miss us when he gets to Peru.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She tells me her name is Spot. 

That's not exactly true. 

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

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

It must work, because Indica is very quiet.

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

Unfortunately, I can't remember my answer. I'm sure it wasn't nearly clever enough, but I was drunker than a fratboy.

 

Next day: It's 11 AM. I need to get back to NY. They can sleep all day, but I need to return the rental van before I get charged another day. 

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

I kneel. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who do you know here?” she asks.

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

“I don't know any Herman,” she says.

“I mean Gilberto,” I say.

“Oh him.” 

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

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

How do you say duh! in bitchese?

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

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

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

“I'd really be stuck,” I tell her. 

“You sure would,” she says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 =end=

Mykel's personal website is here.

Mykel's MRR Column for #327 (August 2010) Mexicans...

[NOTE: There may be a little Spanish in this column. I will not translate it. Americans who can't speak Spanish should be deported to where they originally came from.]

    An American, a German, and a Mexican are in a sinking boat. Each of them has to throw things out to make the boat lighter.
    The German throws out 4 cases of beer and says, "We have a lot of bear in Germany so we don't need these!"
    The Mexican throws out 5 cases of burritos and says, "We have a lot of burritos in Mexico so we don't need these!"
    The American grabs the Mexican and throws him out.
    “Why'd you do that?” asks the German.
    The American replies, "We have a lot of Mexicans in America so we don't need him!."
              --Internet Joke

Of course, the Mexican should've grabbed the gringo, tossed him over, and said, Nosotros estábamos en America antes que tú. Chinga tu madre!

The Aztecs, the first Mexicans, were more advanced contemporaries of the American Indian. The first Spanish speakers came to North America in 1492. Annoying gringos didn't arrive until almost 200 years later.

Now, Arizonans want to keep out illegal Mexicans-- and make the legal ones wear a yellow chili pepper for identification. Why?  Because Chicanos would rather eat and drink, than work and go to war. Because their heroes are professional wrestlers rather than soldier-murderers. Because they idolize rebels more than Christian hate-mongers.

      

White Americans fear Mexicans because they might steal their car radios. Me? I fear white Americans because they might throw me in jail for drinking on the street. Given a choice, I'd say. Take my radio... please!

     

Those last two paragraphs are part of what I wrote for a documentary on La Merma, one of the earliest and longest running punkbands in Mexico. I never saw them play, but because of my love of things Mexican, Gilberto asked me to write the intro. The movie will be called 15 AÑOS DE CAMINO.

      

In 1984, I produced WORLD CLASS PUNK for ROIR. 27 bands, 25 countries.  

     

I never met most of the bands on that CD. They sent me tapes. I fiddled with them in the studio. ROIR pressed and distributed the thing. Once every five years or so, I send out 35¢ in royalties.

      

The band from Mexico was SOLUTION MORTAL. Until this week, I'd never met them. Ah this week, therein lies the tale. 

     

But before we get to the nachos, I need to put out the salsa.

      

Flashback: It's 2004. I write about Lucho, a Peruvian-American who may be America's greatest promoter of Latin American punkrock. He's certainly the most loved.

     

A test:

     Some attractive brownskin says, “Oh yeah, we're from Bolivia and we played in Chicago in 2001.”

     You answer, “Oh, do you know Lucho?”

     If they answer Who?, they're lying.

     

Back to Now: Lucho's been in the US for 15 years or so. And, he's had enough. He and Letycia, his beautiful Mexican-American girlfriend, are tired of the grind: Up at 7 to get to work. Home at 7. Same thing tomorrow.

      

Or maybe they just see the writing on the wall. The Arizona ethnic-cleansing law is a whole statefull of wall writing.

     

They're getting while the getting's good. I would too.

      

ASIDE: Ah those Hispanics, if they hate America, why do they come here in droves?

     

 Why indeed? I ask.

     

 Americans work 48 hours a week. By the time the next paycheck rolls around, they have no money. Hispanics relax.

     

 Hispanics smoke weed, drink on the street, listen to loud music and show up when they feel like it. For Americans, ten minutes is late (except for Negroes, punks and girls, who are barely Americans anyway).

     

 Hispanics, Mexicans in particular, create the best soap operas on television. Catfights. Incest. Screaming brawls. Sex up the wazoo. America has CSI-Miami and American Idol.

     

 Latin America gave the world the poncho and the taco. White America gave the world McDonald's and the atom bomb.

     

 Life in America is banal, boring, drab, drudging, dry, dull exhausting, fatiguing, insipid, irksome, lifeless, soporific, tiresome, unexciting, uninteresting, vapid.

     

 Why would anyone want such a bucket of shit? I donno. I only stay because I have a cheap apartment in New York. END OF ASIDE

     

Lucho's farewell party is in Boston... or some nearby suburb. It's going to be a mad carousal, with punk rock bands, lots of beer, and Lucho-worshipers from around the world. I wouldn't miss it for a 3-some with Dominicans... well...

      

On the same day as Lucho's party, Verbal Desecration, a Mexican band with the drummer of the original SOLUTION MORTAL, is playing at ABC NO RIO. I can't fuckin' miss that show either.    
     

 Gilberto told me they're coming from Boston by bus. They need to return to Boston to play Lucho's party.

     

So what's a 70 year old punk-rocker to do?

      

The answer? Rent a van, meet the band at ABC NO RIO, drive 'em up to Boston so they can play Lucho's party and I can be there.

     

 Here's the plan: They arrive late Thursday via Chinatown bus. Play in Brooklyn Friday night. Then play ABC NO RIO on Saturday. We'll meet/set up at 2, be off stage at 3:30, then jump in the van, drive to Boston and arrive by 8. Everything timed perfectly.

     

 Yeah, right. THESE ARE MEXICANS! Not only that, they're PUNKS. Timed perfectly my white ass!

     

Thursday: tonight is Drink Club. We meet at Paddy Reilly's, an Irish bar smack dab in the middle of an Indian neighborhood. I hear they have eight beers on tap-- all Guinness. Outside the bar, the street smells like curry. Ah, it'll be a good tonight.

      

Steve, the couch-surfing pal who put me up in Trinidad will be there. He's in town for a few days. He'll take my couch tonight and fill me in on the doings in that blissful island country.

     

The problem? Gilberto is coming in with the band tonight. Normally, they'd stay on my couch, the floor, anywhere. Six Mexicans in a one-room apartment is not a problem.

      

But Steve is originally an American... a New Yorker. I'm not sure he'd be up for sharing a couch with all those Chicanos.

     

Besides, they don't get in till after midnight. We may be home and asleep by then.

      

At 9:14, while I walk from the subway to the bar, my cellphone vibrates. It's a text message from Gilberto.

     

Hey Mykel, U no cheap hostel for us?

      

A cheap hostel??? This is New fuckin' York! There are no cheap hostels here.

     

Ah the guilt. In Mexico, I stayed weeks for free with Mexican punks... and their parents! The fed me, beered me, took me to sex shows... and I'm gonna make these guys stay in a cheap hostel? And there are NO cheap hostels in New fuckin' York.

      

Just as I reach the bar door, the phone vibrates again. It's another text message. This one says:

     

Mykel, I won't be meeting you tonight. A pal of mine tried to kill himself. I gotta take care of him. See you later. --Steve

      

Near death. What luck for the Mexicans!

     

I text Gilberto: 4get da hostl. My place 2nite.

      

At about midnight, after Drink Club, I come back home... sloshed, of course.

     

I fall on the couch in a hazy half-sleep.

      

GZZZZZZZ, GZZZZZ. GZZZZZ.

     

What? The alarm already? I feel like I just fell asleep.

      

Through the fog I realize I did just fall asleep. My alarm goes MEEEP MEEEP MEEEP not GZZZZZZZ, GZZZZZ. GZZZZZ. That must be the doorbell.

     

Somehow avoiding puking between the couch and the doorbell, I walk over and press the talk button.

      

Ola Mykel, comes Gilberto's voice, we're here.

     

I push the DOOR OPEN button, wait until I hear them click in. Then, I run for the bathroom and kneel next to that porcelain receptacle. The smell of fecal ferment disgorges a bellyful of Guinness. Heave! Heave! Heave!

      

BONG BONG!

     

It's the doorbell. With a towel, I wipe a few strands of beer-ralf from my beard and answer the door.

      

Gilberto gives me a big bearhug. Then steps into my apartment, sniffing, but not commenting on the parmigiana-scented air.

     

He introduces my new guests.

      

First there's Alex, a bearded guy (bass player) who I assume has a painful earache. His hand permanently presses the side of his head. Later, I find out it's not an earache, but a heartache. In his ear-pressed hand is a cellphone. On the other end is his girlfriend. I hope he doesn't want to use the bathroom to jerk off. I forgot to flush the toilet.

     

Next comes Alan, the grizzled drummer with an easy smile and a hearty, friendly, hug. Almost my age, he wears a cap-- kind of like a ship captain's hat. I figure he must be going bald. Why else would a punk rocker wear a hat indoors?

      

“Ola viejo!” I say. “Como yo.”

     

Next comes the 40 ounce bottle of Reingold. Alan hands it to me. I barely take a sip before passing it to... a teenage goddess.

      

Seventeen, skinny, a splotch of green through her black hair. Faride's sexier than a chipped front tooth, funnier than a priest caught alter-boy stuffing, and cooler than the Aquavit in my freezer... and she's the girlfriend of the drummer!!!

     

That guy is nearly my age and he has the coolest seventeen-year-old girlfriend this side of the Rio Grande. Why can't I???

      

I'll tell you why. No soy Mexicano! That's why. ¡Ay, caramba!

     

 “Hay otros?” I ask

     

“Everybody else rented a hotel room,” says Gilberto. “We're staying at Hotel Board.”

      

“Los otros tienen dinero!” I say.

     

“Si,” says Gilberto... “And Mykel, speak English. Otherwise these guys won't be able to understand you.”

      

Wise guy.

     

After emptying the 40 ouncer, Alan and Faride crowd together on the couch. Alan takes off his hat. He is NOT going bald. I don't get it.

      

Gilberto pulls out a drawer-like mattress from under the couch and lies on that. Where's Alex?

     

I hear the flushing toilet. Fuck! Well, he's a punk rocker. He should be familiar with the smell of puke. It's punk rock.

      

Yeah, these exact thoughts will come back later to haunt me. You'll hear about that later.

     

I check the clock. It's 3AM.

      

“Sorry buckaroos,” I say. “I gotta work tomor... er... today. So I'm going to bed. Buenas noches. See you at 2PM Saturday afternoon at ABC NO RIO.”

     

“Muchas gracias,” comes the chorus from beneath me. “Duerma bien.”

      

I climb onto the loft and fall asleep with a hard-on... fantasies of a seventeen year old.

                *****

      

FRIDAY: The pain hits at 8:30 on Friday night. It's sudden, blinding. As if some S&M girl suddenly jammed her stiletto heel into the front of my left ankle.

     

No warning. I didn't even move it. I'm just sitting at the computer, jerking off to xhamster.com and then... a sudden strike. Kerpow! Stars! Like in cartoons!

      

I scream.

     

No one bangs on the wall. My neighbors are used to weird sounds coming from my apartment.

      

I look at my naked ankle? No swelling. No blanching. Looks like an everyday ankle. The pain subsides.

     

KEBLOOEY! Again... harder. I grab the ankle. Massage. It doesn't help.

      

What is it?

     

A strain? Naw, it wudda hurt before, when I injured it. I didn't injure it.

      

Diabetes? My father is diabetic and always has painful legs. My high blood pressure? It's been up there lately... OWWW! This is killing me! I can't drive to Boston tomorrow. I need to go to the hospital... NOW!

     

The pain disappears. Whew. It's passed, whatever it was. Gilberto and the band are counting on me. AAAAAHHHRRRGGG. It's back... with a vengeance.

      

It hits in a negative of before. From my ankle to my shin. From the middle of my foot to my toes. The only place NOT hurting is where it hurt 5 minutes ago. I'm gonna die. Tears come to my eyes. Snot drips from my nose.

     

I don't go to doctors. Doctors spend their time and my money putzing around, not finding things or finding things that they can't do anything about. I'd rather suffer.... AAAAAAH. KILL ME NOW! I can't take it.

      

An overnight hospital stay would put a crimp in the Boston plans. An amputation would really make us late. I don't think I could have a stump fitting by 2PM tomorrow. OK, I'll just suff... AAAAARGH! Fuck!

     

I don't sleep much. The pain wakes me at 6AM. I return to xhamster.com, type MEXICAN TEENS in the search window, jerk off, and get a few more hours of sleep.

      

I make it to work, but the pain continues all day. In waves. Ten seconds of pain. Ten seconds of nothing. Ten seconds of pain... in a different place. It's hell.

     

I work until 9, then go home, and load up on Advil.

      

Tomorrow is ABC No Rio.

     

“We'll be there at 2 o'clock,” Gilberto told me.

      

Yeah right.

     

SATURDAY: Figuring punkrock time plus Mexican time, I arrive at ABC NO RIO at 3. It's still way too early... and I still hurt... bad. 

      

About 4:30, Gilberto arrives with the band.

     

He's smiling... and shaking his head.

      

“Hey Mykel,” he says. “Sorry we're late. Last night there was a brawl. You know. Pow!”

     

He lightly hits the side of his face with his fist.

      

“Fist to face,” he continues. “Girls going at it, like a soap opera.”

     

He describes the mini-riot.

      

Then he asks me about equipment for the band. Since they're touring by Chinatown bus and Boardmobile, they have none of their own. They need to borrow some from another band. 

     

I refer them to Huasipungoist and ABC door-king Esneider.

      

“Debe preguntar a Esneider. Él lo sabe todo,” I tell them.

     

“Yo no se nada,” says Esneider.

      

“Hasta luego,” I tell them, as I leave for Hertz with Gilberto.

     

By the time we get back, they've found equipment and are  just setting up the stage.  It's almost 6 o'clock. We were gonna leave at 3:30.

      

It's a terrific show, though. Alan's son, Alan Jr, sings. He looks like any hardcore kid from the 80s. But this is the 10s. Plus, he's a great active performer. Throwing himself around stage, into the crowd. It's been awhile since I've seen so much energy from a 19 year-old NOT on xhamster.com. Oh yeah!

     

I know most of the ABC NO RIO regulars... especially anyone as geriatric as me. But there's a woman here. In her 40s, she wears red... pants and beret. She's Latina shaped and sits on the merch table with her legs curled under her. She seems to know the Mexicans.

      
“Who's that?” I ask Gilberto.

     
“That's (I forget her name, but I'll call her) Carmelita,” he says. “Alan's mother. She'll be traveling with us.”

      
As it turns out, the 7-person van will traveling with:

1. Alan, the drummer, 50-something.

2. Faride, 17, the guitar player and Alan's girlfriend

3. Alan Jr., 19, Alan and Carmelita's son

4. Alex, 20-something, the bass player

5. Jessica, around 20, Alan Jr.'s girlfriend-- maybe pregnant, in any case puking the whole trip

6. Carmelita, 40-something, Alan's former wife and Alan Jr.'s mother

7. Argel, around 30, and a mutual friend of Gilberto and me. A nice quiet guy-- the only one

8. Gilberto, 30-something, I think, the tour organizer.

9. Me

      
Hmmm, singer, singer's mother and father (no longer together), singer's father's new teenage girlfriend, singer's maybe pregnant girlfriend, heartsick bass player, and a few bit players.

     
 Does this sound like the makings of a tour diary? A Mexican soap opera? Ho ho! You have no idea... but you won't find out either... At least not until next month. 

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

-->Thanks Norb dept: I want to thank the Rev. Norb for writing (in Razor Cake) about how the only reason punks wear hats indoors is that they're going bald. It's one of those things everyone knows, but no one says.

-->Next-door to Arizona, they believe in equality dept: The first legal male sex worker in Nevada says he want to be called a gigolo, not a prostitute.
     He told the press, "this is the first time in the economy of the United States that a male has stood up and said, I want to do this for a living, and be protected under law to do it. It's just the same as when Rosa Parks decide to sit at the front instead of at the back of the bus."

-->The Menifee California school district has banned the Miriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary because it contains definitions for "oral sex."

-->The Center for Responsive Politics reports that 44 percent of members of Congress are millionaires. Of those, seven top $100 million.

-->They should play in Arizona dept: Don Lewis is the commissioner of an all-white basketball league called THE ALL-AMERICAN BASKETBALL ALLIANCE. Why all white?
    
Says Lewis, "Would you want to go to the game and worry about a player flipping you off or attacking you in the stands or grabbing their crotch?"

-->Who's the bad guy? department: On one hand, Apple, notorious for cutting off Google from its iPhone... also cut off hundreds of other apps. Many of them were sex related and were cut ONLY because they were sex related. That gets Apple a big BOO!!
      On the other hand, Apple said that developers cannot use geo-location to target advertisements to users. That gets them a big YEAH!
     Then there's Google. They take anything. Got an app? Google says: GO AHEAD! Yeah!
      Not so fast. Right now, Google is working with advertisers to help them use its Android system to target people based on their location. Spam by GPS. BOO!!
    The moral? With megacorps there are no YEAHS. Only more or less boo for your buck.

-->Coming next to an Arizona near you dept: The Republican candidate for the Third District Congressional Primary in Iowa wants to do something about illegal aliens. He wants to implant microchip tracking devices under their skin. Then, we can all keep tabs on them with our Google Android phones!
    The Iowa Independent has the details:

     Candidate Pat Bertroche made it clear that he wasn't joking when he suggested treating undocumented immigrants like pets.
     "I think we should catch 'em, we should document 'em, make sure we know where they are and where they are going," he said. "I actually support microchipping them. I can microchip my dog so I can find it. Why can't I microchip an illegal?”

-->Makes you wonder about YAHOO dept: In its reports on the Times Square smoking-car incident, Yahoo wrote:

     Officials said the device found Saturday was crudely constructed, but Islamic militants have used propane and compressed gas for years to enhance the force of explosives. Those instances include the 1983 suicide attack on the U.S. Marines barracks at the Beirut Airport that killed 241 U.S. service members, and the 2007 attack on the international airport in Glasgow, Scotland.

     Funny they didn't mention the fertilizer in the car, or that Christian terrorist Timothy McVey used it in America's second largest terrorist attack.

-->What a surprise dept: Life Extension Magazine reports that medical journals with the MOST pharmaceutical ads published significantly FEWER major articles about dietary supplements than journals not supported mainly by the drug industry.
     Those drug-pushing journals were also twice as likely to conclude that "dietary supplements are ineffective."

-->The right way and the wrong way dept: Frankly, I don't give a shit about your underpants. But if New York State Senate President, Malcolm Smith wants to buy stop-the-sag billboards, it's his dime. The senator has, in fact, paid for posters and billboards to ask colored people to pull up their pants.
       “It's a matter of pride,” he says.
        I say-- depends on what you're proud of.
        On the other hand, Trenton NJ, Atlanta GA, and several cities in Louisiana have legally banned the style, fining people whose trousers drop too low. That is the wrong way. Whose pants are they anyway?
     It's as wrong as the French banning head scarves. Laws dictating fashion? Jeezus, where will it end? Laws banning ethnicities? Oh, I forgot. Arizona.

-end-

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