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

You're Wrong
An Irregular Column

Column for MRR 337

May 2011
by Mykel Board

aka  Mykel Knows It From A Hole In The Ground!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

Yow! Here I am!

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

I laugh.

 

Ingrid doesn't.

 

“Sure,” she says.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

I reach between my legs to make myself more comfortable.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Wow!” I say.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

She smiles.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Whoops. I forgot about that.

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

-end-

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

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

 

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

You're Wrong 
An Irregular Column

Column for MRR 336

May 2011

by Mykel Board

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

 

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

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

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

I nod like it happens all the time.

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

 Uh oh. I think I know what's coming.

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

I feel like puking shit myself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next up is Cojoba.

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

And then it's us, Sin Arte.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop it! Stop the song!”

 

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

 

“STOP IT! STOP THE SONG!”

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

He must say that a lot.

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

Donn has it even better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bottom line:

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

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

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

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

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

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

-end-

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

YOU AREN'T SUPPOSED TO KNOW (MRR 335, April)

You're Wrong

An Irregular Column

by Mykel Board

Mykel's Column for MRR 335, April, 2011

---------------- 

Let us, however, in our plans, direct our attention not so much to what is good and moral as to what is necessary and useful. --Protocols of the Elders of Zion

“And you're just going to tell everyone?” he asks. “Pretty soon word'll get out.... Ruin everything... It would destroy thousands of years. Let me tell you: Forget it! Only don't come running back to me. Once you do this, it's over. Like I said before, you won't survive.”

“I'm an old man, George,” I tell him. “I don't have much time left anyway.”

I'm talking with George Tabb. We're in the dressing room of The Continental. I'm there for Revival Two, the second annual reuion of ever-older farts. Downstairs is the dressing room. In a corner of that room, George and I talk about... well, you'll read it.

“After this blood libel thing with Sarah Palin... I gotta speak out.” I tell him.

“Ya gotta do what ya gotta do,” he tells me. “But you're destroying 5000 years of history in the process. It's worse than the holocaust. It might even lead to another one.”

I nod grimly. We hug. It's like we're parting forever. Maybe we are.

 

Flashback: The year is 1952. Six months before my bar mitzvah. As with every Jewish boy, it's during this time we're introduced to the wonders and mysteries of Jewishness. My parents have driven me to the synagogue.

“You won't forget today,” says my father as I get out of the car. Are his eyes wet?

It's early April, a week before Passover. An air of solemnity... awe... fear... blankets the inner chamber of the synagogue. There is no Hebrew school teacher today.... just the rabbi, Rabbi Alterkake.

Looking back, I guess he wasn't a very tall man, but to me, he seemed like a giant. A fierce looking face with a long gray beard and big eyebrows... two fat caterpillars above deep set eyes.

“Mykel,” says the rabbi. He speaks with a slightly Eastern European accent.... like my grandfather. His deep voice sounds like the voice of GOD.

“You will never forget today,” he says. “It is time for you to know what it really means to be a Jew. You might have heard whispers... rumors dismissed with a wave of the hand. Still, you wondered. Today you will know.”

If you've ever been inside a synagogue, you'll remember that on the Eastern wall, facing Jerusalem, is a tall boxlike structure. It's called an ark. It contains one or two scrolls... dressed fancy with chestplates and crowns. If you've attended a Jewish service, you might have seen the rabbi read from one. When not being read, the scrolls rest on velvet in the back of the ark.

Rabbi Alterkake takes me by the hand and leads me up to the ark. He removes the two scrolls and sets them on a stand. Then he reaches to the blue velvet. There is a snap or zipper or some kind of fastener. I'm not exactly sure. Whatever it is, he unfastens it and pushes against the wood underneath. It is a door. And it silently swings open.

On the other side, a staircase leads downwards. It looks unimaginably old... wooden... rickety... like those staircases in horror movies. The rabbi leads, entering the back of the ark and going down the stairs. I follow.

If this were a movie, the rabbi would have a candle in his hand. We'd be casting eerie shadows on the wall. It isn't. We aren't.

I'm not exactly sure where the light is coming from. There must be bulbs in the staircase ceiling that I don't notice. What I do notice is that the stairs end at a large door... like a giant refrigerator door... white, with a metal handle. Rabbi Alterkake pulls the handle and it silently swings open. We step inside a room.

It's dark. Before my eyes can adjust, the door swings shut behind us with a little whoosh! I feel like I'm in a church crypt... like those I read about in old European cathedrals.

As my eyes adjust I make out a very plain room: four concrete walls. On each of the four walls is a white scroll with a giant Hebrew letter on it.

 

Aleph, Peh, Lamed, Feh. And hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room is another giant Lamed.

In the middle of the room is a cross. It's on an alter, and it's big. Bigger than my 4 foot eleven inch self. A Christian cross. Why?

I wonder if the synagogue is constructed over an old church. But why did they keep the cross there? Why would the rabbi take me to visit it? I can't imagine what Jesus has to do with getting ready for a bar mitzvah.

We approach the cross, circling around to the other side... facing the Aleph on the wall.

It is not Jesus on the cross. It is a little boy... naked... tied to the cross beam by his wrists.

“This is the fate of the goyim,” says the rabbi. “God made us His chosen people. In every generation, the goyim have tried to destroy us. We survive because we respect God. We follow God's instructions.”

He walks to a shelf attached to the concrete wall, just to the right of the Lamed. On that shelf lies a huge pair of scissors-- like the Jewish tailors use to cut cloth in midtown New York.

“We survive,” continues the rabbi, “because we follow the rituals of our fathers... and our fathers' fathers.”

He walks up to the Christian boy... a blond kid, about five years old... Dutchboy haircut. The rope around his wrists is red with blood. He must've scraped the skin off trying to escape. His knees are about eye level to the rabbi.. His face wrinkles in fear. Tears smear his cheeks. His nose drips snot.

A small bucket lies on the floor, directly beneath the child. I recognize the Hebrew letters etched into the metal. One looks like a fiery N. I recognize it as Aleph, the first letter of the alphabet. The other is long, a bit like a P. It's the Hebrew Feh. 

The F-sound. I have no idea what they mean. They must be related to the symbols on the wall. It's all mysterious... foreign.

A drop of blood falls from boy's tiny wrists to the floor. The rabbi reaches up between the boy's legs. The kid tries to twist his knees to protect the tiny glands he will eventually surrender. Slapping the offending legs, the rabbi presses onward.

Pushing his right hand between the child's legs, the rabbi uses the scissors in his left hand to point to the bucket. Then he points to a spot on the cross, under the legs of the naked boy.

“Hold that here,” he says.

I lift the bucket and hold it where I'm told.

The rabbi's right hand is tight between the kids' legs. He hooks his fingers around the tiny testicles. He pulls and a horrible scream comes from the kid's mouth. Reaching up with the scissors, he puts the two tiny glands between the sharp edges, then presses the handle together. A worse scream issues from the child's mouth. Worse than anything I've ever heard.

That sound still haunts me, 60 years later. It was a scream like the pain of the world. A scream that pierces every bone, like the cold of a wet winter day. A scream that made my 12 and a half year old body tremble as if it were happening to me.

“And they think matzo ball soup is made from balls of matzo,” says the rabbi with a small ironic smile.

The scream dies to a whisper. A kind of sob/hiccup. The bucket I'm holding fills with the blood dripping from the open wound between the boy's legs. At first it's a torrent, splashing out, over my hands, onto my shirt. The torrent turns into a river. The river to a stream. The stream to a trickle. Time slows as the flow of blood slows. TICK... TICK... TICK... DROP... DROP... DROP. Eventually it's over.

The boy is quiet now, his naked legs covered in red rivulets, like a Jackson Pollock painting. The terror is gone from his face. It's almost like he's sleeping, his chin resting against his small chest. His skin is as white and pale as the paper I'm typing this on.

The rabbi walks to another shelf, this one next to the giant Alef. He takes a book from that shelf. It looks like The Koran. At least my 12 year old image of what the Koran looks like. The writing is certainly Arabic, not Hebrew. The book looks old-- but gilded... and holy.

He rips a page from the book and places on it the two little testes he's snipped from the goy on the cross.

He folds the paper around the glands and puts them in the pocket of his long coat. He then spits into the book, rubs it on the seat of his pants and puts it back on the shelf.

I don't know what happens to the little body. My guess is that it's taken down, and walled up behind one of those giant Hebrew letters. It's one of the many things I never find out.

I follow the rabbi back up the stairs. The blood of the little blond boy swishes in the bucket I'm carrying. Kerblub! Kerblub! Telmwirl! Telmwirl! It sounds like it's talking to me.

 

Tell the word! Tell the world! it's saying.

It's a scene that every Jewish boy has witnessed for the past thousand years. Two thousand. Five thousand. And until now, no one has ever told... or if they have, their reports have been ridiculed as blood libel.

Now you know. Blood it is. Libel, unfortunately, it is not.

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]

-->Credit where its due dept: There are very few big internet corporations that I like... though I use them. Facebook is a privacy horror. Apple has turned itself into a God. eBay spawned the Meg Whitman monster. But sometimes, you've got to give credit.

    In December, the U.S. government got a court order demanding Twitter turn over information about people connected to WikiLeaks. The court order added a gag demand that prevented Twitter from telling anyone, especially the targets of the order, about the order’s existence.

    Instead of caving in Google-like, Twitter successfully challenged the gag order in court. Then they told the targets that their data was being requested. That gave the victims time to try to quash the order themselves.

     Twitter’s move comes as a ton of spineless companies, including PayPal, MasterCard, Visa, and Bank of America banned donations to WikiLeaks. Amazon.com voluntarily threw the site off its hosting platform, though there’s nothing illegal in publishing classified documents.

     By standing up for its users, Twitter showed guts and principles. Ten punk points for you, Twitter.

    Late news: maybe the kudos were awarded a bit too early! 

-->Did it happen to you? dept: If you have a website that has been threatened with a suit or received a letter asking that material be removed... there's help for you. A website called Chilling Effect (http://chillingeffects.org/) will help you stand up for your first amendment rights... and least the few you have left.

-->Telling a man by his friends dept: TV preacher Pat Robertson was told he may not have to testify in the war crimes trial of his business partner, former Liberian dictator, Charles Taylor. Robertson got ten percent of the profits of a Liberian company ironically called Freedom Gold. In 2003, Robertson pulled some strings for his pal by criticizing GWB for "destabilizing Liberia," which meant trying to get rid of the dictator. Robertson had made no such similar comments when GWB tried to get rid of another leader... Saddam Hussein.

-->Secular sectarianism dept: The French government has banned the burka in France. The excuse? "We're a secular nation." They have not, however, banned Jesus bling or mezuzahs on doorposts.

-end-

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