(MRR 352) Mykel Learns How to Top Himself

You're Wrong

An Irregular Column

by Mykel Board

[NOTE: I have translated a bit of French here for the linguistically untalented. The translated part is in BOLD CAPITAL ITALICS]

"America has Race Fever. It's not an actual race war, but a sort of racial Cold War. A grinding war of nerves. And it's impossible to escape. A race war would be anticlimactic at this point... Let's cool down just a tad. We don't need MORE sensitivity. If we got any more sensitive, we'd all break out in a rash.” – Jim Goad

I love the way my white penis looks against black flesh. The way its blue veins contrast with the smooth bumps of tight dark brown skin.

1998: THE HELLFIRE CLUB: a notorious New York S&M bar. I'm a regular... took Jennifer Blowdryer and Dave Diktor here... an exciting and painful place... blaring disco music... the slap slap slap of the patrons keeps the beat.

I like S&M more for the novelty, the weirdness, the adventure, than actually giving or receiving pain. I mean, I enjoy rubbing alcohol on my balls as much as the next guy, but I don't like them in a vice. Fuck, if it's an adventure... and it gets me laid... it's what I do.

Tonight, I meet this incredibly beautiful Negress. Half-foot taller than me, slim, with Grace Jones hair, skin the color of Africa, and a face that would harden a eunuch.

She wears, when I meet her, something between a bikini and a harness. Bright red leather, cross belts, the good parts barely covered in leather and metal ringlets.

FLASHBACK A FEW SECONDS: I'm watching a very ordinary-looking white woman getting fisted by a somewhat less than ordinary-looking white guy. The woman is saddled in a sling... her legs wrapped around chains hung from the ceiling. The man stands between her legs with his right hand wrist-deep in her twat.

A crowd grows around the couple, as it often does at The Hellfire Club. Voyeurs out-number performers by at least twenty to one. I stand in the middle of the watching crowd, trying to look over the shoulder of the tall hippie in front of me.

Then I see her... the Negress... Actually I don't see her at first, I feel her. There's pressure... a squeezing on my crotch.

“I want this,” demands the velvet voice next to me... Then, I see her.

“It's yours,” I say.

“I'm Tanisha,” she says.

“I'm yours,” I say.

We walk to the exit. At coatcheck, Tanisha hands over a ticket and retrieves a bright red raincoat. Even in New York in the 80s, you can't walk around outside in just leather straps.

We don't have to go far.

Tanisha lives in a Hell's Kitchen apartment... a dangerous neighborhood. If you're as horny as I am, danger means nothing.

We walk up the creaky stairs to the third floor... a classic tenement... bathtub in the kitchen... tiny room for a toilet, no sink in the toilet room. It's the bedroom, though, that interests me.

The bed is an old metal cot with a thin mattress. Attached to all four corners of the bed, where the legs meet the spring frame, are leather handcuffs. Padded, black, each with a pair of shiny buckles.

Yes! Lie me down on that mattress. Strap me down. Use me! Abuse me! Just do me! Press your naked blackness against my hairy whititude.

That's not what happens.

Tanisha takes off her brief body belts. Then, she lies naked, face down on the bed.

“Cuff me,” she whispers, “and don't be gentle.”

She's so beautiful, I'll miss seeing her face as I lay myself down... but that ass. Wow! It'll be my blue-veined hardness against that double black mound. That'll more than make up for lack of face.

I struggle with the buckles, opening and closing the cuffs until she's in tightly. Then, I peel off my clothes and nestle in to seek that brown hole within the blackness.

“Not, so fast,” she says. “Abuse me. Talk to me. Call me a slut. Slap me around. Use me. I'm your slave.”

My hardness begins to wilt at the word SLAVE. I can't treat a colored girl like a slave. That would be... I donno... WRONG.

Okay, I concentrate on the task at hand. Rub my hands along her risen mounds. Reach around and grab handfulls of nipples. I bring one hand to my mouth and wet my middle finger. I slide it between her delicious glutea, seeking to soften that inviting hole.

“Talk to me!” she says over her shoulder. “Call me a slut, a whore! Tell me how bad I am. Abuse me. Don't soften me... go in dry! Hit me! Spank me! I'm your slave!”

I feel myself slowly drooping.

“I... I can't,” I say.

”What the fuck?” she yells. “I don't have to put up with your white guilt shit. This is the 20^th century, not the civil fuckin' war!”

“But, I just feel so bad...” I stammer.

“Your bad feeling is your racism,” she yells back. “Pure and simple. If I was a white girl, you'd spank me in a second. Oh yeah, that red handprint on a white ass..... But Mr. Namby Pamby liberal can't top a black girl without shriveling up to pig-in-a-blanket. You can't call me a slut and a whore because all you see is a black girl! A former slave, someone you should take pity on... Fuck you! I'm not A BLACK GIRL! I'm ME, Tanisha!”

“But... I just can't,” I say.

She looks between my legs.

“I can damn well see you can't,” she half says, half spits. “Unhook me, get dressed and then get the fuck out of here. Go fight oppression someplace and feel sorry for The Poor Colored Folk. I don't want to put up with your racist baggage. You disgust me.”

FAST FORWARD: Senegal, West Africa May 2012... Goree Island. It's right off the coast. You go by ferry. Tourists pay about $10 for the boat. Senegalese pay half that. I'm with my pal and host Osman.

Goree is an artist colony and home to a Senegalese history museum. There's a beach. Several fishing crews work out of the place. There's an old fort that used to belong to the Portuguese. But that's not why Goree is famous.

Goree Island is home to the Maison des Esclaves, the House of Slaves, a slave holding pen during the eighteenth and nineteenth century. Slaves were brought here from all over Africa and kept in very tight quarters... men and women separate... ready for shipping.

“YOU'RE OLD MYKEL...” says Ousman.

I wince at the introductory phrase.

“YOU ARE OLD ENOUGH TO REMEMBER AN AMERICAN BOOK,” he continues. ROOTS, IT WAS CALLED.

DURING THE 1980S, BLACK AMERICANS CAME TO THIS PLACE EVERY DAY. THEY ENTERED AND CRIED. THEY SAID THEY COULD FEEL THE PAIN OF HISTORY. MY FATHER TOLD ME ABOUT IT.

We approach the maison, a non-descript colonial building, near the beach. I walk in with Ousman. I'm nearly in tears. Not for the emotion, but from the need to take a fierce piss. I had two Cokes on the boat, and I need to let them out.

I buy us both an admission ticket. Inside, mostly white people with big cameras take pictures of the bare adobe walls.

Just inside the entrance... to the left... is a sign that says HOMMES. Yes! Just what I need.

The sign is over an archway. I walk through. On the other side is nothing. Just an empty brick room with very small windows. Am I supposed to piss in the corner? All the tourists can see what I'm doing.

“Sont il les toilettes?” I whisper to Ousman, pointing to the sign.

He looks... and laughs.

“Les toilettes sont à l'étage,” he says, pointing to a curved staircase. At the head of the stairs is a door with a sign TOILLETTES over it.

Sheepishly, I head upstairs and relieve myself. Then, I leave the bathroom and look out the window on the second floor. I gaze over the ocean that confronted the chained cargo shipped out those hundreds of years ago. I think about the packed conditions, the chains, the family separations into hommes and femmes, the crying children, the rebellious ones forced into a tiny Cellule des Recalcitrants as punishment.

I think about the actual ocean voyages. The sickness, poor food, the unknown future. And I feel nothing. Zero. No emotion. No tears. No heavy heart or lungs.

That racial baggage that Tanisha complained about when I went limp twenty years ago... it's gone. Maybe 200 years ago this was a chamber of horrors. Now, it's a piece of history and a tourist trap. It has nothing to do with me.

I expect (hope) I'd feel the same way at Auschwitz... a place I've never been, and one I want to avoid. It's a museum of the past. It has nothing to do with my own life. It's a bunch of buildings. Some ovens. Pffft. It has as much to do with me as this HOUSE OF SLAVES. The rationale is that if we remember the past we somehow prevent its repetition.

Bullshit.

Remembering the past CREATES repetition. Remembering the past is the basis of revenge. The Hatfields and the McCoys.. they remember the past...Remembering the past lets Israel torture Palestinians with impunity and keeps colored people victims in the American mind.

At this moment in the Senegalese slave museum... I can feel my baggage lost. I can feel the ability to call ANYONE a slut if that's what they want. I'm ready for Tanisha now, the little whore! I can feel myself harden at the thought.

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

--> Heart Attack Dept: My 20 year old niece gave me her old iPod. As I didn't pay for it and it would end up in a landfill... and as it's pinkish so no one else would buy it... I'm keeping it, using it while I use the treadmill at the gym. Since all music I listen to is loud and fast, I expect a heart attack soon. Right now, here's what's on the box:

-->THE DESTRUCTORS sent me their SEX, DRUGS & ROCK'N'ROLL CD. It ROCKS. Sometimes I'm not sure how pro-Sex or pro-Drugs they are... but that's part of the fun. In any case, I can't get the song I'M IN LOVE WITH A PORNSTAR out of my head! It may be a cover, but it's a great one. Info is at www.destructors666.com.

-->Let's get tough to get votes dept: I've mentioned often that the US has a higher percent of its population in jail than any other country in the world. You probably already know that the private prison industry benefits from that, as does the Republican party which knows that once jailed, the mostly Negro and Hispanic population lose the right to vote... forever. Now there's ANOTHER benefit to having all those prisoners.

The Prison Policy Initiative has found out that several, mostly Republican, counties in New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, New Hampshire, Virginia and others are counting their prison populations as citizens. That means they can get more representatives in state and federal offices... plus more federal funding! That prisoners can't vote is an added bonus for the Republicans.

With slaves, the constitution said to count each of them as 3/5 a person. The NEW slaves get a full ONE person. Isn't that great?

--> Can they Photoshop the West Bank? dept: A new Israeli law requires magazines to identify models who've been Photoshopped. It's a kind of truth-in-advertising. An interesting idea, although PC World reports that it is not necessary to reveal real-life cosmetic surgery.

-->That takes REAL balls dept: Speaking of Israel, a former Israeli soldier has renounced his Israeli citizenship and move to a Palestinian refugee camp in the occupied West Bank. Andre Pshenichnikov, a 23-year-old Jewish immigrant from Tajikistan, says he plans to live in the Deheishe Refugee Camp near Bethlehem. He used to work there as a waiter and a construction worker. He began questioning Israel's policies toward Palestine while he was still serving in the military.

-->It's always “Protecting the Children” dept: It's called: The Protecting Children from Internet Pornographers Act of 2011.

What it does is force any business offering paid Internet access--airports, hotels, coffee shops, and ISPs--to keep records of users’ online activities. If the government wants to inspect them, it easily can.

Americans are such suckers... Call anything “protecting the children” and they'll cut their own toes off to do it. Makes you hate kids EVEN MORE, doesn't it?

-end-

(MRR 351) August 2012 Mykel Faces His Fears!

You're Wrong

An Irregular Column

by Mykel Board

Mykel's MRR Column for MRR 351

where Mykel learns about his predjudices

 

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

And it gets worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We shake hands.

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

 

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

I sit in fear of being asked something quadratic.    

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


ENDNOTES:            

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Aww, doesn't it get you right here.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, like my shower sandals.

-end-

 

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

 

 



(MRR 350) July 2012 Mykel Goes To Africa!

You're Wrong

An Irregular Column

by Mykel Board

COLUMN FOR MRR 550

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

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

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

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

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

Zayd nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have to agree with him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHAT DO WE WANT?

JUSTICE!

WHEN DO WE WANT IT?

NOW!

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

Down the street flags wave.

“What's it about?” I ask.

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

We do.

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

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

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

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

After a while, Zayd turns to me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Philosof?” I ask, “Pourquoi?”

“Tu escris.” she says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What I do say, in French, is pardon?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There are a ton of comments.

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

and more.

There's also a message from Jousau.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joussau is startled by the request, but agrees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, like I could forget.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm scared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

-end-

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